Chapter Thirty-Nine Viola
Founder Ysenia Faro’s Cuff was buried in the vault below my statue in the courtyard of the House of Poison, the sole access granted to my chosen bloodline, given that my blood sealed Grimm in.
As we agreed, amend the books and declare that the five of us sealed Rafael in the cuff.
We cannot risk anyone releasing him. This tragedy is further proof that Mortemagi need to be driven out of existence. How long until another Rafael emerges?
thirty-nine | viola
The Poisoned Stairwell crawls with ghosts when we climb down from the tower, but none of them bother me because of Ysenia.
I cannot hear them, but they announce their presence with frosty caresses and biting goose bumps.
She leads me back to the House of Death, reassuring me several times that Mara is gone.
I pull the hidden door open, stepping into the empty hallway.
As I push it closed, Overseer Delaney greets me with a murderous glare.
“Miss Corvi.”
The weight of my name hovers over my head like a boulder, threatening to crush me.
I press my back against the tapestry, counting my breaths.
Overseer Delaney’s glare pins me with dread—she just watched me walk out of the Poisoned Stairwell.
I’ve not only violated lockdown but also probably curfew.
But I must tell her about Mara coming back, about Rafael Grimm, and about how he’s trying to resurrect himself.
“To your room,” she orders, and I scurry forward, my nerves swallowing all I wanted to say.
The key shakes as I try to fit it into the lock. Delaney’s huff of impatience over my shoulder isn’t helping. When I fail a second time, she snatches the key from my hand, opens the door, and shoves me inside. The dresser catches my stumble, and she walks in behind me, eyes scanning every corner.
I understand that rules are important for Delaney, but using brute force simply because I broke them seems excessive. Even for her.
“Your grandmother used to be dean of this fine institution,” she begins. Oh no. Here comes the speech of disappointment, about how I do not live up to her reputation, about how I am a waste of magic. “She is remembered as one of the greatest deans that Gorhail has ever seen. Do you know why?”
“No.” I shake my head, fiddling with the hem of my shirt.
I never knew Nan as a dean. To me, she was a grandmother, like any other.
We would bake, we would plant flowers, and she would read me stories at bedtime.
She made my life in Albion bearable, and her lying to me about who I am doesn’t change that she loved me.
Overseer Delaney retrieves a rolled issue of The Daily Mage from under her coat.
The edges are torn, the pages yellow. Her long, wrinkly fingers unfold it to a picture of Nan.
Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun, her round silver glasses sit lightly on her rounded nose, and her thin lips are drawn into a line.
I don’t know this version of Nan. Mine has loosely braided gray hair, the kindest eyes, and creases around her lips from smiling too much. The headline gives me pause:
“Gorhail Matriarch Thwarts a Second Catastrophe”
The date on the paper is 1919, twenty years ago.
Delaney’s sneer drops into a mockery. “Saint Corvi. She saved the world.” She folds the paper in four and places it on the dresser. Something about her demeanor makes me step back.
“Do you know how she saved the world?” She draws out every word. I return a blank stare, and she slaps her hand on the dresser.
I flinch.
“She killed my daughter.” Delaney cants her head, her stare hollow. Confusion and dread knot tighter in my stomach. I didn’t even know she had a daughter, but this woman isn’t thinking straight. Nan didn’t kill anyone. She was a liar, but she wasn’t a killer.
My eyes dart around for an escape, but there’s only one door, and she stands in my way.
“W-why?” I ask. I don’t know if I’m buying time or trying to make sense of her accusations.
She shifts her weight, and her chest rises and falls with annoyance.
As she shoves the newspaper across the dresser, my eyes catch on the headline again.
And suddenly, my mind is untangling everything I’ve been told today.
Twenty years ago, Nan stopped a catastrophe.
And earlier, Ysenia told me about the mage who released Rafael Grimm’s soul.
Twenty years ago.
Gods. I look up at Delaney’s ominous smile. That mage must have been her daughter.
“Because… my Willow brought back our true founder, the heart and soul of death magic.” She confirms my thoughts just as I make the connection. “No longer are we going to live under the thumbs of those who seek to control us.”
My heart sinks as I realize what this means. The dead lines, the stolen relics… Delaney is behind the murders. How could I have been so blind? She killed Olivia.
