Chapter 10 Ezra
Suggested Listening: Anywhere but Here by Mayday Parade
My body is on fire. I swear I can feel my hair and toenails, and they burn.
It’s not as bad if I don’t move. Hell, I stopped pretending I’m breathing, and that made a world of difference.
It’s a total mind-fuck, but I never really accepted the fact that I’m dead.
Yes, my heart has to continue pumping to circulate my blood, which keeps my body sort of alive. But oxygen? That’s a need of the past.
The liche lady leans over me, her cold frown thoughtful.
She really feels no remorse about this. All this time, did she know this is where we’d end up?
Was she coming to the shop to keep tabs on me?
To take notes? Or is it possible her bubbly, happy wife has no fucking idea what kind of monster she’s married to?
When this bitch kills me, will she continue to shop at Witchweed?
Will Gracie see her every few weeks or months with no idea what she’s done?
I fight the urge to clench my hands.
Then again, why am I fighting so hard to remain still?
There’s clearly one option I haven’t embraced.
What if…? What if I fought back, forced their hand and… Ended it?
If I died, my parents would be overjoyed.
They don’t deserve it, but I couldn’t write them out of my will.
No doubt they’ll be disappointed with what I’ve left them.
But that won’t stop them from taking the cash.
They won’t enjoy the one stipulation attached to it. A bit of morbid revenge on my part.
There’s a letter they have to read before they get the cash.
I wrote it after therapy a few years back.
It was at the tail end of my grief. These days, I feel nothing for them.
Mostly because I put all of my feelings and thoughts into that letter, and knowing they might have to read it someday was a big step in my healing journey. It allowed me to close that door.
For them to receive the money, they have to read the letter and verbally acknowledge the pain they caused me. Only then will the trust be signed over. I know their words won’t mean a thing, but at least once in their lives they’ll have to say: I was wrong. And that’s enough for me.
So why am I opening that door? Why am I thinking about allowing this bitch to kill me?
There’s one drastic change in my life. Something I didn’t have then that I have now. I have someone to hang on for. Someone who means more than a little petty revenge.
Gracie.
I survived months of my parent’s abuse. I can survive this using the same tactics. I can bide my time. I can wait for an opening and get away. For Gracie? I’ll do anything.
Since breathing is pointless, I square my jaw and ignore the fire that skitters up the side of my head to stab at my temples.
Is this what Gracie’s headaches and migraines are like? I wish there was something I could do for her. But all I can do right now is survive.
Since moving hurts, I’ll be still. I won’t move a muscle, no matter what they do.
Everything I’ve heard tells me that Treznor is incredibly powerful and strong.
So there’s no use in fighting back and getting roughed up.
Some cuts and puncture wounds I can deal with.
Broken bones and other injuries are another matter given how much they’ve drained me.
No, better to be a docile lamb than a snarling wolf right now and wait for my moment.
Every time I’ve made a noise, Treznor giggles gleefully. It’s fucking disturbing, but he clearly gets off on it. So I won’t make a noise.
If I’m not entertaining, they’ll get bored of me, eventually.
I can’t tell them what Gracie did to me or what changed.
And if they haven’t figured it out by now, I have to wonder if they’ll figure it out at all.
I just have to hope they won’t connect the dots back to Gracie.
The connection is obvious to me, but to them she’s a low-tier witch with no notoriety.
They have no reason to believe she could do whatever she did to me.
Time is all I need. Eventually, if I’m patient enough, there will be an opening. They seem to want answers more than entertainment, so I have to hope and pray that Gracie’s methods remain a mystery. So long as they do, I’m safe. Right?
The liche lady uses some sort of needle-like thing with both ends sharpened. She jabs one end into my arm. In the grand scheme of things, I barely feel it. At first. Then blood begins to trickle out the other end of the tool. That I feel much more acutely.
My stomach clenches, and it’s hard to fight the fear.
Part of me wants to beg her to make it stop.
To keep the blood inside of me. It’s like I’m a pitcher, and I can sense every drop being poured out.
I’ve always been aware of my blood levels.
It’s a vampire thing. You just know. And not having blood is… Bad.
Ever since taking control of my life from Treznor, I’ve made it my prerogative to remain sated.
