Chapter Thirty-Seven The Nova
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Nova
I was stuck.
This much was obvious to me by now, but I had more than one problem to contend with.
I’d dedicated many sleepless hours to the grimoire, hoping some miracle moment of enlightenment would get me home and undo the chaos of recent times.
Each breath felt like a labor, my heart pumping tirelessly as sleep called to me, but I couldn’t make myself do so.
The pages of the book were blank. I flipped through them anyway.
I paced the grass, as if the book were some sort of compass. That sinking feeling that came with shooting in the ignorant dark pestered me. It was a different type of helpless feeling, one that involved wasted effort.
A faint ting of a bell stopped me in my tracks.
I half thought it was a hallucination. Before I took another step, there it was again.
There was not another soul in sight.
Ting!
There was the noise again.
Then it was accompanied by more. Footsteps and bells, then mumbles and rustling.
I tucked the book back in my satchel, slinging it over my shoulder for safekeeping in the event this was another hungry shadow.
From just before the tree line, movement.
There was a faint glow of white linen, a human form.
The gait was familiar, as was the clothing.
“Father?” I called out. The words echoed, and the figure stepped farther down the path, wandering aimlessly.
I trekked down the path after him but stopped just before the forest opening.
The branches crossed above, rubbing against each other, quivering as if anticipating my venture.
The last time had been a trick. What was to say this wasn’t as well?
Yet again, this place wasn’t entirely influenced by my monster; it bent to my will too.
It spoke to me of other things than my beast.
With that assurance in mind, I cast ahead.
The forest became darker, if at all possible.
In a world of endless night, I picked up on the small flickers of life. The flora faded in light; only the grass and foliage I disturbed lit my path in my own footsteps. My markings were set aglow, but it was as if my surroundings completely melted away as they did so.
As soon as I accepted that the forest was gone, it shared itself again.
A light in the distance, something busy.
A dreamlike illusion peeked through the trees, shifting with every silhouette that moved in a crowd. As I neared, the light took shape as a blue flame, an ambient white in the center that cut across the scene.
Tables draped with taffeta, harvest foliage, and melting wax candles.
A bonfire celebration, with eccentric characters dancing into the scene like some storybook vision from the Middle Ages.
Fine silks and glassy jewelry. Most wore expressive theater masks of all facial contortions and silhouettes.
There were simple shapes as well as more elaborate, like a moon with a long nose, or a sun with sharp edges.
Some wore black masks, a circle that surrounded the center of the face, only the eyes visible as their mouths held the floating masks up.
This place was already alienating, even more so with elaborate scenes such as these.
A prickling skated across my skin. I glanced at my arm, the fine hairs raised as if I were about to be struck down by lightning.
I smoothed my hand over my skin, unable to escape the exigent anticipation.
I felt something at my temple, a bead of sweat, but then it stopped.
With my fingers, I picked at it. What I pulled off my face was not sweat at all.
An irregularly cut diamond, small as my fingernail, pinched between my fingers.
I stared at it until I felt more beads.
The goose bumps along my bare arm rose, more and more until they separated, crystallizing along my arm into a sleeve.
My clothes began to melt and stretch, the cotton fibers spreading until they became translucent, crystals filling the spots in between.
Some became larger, condensing until they’d formed crystal teardrops along the dress.
In the blue light, they shifted in color, white and blue, symmetrical blotches down the middle and around my hips. A pattern resembling my vitiligo.
My head became heavy, then these drops fell from my scalp over my face. A veil of the tiniest dewdrops was cast in front of me, and then it began to lift.
Sprouting from under my arms was a pair of two more limbs, clear like ice and postured as if about to lift the veil from my head, affording my face more room to breathe. On the front of the veil, a four-pointed star. Like the one on my chest.
My petticoat and corset cover had now melted into a gown, fitted to my figure. If there was such a thing as being fully covered yet feeling fully naked, this would be it. The neckline of the dress was low, enough to proudly display my chest marking.
Which only gave away the puppet master.
