Chapter Twenty-Five Viola
Attention, Whisperers: Anchored ghosts can and will possess you at length. See a nonmagi priest for help.
Tip: Anchored ghosts cannot give out their names.
Should the whisperer want to permanently keep or dismiss their anchored ghost, they must guess the correct name. However, if the mage guesses the wrong name, the anchor breaks, and the ghost is free to possess the mage. Be wary, ghosts are known tricksters.
Addendum: Nonmagi priests are no longer taking expulsion requests.
RULES I thought it would set me on fire. And every time I tried to snap the threads, a sharp stab at my temples threatened to drill into my head.
Until the small voice of the woman from the catacombs spoke again. Let me help, she said. And I did. I don’t remember a thing after that.
“Archyr, does prison mean nothing to you?” The overseer of the House of Poison stands over Sylas in the courtyard of Dearly Departed, winged by the shadow of the trees behind him. “Thank Haal your sister has more sense than you.”
“Great.” Sylas pushes himself up, dusting his palm against his tattered pants. His weapons harness is empty, and underneath, his shirt is ripped, dried blood caking at the exposed skin. Lyria saved our lives.
Beau and Victor stand side by side, awkwardly looking back and forth between Sylas and the overseer. They’re both alive. I did it. I resurrected them… Well, the ghost did.
“Coming back from the dead doesn’t bar you from expulsion from Gorhail, Mr. Carver,” the overseer says without looking at Victor. Instead, his glare is trained on Beau. “Cardot, I’m rescinding your Grand Magus rank, effective immediately.”
“Uncle—” Beau speaks up, but the overseer is no longer looking at him. His menacing blue eyes study me from head to toe. “And you…” His tone oozes with scorn. “A brand-new Mortemagi, so well versed in the blood arts. Only the Gods can spare you now.”
The Gods know nothing of mercy. Why would they spare us when they were the ones who cursed us with magic?
“All four of you will answer to the Principal Grand Master immediately. I will be waiting in your car, Sylas, after we finish processing these puppets.”
Paltro turns around and glances at the building.
Quietly, his brown aspier slithers from his arm, through the grass, and into the back door.
If he’s hoping to find anyone else, he’ll be disappointed.
He walks toward the street, where two Firstline Mortemagi hold the sagging bodies of Mara and another man I now recognize as the Albion baker’s husband.
How could the Gods sit by as the monsters they created stole yet another innocent life?
Even if Firstline and DOTS investigate these two puppets, the truth remains that we are out of our depths—I overheard Victor say there were multiple puppeteers, and if we all nearly died to one, how will we survive against an army of them?
After tonight, I don’t know that I can fulfill my promise to Olivia— I am not strong enough for this world; I don’t have the grit to pursue a killer that hides behind other people’s bodies.
“You started this.” Sylas glares at Victor. “And now we have to sit in front of the Grand House because she used her wretched magic to help you.” His mouth twists in contempt as he stalks over to where Victor stands.
She. He speaks of me with such disdain, like I want this magic, like I wouldn’t scrape out every trace of it from my veins if I could.
And now… I will be sentenced to death because of it.
Maybe if I beg Priya and ask her to seal my magic, she will spare me from execution.
It’s my first infraction; I’ll argue that I’m barely a mage.
My foolish arrogance tricked me into believing I could make a difference, and I failed.
Beau levels his brother’s glower. “Viola’s magic is good when it brings me back, but wretched when we must answer for it.
” He shakes his head, briefly glancing at Victor.
“Actions have consequences, Sylas; we all knew this, and we were all prepared for it. If Victor didn’t start this, I wouldn’t be here with you. ”
Victor’s lips part in surprise, but he doesn’t say a word.
Sylas holds his brother’s stare for a second, then walks off toward the car, his fists balled at his sides. “Don’t mind him.” Beau gives me the smallest smile.
I don’t think I’ll ever be used to people speaking up for me. A treacherous feeling of belonging creeps into my heart, begging me to let it stay, but I tuck it away, squashing any hope blooming within me.
It starts to rain, a slow drizzle against the faint moonlight, a poetic mirror of my heart weeping at the thought of failing my sister.
Sure, we caught the puppets, but we’ve also discovered a greater conspiracy.
