Chapter Two
Two
Into the light, we are reborn. Within the flame, we are reforged.
—SHARED MOTTO OF THE DAWN AND DUSK CLOISTERS
TWO THINGS I LEARNED early and keep close: Everyone has secrets, and every secret has consequences.
Some of those consequences are merely embarrassing, like how peaches make Morgan fart like a draft horse. Others would mean punishment if discovered—Jeziah’s trysts with the Cloister attendants springs to mind—but are still forgivable.
My secret would be an instant ticket to an exceedingly-painful-and-probably-not-quick execution.
I’ve forgotten the particulars of the first time I truly imagined killing Tempestra-Innara, only that I conceived the fantasy not long after arriving at the Dawn Cloister.
And since then, my repertoire of daydreams has grown like a well-tended garden.
The swift, brutal efficiency of decapitation.
The slow sensuality of exsanguination. Defenestration (through the Cathedral’s stained glass windows, of course).
Evisceration. Immolation. Stuff there isn’t a fancy word for.
I’ve even dreamed of blanketing their bound and helpless form with angry scorpions—indulgent and impractical, but what fantasy isn’t?
Especially as none of those things would kill a goddess.
But that sensibility never limited my imaginings, the treachery I keep deeply interred in the soil of my thoughts. A secret, with consequences, that I always knew to be impossible.
Until now.
I remember thinking at my communion, as Tempestra-Innara readied to bless me with the gift of their divinity, that it made no sense that a goddess could bleed. But they can, and they do—in great dark torrents, crimson sheeting from their wounds to the Cathedral floor.
I want to smile. To laugh. But… consequences.
Screaming, on the other hand, is just fine.
I don’t scream, but others certainly do, chaos spreading as quickly as the dark pool at the Goddess’s feet.
Yet, none of the devoted run. Whether it’s loyalty or simply shock winning over fear in their meaty little minds, I don’t know, but the crowd is nearly frozen in place as Emmaus continues his assault.
I count the Cathedral Guard among them, not exactly surprising, their ranks being almost as ceremonial as our armor.
“Protect the Goddess!”
Prior Petronilla’s desperate command is the blade, honed by years, that finally cuts through everything else.
Instinctively, I draw my sickles from their scabbards on my back.
Unlike my armor, they are most definitely not for show, curved silver with ebony hilts, not even a hint of flashiness.
I tear off my ridiculous, vision-limiting helm and toss it away as Morgan appears beside me, spear raised and ready.
But it’s the Demon of the Dusk Cloister who attacks first, absolutely heedless as they launch themselves over the balustrade.
Morgan does the same, with me in her wake.
For a heartbeat, there is only the plunge to the Cathedral floor, and the horrific creature that waits below.
Emmaus is gone. His body is blacked, completely enveloped by the greasy darkness he released.
Too late I realize it’s sprouted more grisly appendages, barely missing one as my feet strike stone.
I roll out of its reach; a cry tells me Morgan isn’t so lucky.
Oh well. In the Cloisters, there is no room for weakness, and I wouldn’t have wasted the time to check on her if I had it.
Which I don’t. Another black tentacle slices in my direction.
I leap aside and collide with a stone pillar as I make my own cut, blades plunging into the darkness.
Foul fluid sprays, coating me. The rational part of my mind tries to make sense of the creature—looks like sludge, cuts like flesh, and smells like death in a trash pile at the height of summer.
I choke, unable to breathe through the reek of it, twisting around the pillar in a desperate attempt at reprieve.
I’m going to puke.
Then I’m going to die, loosing my guts onto the floor of the Cathedral.
A ridiculous way to go. But even that embarrassing coherence slips away as I frantically wipe at the nasty ichor with the backs of my hands.
Every second carries the tight expectation of a blow, or straight up death, but when I finally clear enough of the fluid away to take an almost-clean breath, I’m still alive.
I breathe through my mouth, suppressing the indescribably foul taste of it on my tongue as I peek around the pillar.
On the dais, the horrific darkness has coiled itself around Tempestra-Innara’s neck, but the Goddess is fighting back now, fingers clawing, skin pale as old snow.
They live. They still fight.
Which—fuck—means I have to too.
My hands tighten around my sickles as I step out from behind the pillar.
Slaughter spreads before me, bodies strewn across the floor—devotees, Cathedral Guard, two Priors, a Dusk Potentiate.
More that I can’t see. The rest of my blood brethren stand to fight, though the crowd has snapped out of their shock, screaming in terror as they rush the doors.
But the Cathedral exit is locked, trapping them.
“Protect the Goddess!” Prior Petronilla’s cry comes again, a reminder that the crowd is not my concern.
Still, I lunge as a dark appendage wraps around a nearby devotee.
I am too far away to reach him before it contracts, rending the man in two, releasing a wet slop of viscera.
I slash at the tentacle. It retracts briefly before attacking again.
Not me, though. One of the Dusk Potentiates—the Demon.
They evade it easily, dismembering the unctuous blackness almost casually before pressing closer to the apse, and the Goddess.
But they don’t see the other appendage replacing it, coming from behind.
“Demon, look out!”
By some miracle, they hear me and react, throwing themselves to one side.
The tentacle scores only a glancing blow, connecting with their helm and sending it flying, revealing a dark-haired, pale-complexioned young man beneath.
