Chapter Thirty-Five Viola
Rodric, there is only so much pull I have within the Grand House concerning Sylas. Viv Rowan is asking for a reelection following the mismanagement of the Gorhail murders.
thirty-five | viola
A part of me always knew my mother wasn’t my mother, but the horrors she put me through don’t sting any less. I am an Aspieri and a Mortemagi, daughter of a legend, granddaughter of another legend, and yet I know so little of the great magic I supposedly possess. In short, I am a waste of magic.
This morning we came back with enough time for me to drop Olivia’s fairy-tale book on the study desk in Founder’s Room and change into House of Death clothes before rushing to Delaney’s class on ghost communication.
I couldn’t answer a single one of her questions, because I kept wondering whether Scar was all right—it felt cruel locking her up in Sylas’s safe, but we didn’t have a choice.
Now Lyria and I huddle around the low table in their living room, three empty cups of tea and two empty plates pushed to the side. Beau leans back on the sofa behind Lyria, raising the report he’s reading above his face.
“If you think we are accomplished…” Lyria does this thing she always does when she’s excited—her eyes widen, her lips break into a grin as if she’s about to let you in on the biggest secret, and her legs can barely stay still.
She grabs on to Beau’s shirt and physically pulls him into our conversation.
His stack of paper drops onto his face, and he slides down next to his sister. “The Deathbringer was a Magus Principalis at sixteen, a Firstline chief at eighteen. She and Scar were the perfect pairing; she even has admirers among poachers. To this day, no one comes close to her.”
Lyria has told me so many stories about the Deathbringer—my mother.
After Delaney’s class, she snuck me out to Fang’s Nest to show me her portraits.
In them, I saw a younger version of the woman from my dreams. I’ve been trying to find comfort in the fact that I knew her, even for a short time.
That for me, she gave up everything—her highly decorated career, her future, and her life.
Did she ask Nan to hide me because I was in danger?
Because I know in my heart that the woman I’ve been dreaming about since I was a child would never let me go.
My eyes sting again, my vision hazy. I press my hands to my face to seize the tears.
How do I stop crying over a life that was robbed from me?
Nan could’ve told me stories of my mother.
Instead, she let me believe I was hated because of a fatal flaw that made me different from Olivia.
And she lied to me. I trusted her, and she lied.
“There’s talk of Rhodes being dismissed,” Beau says, bringing me back to the conversation. “With all the propaganda from The Daily Mage, mages are demanding to go home. Meanwhile, purists are fueling protests against Parrish for inaction about the Gorhail murders.”
We all know it’s because she’s from a crossmage family, the ghost says. It’s her first time speaking since the mausoleum last night. For a second, I wondered if she had forsaken me for being a crossmage.
With last night’s events and now having to worry about Scar, I had briefly forgotten about the stolen relics and the potential return of Grimm.
“We now know that Olivia took The Founder’s Book of Relics back to Gorhail the last time I saw her, but they didn’t send it back with her belongings,” I remind them.
Sylas and I told them the moment we joined them in the car this morning, but by the time we started spinning theories, Gorhail was in front of us.
Lyria scrunches her nose. “We can assume that the person who killed her probably took the book. Did she say why she needed it?”
“Promotional exams.” I sigh, wishing I’d asked more questions.
Beau drums his fingers on the table, his head lost in thought. After a moment of silence, he brings up what Sylas and I told them about Grimm. “Would the poachers need the book of relics to release Grimm from his cuff?”
Lyria and I exchange a worried glance. “I believe so,” she says, but I quickly add, “None of it explains the dead lines and the stolen heirlooms.” The more we talk about it, the more I wonder if the two are even connected.
Maybe Olivia’s taking the book was a mere coincidence, and Gor-hail returned it to their library.
“Is Sylas still sleeping, Beau?” Lyria asks. “We could use him right now.”
Three hours ago, Sylas walked in with a torn shirt and two new bruises. One below the right corner of his lips and a second one next to his left eye. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at us, and headed straight to Beau’s room to sleep.
“I think so. Paltro came to see him when you were both at dinner, but he didn’t answer.” Beau glances toward his room door, then back at me. “Oh… I won’t be in tonight; I may have found us a reader to take to Victor’s mother in the morning, but they’ll need some convincing.”
