The Beasts We Bury (The Broken Citadel #1)

1. Prospective Seconde Mancella Amaryllis Cliff

1

P ROSPECTIVE S ECONDE M ANCELLA A MARYLLIS C LIFF

|15 DAYS UNTIL THE ASSURANCE|

My father waits until halfway through breakfast to announce that I’ll be killing something again today.

Presumably he did this so my mouth would be too full to scream at him, but I try to anyway and end up choking on my croissant. My sister thumps me on the back and my mother dabs her mouth with a silk napkin as though she finds the whole thing distasteful, but my father just keeps talking, blathering on about what a beautiful creature he’s found and how strong this quarry will make our family.

Just beneath my skin, the animals I’ve killed before writhe in anger, squirming and thrashing until I feel like an overfilled sack that will rip at the seams any second. I imagine a tear starting at my forehead and splitting my body in half until everything inside of me is spilling onto the tablecloth, staining the porcelain plates and desecrating the elderberry tea. I picture my empty skin collapsing into a puddle at the base of my chair. And I wonder if my father would even stop talking. I wonder if my mother would start.

“The Assurance is in two weeks,” I protest, once I manage to force the bread down my suddenly dry throat. “You’ll name me as your Seconde in two weeks . Why now?”

My father scrunches his heavy brows, making a pronounced V in the center of his forehead. And even though he launches into another speech—one I barely listen to—his deliberately exaggerated confusion is more than enough to convey how ridiculous my question is to him.

The impending Assurance is why we’re doing this now.

And I should have known that.

My barely chewed croissant sinks to the bottom of my stomach as another protest rises from my lips.

“But I thought…” That’s all I get out before the sentiment dies on my tongue and bitter embarrassment burns the back of my throat.

I’d thought that Father finally naming me his heir meant I was done with all the killing. That he’d decided I was strong enough at last and I could put it all behind me. Move forward. Conduct myself in my new role the way I saw fit.

Clearly, I was just kidding myself.

“Excuse me,” I say, scraping my chair away from the table and throwing my napkin on the plate.

I make it all the way to the grand foyer before Mara catches up. I cross my arms at her approach, but she only quirks a smile at me with the half of her mouth that’s visible. The other half, along with her left eye, is covered by a brightly colored scarf.

“Did they send you after me to make sure I don’t run away?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she says. “They sent me for emotional support.”

I snort, and the joke eases the pressure in my chest a little. I drop my arms and let her fall into step with me as I pass through the grand double doors and out into the courtyard.

I want a breath of fresh air, but the towering stone walls that circle the grounds make the air outside taste just as stale as the stifling indoors. I frown at them, hating their polished gleam, their ridiculous height, their copious fortifications and well-manned guard posts. Hating how small they make my world feel.

“So,” Mara asks, her voice synthetically cheerful. “ Are you going to run?”

I glance at her and then away.

“That depends,” I say. “How suitable are your shoes for an extended chase?”

She lifts her skirts and checks.

“They’re slippers,” she tells me, in the patronizing manner of an older sister merely entertaining a younger sister’s ridiculousness. “And they look pretty flimsy. But I can always kick them off.”

“And are you prepared to tackle me if it comes down to it?” I ask, wheeling on her. “Would you take the scarf off your face to bind me and force me back? Would you use violence if violence was necessary?” My tone is harsher than our banter warrants, as chilly as the autumn frost that coats the rock mosaic beneath our feet.

Mara grabs my elbow, pulling me to a stop. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Are you?” I counter. “If I ran, would you really pursue?”

She studies me, considering the question, her one visible eye raking my expression and picking it apart, like someone squeezing fruit at the marketplace, trying to decide if it’s spoiled.

“No,” she says finally.

But I don’t miss that she had to think about it.

I shake free of her grip and quicken my pace, rubbing my arms against the cold, and she lengthens her own steps again to keep up.

“So are you going to?” she presses.

I tilt my head back and look at the sky, noting the thick, smothering blanket of clouds. The sun is merely a dull smudge behind them, gasping for life.

And yet the clouds aren’t dense enough—could never be dense enough—to obscure the slimy green glow of the magic on the northeastern horizon. Even on such a murky day, it manages to creep over the walls like a caustic patch of green corrosion eating away at the steely gray heavens. Its light is bright enough to cut through the gloom, and sharp enough to carve into my mind, never letting me forget how much has changed since I let it devour me.

“No,” I say. “After all, that was the deal, wasn’t it? Kill one creature a year? Endure one sacrifice in exchange for peace the rest of the time? I’d hoped this year I could stop, but clearly that was just wishful thinking. Why would Father ever stop honing his favorite tool?” I spit the last word, sourness sharpening the sentiment.

