Chapter 17
ELODIE
With my pulse ringing in my ears and my heart beating ferociously in my chest, I don’t know where to look first. Everything in this small room demands my attention.
Yet, as small as it seems, it feels as if it’s endless, reeling me in with item after item as I try to wrap my head around the fact that I'm right back where I started.
Institute Thirteen.
It's been here all along. Right fucking here. I can’t even process that fact to figure out how I feel. All I know is I’m facing trials and tribulations, and I didn’t ask for any of them.
We need to address the fact that Professor Morton has known all along, and consider who else might know, but for now, all that matters is what exists inside these four walls.
I hear Ocean gasp as she enters the room behind me, disbelief flicks off her tongue, but it’s a whisper under her breath and I can’t hear it over the pounding of my pulse. I sense Rion and Thorne a step behind her, but I can't tear my gaze away from the sight before me.
The walls are covered with so much that I couldn’t say what color they are.
Books in a variety of leather binders are stacked precariously high, covering over two-thirds of the wall, while the rest of the space is filled with maps and intricate pieces of tapestry that make my chest warm with an emotion I can’t truly understand.
It feels like a whole life in here.
My heart races as I let the weight of reality set in, acknowledging that everything in this room is a part of me, or that I'm a part of it.
Taking another step deeper into the space, I pause at the end of a large, fringed carpet taking up most of the floor. Instinctively, I kick off my shoes before pressing the soles of my feet into the fabric.
The nerves in my stomach calm at the connection and I take a deep breath, letting the feeling thread through my veins.
After a few moments, I feel lighter, but something has my gaze dipping to the rug beneath me. I don't know why I did that, take my shoes off, but I knew deep in my soul that I should.
Refocusing my attention, my gaze settles on the podium in the center of the rug. It’s a thin wooden stand with a thick book, closed, resting on top of it.
I already know in my gut that's what I've been searching for, and as I eliminate the rest of the space between me and the elusive pages, I catch a glimpse of the front cover.
The Fractured Book of Souls.
Ghosting my fingers over the intricate design and foil etched into the hardback edges, a shiver runs down my spine, and a moment later, the resounding thud of the door creaks shut, slamming behind us.
I snap my gaze to the source, relieved to see that everybody else is comfortably inside, although none of them has taken a step onto the rug with me.
Nobody speaks a word, each of them enthralled by the sights before them, but there's also a lingering essence in the air. It’s as if they're trying to give me a moment to wrap my head around what I'm faced with.
Inhaling slowly, I return my attention to the room as questions swirl in my mind.
Is this what it feels like to come home?
To find your place, no matter what the world throws at you?
Where you are just able to be?
I don't know. I've never felt that before, but something tells me I'm rather close to it.
Exhaustion clings to me, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins has me reaching for the first page of the huge book in front of me, only to startle when I find my name written in thick black ink right in the center.
It’s etched into the sheets, right there in black and white, cursively written beneath another name that has been crossed out, and another, and another.
Confusion rattles in my mind as I try to understand what it means, and when I relax my gaze, zooming out instead of just being focused on my name, I see a year written beside it.
Understanding quickly dawns on me.
This is a family tree. Or possibly, in this case, the lineage of scythes… as if I'm the last one… as if this book waits for the newest member.
I don't know. I can't be sure, but I already feel like I belong among people I've never met, just from simply seeing it.
Elodie Silverthorne.
Ellie Silverthorne.
Junie Thellerman.
Mallory Brenner.
Eladora Silverthorne.
It’s a list of women, and if I’m guessing correctly, Elodie Silverthorne is me.
It sits, weighted on my shoulders as I breathe it in. I know it’s true, I feel it in my soul, and I can only assume that Ellie SIlverthorne is my mother.
Gulping, I pause my assumptions and hopes, turning my attention to the next page.
The sound of it turning between my palms echoes in the silent room as I absorb the words faster than my brain can acknowledge.
If you are reading this, you have been entrusted with the power of the scythes.
I'm sure you may know by now that such gifts do not come lightly.
There is much to know, much to learn, much to bear, but know that everything you require to understand who you are, where you come from, and why you are here is all in this room.
It is with the greatest assumption that you are here alone reading this, with no ancestor to pass down the stories and heartache, which bears a quest for the beholder, and that beholder is you.
Before we delve deeper into where we come from, what we stand for, and who we are, it is with the greatest urgency that we acknowledge how this room came to be.
The power of the scythes was once ours and ours alone, but with time came others with the wish and desire to control such abilities. It is with great sadness we acknowledge that the scythes lost control of their powers to the hands of another… and another.
If you are reading this now, it is with great hope that a miracle may have been bestowed upon us, and our powers will be entrusted to their rightful owners… ourselves.
My heart pounds in my ears as I desperately fight against the desire to skip to the end, skipping all of the answers in favor of an explanation.