His face is calm, determined—way more than it should be given the nightmarish scene.
Singularly focused, he cuts the second appendage away and twists back toward Tempestra-Innara.
I don’t get a chance to do the same. Another tentacle appears, forcing me to vault over the gutted devotee, putting me closer to the Emmaus-monster.
I don’t bother with the flailing limbs. They seem mindless, and endless.
Their source is the real enemy. Except how can I kill something when I don’t have the slightest clue what it is?
Where was the lesson for this? I want to throw at Prior Petronilla.
Over a decade of learning and training, and right now, all of it seems as helpful as the wet entrails caking my boots.
Through the melee, I catch a glimpse of Morgan.
She is on her feet but barely, putting no weight on her left leg as she stabs desperately at the dark entity with her spear.
To me, her survival rates about as highly as the Goddess’s, but two can do more damage than one, so I work my way in her direction.
Then, I am struck. I fly through the air, something at least semi-vital crunching as I collide with a pillar and fall to the floor.
The world blacks for an instant. Or maybe longer, I have no damn idea. When the fuzziness subsides, I am staring into Jeziah’s face.
But he’s not staring back. His eyes are blank with death, blood pooling beneath his dislodged fox helm.
Dammit.
I need to get up. Need to fight. But understanding floods me. Whatever horror Emmaus has unleased, we are powerless against it. Weak. We cannot save the Goddess, and we can’t save ourselves.
Which leaves two options: Keep up a futile defense and die. Or don’t, and also die.
Shit choices. I pull myself up, mainly because it will piss me off for eternity if Jeziah’s corpse is the last thing I see in this life. Back on my feet, I raise my blades again and take a steadying breath.
Then I let go. The pandemonium fades into a muted buzz as I allow my body to do what it’s been molded to do. My eyes find the one thing in this world that matters: Tempestra-Innara.
My Goddess.
My blood mother.
My godsdamned curse.
A third choice emerges, one for me alone: the desire to see them fall before I do.
But the Goddess doesn’t succumb. Despite the darkness piercing them, attempting to rip their body to pieces, Tempestra-Innara no longer looks wan—they look pissed.
Their hands have ceased their frantic tearing, righteous anger blossoming on their delicate features.
As I watch, the light of them grows from an intangible aura to a true one, and I sense what is coming just in time to abandon my current plan and attempt to get as far away as possible.
Emmaus’s corpse wasn’t slated for decorative purposes.
Had the execution gone as planned, Tempestra-Innara’s divine flame would have engulfed him, consumed him until there was nothing left but ash.
The Goddess turns that power on the monster Emmaus has become, starting with the appendages assaulting them.
The flame ripples down those dark tentacles like fire over an oil spill, spreading with a desperate fury unlike any I have witnessed before.
I stumble back, nearly blinded by the brightness, pain exploding as my skin begins to singe.
A new scream sounds. It is not human. I don’t know what it is, except that it comes from the roiling darkness, and that it comes as a relief.
Human or not, I know a death cry when I hear it.
When the flames subside—only after the scream does—I am on the ground again, dizzy with the energy still crackling in the air.
Where Emmaus used to be there is nothing but a smoking pile of pallid gray ash.
And standing above that heretic-turned-horror-turned-dust-pile is Tempestra-Innara.
They appear calm, save for their breath, which is slightly faster than normal.
Their formerly white garment is shredded and looks as if it’s been used to mop the floor of a slaughterhouse.
For a long minute, they stare at the ash.
Then down at their wounds, which are still bleeding freely.
By the normal conventions of flesh, such injuries wouldn’t be survivable. But divinity has its own rules. As I watch, the Goddess takes a deep breath and closes their eyes. A moment later, the wounds begin to close. Soon, they are gone completely.
During the healing, the crowd has ceased its panic, cautiously loosening again.
The faces among it are a mélange of confusion, fear, relief, and pure, completely unhindered devotion.
I see similar expressions on my blood brethren.
The ones who are still alive, at least. I can’t help but glance back at Jeziah, and spot Morgan, only steps away.
She’s on the ground as well, face covered in blood, with what appears suspiciously like a bit of bone poking through her left shin. Catching me looking, Morgan sneers.
She’s fine.
Getting to my feet again, I seek out the Demon. He’s alive, on his feet, and ridiculously unruffled despite being as painted with gore as I am, with eyes only for our blood mother.
A relieved silence settles throughout the Cathedral.
Tempestra-Innara’s divine light still burns.
Yay.
I shove the disappointment as deep as it will go, sure the Goddess will look my way and spot the betrayal in my face.
But they only gaze over the crowd of survivors, most of whom have fallen to their knees, whispered prayers forming on their trembling lips.
The people wait; for what, I’m not sure.
An explanation, a blessing, a dinner recommendation for one of Lumeris’s many fine establishments…
it doesn’t matter, so long as it comes from the Goddess.
Instead, framed by the golden wall of bones, the Goddess sighs sadly and raises one hand. “I am so very, very sorry.”
I don’t understand what is happening until I hear the first choking gasp. Within heartbeats, it spreads, racing through the crowd, an unstoppable wave of death.
And I can only watch as, one by one, the devoted drop to the ground, dead.