“It was you,” I whisper. I have to get out of here. My eyes cast toward the door, hoping, praying Lyria, Beau, or even Lorne comes by.
“Oh, your little friends won’t come,” Delaney scoffs.
“Friendship is meaningless at Gorhail. Willow released Rafael Grimm, tethering his soul to hers. When Rhea found out, she didn’t even give me a chance to reason with my daughter.
No…” She pauses, glancing at the photograph of Nan on the newspaper.
“Your dearest grandmother fragmented Willow’s soul across six relics.
Do you know who trapped my beautiful child? ”
When I don’t answer, she continues, “Her own friends, Viola. I will never forget their names. Rhea Corvi, who was a second mother to her; Peter Quince, who loved her once; Victor Carver Sr., who was like a brother to her; Faal Rowan and Sara Ducas, both of whom grew up with her; and the last one was a surprise—Eloise Beauchamps, Gorhail’s darling, not a mean bone in her body, they’d all said. ”
My belly twists. Realization cascades through me like a cold shower; I would never have pieced it together on my own.
Delaney is collecting the six relics that trapped her daughter’s soul so she can release her ghost. The dead lines, the blood that seals, the six heirloom relics.
But Nan would never inflict this pain upon anyone without reason.
I have to believe that. The alternative would break me.
“I-I don’t…” I inch closer to the door with every word.
My heart beats in my throat, the same acrid smell of death circling me, telling me my end is fast approaching.
If she’s telling me all of this, she doesn’t intend to let me live.
But I need to live. Sylas needs to know that Delaney is the mastermind, that Rafael Grimm is back, and that Delaney was behind the murders.
Delaney beams, victory pulling the corners of her lips. It’s sickening. “Go ahead, open the door,” she coos.
I don’t wait. But I wish I had.
The sharp stench of sweat, blood, and decay fills my nostrils.
Mara stands there, and despite the smell, she’s looking like her old self, my boss and friend.
I wonder if they continue to use Mara as a puppet to fool me into these narrow moments of oblivion.
Her shoulders slouch forward, and she looks at me with a blank stare.
Sweat beads on the nape of my neck. My heart slams against my rib cage, begging me to run. But I have nowhere to go. I am trapped between the puppet and its master. I expect Mara to swing at me or shove me backward, but the blow never comes.
Delaney seems to be playing at something, biding her time.
I will probably die here, but before I do, I have to find out as much as I can so that maybe a reader can extract my memories and Firstline can catch her.
I start with the most puzzling question.
Why now? “How long have you known Nan had The Founder’s Book of Relics? ”
“I had my suspicions.” The saccharine timbre of her voice doesn’t dull the sharpness of what comes next. “Your idiot sister casually offered the information Rhea died guarding, said her sister wrote about some of the most beautiful books that were recently unboxed from her nan’s belongings.”
My heart sinks, and tears fill my eyes. It was my fault.
“You tricked her.” I straighten, edging closer to Mara, knowing very well that any moment she could snap my head into two. Even knowing that this is a losing fight, I cannot give up.
“She was by far the easiest kill,” Delaney says. “Didn’t even put up a fight.”
Rage bubbles inside of me. I’ve wanted so badly to face Olivia’s killer and ask them why.
Yet I stand in the same room as Delaney, guilt carving out a bigger hole in my chest the more she speaks.
She died because of me, because of my forsaken magic, because of that stupid cuff, because of the stupid book I unboxed after a decade of its collecting dust in a crate.
“Olivia was a liar, albeit an excellent one. Twelve years, no suspicions, and all that time we thought her magic was weak because of her nonmagi parent,” she continues in my silence.
I press my hands to my sides. Nothing I say will bring Olivia back.
“At least her death wasn’t in vain, because it brought us you. Hidden in plain sight. The heir to the final piece I need to reunite with my daughter.”
Mara’s face is inches from mine now, and she’s still immobile. Maybe if I keep Delaney talking, I’ll be able to make a run for Circle Three. Lorne should be in his office.
“Viola, sweet Viola.” She pushes off the dresser, her wrinkled lips curling into a crooked grin.
“You’ve only been here weeks, and look at you.
Two resurrections, one solved serial murder case, sadly at your expense.
