Chapter 19 #2
The darkness shifts, no longer the oppressive living thing that I’d walked into.
Crystal lamps flicker, struggling to reignite against the magic until finally they flare bright at the outer limits of the east wing.
The warm light of the wall sconces eases some of the remaining tightness in my sternum and my shoulders sag.
Lucas finally stops, his breathing heavy.
His brown eyes land on me, their usual golden, warm honey absent.
There’s a tightness between us, a tension that is a living, breathing thing.
He exhales sharply. “Holy fuck, Tor. When I saw that corrupted thing grab you…” He shudders, his hand on my wrist tightening protectively.
My heart flutters and Lucas hesitates. Whatever he was going to say dies on his lips.
He looks away before turning in the direction we fled. “Was that your brother?”
I nod, turning as well. The flickering lights in the distance chill me.
This was a mistake. Too blinded by my love for Viola, I hadn’t considered how deeply the curse had wormed into the estate or how deteriorated Alasdair would be.
I hadn’t considered what it would feel like to see him. To see my future.
And yet corruption is a rot within the soul. Slow, steady, and undetectable until it’s too late. How are you so sure that you aren’t on the verge of no return?
Bile rises to press against the back of my throat.
I release Lucas’ hand to bend over, one hand tight around my middle, the other pressed against my mouth.
My arms sting from the fresh scars and I muffle my sob with my hand.
Numbness. I’ve been experiencing numbness.
My eyes didn’t glow in the darkness even though I was using magic as a sixth sense.
Oh fuck. Is it too late? Am I going to start dripping rotted magic like Alasdair?
Lucas’ strong hands rest on me. “Tor?”
I draw in breath, pushing back all my tears and sickness as I straighten.
With more strength than I feel, I say, “We need to get out of here before it’s too late.
Let’s warn the Bauers if we can, but I’m sure they’ll weasel their way out just fine.
I’m more worried about what will happen to us if caught. ”
Lucas nods. “There’s no way in hell we’re leaving the way we came in.”
The thought of going back through the darkness fills me with dread. “No. There are other ways.”
We could go down to the archives. There are secret tunnels that feed to the duck pond, but the swim through the underwater tunnel is a terrifying experience with no guarantee that the outlet is still there.
Discomfort squirms in my stomach. Drowning is not on my itinerary.
We need something else. But what? My jaw clenches, my mind spinning.
The flickering crystal in the farthest lamp douses and I still. Then the next, and the next. The darkness surges. My heart tightens in pure terror and I shriek, “Run, Lucas!”
He grabs my wrist and takes off. We bolt down the hall, blindly running as the lights around us flicker. There’s no room for strategy, only flight. My brother cannot catch me. The memory of the tug within me moves me faster, keeping me in line with Lucas’ fast pace.
There’s a T-shaped end to the hall. Before I can decide on left or right, a hooded weaver appears.
Blood red robes graze the floor, deep-mouthed hood drawn up.
A silver wolf mask covers their face, the snout drawn into a fearsome snarl.
Ceremonial wear for the darkest of rituals, where the magic shouldn’t see the weavers that demand its compliance.
Lucas grinds to a halt, yanking me behind him by the wrist he still holds tightly.
Three more weavers appear, one with a boar mask and another a jackal.
And then a woman in an elegant dress steps forward.
Her body is perfectly formed by a gilded corset, rubies dripping down like a waterfall of glittering blood.
Silver paints her face as a swan’s mask and her blond hair is coiled neatly on her head.
Luciana, Alasdair’s mother. The distant memory of the sting of a cane on my small body flexes my fingers.
Luciana smiles and her blue eyes burn with rage.
I twitch in Lucas’ hold, the impulse to flee nearly sending me sprinting into the advancing darkness behind us.
My shoulders tighten when the woman hisses, “I should’ve insisted harder that we drown you at birth, an error I won’t let stand any longer.
” Silver and blessed stones cover her fingers, her nails transforming into elongated harpy claws.
They click together. “I look forward to tearing you apart piece by piece.”
Fear stills me. I’m that small child again, sitting perfectly still at the too-long dinner table, too afraid to eat, Luciana’s knife screeching on the plate.
But now, there’s no Viola beside me. No hand warming mine.
No soft kiss on my hair. No protective glare thrown viciously towards the other woman.
