Chapter 11 Only Death Remembers Me #3
I raise an accusing hand, pointing at her. “You said—”
“I know what I said, Desdemona…” She trails off, realizing I had my memories back the moment she saw my eyes. Her necklace used Folk magic—memory and glamour. It hid me for my entire life.
She hid me.
I wish I could be stronger, be louder, but my voice is hoarse and barely audible. “You… you looked at me like I was evil.” My hands shake. Even as she tries to steady me, she fails.
“You are not evil.” My mom squeezes my hand, letting go of my cheek. “Love can be circumstantial, too. I had to love you, so I did. More than anything. It just took me time.”
Time I shouldn’t have had to give her. Didn’t I deserve more?
Maybe I never did. What makes me better than anyone else? All I can think of are the reasons I’m worse.
“You are my life,” she says. “And you have to get out of here to keep yours.”
At that, I can’t hold back my mocking laughter. Nothing can take my life from me. I’m practically invincible. I’ve lost count of how many times Mial has killed me—how many times death failed to hold me. My laugh rumbles deeper. Keep my life—as if anyone could steal it.
All the people I’ve murdered were for nothing. It adds to my laughter, the sickening humor this universe has. What a joke my entire life has been. What a monster I’ve been molded into.
I hope the gods are laughing with me now.
“Don’t give them your power,” Mom says, her words deliberate.
Maybe if she’d let me keep my memories, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.
I want to argue, to convince her she’s wrong, but I don’t see the point anymore.
“Okay,” I say.
“It doesn’t protect you.” Mom frowns. “It will poison you.”
She licks her lips, tears catching in the corner of her eyes. My chest aches. Is it possible she did all this to protect me? In her mind, was she doing the right thing for me?
My tears overwhelm me, and I can’t stop them from falling.
“It’s all right, honey,” Mom whispers, holding my hand tighter. Her voice drops even lower. “You need to be careful here. I don’t know how many times you’ve been killed.” She pauses, tears welling, as if saying it out loud hurts. “But that will ruin you, too.”
She’s known I was an Arcane this entire time. Everything I’ve wondered—everything I’ve feared—she held the answer to. But was she trying to protect me from the world, or the world from me?
“Nothing is unbreakable.” Her voice lowers, nearly inaudible. “Zola always finds her balance.”
Something catches my tongue. “You’re the good thing to right all the bad that came before”—those were her words. That’s what she always told me. My entire childhood, she swore I was good, and I never believed it.
Protect the world from me, then.
Screw her. Screw Zola and her balance. I don’t need a mother who doesn’t love me. My power protects me. My power is me. I let this woman make me fear it for years. I let the universe make me fear myself. But if I ever get the chance, I’ll make the universe fear me.
Everything it’s taken, I’ll take back tenfold.
“I came to say goodbye,” I whisper, my voice distant. “You’re going home. You won’t remember me.”
It feels like justice to take a memory from her after all this time.
Mom’s eyes darken. “No.” She rises, clutching the bars, knuckles white. “Desdemona, don’t do this.”
I reach for the little wolf and hold it, for just half a second. Then I let it go. The pieces I shared with Lucian—Leiholan and Aralia—are just as gone as I am.
“You would prefer to rot away here? Just for a memory?” I don’t mean for the words to sound so bitter, but any thoughts of memories just... make me bitter.
“Yes,” Mom says. “Yes!”
I shake my head, frowning. I almost pity her. I don’t think she has anything other than me. I believe she meant it when she said I’m her life.
“I promised I’d get you out,” I mutter. Then I call Mial’s name as my mom shouts and pleads, her shrill cries bouncing off the stone walls and piercing my ears. I ignore her as Mial enters. He looks at me for confirmation, and I nod. Icarthus comes in behind him.
“You can’t take my daughter from me!” my mom cries.
Icarthus cuts his palm, letting blood drip into a puddle. Then he opens her cage, grabbing her wrists and pulling her out. She struggles, but he doesn’t relent.
“Desdemona!” Mom screams.
Icarthus pushes my mom into the puddle of blood, holding her shoulders to keep her still. But it must be more than Icarthus’s touch that stills her. Mom would be fighting if she could. Her blood must be clotting, forcing her into stillness.
The red crawls up their bodies. Tendrils of crimson cover every inch of skin, every limb, until their bodies are coated.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the red is gone, and so are they.
I stare at the space in the room, once taken up by her. I stare at the spot, the last place my mother will ever remember me. I feel the loss like bile in my throat, smoke in my eyes, and air in my veins.
The scent of iron lingers in the room—the last trace of the blood that took my mom away.
Death is the only thing left that remembers me.