Chapter 29 A Ghost Made of Memories #2
The words don’t absolve his guilt, like he hoped they might. It makes it worse. He tugs his arm from my grasp, lowering his head once more.
“Excuse me,” he mutters as he walks away.
I watch him go.
Azaire died in his arms. It’s no wonder he feels this way.
Should I be feeling this way? Grief, instead of anger? Or, do I already feel both in separate ways?
Grief has turned to anger. Anger has turned to vengeance. There’s one thing to do—and whether it fixes this feeling or not, at least I’ll know I’ve done all I could.
I turn away from Lucian’s retreating form, searching the room for Calista. There’s many heads of blonde hair—none of them the princess’.
The panic only seems to kick in when I can’t find her. My head whips through the room, searching in every direction. Each time I see a yellow gown, I sigh in relief.
That relief only lasts moments, at best.
Calista is nowhere to be found.
Then the screaming starts.
Around me, the students rush. A blur of ball gowns and cries whip past—fear and frenzy pounding at my mind like a rock. I clutch my temples, trying to stay on my feet.
“Arcane!” they shout. “Arcane!”
It’s pandemonium. It’s apocalyptic—the way these kids feel.
This is the end.
They think this is the end.
I fall to my knees, trying to plug my ears and drown everyone out. Heels press against my fingers—people stepping on my hands—but it feels like nothing.
An arm wraps around my waist. I do nothing.
“Wendy.” Calista’s voice is tinged in annoyance. “Get up.”
When I meet her eyes, they’re heavy with fear. I feel it. She did it—she’s taken Desdemona’s necklace—and she was waiting for me. I’d been so focused on Lucian, then the crowd, that I didn’t feel her until now.
I ruined the plan. Because Calista isn’t waiting for me anymore. She’s waiting for someone to fix her mess. And it’s clear she’s lost control.
Across the room, Desdemona lies on the floor, convulsing. Her body shakes violently as the racing students charge at her.
They’re going to kill her.
It’s exactly what I want.
Desdemona is completely unaware of the danger she’s in. Of the angry students with eager faces. Her pupils have vanished, entirely unseeing. She’s stuck in a trance, the brown of her irises replaced by a coat of yellow.
Folk yellow. Memory yellow…
Memorium yellow.
Her necklace had to be the Soul Stone. That’s the stone the prophecy mentioned. The stone that fractures time.
It must be.
The crowd of students are a second away from reaching her. She’s already convulsing—likely from Air or Light magic. She’s close to dead, regardless.
Iridescent veins of light split the air, streaking toward Desdemona. Fabric ignites in their wake—dresses and coats bursting into flame.
The air shrieks with power, wind whipping past me. It stops around Desdemona’s body, moving like a shield and colliding with the lightning, sparing her life.
Aralia steps before Desdemona, her eyes glowing with power. For a moment, I’m hopeful. Aralia will finish what they’ve all started.
Then her emotions fill me.
Aralia is Desdemona’s roommate, and somehow, she’s fallen into her trance—just like Lucian and Leiholan.
Fallen for the monster’s act.
Her wind blows dresses, tears curtains from windows, and pushes hair into eyes. My gown billows behind me, and my eyes sting as I try to keep them open. Even as I try to move forward, I barely make it a step.
Still, the students charge relentlessly. But even those who manage to outrun the wind don’t make it past Aralia. One by one, they falter, slamming into the invisible barrier like birds against glass. Aralia steps forward. The barrier of wind moves around her, hard to see.
But I will be the one to get past her. I have to be.
A boy nears her. The closer he reaches, the stronger the wind surges. It pulls the flesh of his face back, and I have to look away, for fear that it will tear off.
Then I can’t breathe. My lungs seize, shriveling like they’ve been drained from the inside.
Not mine—theirs.
The boy is on his knees. His face is intact, for what it’s worth.
He failed.
I feel his panicking pain, the hunger for air, the collapse of breath. Aralia is strangling them, her power pulling the oxygen from their lungs.
They’re choking—and through them, so am I.
But Aralia struggles. Her arms begin to falter. The strength of the wind slows. People move forward.
I steal it.
The best part—Aralia isn’t focused on me.
I push ahead.
If anyone can feel me, they’ll know I’m no different from Lucian. But while I may be guilty, there is no remorse. Not now, not when revenge is right in front of me. Not when I have such an easy way to protect my psyche.
Desdemona’s life might be the key to ending the prophecy.
Despite what Ms. Ferner or Lucian say, if Desdemona dies, maybe—just maybe—the prophecy will die with her.
I grab Calista’s shoulder, using it to push myself forward, heading for Aralia. I don’t know what I mean to do.
