8. Leandra
“She’s dead.”
The words hang in the air of our dining room, sharp and jagged, their edges bleeding a sickly grey-green that makes my stomach churn. She’s dead.
I sit perfectly still in my chair, the ornate mahogany pressing into my spine as though it’s some form of torture while my hands are folded in my lap like I’ve been taught, like a good daughter behaves.
The chandelier above us, all crystal and old money, casts fractured light across the long table, across the remains of our dinner.
The light dances in prismatic hues but tonight it feels oppressive, like a mockery of the rainbow it usually paints.
For a moment, no one says anything. No one reacts.
But then my mother makes a sound, something between a sob and a gasp. Her colours, usually a soft, comforting lavender flare into a deep, bruised purple streaked with jagged lines of red.
Heartbreak tinged with rage.
I know this not because of the colour alone.
The colours never work like that. They shift with tone, cadence, heartbeat, tension.
I’ve spent my entire life learning the language of them, trying to understand what this extra ability I have is, and how it can help me.
How I can read rooms, read people, guess their motives before they even speak.
My mother has it too, she calls it our little secret. Something dangerous, something that could get me burnt as a witch if it got out.
The doctor calls it associative synaesthesia.
My father calls it an abomination. A sign of my sin.
“How?” My mother’s voice cracks.
She’s gripping her wine glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. Her knuckles are pale against her brown skin, her whole body trembling with the effort of remaining seated, remaining composed.
But she knows better than to make a scene. We all do.
Ezekiel shifts in his seat at the head of the table, because of course he’s at the head, even though this is my father’s house.
He commands space the way wealthy white men always do, as if the world exists to accommodate them.
His aura is unlike anyone else’s I’ve seen - erratic, swirling, a kaleidoscope of colours that shift too quickly to name.
Gold, crimson, deep indigo, all bleeding into one another in a hypnotic, almost divine pattern.
It’s mesmerizing, impossible to look away from and it makes me believe, truly believe that he is what they say he is; a prophet. A messenger from God himself.
“Does it matter?” He asks, reaching for his own wine.
The glass looks delicate in his hand. Everything in this house is delicate, ornate, dripping with old money and older secrets.
The wallpaper is silk damask, the floors are polished parquet, the paintings on the walls are original Rembrandts.
My father’s family has been wealthy since the dark ages, their fortune built on things we don’t discuss - slavery, exploitation, the systematic destruction of people who looked exactly like my mother, like me.
“What matters is that we now have a problem.” Isaac states.
A problem.
My sister is a problem. No, was a problem. She’s nothing anymore. Not even a footnote. She’s dead. Gone.
I want to scream. I want to overturn this table, to send all this precious china crashing to the floor, shatter every carefully maintained illusion.
But I don’t. I sit perfectly still, my face carefully neutral because I learned a long time ago that showing emotion in this house is not simply dangerous, it’s positively deadly.
Across from me, my older brother Hector shifts.
He’s twenty, two years older than me, and he’s mastered the art of becoming invisible as well as I have.
His aura is muted, just like always, a dull grey-green that speaks of fear and resignation.
He stares at his plate, his jaw tight, and says nothing. He’s good at saying nothing.
“We will need a replacement.” Isaac says matter-of-factly, as if we’re discussing a broken appliance.
“Leandra.”
My name in Ezekiel’s mouth makes my skin react in a way I can’t quite figure out.
Is it fear or adoration, or both? I force myself to meet his eyes, those dark, assessing eyes that seem to see through everything.
His aura pulses, a burst of gold and crimson that feels almost like a caress.
He’s looking at me the way someone might appraise a piece of furniture, considering its worth, its potential utility.
No.
Noooo.
The thought slams through me with crystalline clarity, sharp as broken glass, but I don’t say it. I don’t say anything. My throat has closed up, my tongue feels thick and useless.
“She is the logical choice.” Astrid says, smirking at me slightly from across the table where she’s sat beside her monster of a husband.
God, I hate her. Of all my siblings, Astrid is the one I hate the most. She has synaesthesia too and she knows exactly how to use it, how to twist it, how to hurt people with it.
“She’s perfect,” Isaac states, still looking at me. His aura is murky, a muddy brown that shifts uneasily. “The right age, the right bloodline…”
“And a good replacement for our sister.” Astrid says, earning a nod of approval from our father.
“Absolutely not.” My mother’s snap cuts through the room. Her aura flares again, the red streaks intensifying. She’s half-standing now, her chair scraping against the hardwood. “I’ve lost one daughter to this madness. I will not lose another.”
My father rolls his eyes. His aura remains that cold, unyielding blue.
“We require a virgin from every family…” Isaac starts to say.
