2. Kiera
Chapter 2
Kiera
Present Day…
A heavy pressure sinks onto my shoulders as if the world itself is weary and needs a rest. The feeling is like an invisible force field pushing in from all sides. Shifting in my seat, I turn to look up at Ruen only to find a strange film has drifted down, shielding him from view. I can sense him next to me, Theos on my other side, but other than that, I cannot see them. It's as if a fog has rolled in from nowhere, separating where they are from where I am.
I open my mouth to call out their names, but nothing emerges.
Tendrils of the fog reach out, white branch-like creatures that slither over my arms and up to my shoulders. I jerk away and try to stand. Nothing happens. I remain sitting in place.
Ruen? Theos? Kalix? Still nothing. No sound from my lips. No response from them.
My ears fill with a shrieking sound so suddenly that I jerk upward, covering the sides of my head with my palms. Almost as soon as I do so, though, my arms drift back down, urged to do so by the white branches of fog.
It's alright, a masculine voice soothes. Everything is alright. You are safe here. You will let me in.
My shoulders relax, lowering. I sway in my seat, back and forth, blinking rapidly as a wave of exhaustion hits me. I haven't been sleeping well, I know, but I shouldn't be this tired ... should I?
You are safe, the voice repeats. You are whole. You are well.
I am safe. I am whole. I am well. Yes, that's right. I'm completely protected here in this fog. I'm not being restrained. I'm being held. Assured. All ... is ... well...
My head lolls to one side and then the other as I feel warm hands at the back of my skull. Heat spears through me, almost, but not quite, uncomfortable. A ruffling sound is in the back of my mind, reminiscent of someone shuffling through papers, searching ... searching for something. Searching ... for what?
It's becoming harder to keep my eyes open. I want to close them so badly. I want to sleep. Something keeps me from doing so. A bad feeling. Dread in the pit of my stomach. Horror spreading through my veins.
Instinctively, I force my eyes back open and my back to straighten. The hand comes away from the back of my skull, and the fog clears though only marginally.
Eyes darker than any abyss I've ever seen are in front of me, full of fire and brimstone. My chest locks up, allowing no air to pass through. I am not safe here.
Immediately, I pull away from those eyes, from the sound of the man's voice that attempts to soothe me.
Yes, you are, he insists. You are well. All is well.
When there are too many spiders around me and all of their emotions and muddled thoughts intrude upon my mind, I've learned to block them by throwing up invisible mental barriers. That's what I do now. Barrier after barrier goes up between the man and me. Spider webs building on top of one another, overlapping to form a shield around my mind. Then the bricks. Stone block after stock block appears in a circle where I sit.
Around and around I go, building the framework of my safe haven. A sharp curse from the man echoes back to me and then pain lances through my head. My lips part on a cry. More bricks. More stone. More webs. Though I can feel my physical body remains unmoving, in my mind I throw up the barriers as fast as I can, clutching the sides of my head as more of the sharp stabs spear through me.
You will give me the answers I seek, child, the man demands, angry now that I've figured out his intentions.
No! I shake my head back and forth, but the pain only increases. Throbbing, red-hot agony stabs into my mind. No. I cannot let him win. Whoever he is, whatever he wants, all I know is that it spells disaster. Danger.
The speed with which he changes tactics, though, warns me that there's little he won't do to get what he wants. Therefore, I need to go on the offensive.
Almost as soon as that thought occurs, a small hole opens up in my barriers. More pain splinters into my head, but I don't hesitate to move towards it. I slam a hand through the barrier's opening and feel something slip past. Closing my fingers around it, I squeeze and pull hard.
The shocked burst of energy that slams into the outside of my barrier is followed by a low growl. I yank harder, tightening my grip. Whatever it is feels stringy, like long strands of very fine hair, but at the same time, each one is wickedly heavy and it takes considerable effort to bring it towards me, back through the barrier.
