Above the Ashen Clouds (Twisted Worlds #2)

33. Zariel

Chapter thirty-three

Zariel

W hat tends to get left out of accounts of ritualistic sacrifice is just how time consuming the preparation is. Now, whether the Artists discovered that I had to watch the process for the ritual to work, or whether this was the equivalent of making a hog watch a roasting fire, I couldn’t say. I suspected it was the latter, especially since I was the only sacrifice here.

What exactly had I done to make the High Artist not only want to kill me, but also make it as tortuous as possible, short of actual torture?

Did that mean I pretended that this wasn’t happening? … Yes. I had a plan. A small one. One that would be better if I watched this part with an air of detachment, even though my nerves were affecting my runes. One of them was telling me that Cat was beneath me, which was impossible. I would ha ve noticed her in the mountain above me first, if that were the case.

Apparently, this also meant I had lots of time to sit in a chalk-marked circle, hands bound in the front, while Artists scribbled on the floor around me. We were in the same black stone room where Cat and I had done much more enjoyable things. Carefully, I shifted so that the harpy’s feather was tucked against my skin without piercing it—we had made that exchange just in time, though I would never forget the grating sound of her removing her metal feather from her flesh.

At least Cat was gone and far from here. She wasn’t going to see me die.

And at least Cael wasn’t here, either. The High Artist likely didn’t trust that he would just sit back and let me be killed.

“You’re rather calm, considering,” Maniela, a fellow scribe, said as she etched out her runes, ones I recognized from the book. Another older angel raised his head at her from the opposite side, and then went back to drawing.

“You’re rather unbothered by my dying,” I retorted.

“Fair enough.” Maniela winced.

“You lived with me for over a decade—we attended classes together. I’m the reason you received a first mark on that assignment. I can’t help but be a bit offended.”

She scowled, the skin on her forehead bunching. “The High Artist told us what you did.”

“What? ”

Maniela finally raised her gaze and paused her drawing. “You attacked him.”

“I did no such thing.”

She nodded. “He said that it was misguided vengeance for your sister, and for taking your mate away.”

“I never—”

“Stop telling him this,” the other angel snapped. I didn’t know him, other than to know that he was desperate to be an Artist. “It’s not going to matter.”

It wouldn’t. Maniela just confirmed what I had long suspected—the High Artist lied about everything. Aniela never tried to kill him. Something else had happened between them, something that Aniela kept silent about, even as she was imprisoned. I clenched my fists and gently moved them over my robes. I could reach that feather, if needed. But now wasn’t the time. I couldn’t hope to fight my way out or flee. No, my only plan was to take someone with me, and ideally ruin this ritual.

“Though you are oddly calm,” the angel said, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are aware you’re going to die, right?”

“I read the ritual,” I said. “I know that this needs to be done to six other creatures, and there’s a lot of drawing to do yet. I’m going to be here for a while.” I wasn’t going to let myself panic until the sixth creature was being drawn in. I had a feeling they’d save my death for last. The High Artist probably wanted me to panic and beg—I wasn’t going to give in. Would I panic once I saw the knife? Probably.

Was I also in denial?

… Also, probably.

The door opened, and around a dozen guards and a couple Artists walked in—guarding prisoners with bound hands.

The angel turned to me and smirked. “You were saying?”

I swallowed hard and instinctively reached for the feather. Now was the time to start panicking. Yet I couldn’t help but stare at those brought in to die with me.

A basilisk—that would be to satisfy the earth element. The creature, which was essentially a horse-sized snake with reptilian legs, lumbered through the hall, baring its teeth through a leather muzzle. Its eyes, that could kill with a mere glance, were hidden under a thick leather hood. Basilisks couldn’t speak any language we could understand, but they were intelligent, and there was a rumor that they wore their scales like a skin and could change their form. And then there was the fact that they were prone to murder.

A water nymph—that would be for water. The young woman cowered in her leather bonds, her seaweed hair dry and brittle and plastered against her waxy skin. There were lots of reasons a nymph could have been here. Many of them lived in bodies of water in our realm, and did so undisturbed. This one was apparently very unlucky. Or very cruel.

A fire elemental—obviously that was for fire. A dark-haired man with singed smoking skin walked through the room, bound in metal chains. “Man” was a generous term to describe him—at a single thought he could turn into a creature of solid flame capable of igniting anything. Well, almost everything. There was a reason the prison was inside a mountain. And a reason he was wrapped in chains.

A fae creation—that would be for metal. A metal mechanical dog strolled through the room, his turning gears making a constant whirring noise. The Dawn Fae were notorious tinkerers, using their magic to contort their bodies with their crafts, and sometimes make entirely new creatures. Like this dog, which, as a fae creation, was much smarter than its earthly counterpart. Though, there was also a good chance that the dog was not nearly as … manufactured as its appearance suggested. It was speculated that the fae mastered inserting souls into their objects, possibly souls that they made—the creation needed to have some sort of soul in order to satisfy this ritual. There was a chance that this dog was an artifact from one of our archives, and not from the prison.

Leshi—that creature was for wood. The leshi stood even taller than us angels, dark bark woven seamlessly into his pale flesh like the exposed inner layers of a tree. Dark wispy moss hung from his head and stuck to his limbs, swaying with each step. The human part of him was eerily handsome, as regal as a tree which had graced the earth for centuries. A leshi was a creature of nature, one of the oldest—and the most vicious. Humans and other more defenseless creatures learned to pacify the leshiye with sacrifices of fresh blood, lest they take what they wanted for themselves. The leshiye had no kingdom of their own, wandering and hiding in the desolate woods. But sometimes they became too ambitious for their own good.

One of the angels marching along with the creatures carried a jug made from black glass. Smoke whirled inside the jug, occasionally shifting to the shape of a face or a handprint, pushing against the limits of its prison. I raised an eyebrow. A ghost? That was probably for spirit, but ghosts … were already dead. Then again, that seemed like something the High Artist carefully thought of. There were ways to destroy a ghost—it just took a little preparation.

And then there was me—for air. Every prisoner stared at me, and a sick look of satisfaction went across their faces once they saw I was bound and in a circle. Fools. Dying alongside an angel didn’t mean they’d be less dead.

The High Artist’s minions moved with rehearsed efficiency, sending everyone to designated spaces around the room, their voices a series of low murmurs. Once the creatures were put into place and the Artists surrounded them in seemingly prearranged places, I paled.

The time for the ritual to begin had suddenly come much closer.