“And you’ve had one.” My mother hisses, cutting across him. “You took my child, you took my daughter, and you murdered her.”
“She was not murdered.” Isaac replies. “It was an accident. A failure in her training. She did it herself.”
“She, she killed herself?” My mother gasps.
God, what did they do to her to force her to make such a choice as that?
“Enough.” Ezekiel says, “Cass is dead. Whatever we say now cannot change that, but the fact remains that I am one virgin down.”
“Then find one elsewhere.” My mother snaps, moving quickly, crossing to where I am still frozen in my seat and she wraps her arms around me like it’s a shield.
Her aura envelops me, a protective lavender that feels like a desperate embrace.
“We’ve given enough. Sacrificed enough. I won’t let you take her, and besides, she’s only eighteen. ”
“So?” Isaac replies. His aura darkens, the muddy brown deepening. “Just because she is not twenty-one doesn’t mean the girl isn’t ready. She’s old enough for what we need.”
The girl. Not Leandra. Not your daughter. The girl, like I’m not even here, like I’m not sitting right across from him, listening to them discuss my future as if I have no say in it.
“She is old enough,” my father agrees, and something inside me withers. I don’t know why I expected anything different. I don’t know why some stupid, naive part of me thought he might protect me, might value me as more than just another asset to be deployed.
My mother is crying now, tears streaming down her beautiful face. Her aura pulses with grief, the lavender streaked with deep violet. “Richard, please. She’s our daughter. Our last daughter. She’s just a child…”
“She’s eighteen,” My father repeats, his voice hardening. His aura remains cold, unyielding. “She’s not a child, and this is an honour, Magdalena. Do you even understand what this means?”
An honour. An opportunity. The same words they probably used about Cass a year ago, before she disappeared into Isaac’s keeping.
Before whatever happened to her happened.
Before she became a problem.
I should speak, I should object. I should do something, anything to stop this momentum, this terrible forward motion that’s going to swallow me whole.
But I don’t.
Because I know better.
Because I’ve watched what happens to people who defy my father, who question the Brethren. I’ve seen the consequences, felt them reverberating through our house like aftershocks. I’m not brave like Cass was, or tried to be before they undoubtedly broke her.
“It’s settled, then.” Ezekiel stands, smoothing down his jacket. His aura swirls with a burst of gold and crimson that feels almost triumphant. “We’ll begin preparations immediately. The timeline is tight, but still manageable.”
“I want to see her.” My mother’s voice is desperate now, pleading. Her aura is a storm of violet and red. “I want to see Cass. I want to…I need to know what happened.”
“That’s not possible.” My father snaps, cutting across her.
“The body has been disposed of. Cleanly.” Isaac adds. His aura shifts uneasily, the muddy brown darkening further. “There won’t be any complications.”
Did they bury her, burn her, dispose of her the way they do diseased cattle? Oh god, I think I might be sick.
The chicken on my plate seems to writhe, the vegetables swimming in their butter sauce. The chandelier above us is too bright, the light refracting through crystal like shattered stars, like broken promises.
“Leandra.” Ezekiel’s hand is on my shoulder now. His aura pulses, a warm gold that feels far too fucking comforting given the circumstances. “Will you do this? Will you fulfil this sacred duty?”
When did he move? When did my mother step aside? I didn’t hear him approach, didn’t sense him circling around the table. His touch is heavy, possessive.
I look up at him, look into our prophet’s eyes and though a voice in my head screams at me to say no, to say something, anything, to fight, to… but it’s useless, it has always been useless. And besides, maybe he is right, maybe this was my path all along. Maybe my fate was meant to…
“No.” My mother hisses, breaking off those thoughts, slamming her hand down hard enough that the plates all seem to jump off the table.
“Stand up,” My father says, ignoring her entirely.
I do, because that’s what I’ve been trained to do. Obey. Comply. Be the good daughter, the perfect daughter, the daughter who doesn’t make waves or cause problems.
Hector still won’t look at me. Astrid is practically bouncing with glee. My mother is sobbing openly now, but quietly, politely, the way women in our world are supposed to cry. Decorously, without making a fuss.
“I can do this.” I say, though I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure, myself or my mother.
Ezekiel smiles, cupping my chin in his fingers. His aura swirls, a mesmerizing blend of gold and crimson. “You’re going to do beautifully, Leandra. I have such big plans for you.”
Plans. Like the plans he had for Cass. Like the plans they have for the five other girls taken to become Covenant Brides for our great prophet.
I’m so mesmerised by his aura that I don’t realise I’m being guided toward the door, away from the table, away from my family.
My legs move automatically, carrying me forward even as my mind screams at me to resist, to fight, to do something.
And all I can think is, Cass is dead. Cass is dead, and I’m next.