When my arm is inside once again, I slam shut the opening of my barrier and stare down at what I have. Long black strings, not hair, but ribbons. Each one is frayed at the edges and shimmering with ... colors? No, not colors. I bring the ribbons closer to my face. Images form.
Bodies with open ribcages, faces splattered with blood, monsters with sharp teeth and black eyes. I drop the ribbons to the ground at my feet and back up, staring in horror as I lift my palm and see that the darkness has shifted to my flesh. Black stains the skin of my fingers and wrist. The shadow of the ribbons' powers stretches and changes, turning into veins that burrow beneath my skin.
Then, suddenly, the images reflected in the ribbons are in my head, pouring into my mind.
Malachi, sobbing and struggling beneath ebony chains—brimstone chains—a large angled blade rising over his chest. Blood spilling, not from Malachi, but from the wrist of another, onto the Mortal God strapped to a stone table. More struggling. Pleading. Confused words.
"Why?" he asks. "Why me? Why are you doing this? Please! I only want to serve—" A scream echoes out of his mouth, interrupting anything else that he might say. The blood on his chest bubbles up and does exactly what the ribbons had done. It takes on a life of its own, spreading out like rivers over his chest and abdomen, up to his throat and down to his thighs.
Voices, low and hypnotic, begin to rise up around him. A language I don't recognize. Malachi begins to shudder upon the stone slab, twitching and seizing under some phantom disease that has taken root inside him.
A hard bang slams against the outside of my barrier, but I'm too far into the scene to pay attention to it. It's not just a scene but the man's memories. This is a memory.
Horror and revulsion fill me as Malachi screams in agony as his chest cavity cracks and splinters open. Bones break. Blood spurts. The shadows surrounding him move closer. As one, they connect hands from beneath their robes and hoods and begin to breathe. At least, that's what it seems like. Beneath their clothes, the figures inhale, chests expanding, and through Malachi's pained wails, a cloud of shimmering light emerges from him.
The light glistens, floating above Malachi's jerking body, and then, as the figures continue to inhale in deep draws, it splits apart. As if the light itself is a cloud of smoke that can be sucked inside, equal tendrils of it disappear beneath the hoods of those surrounding Malachi. As more and more of the stuff ceases to exist, Malachi's body slows its twitching. His cries dull and then, ultimately, go silent.
All five of the figures release each other and throw back their hoods. My stomach rolls and vomit threatens to come up my throat. "Much better," Tryphone says as he cracks his head to the side.
I watch the thin lines of age fade from his face as if by ... what had Caedmon called it? Magic. Not Divinity.
This is the taboo. My eyes go to Malachi, but he's no longer there. The shell that remains has withered. Gray skin stretched over bones that are far smaller than they should be. The opening of his chest appears like the mouth of an ancient beast, the ribs protruding outward like long bleached teeth. All of his youth is gone. The skin over his body appears like that of bark, lined and almost transparent. The blood has dried and turned to dust.
Lifting my eyes, I break away from the memory and find myself staring at the barrier surrounding me. Now that I'm here again, I can hear the rage on the other side and I know who it is. Tryphone.
A crack forms across the stones surrounding me, growing wider and wider until a dark, clawed hand penetrates through. Coated and bleeding from my webs, Tryphone's voice echoes through my head.
I will know who you are, he warns me. You cannot hide from me. You cannot run. You are mine. You are all ... mine.
I wake slick with sweat and panting for breath. Sitting up, my hand passes over the opposite side of the mattress, patting around in search of something—someone—only to find it empty. Blinking away tears that I hadn't known I'd let slip free, I slow my racing heart with steady, even breaths. The dream is not my reality, but this room, this bed, and the scent of rum and spice on the air is. Tryphone is not in my head anymore. I'm here. In the Darkhavens' chambers. Safe. I'm safe.
But for how long? a voice whispers back. In response, I lift my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.
