Chapter Forty-Eight Sylas #2
Our eyes meet, and I understand why our bonds are sacred. It’s not even about love; it’s about surrender.
I let out a dry laugh. “She’s my Mortemagi, that’s the diff—”
I feel the first slice of the blade.
“Stop,” Viola screams, reaching for her cuff. “I’ll give you the cuff. Just stop.”
“Don’t.” I choke up, and Grimm’s dagger halts, my warm blood clashing with the cold metal. If she gives them the cuff, they’ll kill her. “Olivia died to protect you, and Lyria lost her mind trying to save you. I am immortal, Vi. Don’t do this.”
She reconsiders at my words. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she turns to Delaney again. “If Grimm cared about resurrecting Willow, why hasn’t he killed me and taken the cuff? He’s playing a game, Overseer, and you’re just a pawn.”
Viola is right. It’s all been too easy, too convenient. He is playing a game, and he wants something more than Viola’s cuff. Perhaps more than his own resurrection.
Delaney’s eyes narrow at Grimm in suspicion, and she clutches the pack of relics even tighter.
“I have been nothing but loyal and true these last two years, Aurelia. I brought you the book, the only one in existence.” His tone mellows, but his hold on me doesn’t. “You know me, Aurelia. Everything I do is to protect our right to magic.”
“Three pages are missing, Overseer.” Viola scrambles backward, her head tilted at Delaney. “He’s lying to you. The puppet he sent after Lyria… her last words were—”
Grimm drives his dagger straight through my heart. A flash of agony sears through my chest, into my very bones.
Viola shrieks.
“He won’t die, darling, but I promise he will feel everything.” He draws the blade out, and stabs again, and I wail as the metal twists into my flesh. It’s torture. My breaths are shaky, and I try to steady them. Haal, I can survive this. My ancestor suffered a worse fate.
“What do you see in him?” Another stab, but this time the pain numbs itself.
Viola catches my gaze, and her eyes flick to the side. A flash of green slithers past me, then up my leg.
“He abandoned you,” Grimm tries again. “He loathes our magic. He will never love you.” He forces the words through gritted teeth, equal parts despair and frustration, like an unrequited lover begging for scraps.
Railesza’s fangs sink into my thigh, relief washing over me.
“Grimm, your archaic mind games won’t work.” The waning pain emboldens my words. “Vi, I love you because of your magic, because of all the good you’ve done with it.” My confession is a prayer to the six Gods, a plea to forgive my prejudice, a promise to change.
Viola’s gaze shifts from Delaney to me, and she smiles, tears twinkling in her eyes.
“All my lives, Sylas,” she says, before facing Delaney again. Why does this feel like goodbye?
“Only when the maiden and the crone die at the hands of the usurper will he be free,” Viola recites. “The dead do not lie, Overseer. It’s the single fundamental truth of death magic.”
Grimm mutters a curse and shoves me backward. He stalks toward Delaney, but she clutches the pack of relics tighter and backtracks as fast as she can, her face warring between confusion and realization. Viola got through to her.
Our escape window narrows by the second. If we want to make it out, we have to move now.
Ready. I hear Ysenia, and Viola meets my gaze again with one last smile. This is goodbye. Whatever she’s planning to do, I wish she wouldn’t do it.
“Don’t blame yourself,” she mouths as I stagger to my feet.
“Ysenia,” Viola shouts. “Now.”
I struggle to keep up. Viola unclips and throws her cuff at Delaney, and she catches it and shoves it into her bag.
“What are you doing?” Grimm roars at Viola, his eyes darkening with fury.
With a single flick of his hand, two undeads emerge behind Delaney, closing in on her at rapid speed.
She slows down, palms out, raising her own undead to fight his, and they succeed.
But for every one she defeats, Grimm raises two more.
I take a step forward to help her but immediately retract. Murderers don’t deserve mercy.
“This is a lost battle, Aurelia. You’ll deplete your lifeblood. Surrender,” Grimm orders.
