Chapter 15 I Can’t Forget
I Can’t Forget
Lucian
I
wake beneath a blanket of paper, the edges crinkling as I sit up.
For a moment, I remain motionless, observing, until finally, I pick up a page…
then another. Each one shows the same composition: shades of gray, interrupted by hints of red—each rendering a set of hands.
I’m unsure where the paper came from, or the red pigment.
My gaze shifts to the dresser; a stick of charcoal rests there, though nothing nearby accounts for the crimson streaks staining the pages.
Cautiously, I study the drawings. They’re all the same: two hands reaching for one another. One hand remains unmarred, stretched so taut the veins rise beneath the skin. The other is drenched in blood, the red trailing in thin, uneven threads from each finger.
I find myself mirroring the gesture as my fingertips brush the bloody ones on the paper.
The paint is still wet, thin for the amount of pigment.
For the first time, I consider the little red dagger lying at the end of my bed.
My index finger is already stained red, yet more pigment deposits as I grip the hilt of the blade.
It’s covered in blood. Power lights up my hand, a warm surge rushing through me, restoring what I’d bled away, as if the knife comes alive when I hold it.
Then, my eyes fall to the long cut along my palm.
Fresh blood traces the wound, the same shade as the artwork.
I return to studying it, unable to understand but needing to in equal measure.
There’s something here, perhaps an answer, perhaps a damnation, for it feels less like a vision and more like a memory.
I trace each image, the outline of the hands. There are at least twenty images—forty hands in total. I drew them all in my sleep.
When I’m able to, I finally pull myself out of bed.
I wash away the blood, watching the pink water run down the drain.
Then I put the little red knife in my sheath, planning to carry it with me throughout my day for the added strength.
Though, when I hide the artwork in my drawer, I find myself reaching for the journal.
I promised myself I wouldn’t read it again, but since the moment I put it down, I’ve been waiting to pick it back up.
My hands have itched for it, my heart has ached.
Against my will—and better judgment—I open the journal, reading each passage and letting it suck me into its imaginary world.
?
In her room, Wendy sits at the desk across from me, reading. Watching her feels like stepping into an alternate reality—one where Azaire still exists, only in a different form.
Wendy runs a finger along the edge of the page with a long sigh.
“What is it?” I ask, straightening my spine.
“There are glyphs… that weren’t in the Irisan alphabet.”
“It’s not Irisan?” I ask.
“Some of it isn’t. Some of it is.” Wendy looks up. “It’s an ancient language that I’m not well-versed in.”
I nod, running a hand along my jaw. I could go to Yuki—the ancient languages are largely left to the Draes and only occasionally taught to the Eunoia. There’s no guarantee she was taught what a Drae would know. Yet Yuki knows so little of what’s truly happening, and I believe he’s safer for it.
With a sigh, I muster my most encouraging tone. “It will take time.”
“We don’t have time.” Wendy runs her hands through her hair, elbows firmly resting on the desk.
“Azaire is safe,” I say. “He’s preserved in the roots.”
“The book says…” she trails off.
“Says?”
“The longer someone is dead, the less likely they are to come back… as they were.”
I step once to the side, then back again. “Then we don’t need the translation,” I say hastily. “Were you able to bring the flower back?”
“Yes. They didn’t bloom for long.”
I pace the length of Wendy’s room. If she can’t bring a flower back, it’s no matter. She only needs practice, surely.
I shake my head, trying to be supportive. “Keep trying.”
I don’t realize how discomforting my words could be until Wendy says, her tone clipped, “I am.”
Her eyes shine, glassy with tears. There’s only one way I know to guide her—and it’s the same way I’m guiding myself.
“How badly do you want Azaire back?”
Wendy’s gaze meets mine—red with tears, narrow with fury. It’s as if she knows I killed him and still placates me for my power.
Without a flinch, she says, “I’d give him my soul.”
It’s intriguing to stare at someone I have so much in common with, yet so little.
“That’s the most important thing,” I say. “Obsession. You won’t give up.”
Wendy nods, and I glance around her room.
Her supposed magic over the dead is based solely on her—possibly incorrect—translations of a book written in the ancient Irisan language.
Still, if she does possess this magic, we must know.
She believes she needs me because I was forged from the Soul Ruby, but if she has power over death, then she is what we need.
If Wendy failed to keep the flower alive, perhaps it’s because she needs something with a stronger essence. A life force.
“Hold the thought,” I say, standing and heading for the door. I half-expect Wendy to protest my departure.
I close the door behind me.
?
By this time of day, Elowen, the head chef, should be far from the academy, taking her rest. Yet here she is, past midnight, preparing our morning meals. I ask her for something dead, preferably whole, under the pretense that I’m helping make breakfast for the next month.
She laughs. “Who says I need help?”