Breathe. I need to fucking breathe. In and out. In and out. I force my lungs to work, counting down the seconds between each breath as I go. Rocking back and forth against the pile of pillows that take up the headboard of Ruen's bed, I try not to sob at the fresh new scar in my head.
The memory of Malachi's death is only one of many. Caedmon's face had been there too, amongst the ribbons, his face bloodied and beaten so badly that one eye had been swollen shut. He'd been saying something to the man—to Tryphone, to his fucking killer—but what had it been?
I don't know how long I sit there, rocking myself on the soft cushion of Ruen's mattress, but as the dusky light of dawn begins to peek through the curtains over the lone window, I decide it's long enough. Getting out of bed, I walk across the room to the armoire and retrieve a pair of solid black pants from inside. Donning them, I bind my chest and slip on a blue shirt, adding a leather belt around my hips.
No doubt the tossing and turning I'd done during the night had kept Ruen up. As shaken as I am by the whole ordeal that Tryphone had set upon me during the arena announcement a few days prior, I'm not the only one struggling to sleep. I pause in front of the long mirror on my way to the door, stopping as the sight of my own face shocks me into stillness.
Hollow cheeks. Sunken eyes. I reach up and pass a hand over my throat, which seems to stand out more above my jutting collarbones. Have I really gotten this bad?
I know that this isn't right. This isn't me. I need to get myself together. A plan needs to be made, actions taken. We can't let the Gods win this way.
Caedmon is ... I shut my eyes, both against the image of myself reflected back at me and against the reminder of what I'd seen when Tryphone had attempted to insert himself into my consciousness.
While presenting himself before the Academy and informing all of us of his plan to move everyone to Ortus, he'd been silently attacking my mind. That kind of power ... I truly don't understand what Caedmon had been thinking, why he swore that I would be the one to kill the God King.
Reopening my eyes, I turn away from the mirror and move towards the door. Twisting the handle, I let myself out of Ruen's bedroom. The living room, to my surprise, is empty. Frowning, I glance around, seeking out any sign that might tell me where the others have gone. A whisper of emotion in my mind has me turning towards the window and striding forward.
Aranea, my little Spider Queen, rests against the wall, her mental call answered by me as I lift a hand and let her hop onto my palm. Her fuzzy little legs twitter as she circles and then sinks down against my skin, the weight of her belly so small and fragile despite the fact that she's one of the largest spiders I've ever had.
"Do you know where they've gone?" I ask her gently.
It soothes me to press a fingertip to the top of her tiny skull and rub lightly. I've never owned a pet before and I'm not entirely sure I'd consider familiars to be pets, but this one is far closer to me than any that have come before her. She nuzzles my fingertip back and the burst of emotion in my mind that comes from her is all affection. My eyes mist over and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. Perhaps all it takes to really cherish the things in life is more than near death—but complete mental annihilation. As if she senses my uneasy and complex thoughts, Ara nudges me and answers my earlier question as well as she can.
My head tilts upward and I start for the stairs. A light nip—no venom—on my palm has me putting the spider onto the banister and leaving her behind as I ascend to the second floor. I don't stop until I'm in front of Kalix's door. It's then that I hear the male voices on the other side. I lift my hand and knock.
Seconds later, the door opens with Theos on the other side, his glittering gold-white hair shoved back from his face and color high on his cheekbones. "You're awake." He holds the door wider, inviting me in.
Regis is sitting up in Kalix's bed, seeming far livelier than he had the week prior. His face is no longer the strange ashen gray that it had been and his shoulders don't droop as if a heavy weight sits on his back. Across from him, Ruen stands, feet braced shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his chest. At the window, Kalix strikes a dark figure of relaxation where he sits upon a settee, dagger in hand as he carves grooves into the side of the furniture.
I can’t help but stare at those long wooden slices, feeling each one as if it’s a scar branded on my soul. Twenty years I’ve been alive and yet not a single of those years have prepared me for this. For what I now know. We are alone. Four Mortal Gods and a human against everything—and everyone—else.