“It’s better than before,” Mara murmurs. “When he’d lock you in a room with a fox or a badger and not let you out until it was dead.”

The fox and badger within me stir, raising their little heads.

Heads that I bashed into walls with childish, imprecise hands, sobbing and screaming and afraid.

“Yes,” I say. “Better.”

I change direction and she follows, dogging my steps.

“So where are you going?” she asks.

I point to a corner of the grounds and her shoulders relax. “Oh. Right.” She plays with the necklaces tangled around her throat, clinking them together as we walk. “You want me to get some twine?” she asks finally.

“Please,” I say.

She heads back inside and I angle my steps toward the expansive rectangle of grass that borders the courtyard. It’s pristine. Every blade the same height, the green appropriately verdant, and the perfect amount of moisture to make it grow thick and lush.

There’s absolutely no sign of any little white flowers that might break up the uniformity, but that’s only because they are wrenched from the dirt and burned daily.

Where I’d pointed, there’s a stone incinerator belching black smoke into the sky, and, beside it, today’s stack of limp white blooms, scheduled for destruction at sunset. They’re called starsprouts, for their pointed petals. Although if you ask my father, they’re called weeds.

I kneel and comb through them, plucking up the nicest ones and twisting their stems together, a little more viciously than warranted. When Mara comes back, I take the twine she hands me and wrap it around the bundle twice before tying a bow.

At least, I try to make a bow. But my scar-covered hands are shaking too badly, and the knot keeps slipping loose.

“Want me to?” Mara asks, reaching out.

“No,” I say, jerking away from her. “I have to do it myself.”

She frowns but doesn’t try to reach for it again.

I will my hands to still, squeezing them into painful fists, and a few moments later I finally press a miniature bouquet into the palm of Mara’s hand.

“Give it to the Captain, will you?” I ask. “And then tell Father that I tried to flee but you dragged me back by the hair and I’ll be there shortly.”

“You don’t have to go in right away,” she says. “You could take a few hours…”

But I shake my head. “I’d rather get it over with.” Because until I do, I’ll only be torturing myself about it. Imagining it, dreading it, wanting to run. Remembering all the times in the past that I did run. All the times I was hunted and hauled back like I was an animal myself. I wouldn’t call complying easier, but at least it’s faster.

Mara nods, fingering the petals of the flowers before standing and taking her leave. I watch her go, leaning against the incinerator and feeling its heat beneath my cheek, a few degrees shy of blistering.

Before me lies the stack of flowers I didn’t choose, drooping and dejected.

Doomed.

My father is waiting by my door with a maid when I get there. I curtsy low to the ground and he peers down his nose at me like he’s trying to figure out if the gesture is sarcastic.

It is.

I wave the maid into my room, but when my father tries to follow, I hold up a hand.

“I have to change, remember?” I say.

“There are things I need to tell you,” he counters. “To prepare you.”

“So talk through the door,” I say, shutting it in his face.

Just shutting. Not slamming. The line between surly teenage attitude and high treason is a thin one, but I dance it well.

I pick up my skirts and rustle them loudly to make it clear I’m about to get undressed, and thankfully he leaves the door closed. I can practically feel him frowning, though.

“So what kind of animal is it this time?” I ask, holding out my arms to the sides as the maid steps forward. She sets to removing my overwrought, crystalline corset, first tugging on ribbons to loosen it, then wrenching the contraption open on its little metal hinges.

I have my grandfather to thank for this torturous fashion statement. He was Prime when the magic reappeared, and he came out of the Broken Citadel with the power to grow trees made of unbreakable glass. Which means that ever since then our family has had to have glass adorning every wall, dripping from every ceiling, and compressing every female’s bodice.

Once the monstrosity has been pried free, the maid begins plucking out pins with busy fingers until the fabric that envelops me at last begins to fall away. My lungs expand gratefully and my shoulders lift as the weight of my garments is blessedly stripped off.

“It’s a jaguar,” my father says.

The maid slips and accidentally jabs me. A pin digs deep into my side, just beneath my rib cage. She squeaks and looks up at me with scared eyes, but I shake my head to tell her it’s fine. Like I’m going to make a big deal out of a pinprick when I’m about to be ripped apart by a giant, untamed jungle cat.

“Lovely,” I say out loud. “I was really hoping for something with claws.”

The maid breathes a sigh of relief and keeps working, more cautiously now.

