Chapter Thirteen Viola #2
“No.” He laughs. By Death, it’s beautiful. “The look on your face was telling enough. Since we stepped into the Poisoned Stairwell, you’ve gone from curious to determined to panicked to fearful to panicked again.”
The Poisoned Stairwell. I freeze. Priya told me to stay away from this place because of the ghosts, but I haven’t heard a single voice since we stepped in. Was my cuff damaged during Mara’s attack? But then, I would be hearing the nagging ring of death.
Archyr doesn’t wait for me to reply, and he pushes open a black door.
I follow him into someone’s personal living quarters.
The walls are tall, dark teal paired with ebony wood for the doorframes, baseboards, and the mantelpiece.
The furniture looks expensive, like what you’d see in the home of a government official—nothing like the bland furniture in my room at the House of Death.
Above the fire is a majestic sculpture of a golden serpent with a bleeding red crown.
I can’t peel my eyes away from the intricate details, the golden scales laid with precision, the black gemstones cut to perfection to fit the eyes.
“Beau made it.” A small voice draws my attention.
A young woman around my age stands up from her seat on the couch.
Her black hair sits at her waist like a curtain of silk, and her skin is a shade darker than Archyr’s, with warm undertones that remind me of honey.
She is probably the most beautiful person I’ve seen at Gorhail, but her eyes are red, swollen.
She’s been crying. I’m not the only one who notices because Archyr is in front of her in a blink.
“Lyria.” He holds her face so tenderly. He can’t be the same person who threatened me on the stairs in Hollow Tree earlier.
She leans against him. “We can’t even have a funeral. You know how important burials are, Sylas. Will he go down to his family crypt or be buried next to Mom and Dad in Iserine?”
Archyr sighs, resting his chin on her head. “I never asked him.”
Funerals are perhaps one of the most important rites for mages.
Without burials, the ghosts are lost in the Underiver forever and if they do escape, they become wandering ghosts with nowhere to go.
They can’t cross into the Underworld. It’s why Nan made a fuss about Dad’s burial when Mother wanted to have him cremated.
For someone who lauded Olivia for being a mage, she never really respected mage customs.
A fist of envy knots in my throat. They are all mages; in death, they will have one another. But for Olivia and me, her funeral tomorrow will be our last goodbye. I am a mage, and she is a nonmagi. Even after I die, we’ll never be reunited.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman says as she notices me.
“It’s… it comes in waves, as you probably know.
I’m sorry about your sister.” She pulls away from Archyr, wipes her eyes, walks from the seating area to where I stand by the door to the Poisoned Stairwell.
“I’m Lyria, Beau and Sylas’s sister.” She reaches for my hand.
Sylas. What a beautiful name, although it stops at that. Lyria radiates the warmth of a spring morning by the sea, and Archyr might as well be a lake frozen twice over.
“Viola,” I say, gently shaking her hand.
“Please, you’ll help us speak to Beau, won’t you?
” She still holds my hand between hers, and I stare at them awkwardly.
Is her friendliness a trick of some sort?
But her eyes are so earnest, her words so sincere.
As much as I want to help her, my inexperience is catching up to me, and I don’t know how.
Before Beau at the funeral home, I had never spoken to a ghost. Only corpses, and only when I touched them.
“I’d never seen one up close before Gorhail.” I gesture to the black serpent around her wrist, desperate to veer the conversation away from my magic. More than anything, I don’t want to disappoint her.
“Our aspiers?” Lyria beams, lifting her arm. I don’t know much about aspiers, other than that they are a form of living relic.
“This is Nyx.” The black snake uncoils from around her forearm, revealing a soft gold underbelly, and stretches the length of her arm.
Its red eyes lock on me, and I don’t move, afraid it will attack if I do.
But no one else seems to worry. Lyria continues, “She’s a killer aspier. She poisons blood.”
She talks about killing with such normalcy, as if it’s common to have relics that murder.
Then again, with the arts of blood, any mage becomes a weapon.
I think of Mara, of how she was being controlled by a puppeteer—a blood Mortemagi.
And my throat closes again, my chest tightening.
Maybe one day I’ll revisit that night without feeling the sharp claws digging through my flesh.
For now, I press my eyes together, thinking about Nan, about Olivia, about the books we used to read.
Lyria lowers her arm with an apologetic frown, and my breath evens out. Between the harrowing memory of that night and the aspiers, my heart feels like it will give out.
“Railesza, you already know.” Archyr takes over as he joins us, lifting his left forearm, where the green aspier watches me with interest. “She’s a healer.
Not as common as killers, but we have quite a few of them in Secondline.
” Up close, I notice the depth of her emerald scales; if I didn’t know what she was, I’d have mistaken her for a jewel.
Her eyes are a mesmerizing pale green, and I wonder why Olivia would tell me to be wary of a healing serpent.
Then the black serpent around Archyr’s wrist slithers forth, bowing his head, his onyx eyes never leaving mine. I tell myself that I am not scared, but killer aspiers are terrifying. They can kill within seconds, should they choose. “Raiku, also a killer, like Nyx,” Archyr finishes.
“Lastly, there’s Raiek,” Lyria gestures to Archyr’s neck, where the thin, golden serpent is coiled like a necklace. “The Imortalis, a Founder’s relic, as you may know. It grants immortality to the wearer and can only be given in time of need. We’ve had Raiek in our family since Sileas Ronin.”