“Beau, is it who I think it is?” Lyria exclaims, but he ignores her, and he’s already halfway to the front door, jacket in hand.
“Anyway, Sy told you to move into his room, Vi. He’s only here for a couple more days, until he goes back to Riverview.”
I sigh. Because of my cuff, Sylas refuses to let me out of his sight. If not his, Beau’s; and if not Beau’s, Lyria’s. And now that I have Scar, they all keep saying that I can’t be away from her for more than a few hours. So I have unofficially moved into their rooms.
“Wait, I’ll walk with you until the infirmary,” Lyria calls out, rushing after her brother. “I still don’t understand why you’re set on torturing that poor woman. She went mad when her husband died,” she says as they put on their boots by the door.
“That’s the thing, sis.” Beau taps her on the head. “One doesn’t simply go mad when one’s husband dies.”
“Be back in a bit,” Lyria shouts, and I wave at her.
“Good night, Vi,” Beau says as he pulls the door closed behind them. “Oh, and if you see Sy, tell him Paltro wants to see him.”
Sylas’s room smells like mint and fire. I pause at the portrait of his family on the left wall of his bedroom, gently running my hand over the canvas. I don’t see the happiness, I only glimpse the reminder that, at any moment, this world can take everything from us.
In the left corner of the room, nestled in a reading nook with three single-seat sofas, a candle flickers on a low table.
Next to it is a book with a blank white cover.
I pick it up and flip to the bookmarked page.
Sylas was in the middle of a collection of field-leader reports from the last twenty years.
Every page mentioning searches for the Deathbringer is marked, and he’s been scribbling notes in the margin.
I lift my eyes to the hallway behind the seating area which links Sylas’s room to Beau’s through a door at the end.
My legs begin to move, but I stop myself.
Something clearly happened, and he wants to be alone.
I hate how much I yearn for him when he’s not around, how every little thing triggers a thought of him.
Glancing down at the report, I see that Sylas has been noting potential dates that the Deathbringer could’ve died. I turn the page, and it nicks my finger. “Bloody saints,” I mutter as I set the book down and walk to the bathroom to wash away the faint trickle of blood.
But I’m not alone.
Sylas stands in front of the mirror, a towel loosely wrapped around his middle, sitting right above his hip bones.
He tousles his wet hair, then rubs his hands over his face, pausing at the paling bruise on the corner of his lips.
My mouth goes dry. I know I should leave right away, but my eyes linger on the flex of his back muscles and the countless white scars on his soft tawny skin. I want to kiss away every one of them.
An involuntary noise rises in my throat, and his eyes catch mine.
“Vi,” he says tentatively.
“I’m so sorry.” My hand reaches for the doorknob behind my back.
“Are you?” He lifts his eyebrows at me in the mirror, and I lower my head. My cheeks are burning, my body somehow shivering, and my throat flushes with a tangle of excuses that never make it out because, no, I am not sorry.
He turns away from the mirror, and my heart leaps with every slow step he takes toward me.
He stops right in front of me, our bodies almost touching.
My breaths are shallow, out of control, my chest rising and falling raggedly.
Can he feel my heartbeat—how a single look from him makes me lose my inhibitions?
“I should have knocked.” The first excuse bubbles out.
He lets out a throaty laugh that sinks into my bones. “You should have.” His breath grazes the shell of my ear, and a shudder dances at the base of my neck. My lips part, but he’s stolen all my words. If I could retrieve them, I’d tell him to undo me.
He leans closer, and I close my eyes. “We can’t,” I groan.
My stomach knots with agony. I would ruin him, like I ruined my mother. Maybe in another life, where being together wouldn’t paint a red cross on our backs.
His eyes darken, kindling a fire low inside my belly.
He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me through his impossibly beautiful lashes, with a longing I can’t ignore.
In this moment I know I would break a thousand rules for him; I would go to war for him; I would follow him to the depths of the Underworld, if I must. Would he do the same for me?
“You hate my magic. You can’t have one without the other,” I whisper, a mild panic catching at the edge of my words. I stand in front of him, asking him to choose the magic he loathes for me.