Instead, I take another steadying breath as I flip the page, only to have the air lodge in my throat at the sight of smeared blood swiped across the paper.
My eyes are wild as I try to read the scribbled, hurried writing.
The Shadow Realm has fallen at our hands, but not by our order.
I pause, unable to continue reading when I know this doesn't just affect me. Sure it has a relevance to everybody in the room, but it's Thorne who I turn my attention to.
His eyes are already on me and his eyebrows narrow as he sees the concern in my eyes. Despite it, I wave him closer, but he doesn’t immediately move.
“Please,” I breathe, unable to express what it is I'm asking for.
Wordlessly, he kicks his shoes off, eliminating the few steps between us to come to a stop at my side. With a trembling finger, I point out the line I just read, and as he reads it, I push on, absorbing the words for myself.
The Scythes were under the control of Jude Forrester.
I hope, with all that I am, that you do not know who this man is, that you never have to face the treachery he's willing to bestow upon our world.
But it was not his order that caused pain to so many.
Although he was our master for some time, it was at the hands of the fickle organization trying to control the supernatural world, which seem to call themselves The Sanctum.
I vow, with all that I am and will become, that these actions and the pain caused were never a wish of the scythe.
All the scythes want is to live in harmony with everybody.
It doesn't matter what your supernatural abilities are, what tag that comes with, or where you might fall in the hierarchy of this God-forsaken world.
All that matters is that you're a good, fair person.
That's all we want.
One world for all.
It's how we lost our control.
People don't see it as freedom.
People are threatened by equality.
And though we may be controlled, forced to take actions that are never ours, our true morals will never change.
This is who we are.
This is what we stand for, and we hope that our legacy lives on through you.
I gulp, lifting my head from the page as I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of the dampness that coats my cheeks.
It's raw.
It's real.
It's devastating.
It might not make sense, not fully, but it's enough to know that my origin isn't that of monsters.
My heritage is of people who wanted the best for the greater good, yet were capitalized upon by the monsters.
Daring to take a look at Thorne, I find his jaw slack, his eyes wide, and a sense of new rage swirling in his dark pools.
“What does this mean, Elodie?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper, and I shake my head.
“I don't know, but the answers have to be in here. It has to make sense,” I insist, and he nods, finally turning his attention to me.
“This makes me question everything,” he admits, dragging a hand down his face.
There's a lot here that we don't understand. And that seems like the most ironic thing, because we're never going to get the entire picture unless we have the perspective of everyone involved.
Since I've arrived here, all I've been met with are the views of The Sanctum and Jude fucking Forrester.
“My hatred for The Sanctum has always been placid, like I've known to not like them, but I was here for safety. My father told me to come. But if that's the case, I was lured straight into the trap by the enemy themselves,” he states, and my heart clenches.
“I’m ready to pummel some shit,” Rion grunts, standing before one of the tapestries at the opposite end of the room as he folds his arms over his chest, anger pounding in the vein protruding at his temple.
I shouldn't appreciate the blossoming feeling of love and safety that takes root in my soul at his instinctive reaction to go into protective mode, but I do. Although, I don’t admit it now. It doesn't really feel like the time.
Instead, my gaze travels past him to the tapestry on the wall, and before I realize it, I am moving toward him. He must sense my target is behind him because he moves aside before I draw nearer, offering me a full view.
It's a beautiful fabric.
The pattern etched into it is intertwined and infinite, but it's the words running through the image that make my heart pound.
Love is power and power is energy, which can neither be destroyed nor created without vulnerability and heart. In such, love shall never die.
My heart ricochets in my chest as I turn to the others, and I spy the fact that Ocean's eyes are a little red and puffy, just like mine. I part my lips to ask her if she's okay, but a rattling noise from the door makes me pause.
Everybody stills, staring at the wood as if it's an offensive sound.
Before I can think better of it, I race toward the door, Rion hot on my heels as he drops a hand in front of me, instinctively trying to stop me from leaving, but I shake my head.
That's not my intention.
Instead, I tilt my head to press my ear as close as I can to the door, trying to listen for who it might be. Silence greets me for what feels like an eternity until a muffled voice filters through the tiny gap.
“Jude? Jude! It's happened. The Vault has been opened. We must act now.”
Nausea churns in my gut. My eyes widen as I peer at Rion, and by the look on his face, he can hear the same whispers as me.
“Excellent, but don't tell me what my next move should be. Otherwise, my next command will be to ruin you. I'll move when I'm ready and only then.”
The sound of shuffling feet scurrying away in the distance is all that greets me as I turn and slump against the door.
Disbelief takes root in my gut.
Rion clears his throat as he glances around the room before settling his eyes on me.
“You heard who that was, didn't you?” I nod. “You heard the voice of one of Jude's spies,” he clarifies, and I gulp, clearing my throat before I dare to say it.
“Professor Grimm.”