Chapter 20
Rot bubbles along Viola’s once beautiful face and the flesh along the ironwood thorns barely holds together as her weight pulls on the exposed bone.
The scars she bore on her forearms from catching my newborn body distort from the strain.
The putrid stench of decay weighs heavily in the air.
Preservation magic flicks around her as it slows the decomposition to a snail’s pace.
A scream builds in my throat, the horror numbing my brain.
This can’t be happening. But no matter how much I wish, the vision doesn’t change.
My aunt is dead. It’s the missing puzzle piece I refused to consider.
It’s why the enchantment on our paper died.
It’s why no one has seen Viola in six months.
It’s why I felt the phantom of hands on me at Monument Park.
My eyes burn, tears blurring Viola’s body. My adoptive mother who warmed me against the coldness in this wretched house is gone. And it’s all my father’s fault.
Atticus speaks. “Separate them.”
My teary gaze meets Lucas’ fear-filled one.
His lips part, but it’s too late. Magic wraps around my chest like a vice.
Something high-pitched and earsplitting rings and I realize it’s my scream.
Lucas’ body hurls away from me, his terrified roar of my name reverberating within my chest. Our hands tighten around each other, but the blood makes our grip too slick.
His fingers slip through mine and my body goes airborne.
The wood floor slams into my shoulder, knocking the wind from me and cutting off my unholy scream.
I roll, pain flaring until I’m forced to my knees in the center of the room.
My chest heaves, my eyes too wide, shock overwhelming my mind.
I flick up to behold my beloved aunt before bowing with a sob, my hands covering my face.
I was too late. It was all too late. A trap has snapped over me and no one is left to help me escape. I’ll face the wrath of my father alone.
My trembling fingers slide down my face, a wet, red trail of Lucas’ blood marking their descent. An echo in my ringing ears sharpens until I can hear him calling for me, desperate and afraid, not for himself, but for me.
My gaze slides to where Lucas is pinned to the fixed double doors we’d come through.
His tendons bulge as he strains against the magic that binds him, his rings flickering like candles in the wind.
He snarls viciously at the weaver standing beside him and my heart shatters, my body growing weak.
My former beloved’s ice blue eyes meet my gaze as he slides his hands in his pockets.
Cold and unmoving like a statue, Valentin Bauer the Sixth keeps my friend pinned like a bug on display and obediently awaits orders from his Archweaver.
It’s the sobering I desperately need. I made mistakes.
I trusted the wrong people. But I am not alone and I cannot break.
I dragged Lucas into this mess, and I will rip through this cage to get us back out.
One by one, I force gulps of air into my aching lungs until my strength returns.
My hands curl into fists and I lower them to glare at my father.
He will not take one thing more from me. That I swear.
His green eyes stare down at me impassively, his sister’s mutilated corpse dripping on his armrest. Luciana steps forth from the shadows, circling the throne until she stands with the small army of weavers lining the walls.
There are bleeding scratches down her face that ruin her painted mask, like someone was trying to claw her eyes out.
A familiar waft of cigarettes stings my nose and my stomach twists with sickness. Vincentius steps up behind me and leans down to hiss silkily in my ear, “Don’t make this harder.”
My chest pumps, my eyes wide. “You sent me here when you knew Viola was dead.”
He sighs, “Yes, I did. Your curse left you with only one ally and Atticus did what he must.”
“What he must,” I repeat in a dangerously low voice.
My body trembles, my magic crackling within my veins, the heat and chill of my flames within my soul roaring to answer my call.
Rage deepens my voice, my power amplifying my words for all to hear.
“Then I’ll do what I must as well. For what you’ve done, Vincentius, I will skin you alive like the snake you are.
I will use all the magic I have to keep you a living, writhing wreck for as long as possible so that you return to the Weave forever remembering the pain of my vengeance. ”
Vincentius’ tone remains unaffected, like I’m throwing a tantrum. “Don’t be difficult for once. Do what he wants—”
“But first I’m going to find your pretty wife—”
“—and this will be all over—”
“—and shred her while you scream—”
“—without further bloodshed.”
“—then I’m going to gut your daughter and hang your spineless son by her entrails.” I twist to glare at Vincentius, my magic tingling my throat. “That I swear upon the Weave, you worthless, backstabbing piece of shit.”
