Chapter Three #2
A moment passes and finally Ylara begins to climb the stairs, and I force my feet to follow. I approach the edge of the parted crowd.
One of the six figures at the top is her mark.
The silver-robed figure walks forward, approaching the altar and raises their arms heavenward. A silver-bladed dagger glints in the light.
I’m going to assume the one on the altar is Ylara’s mark.
Which means this isn’t a prayer service.
It’s a gods damned sacrificial ritual.
Celesta’s devoted are sacrificing a human.
Why?
Does Celesta realize this gift is damned? Are these mortals about to offend a goddess with their offering? I don’t want to be here if so.
The man on the altar moves, his head lolling to the side.
Drugged.
He’s been drugged.
Does he realize what’s about to happen?
I’d expect this kind of behavior from demons, but fae?
Repulsed, I continue toward the center of the crowd, walking down the makeshift aisle the devotees have created. Movement in the upper left corner of my vision pulls my attention left. Yet another figure stands leaning against one of the pillars, hood drawn, face hidden by shadow.
Staring as I continue slowly toward the stairs, the figure is donning black, but it’s not the black robes others are wearing. Judging by the height and build of the figure, it’s a fae male.
A guard perhaps?
No. There’s a distinct lack of weapons on him. Nothing at his waist, nothing across his chest or back. Silver embroidery along the hem of his hood becomes apparent. He folds his arms over his chest, and matching silver on the cuff of his shirt makes itself known.
Whomever this male is, he possesses wealth.
Regardless of who, or what, he is, his demeanor makes it clear he has no interest in participating in the ritual. He watches everything silently from afar.
A small smile curls my lips.
I wonder if the observer knows he’s being observed?
He shifts, glancing over the crowd as I turn away, returning my sights to Ylara. She stands at the foot of the altar, her bat-like wings pulled tight against her. With a smirk, I nod to myself.
I know exactly what she’s feeling.
The hunting instinct is screaming at her, letting her know she’s found her target and minutes remain.
As I near the base of the stairs, a tiny tug resonates in my chest and I freeze.
What?
The hunting instinct?
How?
I don’t have a list. I lack a name.
It pulls again, coaxing me to the left, and my head swings, hands flying to the center of my chest as I meet the shadowed stare of the male beside the pillar. The sensation continues to unfurl, coaxing me up the stairs in his direction.
Planting my feet firmly, I refuse to move.
This should not be happening.
Whatever this is, it isn’t as harsh as the hunting instinct. It doesn’t feel like a tightening yoke demanding to be followed. Instead, it feels like a gentle reminder, a familiar whisper. How is it possible for something to feel familiar when I’ve no idea what it is?
Lowering his arms, he pulls himself from the pillar, stepping in my direction. At the same time, the chanting stops, silence sweeping in, and I whirl. The crowd stands unnaturally still, hidden faces forward, arms returned to their sides.
A powerful, feminine voice cuts through the air and I whirl again. It’s the figure in silver robes at the top of the stairs. The language she speaks, it’s not one I know—neither common tongue nor Malbolge and—
Recoiling, I stumble back a few steps as my skin begins to sting and burn, and I hear Ylara cry out.
Yggdrasil.
The language of the heavens.
Hissing to offset her sound, I shrink under the power of her words.
The song-like language of the nyraphim, of the goddess of life, carries an inherent magic designed to accost demons.
Forcing my eyes open, Ylara climbs onto the altar, perching herself at her target’s feet, ready to claim his soul the instant his life ends.
It shouldn’t be much longer.
Gods, don’t let it be much longer.
I’ve no desire to test how much Yggdrasil I can withstand before I burst into hellfire.
Finally, the female stops, and the relief is immediate.
“May we bask in your presence, Celesta,” she says, her voice so low I would have missed it had I not been focused on her.
My innate bucks and churns, begging for release, for freedom, and the pull in my chest yanks my head to the left. The male is walking down the stairs, in my direction.
“Ylara!” My shout rings across the courtyard and her head snaps toward me. “Something isn’t right!”
Too late.
In a swift motion, the silver-robed figure plunges the dagger into the chest of the man on the altar.
White-hot pain sears through me, and my shadows lash out in all directions, thrashing wildly.
Barbed tendrils wrap themselves around me, creating a protective shield, stealing the view of my surroundings.
“Ylara!” I scream, the pain forcing me to my knees as I clutch at my chest.
Fire.
My entire body is on fire, and I’m going to burn like dry tinder.
Eyes squeezed shut, my innate continues to roll, desperately fighting against this unknown magic threatening me. The protective cocoon grows higher, thicker, ready to claim the life of anyone who dares touch it.
Biting back another scream and teetering on the edge of consciousness, the pain subsides, replaced by a cooling wash. It calms my innate, dissipating my shadows, and I fall onto my side, trembling.
It’s done.
But now, a new wave of fear grips me, and I don’t have the time to lie here.
I have to return to the hells.
Pushing myself to a stand, I reach for the endless reserves of my innate magic, requesting a portal to the hells be opened. Nothing happens.
What?
I try again, staring at the ground beneath me.
Nothing, again.
Have I been blocked from the hells?
My eyes shoot wide.
Lifting my head and sweeping my hood back, I turn to face the male in black. He stands less than fifteen feet away, watching me, as if he can see me. Turning on my toes to follow his gaze, I find a hundred pairs of eyes staring back at me.