I swept my hand along a table. The cold dew on the lustrous surface collected and turned to glass beads, rolling along the table even when I stopped.
The table was laden with herbed, aged cheeses, equipped with novelty silver.
There was a jar of honey, a comb sitting on the bottom.
A large cooked goose rested in the center, garnished with potatoes and carrots along the rim of the serving tray.
The smells came after I’d gotten a good look, as if the illusion was trying to guess what scents I was expecting as I went.
The fruits had been cut and piled in a large bowl, a decadent grazing board for any poor soul who was fool enough to take a bite.
The mistake was making the trap too good to be true.
My father wandered the grounds, lost but lucid. I hadn’t seen him move about in a way that was so sure with every step in a long time. He was focused, searching. But at the very least, he did not look scared.
A far-off voice: “Salvatore?”
My father turned, his expression soft enough that it looked as if he may melt. It was an expression like no other. The softening of the face that came in times of deep comfort. The face of sleeping newborns or a man laid to rest.
My mother ran to him.
My father took her in his arms; he showered her face with firm kisses and an embrace like he was clutching riches.
She looked younger like that, when she smiled. Her curly black hair was swept back, a couple of pieces tickling her face.
They looked like a perfect portrait of how I wanted to remember them. Happy, peaceful.
As I stepped forward, something stopped me.
My heart ached from wanting to see them so badly, to speak to them, to say goodbye.
But knowing how this place worked, there was a good chance seeing me would be nothing but distressful.
I feared the guilt of seeing me here could make them stay, stuck and fated to suffer in a loop instead of finally finding peace beyond this place.
I knew this was goodbye for my father. We had all anticipated it for a while.
What I hadn’t prepared for was saying goodbye to them both.
And I had to make my own closure, for their own good.
It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what they needed. My father was no longer in any pain or distress; my mother would not be left behind to suffer his loss. They were together, and that was enough.
They took each other’s hands. They both were at ease, their bodies gravitating toward one another as they walked away.
Their figures got darker and darker as they left the light of the bonfire, their mouths moving as if catching up after a long week.
Until they were no more, and the last image of them remained in my mind.
I couldn’t let the bittersweetness overpower me.
The more I accepted their absence, their peace, the clearer my head would be.
And by extension, I had one more piece of closure to remedy.
Dorian might not be here, or in any mythical heaven, or existing as a star in the sky—but it brought me comfort knowing that he was not lost either.
Passing would mean he’d become a part of the stars, the things he’d always wanted to know.
It was the best scenario, as I feared he would not find peace if he knew what had happened, why I was here, and what I still had to face.
And I had one more thing to face. A beast.
After my parents departed, the distractions suddenly became more intense.
The costumes multiplied in an exhaustive display of ribbons, gems, and masks.
A harpsichord lured the crowd into a dance.
The flame of the bonfire grew, and every sense heightened.
The smell of all-too-perfect food, a perfectly comfortable temperature beside the fire that wasn’t too hot or too cold, crowds that parted when I walked through, the way everyone was perfectly content—all impossibilities for any large party.
A puppet show just for me.
Ting!
The bells again. They tickled the inside of my ear. Ignoring the surrounding distractions, I looked to the sky. The stars twinkled, the moon was still. People danced around me, their movements all too synchronous.
I raised my hand, the stones of my sleeve glittering like moonlight on rippling water.
Then the bells again. Chiming softly in my ear like the smallest of cries, a call for something the opposite of the void I’d felt before. A call to enlightenment, the spark before a fiery inspiration.
Hairs rose on my nape, a tickle that skated across the skin.
What felt like a breath at the back of my neck. I thought for sure I could hear an exhale. I turned to see the same dancing masks, the fire roaring, merriment being made without me.
Among the bodies, among the flames, the flash of gilded wings from across the grounds.
I stepped aside, slowly circling the bonfire. The mob parted like oil on water.
The wings moved, too, opposite to me with the heart of the feast between us, the light dancing, only allowing short glimpses.
Then the figure stopped, and so did I.
The bonfire died down, just enough to see him.