47. Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Grey walls shimmered and shook as Lucena walked along the corridor.
“Mama? Papa?” Her voice quivered. Knowing. Already, the feeling had taken root.
Curling vines pulsed up the walls, soiling the blue and gold flowers to black, and she staggered.
The bodies rested side by side upon the sofa with heads lolled forward. One dark. One light. Both stained crimson.
Lucena rushed forward, her slippers sliding in the puddle having formed upon the floor, soaking into the cushions, into the gold-tasseled rug. It splattered her sunshine-yellow dress. It had splattered the walls long before that.
She shook her father first, but when his head fell back, revealing the gaping wound, she screamed. Her mother’s was a replica of his.
Lucena stumbled away.
She emptied her belly onto the floor.
The walls pressed upon her, vibrating in her vision even as she ran.
Into her bedroom, she gathered them all to her: The Risen, vials, decanters, and jars. Her hands trembled, and she nearly dropped them all.
Hovering over the lone clean space of the living room rug that remained, Lucena flung over page after page until she came to the Rise enchantment. She laid it upon the floor. She didn’t know if they’d been dead long, but she didn’t care. She’d enough for more than one try.
Their cold bodies were dragged to her, the mixture painted on, its ingredients measured precisely. She chanted the incantation—felt it take from her and give to them.
And she felt it fail in her very soul. Over and over, again and again.
Lucena’s voice was raw, her body spent. But she swallowed her fear. She closed her eyes.
“Saints above, devil below. Allow me to know.”
With the final remains, she let instinct guide her fingers. She sifted the wyvern claw. She stirred three times clockwise. She dipped the bat wings, sprinkled the moth powder, and stirred counterclockwise.
“Lucena, my love.”
“Darling, we’ve missed you.”
Lucena released a sob, hugging her parents tight. Their hands gripped her shoulders. Their fingertips dug into the fabric. Their nails punctured her skin.
She fell backward.
“Don’t be frightened, my dear. It is only us.”
Her parents rose. The walls rippled around them, their eyes murky and grey and clouded with shadow. This wasn’t how it should be.
Her father bent, retrieving the small knife she’d used to cut through blood-dried clothing. Her mother smiled, her dimple deepening just as it used to.
“Shh, Lucena. Don’t cry.”
“It won’t hurt.”
The point pierced her skin at the same moment the broken vial sliced into her father’s wrist. Blood spurted across her hand, and the knife clattered to the floor.
His teeth bared at her, Lucena didn’t recognize him any longer. Her father wasn’t here.
Her mother shoved her down, and the tacky moisture coating the floor seeped through her skirt.
“Close your eyes, Lucena.”
She did.
And pierced her mother’s heart.
“Pleasant dreams?”
Lux pushed onto her elbows in the now-familiar cottage, and the chain jangled. She felt for the lump that must be at the back of her head but found nothing.
“I applied a salve. And dropped a bit of tonic in your mouth as you slept. My apologies for the injury.” Riselda smoothed back sweat-soaked strands from Lux’s forehead, as gentle as a mother.
“Don’t touch me,” Lux growled.
“ You stabbed me , if you’ll kindly remember.”
“Yes, and you conveniently had lifeblood on your person.”
“I’m never without it, Lucena. Here, comb your hair. We must be magnificent for the festival tonight.” Riselda tossed a brush onto her lap.
Lux stared down at it, at the fabric beneath it. She’d been washed and dressed in the sage gown.
Maybe it was the blow to the head. Maybe that was why she couldn’t seem to understand what was happening. But what she did know was she couldn’t lose control a second time. So, she brushed her hair and studied her chained ankle peeking from the silk skirt with a heart as heavy as it’d ever been.
When Riselda emerged again, it was in a resplendent indigo gown, the exact shade of her eyes. “Let me style it for you, my dear.”
Lux’s voice came out smoother than expected. “Do you mean for us to enjoy the party this evening, Riselda?”
The reply snaked around from her back. “We certainly will. The rest of Ghadra? I think not.”
That maniacal laughter again. It sent a shiver up her spine.
Lux played into it. “What do you have in store for them?”
Riselda’s face suddenly appeared before her, and Lux jolted. “Who gave you that dagger, Lucena?”
“I purchased it from a peddler.” True enough .
Glittering eyes narrowed for a moment before Riselda spun. The cabinet along the far wall opened with the softest creak, and Lux gasped.
The shelves were filled to bursting. Hundreds of vials stoppered and shimmering silver.
Riselda gripped an axe from the topmost shelf, and she pulled forth Lux’s blade from the bodice of her dress. She tossed them onto the bed. A matching set.
“These are mine. A very long time ago, I paid dearly for one axe, one dagger, and one seedling. I paid dearly for my plan of revenge. I’ve dreamt of this day for one hundred and fifty years.” Her eyes rolled back into her skull as her body shuddered. “This dagger was stolen from me. So you can understand my interest in how it came to be in your possession. And thus, embedded in my chest.” Riselda rubbed the smooth skin, pale and exposed, below her throat.
One hundred and fifty years. Lux pressed her eyes closed. “How old are you, Riselda?”
“Nearly two hundred I suppose.” She pulled at a loose tendril of ebony hair having fallen over a flawless cheek.
“And whose face do you wear?”
Riselda scoffed, her words rushed and offended. “You think I would resort to prying off a cadaver’s lips when I’ve my own methods? I am not the Tamishes with their uncivilized ways.”
“But then—”
“Gracious me. Lucena, all you must learn to do is read what is in front of you and adjust your rhetoric accordingly. Most believe whatever you tell them, should you say it well enough.”
Lux rubbed at the space above her heart. Staring down at the axe and knife, she felt sure she lived a nightmare. But her eyes were unable to stray from the cabinet for long. “Whose lifeblood is that?”
“Oh, I thought that’d be quite obvious. Perhaps I hit you too hard… Though you can’t fault me, really. Your attack was unexpected.” She reached back to run careful fingers across the rows. “These are the victims of my plague, of course.”