“It’s not the claws you have to worry about,” my father tells me matter-of-factly. “It’s the fangs. Make sure to wear your helmet because her bite could crush your skull.”

Nervousness skates down my spine, but I refuse to let any of it enter my voice.

“Good tip,” I say. “Anything else?”

“Don’t turn your back on her. They usually attack from behind. And keep in mind that she can jump. She’s also faster than any of the larger predators you’ve already fought so try to cripple her quickly.”

Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.

“Your people appreciate your sacrifice,” he continues. “By increasing your own power, you increase the power of the whole realm. You protect us all.”

“Through slaughter,” I say bitterly.

“Hunters and butchers provide for their families the same way,” he points out.

I glare at the door, and he sighs as though he can feel it. This argument is so familiar to both of us that we could switch parts and still know every line.

“I’ll let you finish preparing,” he says. “Be careful out there.”

Careful. Right.

I don’t dignify his platitudes with a response.

When the maid finishes gathering up the fabric, she bows and leaves the room with a swish of chiffon and a sympathetic look.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I fall backward onto my bed and cover my face with my hands. They’re shaking again. In fact, my whole body is shaking. The animals within me are rioting, absorbing the tumult of emotions I’m feeling and reflecting it back. I remember when it was only a handful of bugs and mice, but there are scores of creatures now, and it feels like they’re stampeding, pounding the inside of my body as they try to run, slither, and fly as far away from this situation as they can. If I close my eyes, it feels like I am fleeing with them. Wind on my face, dirt under my feet, the arena far behind me.

But when I open my eyes, I am still lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. And though my creatures are still running, they are running nowhere. They are as trapped as I am.

I shove my feelings down until the animals settle enough for me to sit up without feeling sick. I can’t fall apart yet. I’ll have to fall apart afterward. Right now I need to be… strong. All Father’s ever wanted of me.

I get up from the bed and fling open the doors of my closet with one forceful shove. On the left side, there’s a row of floaty dresses in bold, vibrant hues, complete with a rack of aggressively shimmering corsets to strap on top of them. Precise and flawless, just like the lawn out front.

On the right is my battle suit, looking like a limp and headless corpse hung from the railing.

I reach for it, suppressing a shudder. The suit is from Prime Gerdis, former ruler of the Jungle Realm. His magic was to grow armor on his skin and then shed it like a snake. When it’s off my body, it retains the shape of his, forming the outline of a man now long dead. But when I put it on, it tightens to my flesh like a second layer of skin. I try not to think about the fact that that’s exactly what it is.

It’s black, but its shine is green and iridescent, like a beetle shell, and when I wear it I look like a creature myself. The only parts that aren’t covered are my head and my clenched fists.

I don’t attempt to cover the latter. My magic likes a fair fight, so I have to kill with my own bare hands, which is why they’re so littered with scars. Armor on the rest of me doesn’t seem to mess anything up, fortunately, but I can’t use weapons or traps, I can’t tie an animal down, and no one can weaken the creature for me in advance. All of this we learned through a horrific sequence of trial and error.

My childhood was truly charmed.

I’m allowed to cover my head, though, and if what my father said is true, it seems like an incredibly good idea. We have healing magic in stock, of course, but I don’t think it could fix a punctured skull.

I pick the helm up and fit it over my head, making sure it’s resting securely and fastened firmly. Then I take a couple unsteady, gasping breaths, because the animals are squirming again. Right up my throat.

I can do this. A couple hours from now, it will all be over, and then I’ll have a whole year of peace. I am strong. I feel nothing. I am fine .

But the girl in the mirror looks nothing like fine. She looks pale and resigned.

She looks weak.

I turn away from her and stride out into the hall, shoving the door shut and locking her behind it, along with my feelings, my fears, and my hesitations.

I’ll deal with them later.

Right now I have to do what must be done.

With a straight back and a raised chin, I make my way to what used to be the ballroom.

When I was younger and still listened to my mother’s stories, I heard all about the opulent parties my grandfather used to throw there. She spoke at length of the gorgeous dresses, the luscious food, the intoxicating music, and the way it felt to dance and dance and dance.

The room’s purpose is a little different now.

When I get to the entrance, two soldiers stand ready. They unlock the double doors and hold them open for me, both their mouths widened in what I’m sure they think are encouraging smiles. Any comfort I might have gained from their expressions, however, is negated by the snap of the bolt locking me in once I’ve stepped through.

