Chapter 21 Skullcrusher
Skullcrusher
Desdemona
M
y ribs ache. I’m soaked in sweat and blood when I finally reach my room, with Fleur and Artica guiding me through my exhaustion. Artica grips my shoulders tightly and asks if I’m okay.
I nod, saying, “Just tired.”
“I’m sure Fleur has an herb for that,” Artica says softly, her thumb rubbing against my bicep before heading to her room.
Fleur sits at the desk, opens a book, and stares at it instead of me. She doesn’t offer me any herbs.
She’s at the desk and not in her bed because she doesn’t want to look at me. I’m wearing blood—Lucian’s hums on my knuckles. I’m acutely aware of it, like grit under my nails or flakes in my hair. Even beneath the blood of others, I can still feel his. It’s disgusting, invasive, and I hate it.
It prickles like needles, pushing through muscle.
A disgusting sight, Fleur would say, if she said anything, even though it was entirely her fault. I should’ve known she healed my hand and eye today—and then my ribs when I asked—for her own reasons.
In the shower, grime slides off my body and down the drain. My stomach twists at the thought of tonight’s events. I made it through three fights before I lost. It’s their blood on the shower floor.
Fleur is still reading when I walk back to the room. She looks up at me, scowls, then looks back down. All of this—healing my hand, giving me clothes, dragging me to the fight she called a party—was to get me beaten by my classmates.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my tone.
“Why do I—” Fleur laughs, slamming her book shut and standing.
“Hate me,” I fill in for her. “Why do you hate—”
“Because this is Eleanora’s room!” she screams. “This is Eleanora’s room, and you waltz in, sleeping in Eleanora’s bed, using Eleanora’s favorite lamp, and touching Eleanora’s clothes as though none of it matters!
My best friend vanishes, and no one so much as speaks her name.
Then you arrive and take her place. What then—beyond contempt—do you imagine I am meant to feel for you? ”
The force of her scream sends me a step back.
Her words are worse. My chest burns, pressure building until I can’t tell if I’m breathing too fast or not at all.
She thinks this is just about a room. But I killed Eleanora.
I burned her face so badly that even when I tried to commit it to memory, there was barely anything left to remember.
How many people have stood in a doorway, waiting for someone I killed to come home?
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat. Every time I killed someone and my mom wiped the memory—how far did that go? Was it only mine she took, or everyone who knew them, too? Fleur is just the first I’m facing. But there are thousands. How deep is the crater I’ve carved into the world?
What my mother carved.
I want to scream back, to strike and run. All that comes out is, “Fleur, I didn’t—”
“Save your apologies,” she snaps, turning away from me and raising a silencing hand. “They don’t mean anything to me.”
I want to say something more—but what are my apologies worth? I’m nothing to Fleur and a murderer to Eleanora. My apologies are hollow. They always have been.
I collapse on my bed, waiting for sleep to overcome me so I can forget this day. Instead, vigorous knocks pound on the door, with Wendy shouting my name on the other side.
“Are you awake?” she calls, voice muffled through the wood.
Fleur glares at me.
I drag myself out of bed, opening the door.
“We need you,” Wendy says, beckoning me out of the room.
I follow her up to the Royals’ room where Lucian slumps on the couch, bloody and bruised. His shirt is burnt, his hair a mess—sticking up in all the wrong places. He looks dazed, his eyes yellow and unfocused, as if someone electrocuted him.
But something else is off—more so, something smells awful. The stench makes my eyes water.
Wendy closes the door, leaning against it. “When you and Lucian went to Ilyria, what did you find?”
My eyebrows furrow. I thought this was about me beating Lucian to a pulp—an action I was barely aware of at the time. All I could think about was causing someone pain. Wanting to.
But Wendy doesn’t care about the fight or the mess I made of Lucian, and that’s comforting.
“Some silver carvings,” I say, answering her question.
Lucian shakes his head, looking at Wendy. “I don’t remember any silver carvings.”
My breath snags, and a cold prickle crawls up my spine. For a second, I think I misheard him. I don’t remember. Are we not done with this memory bullshit?
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“There was a tremor. We fought Leiana and ran,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “You filled a box with silvers.”
What else is there to say?
Lucian shows no sign of understanding. His disorientation is almost familiar to me. It was once mine.
“I picked up a silver piece,” I say. “The cold burned my hand. Do you remember that?”
Lucian shakes his head, tired and defeated. I feel it too. Does this stop here, or will someone come along to wipe his memories every time we make advancements?
But I guess that’s tomorrow’s problem. Lucian doesn’t look like he’ll be any help.
“You should get some rest.” To lighten the mood, I add, “You took quite the beating.”
A smirk curls his lips. “Yuki does have an awful left jab.”
“It’s a miracle your face is still together.”
“Disappointed, are you?” He laughs, his gaze steady on mine.
A shrug. “I liked you better bruised.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “As long as you like looking at me, Althenia.”
“Your injuries were the best part.” I try to smother my smile, but this is so much easier than everything else lately.
“Because you gave them to me?” he asks. “You’re welcome to try again. I like you close.”
Light dances in his eyes, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Flirting with him is useful; anything beyond that is where this has to end.
A low trilling noise cuts through the silence. My eyes land on the chicken and the stench hits me all over again.
Wendy runs across the room, scooping up the animal. It falls asleep the second it’s in her arms. “My new pet,” she says.
I wrinkle my nose. “Could use a bath.”
Lucian snickers, and Wendy nods, clearing her throat. “You should get some rest,” she says.
“Certainly.” Lucian stands with a groan and walks to the door, his eyes lingering on me before he steps out. I glance down as he does.