You could give me your cuff willingly… seal your magic, alter your memories, and walk away. ”
“I would never—”
“But you won’t, and for what… your little Aspieri lover?”
“He’s not my—” I roll my eyes at the absurdity of my thoughts. She’s about to kill me, and here I am with a growing concern about what Sylas and I are. A concern I will not address unless I survive.
I bolt.
One moment, I’m slipping past Mara, running down the diamond-checkered hallway. The next, her claws dig into my arms, and I fall. She drags me across the carpet, slamming me against the wall.
My head lolls forward, my vision growing hazy. My tongue fills with the copper tang of blood, and I want to throw up. Mara’s long, sharp fingers pull my hair backward, dragging my face in front of hers. “Pitiful legacy.”
Get up, Viola. You have to make it to the Poisoned Stairwell, Ysenia urges.
Mara raises her arm. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, a dull pain crawls along my spine, exploding right above my tailbone. I try to kick my legs, but they barely move. Gods, I have no fight in me.
Viola, you cannot die now. Try to take over her— No, I don’t know how much lifeblood you have left.
My magic mocks me. It only wants to watch me die.
Delaney’s laugh forces my eyes open. She crouches next to me, peering into my soul, as if she’s trying to find Nan there to claim victory over her. “There, there, my dear. Give me your cuff, and I’ll let you live.”
“No,” I force out, knowing she can kill me, take the cuff, and walk away without anyone knowing it was her.
But a nagging feeling tells me she would’ve killed me sooner if she wanted to.
My mind reaches to when we fought Mara off at Dearly Departed, how Sylas and Victor mentioned there was more than one puppeteer.
No. If I’m still alive right now, it means that she—or they—need me for something. “I won’t.”
“Very well.” She shrugs, rising to her feet.
I let out a slow exhale, trying to steady my pain, but Gods, it hurts.
Delaney flicks her palm forward, and Mara is in front of me again, crouching where Delaney was only seconds ago.
Mara wraps her long, bony fingers around my right wrist. Painfully, she drags my own hand to my torn sweater, and with her free hand, forces my fingers to click open the cuff.
I try to fight, but I am so… so weak, my eyes struggling to stay open.
Mara collects the cuff as it falls off and promptly hands it to Delaney, who holds it up like a trophy.
The brass catches a stray ray of light, blinding her.
I seize her distraction and drag myself forward.
My arms scrape against the carpet as I try to crawl my way to the Poisoned Stairwell. I must get out of here.
“You are smart, Viola, yet so naive. It’s a pity—” The ringing in my ears drowns her words, and the edges of my vision pull me into the shadows. When I force my eyes open again, Delaney is at the end of the hallway, and Mara stands a few feet away from me.
She’s leaving. Soon, she’ll be too far away to control her puppet. Now is my chance. Digging one elbow into the carpet, I only move a few more inches before something strikes me across the head.
Mara’s bony shins are in front of my face. Instead of ivory, her skin is ashen gray. She eyes me with a newfound interest. Her right leg shuffles forward. I will die here if I don’t fight.
There is no escape, no one to save me. In a poor attempt at self-preservation, I loop my hand around Mara’s disgusting leg, the cold, moist flesh sticking to my skin. I pull as hard as I can. She loses her balance, falling against the wall.
In a moment of delusion, I tell myself that I can crawl the few steps to the Poisoned Stairwell. I will make it. For my sister. For my friends. For all the people yet to die. For Sylas.
Pushing one knee forward, I crawl.
A low, guttural laugh stops me in my tracks.
It’s over.
Mara crouches in front of me. She lifts my chin with her bony finger until the pain in my neck stretches into my spine. Something’s different about her; her eyes are lighter, menacing.
“Go.” She releases me. Is she playing with me? “Go, Viola.” Her voice isn’t her own. It’s foreign. It’s dangerous. It chills me to my bones. “You will bleed to death in minutes, and I want him to watch you die.”
By the time I make it to the door, my pants are thick, warm, and sticky with blood. My breathing wanes. Maybe my last moments give me the strength, or maybe Death has mercy on me, but the door clicks open on my first try.
I crawl inside, welcoming the coolness of the floor on my chest. The feeling is brief, because the next moment, I topple down the stairs until I no longer know if the stars I see are real or Death welcoming me home.