The crowd has lowered their hoods, exposed their faces, and I step backward, my heel bumping against the bottom stair. My wings shoot wide to retain balance, and they gasp. Many scurry backward, pushing against others to put space between us.
“What is this?” I whisper, unable to keep my jaw from hanging.
One of those in black robes steps forward and I raise my hand in a halting gesture, only to stare at the hand that clearly does not belong to me. Gone are the black talons capable of cutting to the bone. They’ve been replaced by slender, blunt-ended fingers. Fingers like those of mortals.
Incoherent noises of fear and panic bubble from my throat as I flex and stretch the pale hand.
A demon cannot pass through the veil.
I cannot pass through the veil.
Raising my eyes heavenward, the night sky comes into view and for a few seconds, everything but the universe falls away. Seeing the sky without the filter of the veil is unlike anything I could have ever imagined in ten thousand years.
Somehow, I’ve been pulled through the veil.
I no longer stand on the side of death.
I am standing among the living.
This—this shouldn’t be possible.
The fae in black.
Turning, I see he hasn’t moved. He remains motionless, face hidden under a hood.
“What have you done?” I demand, not caring about the unbridled terror in my voice.
“Vestaris…” a soft, musical voice trills.
The cold, ethereal stare of cerulean-blue eyes greets me as I swing right. They’re set in a hauntingly beautiful face that resembles my own. But it’s not a mirror I stare at.
“Celesta,” I breathe the goddess’ name.
Netharis is going to end me for this.
The goddess of the moon appears to float down the stairs, her movements swift, graceful, effortless.
Everything I would expect from the bride of Netharis.
Unable to tear my eyes from her, I’m enraptured by her beauty.
Massive, silver-feathered wings adorn her back, half extended as she moves—they’re the largest set I’ve ever seen on a living creature.
Her wings dwarf mine.
Both her eye color and feather color were passed to Vaelyn. But staring at her face is like staring into a mirror. There are too many similarities for her to be anyone other than my mother.
Her tall, slender frame is draped with navy robes that billow in her wake along with her knee-length, silver hair. Upon her brow rests a circlet dripping with shimmering moonstones. It creates a veil that frames her face, reminding me of moonlight.
Coming to a stop upon the last step, she reaches out, taking my hands into hers with a gentle smile on her face. Her touch is cool, like I’ve plunged my palms into ice water. She scans my face, whether to scrutinize or admire, I can’t tell.
“You have their eyes?” she whispers the question using common tongue, the intensity of her stare forcing me to lower my gaze. “How?” She lifts my face with a finger under my chin.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I yank my chin away and step back. “Nor do I care. Netharis—”
“Using the language of the hells on sacred ground is rude, Vestaris,” she chides, one corner of her lips tilting in a smile. “I would have taught you better.”
This goddess cannot be serious.
Her sharp, twinkling laughter cuts through me and sets my skin crawling.
“You resemble me but embody him,” she muses, lifting a dark brow. “Tell me, where is Vaelyn?”
In the hells, where I should also be.
“Why do you want the heir of the hells?”
Her eyes widen. “Is he the heir? Perhaps it is you after all. She was right.”
What in the nine hells does she mean?
Who was right?
“Artemise,” she calls over her shoulder.
The silver-robed figure near the altar sweeps down the stairs with due haste. Stopping beside the moon goddess, she lowers her hood and I clench my jaw to keep it from dropping to the ground.
A human woman.
Not a fae.
“This is Vestaris Moonshadow.” Celesta gestures toward me with an upturned palm. “My daughter.”
Moonshadow?
Is she giving me her winged fae family name? Or perhaps I’ve always had it and Netharis has never told me.
“Welcome her into the fold. Teach her what she needs to thrive in this realm. Keep her safe. She is the catalyst.”
“What?” I step back.
“Of course, my goddess,” she pitches in a quick bow. “Come, Vestaris, within the temple you will be cared for.”
“What?” I’m sure I sound like a mimic bird at this point.
Artemise extends a weathered hand, descending the last step. Celesta remains upon it and makes no motion to move.
“I don’t understand.” I shake my head.
Celesta’s brows raise with surprise. “I’m offering you sanctuary, Vestaris. Take it.”
“I—I can’t.” Nothing about any of this makes any semblance of sense. “Demons cannot walk within the living realm.”
Celesta’s expression softens. “Half demon,” she reminds me gently. “Netharis has kept you from your Fate for long enough.”
“Fate?” Nektos has nothing to do with me.
She stares at me, her eyes pleading as she edges toward the ledge of the stair. But she doesn’t step down. Why? What is keeping her there?
“You, my beautiful daughter, you will change the realms,” she says softly. “And I will help you along the way.”
Blinded by hellfire, I turn my face away from the scalding heat—hellfire has never burned me before. In the same heartbeat, a massive taloned hand wraps around the back of my neck and jerks me toward the flames.
As the god of death emerges from the portal, stepping into the living realm, he shoves me behind him through the gateway to the hells.
Tripping over my own feet, I stumble and fall, landing hard onto my knees on the polished obsidian floor.
Head whirling over my shoulder, what little I can see of the living realm reveals the crowd lurching into chaos, screams rising.
With a dark laugh, Netharis snaps his fingers and the portal cinches shut.
Peering at my hands pressed against the floor, my talons have returned.
Returned to the hells and left in Netharis’ dark study. A gaping pit opens in the bottom of my stomach as I wait for my father’s return.
It shouldn’t feel wrong to have come back.
But it does.