Chapter Seventeen Viola
Dear Mr. Carver, please find enclosed the money for your illusionist services. Arrangements have been made for the next twenty years with potential for renewal. A breach in agreement will result in immediate cessation of payment.
seventeen | viola
Let’s go.”
Archyr’s low voice is barely audible against the crashing rain. I don’t answer. Where would I even go after the words that trickled out of my dead sister’s mouth? The very words I didn’t let her finish when I saw her body at the lake.
The grass shuffles, and Archyr grunts.
“Leave me alone.” My voice is hoarse from the river of tears that cascaded the moment everyone left. And they won’t stop. I don’t know if I’m crying because this is my final goodbye to Olivia or because this is all my fault.
“No,” he answers. “Not when there’s a killer looming over you for your cuff.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I—” He pauses. “Because you’re my only hope to find out what happened to Beau.”
“Of course.” Why else would he be here? I’m an idiot.
He needs me because I’m a whisperer. I cannot forget that he stabbed me behind the Doors of Desire, and I know he wouldn’t have thrown the dagger unless he was suspicious I had something to do with Beau’s death.
I have come to realize the doors showed him exactly what he wished to see: me, responsible for his brother’s death.
“What did she say to you?” he tries, after a long pause.
How does he know? No one knows when the dead speak. It’s often in the blink of an eye, in the window between breaths, in the silent moment when no one is watching. I turn around and stop breathing.
Archyr kneels behind me, his black hair flat and wet on his forehead, his eyes a mirror of the angry clouds above.
It takes me a moment to register that he’s kneeling in a suit that looks like it could pay for a whole year of botany university.
The whole thing is ruined now, soaked and painted with mud and grass.
I glance up, and he’s looking at me with furrowed brows, as if he’s fighting against himself.
“How do you know Olivia spoke to me?” I ask, looking to the side.
“You froze,” he replies. “Then, your hands were shaking, and there was a slight stumble in your steps.” How did he notice that?
Why did he notice?
“I could’ve been cold from the rain.” I drag my gaze back to him.
He lowers his head, his eyes running all over my face. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you cold from the rain?”
Cold, no. I’m freezing, but I ignore the question. It’s easier to pretend his eyes don’t brim with concern than to deal with the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I am getting sick.
“The wrong sister died at her hands. Victor Carver has the answers you seek.” I answer his question instead.
Every time I speak the last words of the dead out loud, I think of Nan.
She would be so disappointed in me, yet she would still hide it with a weary smile as she always did. I hope she forgives me.
Archyr considers my words with a frown.
“Olivia must hate me.” I let out a dry laugh. But I know my sister doesn’t hate me. I hate myself for being so selfish. I could’ve lived with the magic; I’m living with it now. If I could turn back time, I would’ve… wouldn’t have been such a coward.
As they lowered her body into the ground earlier, I doubled down on my promise to her. I will find her killer, and when I do, I will make sure they suffer a fate worse than Olivia’s.
Archyr sighs. “Olivia was giving you a clue. Whose hands?”
“I think she means Mara, the funeral director.” I meet his gaze.
“Mara is a puppet. I don’t know if she always was, at least I don’t think so, but she nearly killed me.
I suspect she may have killed Beau and Victor, too, because she brought their bodies to Dearly Departed.
” I pause. “It was a horrible night, and I buried it deep until Olivia triggered the memory.” Even dead, Olivia still solves my riddles.
“I know,” he whispers. He knows because he saved my life. Again, that treacherous feeling warms my belly, and I shove it away. It wasn’t his choice to save me, I remind myself.
He clears his throat. “When did Olivia die?”
“Wednesday morning. The sheriff was at our door before sunrise.”
“Beau was killed around four in the morning, so around the same time.” He mulls over the timeline. “We were in Gorhail Woods, northwest of the Twin Lakes. Where… where did Olivia die?”
I inhale. The details of Olivia’s death choke me up. There’s still something so unnatural about it. Why would she have been on Little Lake Albion’s boardwalk? Gorhail is at least an hour walk from there. The answer is stuck in my throat, and when I try to speak, my tears threaten to spill.
“Don’t… I remember Paltro mentioned it was on the boardwalk.
” Archyr shakes his head, and I press my lips together, nodding.
“It takes an hour to walk from where we were to Little Lake Albion, cut in half if they were running,” he continues.