Gone are the drapes and tapestries that adorned the walls when I was a child. The plush carpet, too, has been stripped away. Too many bloodstains. The wall of windows is boarded up, except the very highest ones, which let in either dim sunlight or eerie moonlight depending on the time of day. Where there was once a grand chandelier, dripping with sapphires and gold filigree, there is now a bare hook in the ceiling. The only decoration, if you can call it that, is a giant cage installed at the far side of the room, on what used to be the dance floor. It extends to the ceiling and protrudes deep into the room, so cavernous that it chills me to wonder what kind of beast Father imagines it will one day need to fit. The bars, however, are extremely close together in case the animal is smaller.

The lithe form of a large feline paces behind them. I can hear her growling low in the back of her throat. Her head is close to the ground and her paws pad softly. Her tail whips from side to side. She’s ready to pounce. She’s scared.

A lump rises in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

The door of the cage swings open just as she passes in front of it, triggered by a lever in another room. Luminous yellow eyes swerve toward me.

I meet her gaze, but she doesn’t hold mine, instead swiveling her head from wall to wall, looking for an exit.

She won’t find one. This room was a ballroom once, but now it’s a place of execution.

She’s cornered.

When she realizes it, she bares her teeth. They’re long and yellow, glistening with saliva, sharp and well used. I remember what my father said about their strength, and I swallow.

For a breath, before everything starts, I allow myself a small moment to feel helpless. To feel sadness. Because this wild beast is absolutely gorgeous, and there’s nothing I can do to save her. If I win, her body will be stuffed and mounted on my father’s wall, and her spirit will become my slave. If I lose, the soldiers watching from the next room will kill her anyway.

There is no scenario in which she wins.

Then she charges me, and I inhale sharply. She’s so fast. I barely have enough time to brace myself before she leaps at me, claws extended and jaws gaping. When she slams into me, she clamps down with her teeth and digs in with her claws, but neither will penetrate my suit. This makes her grip slipperier than she anticipated, and I’m able to use her own momentum to shove her past me, panting.

My advantage is short-lived. In the span of a heartbeat, she lands on silken paws, spins, and lunges again, this time managing to throw me down onto my stomach. My nose smacks against the marble and I both hear and feel a sickening crunch as my blood spatters onto the floor.

I rear my head back, more in alarm than in a coordinated attack, but she’s still on me. She wraps me in her paws and buries her fangs into my helm from behind. I writhe beneath her, trying to get away, but her jaws are too powerful. The metal starts to dent, starts to press into my skull.

At the feel of it, my mind blackens with panic, and I fumble with the chin strap. It feels like it takes hours to undo, but in reality it’s probably only half a second. As soon as it pops open, I duck out of it and squirm from her grip, letting her crash to the floor with my helmet. Her teeth finally penetrate, and she snaps through the reinforced metal like it’s nothing, then spits it out and stalks back toward me.

My heart is racing. My creatures are shifting. I need to calm down .

It was a mistake to let sadness in too early.

I shove all my soft sentimentality to the very depths of my heart and wall it off until I am focused and steadfast. Present. Deadly.

I fall back into a fighting stance, a movement that feels as natural as breathing. With carefully placed feet and vigilant eyes, we circle each other, both assessing, both deciding our next move.

I want the fight to be over quickly, not because I fear pain but because I don’t want to inflict any more on her than I have to. So I feint to the left and charge her haunches as she jerks to defend her neck.

The move is successful, and I catch her off-balance, pinning her lower half to the floor. But then her torso thrashes above me, and I have to bury my head in her stomach to avoid her swiping paws. Her claws rake my back, but they only ricochet off. That should make me feel confident, but my head feels so exposed now in the open air. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out it’s not as impenetrable as the rest of my body.

I have to find a way to end this soon.

Her head lashes around, jaws open and teeth snapping. I ball a fist and plunge it at the space between her eyes, hoping to at least stun her, but she’s quick. She throws herself forward and catches my fist in her mouth.

Then she slams those long fangs straight through my flesh.

Pain explodes and I scream. It echoes through the cavernous room. I think I feel something crack. Encouraged that she’s finally doing damage, the jaguar bites down harder and I feel the deep, seeping sickness of serious injury wash over me. Is she going to rip the whole thing off? I’ve never lost a hand before. Some distant part of my mind wonders if they’ll be able to reattach it, like they did when the bear tore off two fingers.

Most of my mind is not occupied with rational thought, however. The pain is all-consuming, and it ignites something primal in me, something I hate but can’t help. It’s like my body is made of deadwood until pain acts as its ignition, and then I’m inflamed.