Except, there is. Lucas jerks me harder behind him and the action tears my gaze from the woman who tormented me. I blink at him, heart clenching as he snarls, “I think the fuck not, bitch.”
Luciana’s red lips part, but Lucas strikes first. Fast and whip-like, the brutality drilled into him from years of street fighting for the Amur Guild catches the formal weavers by surprise.
Luciana is blasted back, threads piercing into her.
She shrieks. The weavers around her surge.
Magic clashes, crackling chaotically, and it snaps me out of my fear.
Heat burns through my muscles, my eyes flashing, but before my Creation Flame can burst forth like it did to save us from The Arachnomicon, the hair on the back of my neck rises with a tingling of awareness.
The lights beside us flicker and douse. A tendril of darkness touches my boot. I jump away and yell, “Lucas!”
He lashes his arm out, the shield he wove shattering. Golden spears dive forward, tearing through the weavers’ defenses and slicing deep into their chests. They clearly underestimated the magician’s powers.
Lucas surges forward and yanks me with him.
Luciana’s clawed fingers twitch, her painted eyes fluttering.
Her corset’s boning is blessed by the Archweaver.
Lucas hurt her, but she won’t be down for long.
I don’t waste the time to stomp on her face like I want.
The darkness is curling around the felled weavers, caressing up Luciana’s chin.
We jump over bleeding bodies and flee down the hall away from the darkness.
My lungs burn, the darkness licking my heels, making me stumble. But Lucas doesn’t let me fall. His magic winds around me to get my feet righted. My muscles ache, but I follow his lead and add my own magic into it. I’ll shred my thighs and suffer the consequences later.
More weavers appear, all in the same ceremonial robes and masks.
Lucas doesn’t waste time by engaging. We don’t have the luxury.
He rips down the next hallway and I whisper magic in the air.
Bricks form, boarding up the entrance, and attacking magic rattles the stones.
It won’t hold for long, but it’ll be enough.
I slam into Lucas’ back when he grinds to a halt with a spitting “Fucking shit” and don’t hesitate this time.
I surge past him, his hand still on my wrist, and my magic flares to life when the newest group of weavers emerges.
Fire roars down the hallway in a terrifying wave, heat curling the paint and sending the weavers screaming.
Pain tears through my chest, a stinging chill like frostbite shivering me and weakening my knees, but I don’t fall.
I yank Lucas down another hall, but backtrack when the darkness greets us and turn down a different route.
But again, we’re confronted. These weavers are ready for me, countering my surge of magic.
Lucas wrenches me to the side, backpedaling to try somewhere else in this maze-like house.
Over and over, our escape is thwarted. My heart hammers, lungs burning.
I look around wildly, trying to come up with a plan.
But each route I try, there are more weavers.
More magic. Lucas’ rings sizzle and he hisses in pain, his blisters popping.
His hand on mine turns slick with blood as it leaks from under the tokens.
I whip my arm in front of me and Transformation crackles to life. The stairs I’m sprinting towards flatten. We slide down them, the steps thunking back to existence with barbed spikes. Now on the first floor, I pull Lucas with me, my head swiveling from side to side.
A massive set of double doors faces me and my eyes flare in recognition.
They lead to the main entry of the estate.
Like a king’s great receiving hall, with a green and gold carpet leading from the front doors to the decorative Archweaver seat, it’s where my father holds all his most important audiences.
My father does like a good show when weavers, magical creatures, and humans grovel for his assistance or blessing.
Out of options, I point to them. “There!”
Lucas slams his boot into the locked handle.
I whip around and hiss a series of counter-incantations to keep an advancing sect of weavers at bay.
I throw out my hand, whispering to the wood in the house.
My eyes blaze green and I curl my hand into a fist. The hall crumbles, the screams confirming that the collapse of the upper floor traps the magic wielders.
Lucas’ heel splinters the wood and he heaves me through.
I make it three steps into the grand hall before grinding to a halt, eyes widening.
It’s not my father sitting in his throne that makes me stop, nor the army of weavers lining the hall with their glinting masks.
No, what makes me go stone cold, arms limp, eyes burning, is the bleeding figure hanging above him, the plip plip plip of blood all I can hear as I take one, infinite, inhale.
Crucified with long thorns of ironwood pinning her body in place is Viola.