Delaney runs.
She only makes it three steps. She stumbles right as she’s about to leave the clearing, at the edge of the forest not too far ahead, falling on all fours, the contents of her pack spilling out.
All six relics that she brutally murdered mages for: Beau’s Silver, Victor’s laurel, Fable’s pen, Wren’s knife, Sierra’s key, and Viola’s cuff.
It’s ironic, how the relics she killed for are now her downfall.
She screams in frustration and tries to reach for them, but Grimm steps on her hand.
Now’s our chance. I move, reaching Viola in two strides. I tug on her arm, but she doesn’t move. “Vi, let’s go.”
She stands still, palms open, her head facing straight ahead. I wait for her to snap out of her death magic like she always does, but it never comes. This can’t be ghost paralysis; she’s anchored to Ysenia.
“Viola.” I step in front of her, reaching for her face. Haal, it’s too late. I am too late. Her eyes are no longer the soft brown that sets my heart alight. They are pitch-black.
“Aurelia, dear Aurelia. What a disappointment.” Grimm kisses his teeth, dragging my attention back to him and Delaney.
I wrap my hand around Viola’s; hers is as cold as the magic that flowed through my veins the night we bonded. I don’t have a clue what she and Ysenia are doing, but I’m not leaving her.
“Sacrifice is at the root of our magic.” Grimm draws his golden blade.
Delaney holds her face up, prepared to meet death. She knows it’s over. She stands no chance against a five-century-old mastermind. Then again, do any of us?
“Willow deserves peace. Don’t let her die again,” she begs as she looks at me. “Forgive m—”
In one fluid motion, Grimm slides the blade across Delaney’s throat, and blood sprays over the relics in front of her. He doesn’t waste any time, and his palms are up, black veins creeping along his forearm to his fingertips that ooze darkness toward the ground.
“Run, Sylas,” Viola purrs, but it’s not her voice. It’s Ysenia’s. It’s so strange hearing it come out of Viola’s mouth. “It’s what she wanted.”
“I’m not leaving her,” I mutter, watching Grimm’s eyes cloud over.
His fingers splay out, and the relics hover in midair over Delaney’s body.
The ground undulates like angry waves right before a storm, threading mud over her still-bleeding corpse.
Grimm closes his palms, and the relics drop with force, shoving the overseer deeper into the ground.
He kneels, brings his fists together, and the ground swallows the relics and Delaney whole.
One moment, it’s eerily quiet. The next, a gradual scream pierces through.
Grass clippings and clover leaves swirl low on the ground, and a young woman about our age materializes, translucent at first, then entirely human.
She runs her hands through her short black hair, feels her arms, and pats down her body.
When she lowers her head at Grimm, still kneeling in the mud, her catlike eyes flare in horror.
I remember her from the photograph in Paltro’s office. Willow. Delaney’s daughter.
Don’t speak. Don’t move. Trust Viola. I hope Viola knows what she’s doing, because if Grimm kills Willow, he will break the tether and regain his full form.
Willow whirls around, and Grimm is on his feet. Before she can even take a step, he plunges his dagger into her back, pulling her into him. Her pupils widen, then her eyes tear up. She doesn’t have to speak for me to understand the regret her tears carry.
All these deaths, senseless and in vain, because in the end, he’s coming back. None of us could stop him, no matter how many died trying.
Grimm lowers his head in the crook of her neck, bringing his lips to her ear.
“All these years, exiled in limbo… for nothing.” He twists the blade, and Willow’s eyes fade; her limp body drops at his feet.
His shoulders cave in, like he’s now letting out a two-decade-long sigh.
He laughs to himself as he steps over her.
“It’s always sad to lose one of our own.
After all, you are all my children, some misguided, but still all mine.
I bleed when you bleed. Rest now,” he says in a prayer over Willow’s body.
How strange it is to see him mourning someone he’s just ruthlessly killed.