It’s the magic, twisting in my gut. I don’t like the fight, but it does, and it blazes to life, raging through my veins and roaring in my ears. It’s a powerful thing, but not like a sword or an arrow is powerful. Like a disease. Like a rot in my flesh, the same rot that lights up the sky. And it changes me, transforming my insides into something monstrous. Something hungry. I grasp for the pain, trying to hold on to it and let it ground me, but I can barely feel it. All I can feel is the bloodlust that isn’t mine, and the nausea that is.

Propelled by the ravenous magic, I bear down on her, my free hand at her neck, my fingers digging deep into her throat. Her fur is matted with my blood now, and that makes it slippery, but I hold firm. My knees ram into her midsection, ruthlessly forcing the air from her lungs while I maintain my vise grip on her throat. As I press down with my full weight, she goes feral, bucking and snarling and ripping through the skin of my other hand. I feel the pain like one might register the background noise of a busy street, but it has no hold on me anymore. All that matters is her increasingly strangled breaths.

And the long pauses between them.

One paw swipes me in the head, knocking me to the side, but I catch myself on my shoulder, enough to somewhat soften the blow when my unguarded skull slams into the marble floor. Still, I manage not to let go, to keep clinging to her neck, squeezing with all the desperate, ravenous fury that burns in my veins until the breaths dry up completely. Until her body slumps next to mine.

And then this is the hardest part.

As the bloodlust starts to fade, I force myself to hang on even longer, pushing the now-helpless creature past the point of mere unconsciousness and into something deeper and darker.

And the darkness cuts me just as deeply. As the jaguar’s spirit desperately clings to life, my magic wrenches that life away and thrusts it into me instead. It rips my soul open and it plants new teeth and new claws there, impervious to how they shred my insides.

That’s when I know it’s done, and I drop her and flinch away, bracing my body for what’s coming, knowing no walls I put up will be strong enough to shield me from it.

When I claim a new animal, I usually get a flash of who they are, who they were, just before they settle and blend into the rest of me. This happens now, and for a moment I am the jaguar, living her life and seeing the world through her eyes. I know the smells of the jungle, the way it feels to stalk its shadows.

And I know the soft, fuzzy warmth of her cubs snuggling at her side, only a couple months old. It was because of them she was so scared, because of them she fought so hard. Two boys, the older one feisty and the younger shy unless pushed. I have an image of one tackling the other and the two play-wrestling in an adorable ball of rolling fur.

Tears fill my eyes, because they feel like my cubs, and I have no idea what’s happened to them. They were too young to survive on their own.

As I’m filled with her life, her memories, and her spirit, the bloodlust dissipates completely, like it was never there. The magic fights with me, but when the excitement is all over, it abandons me to deal with the aftermath on my own. The injuries that I ignored so easily before are now overwhelming. My hand is shredded. My head is throbbing. But the guilt and self-disgust in the pit of my stomach is what causes me to crumple in on myself, sobbing in harsh, wet gasps.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the door open and medical staff come rushing in to pump me with other people’s magic and stitch me up again. I’m a windup doll who has come unwound and their whole job is to wind me back up.

Before they reach me, I lay my head next to the jaguar’s and let my tears flow into her fur. My throat is thick and constricted. She’s so limp now. So lifeless. It hurts to even look at her, but I force myself to do it.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. The Captain of our guard kneels next to me, her salt-and-pepper hair falling into her face. Despite her stocky, armored frame and habitually militaristic posture, her expression is soft.

“You all right?” she asks gruffly.

I shake my head and hold out the hand that isn’t ripped apart. She riffles through a pouch at her waist, then presses a small bundle into my palm: the starsprouts I gave Mara earlier.

I clutch them and press the pointed petals to my lips. Then I prop myself on my elbows and lay the bundle gently on the jaguar’s chest. Blood soaks the soft white blooms, and another sob escapes my throat. I feel dizzy, and my ears are ringing with the howls of my creatures, storming past the walls to share my grief.

The jaguar within me mourns, too, lamenting her own destruction through the secondhand grief of her killer. It’s not right.

It’s not right .

“We have to knock you out,” the Captain says. “So we can sew you up.” She gestures at my broken hand, but I don’t look at it. I just nod. Right now, oblivion doesn’t seem so bad.

The medical staff and soldiers all cover their faces with scarves, before one of them opens a large teal bottle shaped like a crescent moon. Pearl-colored mist streams out of it, and I inhale, coaxing the cloud toward me. As it fills my nostrils, my brain fogs and my limbs go slack. Blessed blackness seeps into my vision and I fall into the Captain’s ready arms.

As consciousness slips away and the image of the jaguar’s fallen form blurs and disintegrates before me, one question fills my mind.

Am I strong enough yet?