When his footsteps retreat, Wendy turns to me. “You fought him.”
“It was hardly my idea.” I slump on the couch, sinking into the cushions like they were made for me.
“It’s a big step from him murdering you,” she notes.
It is, isn’t it?
I nod.
Wendy looks at me, then at the chicken in her hands. For the first time, I remember she used to wear gloves. She hasn’t worn them since I got back.
After a long stretch of silence, Wendy says, “There’s a statue of Zola along the academy perimeter, next to the woods. Meet me there tomorrow before class. Bring a weapon.”
?
Wendy’s waiting by the statue the next morning—where we fought the kapha and Leiholan lost his leg.
It’s beautiful here. The statue of Zola, nestled in the middle, is nearly as tall as the surrounding trees. Up close, the trees are larger than usual, and the bushes and flowers are overgrown—normally, they’re meticulously cut.
As I step closer to Wendy, clucking echoes from the cage she’s holding. Her chicken.
“Did you bring a weapon?” Wendy asks. There’s a bow strapped to her back. Her hair is braided in a tight updo, revealing a strand of gray. I wonder if it’s a side effect of her momentary death.
“Yes.” I show her my daggers, stolen from the combat room.
“Fair.” She starts walking toward the woods. “I’m not good with a bow.”
“What is it for?” I ask, stepping carefully over the crunchy leaves and twigs. I’m satisfied when they don’t make a sound.
“We’re hunting.”
“Oh.” I think I smile a little. “Why?”
Wendy holds up the cage with the chicken from last night lying silent inside. “He was dead. I want to progress.”
This is about bringing Azaire back. I don’t say anything because I need the ruby, but it seems like a terrible idea.
After a moment, she says, “You’re the only person who truly understands any of this.”
I’m not sure what she’s referring to—death or hallucinations. Perhaps both. I’d rather not understand either.
I try to think of a better response than, yeah, when her arm shoots in front of me, stopping me. She looks ahead, and I follow her gaze, spotting a small rodent. The meat on that thing is gonna be stringy. The larger ones always taste better.
But I’m not hunting to feed myself.
Wendy fumbles with her cage, snapping a twig before she nocks her arrow. The rodent runs, but I grab one of my daggers and throw. I don’t hit its throat like I wanted. The blade sinks into its stomach, but the thing still tries to run and ends up cutting itself open. Guts spill out.
“You probably won’t want that one.” I reach down and grab my dagger from the small, twitching carcass.
Wendy flinches, looking away. “No,” she says. “I don’t.”
If she’s going to kill these animals neatly, then she needs to know what she’s doing.
“Keep the bow drawn, but don’t fully nock the arrow,” I instruct. “And step lightly—roll your foot from the outside edge to the ball, not your full weight on your soles.”
Wendy does as I say, stepping forward. The leaves still crunch underfoot, but it’s much quieter than before.
“That’s good,” I say. She smiles a bit. “You’ll improve with time.”
I walk ahead of her, my bloody dagger in hand, searching for any sign of life as if my own depends on it.
The last time I hunted, it did. Leaves rustle high up in the tree—a bird.
I lower to a squat, pick up two small rocks, and throw one at the bird.
When it takes flight, I throw the second at its head.
I’m showing off—the two rocks aren’t necessary—but the body crashes to the forest floor.
Wendy follows after me. I think I crushed the bird’s skull, but she leans down, resting her hands above the body. Her eyebrows draw together, lips pushing down as her fingers wiggle over the bird. She watches it like the dead thing might get up and fly away.
Even if she brings the bird back, it wouldn’t last long with all the damage.
Azaire might have more damage than this.
It seems entirely implausible to bring him back to life. How did I bring her back? All I did was give her CPR. The hallucinations are something else. When she can’t bring this bird back, it’ll prove it.
But, much to my surprise, one wing twitches. It must be the wind. Or my imagination. When the other twitches, there’s no denying it. Then its legs. The next thing I know, the bird rises to its feet. Alive. Or some sick form of animation. Like Eira—the most dangerous person in the universe.
I watch the bird again, overwhelmed. It hobbles weakly through the woods, its head indented. Multiple times, it falls. Each time, it gets up again. That urge to survive isn’t just human. It’s what life is. Maybe that’s why I am the way I am. I’m just alive.
Before the bird gets far, Wendy grabs it. Gently, she clamps both wings with her thumb and shoves it into the cage next to the chicken. “I’m going to try to fix its skull,” she tells me. “But can you bring one back to life and see if yours has the same… shortcoming?”
“I have no idea how.” Wendy gives me a puzzled look, and I continue, “I didn’t bring you back. Or at least when I saw you I had no idea you were dead. I just tried to help.”
Her face is so transparent, there’s no way I could miss her disappointment—the slight tilt of her mouth, the hollow look in her eyes.
“But I can try,” I say softly.
“Please?”
I nod, rising to my feet and searching for another creature to kill.
Spotting a possum in the tree, I grab a rock and aim for its head.
The thing falls, and my blade pierces its throat before it hits the ground.
I approach it, placing my hands over the body and trying to mirror Wendy’s movements.
Nothing happens. I don’t even feel anything happening, and I’m glad.
Maybe that’s the problem. With Wendy, I cared. I don’t feel anything for the possum.
“It’s all right,” Wendy whispers, sitting next to me.
She hovers her hands, just as she did with the bird, but the possum is a little bigger.
It takes her longer. After a few minutes, the creature stirs, but Wendy collapses backward, drained.
I grab the possum before it can run. It’s not bleeding anymore.
The gash in its neck from my blade is now just an empty, ugly hole.
I put it into the cage full of Wendy’s misfits.