What kind of sick, twisted monster are we dealing with?
Slowly, he turns toward us. At first, I don’t notice it, but slowly, Lorne’s soft features morph into sharper, more dangerous lines.
At his feet, the ground pulses, dirt curling over his shoes, until it wraps around his ankles. At first, I think it’s part of his transformation, but then the soil dissipates, and two skeletal hands grab at his legs, and behind him four more emerge from the ground.
Next to me, Viola’s fingers ebb and flow with the movement of the skeletal hands. Grimm jerks his leg forward impatiently, but the undead root him in place. He whips his head in Viola’s direction and seems to recognize something in those deep, inky eyes. “It’s you…”
Grimm twists his right palm, and the undead fall to dust. He straightens himself up, canting his head toward Viola, a half smile grazing his lips. “You’ve always been too soft for this world, Ysenia.”
As he speaks, his hair darkens from Lorne’s blond to black, and the moss green of his eyes deepens to the green of the forest, and soon his features are nothing like Lorne’s. They are strong, angular, exuding godhood. All three aspiers lock their eyes on him. What do they see that I don’t?
“Overconfidence is a fool’s favorite attribute, Rafael.” Viola—Ysenia— laughs.
Grimm’s smile fades. He tries to move, but dark tendrils of death emerge like whips from the dirt, snaking around his every limb, around his neck. A skeletal hand rips the sleeve of his shirt, clicks open his golden cuff—Faro’s Cuff—and drags it straight back through the ground.
I sigh at the irony. Lorne was wearing Faro’s Cuff all this time, and we never knew. And now, the cuff’s rightful owner has claimed it back.
“No,” Grimm roars, the tendrils dissipating into dust. He drops to his knees. “No.” His hands feel the ground around him; his fingers claw at the dirt, upturning the soil only to find rocks and twigs.
Viola’s knees buckle, and I wrap a hand around her waist, holding her against me as I lower us to the soft grass. Ysenia’s possession must have depleted her energy.
“Vi.” My thumb brushes over her cheek.
It’s cold.
“Vi.” Her eyes are sealed, her chest unmoving.
Panic catches in my throat as I lower my fingers to her neck. No pulse.
No. Please, Gods. No.
Viola’s mortality impales me. This isn’t happening. She’s not dead; she’s survived worse than this. I’ve saved her before. I can do it again.
Railesza bites into vein after vein, so much so that Viola’s arms are littered with fang marks. Venom takes time to work, I remind myself.
Soon after, Railesza pauses. It must be working; my aspier wouldn’t just stop. But she lifts her head at me, holding my stare for a moment, and I realize that she’s asking for permission… to stop.
I return a singular nod, and she stills, coiling herself at Viola’s heart. Scar leaps off my arm, violently hissing at Railesza, but my healing aspier doesn’t move.
A stillness settles around me. Gryff and Beau should’ve been here by now, but there’s no one. Even Grimm has disappeared.
It’s over.
I cradle Viola’s head against my chest, my heart slamming against my rib cage. Brushing her hair away from her forehead, I linger on her face. She looks calm, content, and I want more than anything to disrupt her peace. She can’t leave me here; she can’t leave me alone. We’ve only just begun.
Without her, life has no meaning, no purpose.
We deserve more time.
Tears drop onto her cheeks, and for a moment I think they’re hers…
but they’re mine. Her warmth is slowly dissipating, so I hold her closer to give her some of my own warmth.
I shake my head. This cannot be the end.
Maybe Briar and Railesza can try again. Maybe one of DOTS’s healers can bring her back.
Maybe Parrish can resurrect her. Maybe… Maybe…
As I catch my breath, a deep ache blooms within my chest. It gnaws at my heart, splitting it into pieces from within, and I know I’ll never be whole again.
The love of my life is gone.
I bury my head against her hair, whispering a million apologies.
“I should never have left,” I cry.
“I should never have left.
“I should never have left.”