I know exactly what I mean to do. I plan to control Aralia, to tell her to stand down.
To release the magic keeping Desdemona safe.
Even if I didn’t, Aralia would get tired soon. She couldn’t hold the shield forever. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m speeding up the inevitable.
The kids on their knees—the ones Aralia was suffocating—begin to rise. Their breaths are ragged, and my lungs are sore for them. But they’re not going to let Aralia protect Desdemona any longer.
I’ll have a legion with me.
I move forward with them, prepared to do what I came for.
Then, Calista steps in front of me, grabbing my wrist. I try to shove her off. She doesn’t budge.
“Protect Aralia,” she begs, shaking my arm and searching for my gaze. “Please.”
The kids around me retain their breath. They reach Aralia—one of her hands now holding her stomach, struggling to breathe.
They’re doing exactly what I want to do.
Aralia is in my way.
“Why?” I ask.
Calista agreed with me—Desdemona has to die.
It seems Calista has changed her mind.
“Please.” Her voice is barely audible.
I could try. It’d be as simple as telling these students they don’t want to fight. But I want Desdemona dead, and I’m willing to let her take her chances. She’s the reason Azaire is gone. The reason a prophecy claims she will tear the universe apart.
Her death wouldn’t be wrong. It would be balance.
Instead of helping Aralia, I tell Calista, “Run.”
She glares at me, torn between fighting and fleeing. “You have to help her!”
I don’t move, caught between two choices that feel almost identical: help Aralia or condemn her.
Helping Aralia would save Desdemona—and that would kill us all.
I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “But that would mean helping Desdemona,” I whisper, shocked at the sound of these words on my lips.
Calista’s shocked, too. Her face shatters, but not with anger. I could handle anger. I’ve grown used to hers. This is disappointment.
It wounds sharper than any scream.
“Wendy,” she sighs, her eyebrows folding together. “Killing Desdemona to save people is one thing. Letting her die for your own reasons is something else entirely.”
“That’s not—”
It’s as if my power detects my lie before I do.
That’s exactly what this is.
And I want to tell her she’s wrong. That it’s still justice. It’s still noble.
I’m still saving the worlds.
But I can’t even look her in the eye.
I know Calista’s right; I know where all this hatred leads. Despite myself, I can’t stop it. I wish I could lie to myself.
The prophecy is a crutch, and I will use it until I can no longer stand.
I glance back at Aralia and Desdemona, sighing with shame as Lucian approaches. He helps a tired Aralia, brandishing a sword at the people who try to fight through him.
Aralia lets the barrier drop, and as Lucian is stepping past it, another kid follows. Lucian doesn’t waste a second before turning, running his blade through their arm. The kid’s hand falls to the floor, and he cries out in agony.
Lucian protects Aralia while he picks up Desdemona, pulling her from danger.
He does what Calista begged me to do, and while I feel disappointment, Calista breathes in relief.
I tell her once more to run, and I follow when she does.
?
I stand at the exit to our suite. Calista sits on the couch, examining Desdemona’s necklace and occasionally giving me a disapproving look. She hasn’t said anything about me leaving Aralia, but I feel her disdain grow with every breath.
The stone shifts in her hand, her intrigue strong.
“Is it the Memorium?” I ask.
Calista holds the small stone to the light again. “It’s been altered.” She squints as she says, “Though I think it was.”
There’s something she’s not saying.
“And?”
“Patience.” Calista closes her palms around the stone, her fingers tightening. A minute later, she drops it with a hiss, the stone clattering to the ground as though it’s a burning ember, too hot to hold any longer.
I race across the room, asking, “What is it?” as I lean down to pick up the necklace, leaving behind its broken chain. Immediately, I feel what Calista did. It doesn’t burn me as it did her—but it doesn’t feel right.
Certainly not how a Soul Stone should feel.
“You feel it?” Calista asks, her eyes widening.
I twirl the stone between my fingers, watching it closely for signs of power. “Differently from you, I think. It’s not Folk magic.”
“But it’s holding memories,” Calista insists.
So there’s a degree of Folk magic involved.
And definitely Memorium magic, which is Folk magic. Their world is where this Soul Stone came from, made to balance their magic. I just don’t understand how the stone has been tampered with. It doesn’t feel like any magic I’ve ever known—and I’ve known them all.
I hand the stone back to Calista. “Can you show me?”
She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Inadequacy hits its peak, and I remind her, “You can do it.”
“I know I can,” Calista snaps. But she doesn’t know it, and she reads the pity in my gaze, not wanting to hear it. “Don’t.” She lifts two fingers to my temples—conceding.