The logic I’ve sold myself is that if I’m not hungry, I’m less likely to chomp on someone.
Namely, Gracie. And so far, it’s worked.
The few times she’s requested my bite have been enjoyable.
But I didn’t feel the predatory need to drink.
Just taste. And that’s how I want to keep it.
There’s just one downside to all of this.
I’ve never had to deal with hunger.
The pain in my veins is almost at a level to rival the pain in the rest of my body.
I can hear my blood dripping onto the metal grate below over the slap of Treznor’s flip-flops. And that’s saying something since his pacing has become frantic. He’s got his hands clasped behind him, gaze on me, and he’s growling under his breath non-stop.
“What is he? What is he? What is he?” Treznor demands.
“The magic is inconclusive, sire,” the liche lady replies. “The response to the Nephalim feather isn’t as drastic as expected.”
Not as drastic? What the hell?“Get another one. Do it now,” Treznor snarls.
“You heard him,” the liche lady snaps.
Feet pound on the metal grate, then there’s a rapid thump-thump-thump like someone is headed downstairs. Then there’s the slap of feet on stone. From directly below us.
A woman whimpers. “No. Please…”
A feather.
Like the one from Farid’s wings.
Farid, who was just trying to save his mother.
Who probably also has wings…
She was under me the whole fucking time.
I close my eyes as the woman cries out. There’s an anguished whimper followed by a sob. It’s soul-crushing to think that all of this is my fault. Because I didn’t fall neatly in line.
My directors used to always say I was a dream to work with, even as a small child. I was obedient and eager to please. Funny how my parents and this fuckface seem to be the only ones who disagree.
When I was little, I remember hating myself for forcing my parents into hurting me.
I thought their cruelty was my fault. But that was a lie, and I was the victim.
Things aren’t all that dissimilar now. And while I know I could have made some different decisions to mitigate what’s happening, ultimately I am a victim.
I’m not responsible for Treznor choosing to be a walking anal gland.
I’m going to get out of here. And I’m taking Farid’s mother with me. Not because I owe Farid. But because it’s the right thing to do.
Treznor stalks out of my line of sight, leaving me with nothing to focus on except the stony stare of the liche lady and the sound of footsteps returning.
I know there have been a few people in and out of the room.
The vampire from before was tossed out. And Farid was drug out by a guy covered in red scales.
The others have been shadows along the fringes of my vision, never coming close enough for me to see them or give comment.
But I can smell their blood. I know they’re alive.
My nose suddenly feels strange. Full. Like my sinuses are packed. Though I don’t need to breathe, I draw in breath.
And wish I hadn’t.
The stench of rot and decay is almost overpowering. Even the liche lady—a true walking dead person—covers her face, pinching her nose, as a new figure looms in my vision.
He’s ghastly in appearance. The silvery pale hair hanging down his body in thick braids has gone green and dingy from what I can only assume is lack of bathing.
His skin has an oily, grimy look that seems to tint his graying skin yellow.
Like he has jaundice. Narrowed, up-tilted eyes glare at me.
But it’s the mouth that makes my stomach turn.
It looks like his lips have been cut back to display the gruesome grill that appears to be drilled into his skull, fixing decaying, rotting fangs in front of his natural teeth.
“Here,” the liche lady says.
My focus is on the male. He bears some resemblance to elves I’ve seen in the shop, but where they are almost mundane and human in appearance, this one is something out of a nightmare.
Suddenly, his lips pull back into a snarl, and he lifts his right hand. A gleaming golden feather is clenched in his grasp. He slams it down into my gut.
Unprepared for the blow, I grunt, crying out as pain and fire rip through me.
My vision goes white, and my ears ring. The instinct to strike out and defend myself is screaming in the back of my head.
But I can’t. Not yet. I’m not strong enough.
I have to wait and bide my time. It’s the only way I’ll get back to Gracie.
It hurts. So much.
Sweat drips off me, and my mouth goes bone dry. So much so that my tongue sticks to the top of my mouth as my body tries to repair itself.
“Nothing? Still?” the liche lady mutters.
How can she be this cold and cruel? How does she sleep at night knowing what she does to people? To me? To someone she sees regularly? Is this the world Gracie has learned to navigate? How does she do it while being so kind?
“Another. And another. And another!” Treznor howls.