“Not me,” I reply. “Perhaps I should have started with offering you a break.”
“I love cooking,” she says.
“For a bunch of spoiled kids?”
“Someone’s gotta feed ‘ya.” Elowen smirks. “And you might be the most spoiled of ’em all.”
With her, I laugh. “You have me there, Elowen.”
She grunts, still smiling. “I’ll help ya. But you gotta tell me what you need something dead for.”
This has to be my most unusual request ever. I raise a brow. “Class project.”
“Mhm,” Elowen mumbles, then disappears into the kitchen. When she returns behind the counter, she’s holding a whole chicken by its scaly feet. Its limp neck and flightless wings dangle. “You want this?”
I nod. “Perhaps in a wrap?”
Elowen sighs, putting the dead chicken in a cloth for me.
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t get it from me.” She gives me a sly smile.
“No, I did not.” I offer her that same smile before departing, heading to Wendy’s room, unsure if she’ll be happy or sad to see the dead animal. I assume sad. She’s a Eunoia—a creature of life. No amount of death will change that.
Wendy stands motionless before the mirror, gripping a lock of her hair fiercely. I enter, placing the chicken on her desk. She doesn’t look away from her reflection.
“I got you something dead.” I search for her gaze in the mirror, but she doesn’t meet mine. Her fingers run through her hair.
After several moments, she says, “I’ve never been vain.” Taking a deep breath, she turns to me. “But this must mean something.”
The strand of her hair is gray, entirely devoid of color. Her eyes meet mine, duller than they’ve ever been. Still green, but a far cry from the chartreuse they were before she died.
“What if I turn into a corpse?” she asks.
Her voice is small. I hate that I don’t know what to say. I search for something kind, comforting. All I can think to say is that her death might mean Azaire’s life.
“I don’t know,” I whisper at last. How do dead things operate? “There was nothing about Eira turning to a corpse.”
It’s meant to help, though Wendy gives me a grave look, her gaze shifting to the chicken on her desk. “What is that?” she asks, changing the subject.
“A dead chicken.” Wendy stares at me, and I keep my tone level. “See if you can feel it.”
Her lips twist as she shifts on her feet. “I don’t want to feel it.”
“Would you prefer a flower?”
Wendy glances at the ceiling, taking a deep breath. “Can you unwrap it?”
I nod, doing as she asks. I take the chicken out of the cloth and set it down, reminding myself this is what Wendy wanted—to bring Azaire back.
I step back, giving her space while staying close enough to watch. Wendy sits at the desk, taking off her gloves. She rests her hands over the dead, flightless bird for several minutes. At times, her fingers wiggle, as if trying to summon power.
I stand, measuring my breaths so they don’t distract her.
This is for Azaire. There is nothing more important.
As time passes, I silently inch myself back toward the bed, sitting but leaning forward, watching the chicken with far less determination than Wendy. Her forehead shines with sweat, her arms trembling as she keeps them raised.
I have half a mind to tell her it’s all right—she doesn’t have to continue if it isn’t working.
The sanity drains from her face, taking the color with it and turning her skin an ashy shade.
The crease between her eyebrows may be etched into her skin forever.
I worry she won’t come back from this. Perhaps it’s cruel to push her this far. I rise, prepared to warn her.
Then, terrifyingly, one of the chicken’s wings flaps. The top half twitches with effort while the bottom dangles with dead weight. It convulses once, like it’s trying to shrug off death itself. Then, it squawks—a shrill sound.
I look at Wendy in awe. Her complexion has drained, her face a shade of dull gray similar to her strand of hair.
She moves her shaking fingers as though pulling the strings of a puppet.
Her features scrunch together, and her arms tremble with force.
With one last squawk, the chicken’s wing falls.
A crack sounds through the room as it hits the desk.
Then, Wendy falls from the chair, her body dropping to the floor.
Dropping to my knees beside her, I search for a pulse, my hands shaking as they reach for her wrist, then her neck.
She is still as stone, and fear courses through my bloodstream.
She is a piece of Azaire, his only hope.
Though there wasn’t a pulse when she was awake, either.
It offers me a small amount of reprieve.
I reach for a pillow and place it under her head. She’s only sleeping. She’ll come back. She’s a dead thing; can a dead thing die? I search for any signs of movement, remaining beside her in her slumber so she won’t be alone when she awakens.
It’s a few minutes before her finger twitches.
Another few pass, and her eyelids shudder.
She’s going to be fine. I let out a breath of relief before I walk to the chicken, face down on the table.
As I did with Wendy, I wait for the bird to move.
Though the longer I look at the chicken, I realize it’s far more gone than Wendy. It smells rotted. It looks dead.
Whatever she did to the animal didn’t bring it back to life.
Perhaps she got close.