Even if I wanted to do something, I am powerless now, my fate in the hands of the Principal Grand Master.
I stand alone for a moment, taking in Dearly Departed behind me, Little Lake Albion across the street, and the stupid bench where I used to eat lunch with Mara every day.
One week is all it took for me to become a stranger to this place, and with the raindrops trickles a sobering truth: Albion is not my home anymore, and neither is Gorhail.
Sylas’s car is parked farther down the lake.
Next to it, the overseer holds a clipboard, signing a few pages before leading the Firstline officers toward a second car a few feet down the road.
I linger on the sidewalk a second longer.
Once I cross this road and get into the car, my future solely rests in Priya’s hands.
I step onto the road.
“Wait.” Sylas’s hoarse voice sets my heart alight when it should freeze over. His steps scrape against the pavement, hesitant.
Don’t turn around. I do.
The raindrops run in rivulets down his face, washing away some of the blood and dirt.
My breath falters, and a faint shiver ripples through me, trailing goose bumps along my skin.
I don’t know if it’s the danger or the rain, but tonight Sylas is devastating.
He watches me carefully, pausing at my neck.
In a single step, he’s in front of me, his hooded eyes darkening. “You’re still bleeding.”
I didn’t even know I was bleeding.
He pulls a piece of cloth from his pocket and gently presses it to my neck. “Hold it there,” he whispers. “I… Railesza is with Beau.”
“It’s fine.” I replace his hand with mine, darting my eyes away. My traitorous cheeks flush. He is standing painfully close to me, the warmth of his body once again wrapping me with safety I shouldn’t feel around him.
“Why did you jump in front of me?” he asks, and I forget how to breathe.
Instinct. I was certain Mara was going to kill him, and I couldn’t leave Beau and Lyria without their brother. But if I’m honest, I don’t know why I jumped in front of him. I just did.
“I am immortal.” He points to Raiek. “You’re not. Don’t do anything this foolish again.”
Don’t do anything this foolish again. His words sober me up, and I let out a long breath. First, my magic is wretched, now my actions are foolish. I don’t know why I stand here and let him riddle me with insults.
“There won’t be a second time.” With one final nod, I begin to cross the street.
The fights, the magic, and the constant brush with death crash into me with a wave of exhaustion, and all I want to do is crawl into my bed in Albion and sleep.
But instead, I’ll have to talk my way out of death in Riverview.
“Don’t do it,” Sylas says behind me.
My legs obey him like he’s their master. I stop and turn around, but this time he’s not fooling me with his constant push and pull. “Do what, Sylas?”
“Don’t get rid of your magic. It’s all over your face.”
“Why do you care? You hate Mortemagi.”
He sucks in his lower lip, and my stupid, stupid eyes fall to his mouth. I quickly look back up, and he sighs in frustration. “Gorhail is where you belong. Despite how I feel about your magic, you deserve to study it.”
I don’t deserve anything. “I don’t want this magic. This world has taken too much from me for me to want to be a part of it.” I force a smile. Sylas has a way of drawing out my deepest fears and laying them bare. “Do you know what it’s like to hate the very fiber of your being?”
To my surprise, he replies, “I do.”
His eyes are distant, lost in a memory that wells them with tears. They are so raw, so human, like they contain a multitude of sorrows. The more I tell myself that his sorrows aren’t mine to ease, the more I want to reach over to wipe away the tears before they fall.
“Vi.” He doesn’t break our gaze as he walks up to me, and my traitor heart leaps. Even drenched and covered in blood, Sylas still looks like he was blessed by the six Gods.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I—” I pause, a lump in my throat. What do I even say to that?
“Come back to Gorhail.” His brows are furrowed, his voice a plea that knots around my heart. And all I want to do is surrender.
“DOTS—” I remind him.
“I won’t let them.” He cuts me off.
My chest heaves, and my throat tightens. I should look away. I should leave.
I cannot.
The gray of his eyes leans to black in the low streetlight. Rain droplets glide along his long lashes as he searches my face, and I want so badly to lift my fingers to his face and brush them away.
“Please, stay.” His voice breaks, and I let out a small gasp, but I don’t reply.
For a moment too long, his words hang between us, full of promise that things could be different. And it’s terrifying how every part of my body wants them to be different. But how long until this promise turns into poison?