My magic roars within me, his face tinging green from my stare.
I blast outwards, vision flashing from the force of it.
The binding holding me shatters. Vincentius attempts to counter, but I’m too fast. My magic burns along him, blisters bursting across his face.
His gasp of shock is worth the resulting pain.
His counter hits me in full force, snuffing my flame and sending punishing razor blades slashing down my arms. My skin splits open, blood weeping, but the pain does not distract me.
My magic wraps around him like a lasso and I hurl him over my head and straight at my father.
The Archweaver flicks his wrist, sending Vincentius careening away from him and into the wall. “That’s enough!” Archweaver Atticus Androclaria of the Astrum Order’s bellow is a crack of thunder in this large, stone room. The small army of weavers go still, glinting masks turning to their leader.
I fix my eyes on my father like I would a cobra about to strike. There’s no pain left in my heart. There’s only icy cold rage. It burns and it gives me the strength I need.
Astoria Rose Androclaria slides to standing. The old man mirrors the move, his traditional robes sweeping around his feet.
Atticus is as imposing as I remember. Tall, straight-backed, with magic pouring off him in staggering waves.
But there’s a gauntness to him now. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes heavy with dark bags.
I used to admire the intricate needlework with such awe as a child.
Now, they appear as useful as a peacock’s feathers are to flight. My lips twitch, head tilting back.
“Daughter.”
His voice makes my heart clench, memories flooding me.
Mostly terrible, vicious fights, but one surfaces.
An old one. I sit in his lap while he reads to me a fanciful tale about faeries and wishes.
He called me daughter back then too, and I hate him even more for this long-dead emotion he resurrected.
His green eyes scan me, his disappointed gaze shifts to something akin to pity. “What have you done to yourself?”
My spine straightens, ready to snap back at him, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “Always so proud. Too proud. Too fearless and arrogant.” He shakes his head. “I’ve always said it’s this combination that will lead you down a path of endless ruin.”
He sighs, straightening his sleeve. “Perhaps, it’s my own fault.
I listened to Viola’s hopeful nonsense for far too long.
After all, the Flame of Creation had not been seen since our grandmother.
Such a powerful fire of life and goodness, the spark of purifying heat to birth anew.
You should’ve nurtured it and let the black flame of Entropy die.
But Viola promised me you’d master both.
She promised a fire cycle within you akin to the great rebirthing of the phoenix.
You, my powerful daughter, could’ve made it great. ”
My heart flutters at the recognition, my chest expanding with my inhale.
Pity comes back to his eyes and it turns my pride into seething rage as he continues, “But instead, you took all that power and potential and let it damn you. Viola was a fool to believe in you.”
I snarl, “Viola loved me!”
“Yes, and look at what that love has done!” He throws his hand towards me. “You’re dying, Astoria!”
I stiffen, eyes widening. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”
“You’ve cleaved your soul in two! No soul should ever be torn apart like that.
The consequences of such a bastardization of yourself will be severe.
But I should not be surprised after the curse you have wrought upon us.
Now you rot from the inside out just like Alasdair from the resulting corruption. ”
My lips thin and I can’t bring myself to look at Lucas. I should deny it. I should lie. Both could save me, but I can’t bring myself to. I want my father to know I’ve bested him. My smile curls, my eyes lighting. “And yet, here I am. Alive and thriving.”
My father scans me slowly, clinically, his green Androclaria eyes shifting to shimmer with the opalescent hue of the Archweaver.
The silence rings, the weavers around not daring to breathe.
My heart thumps painfully and my brows twitch together.
What is he doing? He keeps scanning me over and over and…
I gasp mockingly. “Oh, Papa,” he flinches and I giggle, “don’t tell me you don’t know how I did it.”
A muscle in his jaw flickers. “You should be dead. The curse you cast was dark and wretched, damning your brother to a slow, rotted death of madness. A curse so foul and hungry that it threatens to pollute everyone within the Order like a virus.”
“Yes, but how did I cast it without sacrificing my soul?” My smile is feral, my chest pumping. “Can you figure it out?”
Atticus’ eyes narrow. “This was always your problem, child.”