“Still, I don’t think Mara could have killed both of them. ”
“Maybe there’s a second puppet,” I offer. “Puppeteers can control multiples, can’t they?”
“Only with century-old heirloom relics—puppeteering depletes magic and lifeblood.” Sylas stands, holding out his hand. “We’re getting somewhere. We know it’s a puppeteer, and we know they are after heirloom relics. We just need to find the reason so we know what they’ll do next.”
“Stealing the heirloom relics still doesn’t make sense, given they lose their magic when the wearer dies without a successor.” I stare at his hand. Is this a truce or a trick to get me to trust him until he gets what he needs?
“I have nothing much…” he trails, hand still outstretched to me. “Except, I’ve been playing with the last names, and a working theory is they’re all C’s.”
Coincidence or not, it’s worth exploring. I take his hand. It’s cold and clammy, but his grip is firm as he pulls me up. “Where can we find a record of all deaths over the last five years?” I ask.
“Five years?” He arches a brow.
“That’s how long Mara has been in Albion.”
“I have access to the records in Riverview. They’re closed on Mondays, so I’ll check tomorrow.”
He offers me his arm. For a moment, I look at it, hung between us, then my gaze trails up to his.
That odd feeling low in my abdomen is back, and I hate it so much.
The only reason Archyr’s affording me even an ounce of niceness is because I am the only means to his ends.
He stabbed you for a reason, Viola, I remind myself. And he hates Mortemagi.
I shake my head and trudge my way to the road.
Two steps are all it takes, and my feet slip. A heavy hand braces against the small of my back. Archyr adjusts his arm behind my waist and loops the other one behind my knees. Before I realize what’s happening, he’s picking me up, carrying me through the muddy grass.
“Someone was in my room today,” I tell him, because the awkward silence between us will bury me alive if I don’t break it.
His arm tenses against my back, but he doesn’t stop walking.
“Victor left a message on the mirror.”
His whole body relaxes. “What did it say?”
“The same catacombs line, and ‘I know who killed your sister.’ ”
“Do ghosts lie?” he asks.
“They aren’t supposed to,” I mumble.
Archyr looks down, searching my eyes for something I refuse to read into.
“You need to know something about Victor.” He sets me down the moment his boots clap on solid ground.
“I believe he was covering for Olivia, potentially creating illusions of ghosts for her. After he died, your sister was on edge. I saw her in the dean’s office the day before her death, asking Rhodes to excuse her from practicals. ”
“We’ll find out when we go to the catacombs,” I say. “Olivia said Victor has answers, and he said he knows who killed her. Besides, we can ask him about Beau’s ghost. Victor’s our most apparent lead right now.”
“The catacombs are dangerous for whisperers, deadly for untrained ones,” he mutters as he leads me to a lone black car parked a few feet away from a big willow tree. “We can’t risk your sanity. Beau didn’t save your life for me to waste it.”
“What choice do I have?” I wince. “I don’t want another death on my conscience, let alone my own, before I find out who killed my sister and why. I deserve answers, and you do too.”
We lock eyes for a breath or maybe two. Time seems to slow every time Archyr looks at me, and I hate my heart for beating so fast. His jaw hardens, and he tears his gaze away. Without a word, he opens the door to the back seat, then walks around to the driver’s side.
Lyria greets me with a quiet smile as she slides over, making room for me. Her cheeks are wet; at first, I think it’s from the rain, but then I notice she’s been crying. “They didn’t deserve this,” she sobs. “Olivia, Beau, Victor. They were all so young, so full of promise.”
I reach for her hand, squeezing it. The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, so I settle for a nod. In our shared grief, I feel less alone.
“Funerals are so final, and I’m not ready to bury Beau,” she admits, looking down at a folded piece of parchment in her lap. “I can’t even sit in the passenger seat because that’s his. How will I get through life without him?”
I hold her hand tighter. “I don’t know, but you’re not alone.”
She glances at me, steadying her breath. “We won’t stop until we find who did this to them.”
“What’s this?” I ask, as a poor attempt to change the conversation.
She unfolds the parchment paper, and it opens to a map.
“The Poisoned Stairwell leads straight to the catacombs. It’s by design; Azgar wanted to discourage whisperers from going to the catacombs, so unless highly trained or paired with an Aspieri, they’d be stuck in the stairwell.
” She flattens the map on the empty seat between us.
“The catacombs are a maze, but with your guidance, we’ll be fine. ”