This explains the grand room, the lavish furniture, and the sculpture made of gold. These siblings are the descendants of the founder of the House of Poison, who was also the first founder of Gorhail.
Lyria finishes her introduction. “I have a book on it, I—”
Her brother’s stare drowns her words, and her face falls.
“I would love to read about it,” I tell her honestly, and her face lights up. The pang of guilt punches my gut again. Her heart is so true, and it will break the moment she realizes I am a fraud who can’t help them.
“Have you heard from Beau at all?” Lyria asks. “I apologize for asking so soon, but I know my brother—he’d be trying to reach us.”
Her eyes remind me so much of Olivia’s. They watch me with hope, and I feel sick because I will shred every ounce of it.
I haven’t heard their brother speak since Dearly Departed, and as much as I want to believe his ghost is in hiding, I get the sinking feeling that he may have moved on through the Underiver.
“I… I don’t know how to speak to ghosts.” I settle for a half truth. I can’t bear sharing my morbid theory.
She presses her lips together, her eyebrows scrunch into a worried knot. I want to disappear. Nothing hurts more than hope being ripped away when you need it the most. Like the hope I nurtured in the brief hours I thought Olivia was coming to Osneau with me.
Archyr frowns, because it’s not something he wants to hear. “You are a whisperer, for Haal’s sake.”
“An untrained one, you said it yourself.” My gaze cuts to him. I never once agreed to speak to his brother. Suddenly, the space feels so small. I’m trapped between them and the door to the stairwell behind me.
“Maybe I was wrong.” Lyria reaches for her brother’s arm and whispers, “Sy, I don’t think Beau’s ghost would be around Gorhail, given how many conduits there are.” She says something else, but I can’t make it out because Archyr pins me with a distracting glare.
“Don’t waste our time, Corvi.”
“Viola.” Lyria’s voice is soft in contrast to her brother’s hostile tone. “Maybe you’ve heard him and haven’t quite realized it was the voice of a ghost…”
I have heard him, but I’m not telling them that yet.
Firstly, I could use this in exchange for more information about Olivia, and secondly, I don’t want them to draw the same morbid conclusion as I did.
Maybe Lyria is right, and I haven’t heard Beau again because he’s avoiding Gorhail. For her sake, I hope that’s true.
“Fine. Even if you can’t speak to him, where’s his body?” Archyr interrupts her. “Because you claimed to know where he was.”
I don’t say a word, refusing to waste my leverage. We should be working together to find our siblings’ killer, but there he stands, making demands. This only confirms that Archyr never had any intention of helping me. He only wanted information before kicking me aside.
“Or maybe… you don’t know, and you’re a fraud, like your sister,” he taunts, taking a step forward. Like a fool, I take the bait.
“I’m not lying,” I spit out. “Your brother has a broken-heart-shaped birthmark behind his left ear.” I give him the single detail I couldn’t possibly have picked up from the newspaper.
Archyr’s eyes darken, and his nostrils flare. “You can tell us where he is right now, or I’ll have a reader get it out of you.” He steps so close to me, his lips flattening into a sneer. “Your choice, Corvi.”
His threat ignites something within me. My skin feels warm, my cheeks burn, and my eyes sting.
I square my shoulders and plant my feet on the ground.
Somewhere between his false acts of compassion and now, I forgot that I am only a tool to the people of this world.
Parrish needs me because of the relic; Delaney needs me because of my magic; and Archyr now needs me to find his brother’s body and his ghost. Sooner or later, I’ll find other people to give me more information about Olivia.
So right now, Archyr needs me more than I need him.
“Is that a threat, Archyr?” I hold my head high, tangling myself into his dangerous game. If this is how he wants to play, I have nothing to lose.
“I don’t make threats, Corvi.” Sylas’s every word punctuates my heartbeat.
“I am merely giving you options.” His black aspier unravels as he moves his hand inches away from my face.
The aspier cocks his head, black eyes locking on me, and the fear that had previously left creeps up my spine and crawls down my arms.
My tongue is slow to catch up. “Why the aspier, Archyr? Is your desire to kill me stronger than your desire to find your brother?”
“Do you want me to kill you?” His head tilts toward me, and poison drips from his words. They don’t sound like threats; they sound like a possibility. My mouth goes dry, and my breathing quickens. I willingly stepped into unknown waters, and now I am drowning.
“You’ve been wondering whether I’m going to kill you since we met.
” A smirk grazes his lips, the aspier slithering between his knuckles.
The backs of his fingers skims along my cheek, and he drags them up, brushing my hair behind my ear, and I let him.
His aspier is so close to my neck it takes everything in me not to look away from his eyes.
My limbs tense, my skin grows cold, and I don’t breathe.
“Should I end the suspense?” he asks so softly, his fingers flexing against my head.
A resounding slap breaks me from his spell. He flinches, blinking several times to make sense of what happened. At his side, Lyria wears a scowl, her hand still hovering next to his reddening arm. “Why—” His attention turns to her, and now is my chance. I slip out of the secret door.
Lorne and Delaney are right about one thing: I need to stay away from this wicked, murderous Aspieri.
The moment I step into the darkness, my senses fail me.
The hallways all look the same, and the stairs are treacherous.
I don’t relent, crossing through more hallways than I did when Archyr was with me—if I continue walking, I will eventually stumble upon an exit.
My only solace is the deafening silence. No one seems to be here.
That’s when I hear the voice, clear as day, right beside me. He whom you seek lies in the catacombs.