Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Amina hands Henry a bottle of whiskey. “You’ll need this. Trust me.”
Without hesitation, he pulls off the cap and takes four long gulps, wincing at the strong taste of the peaty whiskey. After taking a few moments to let it settle, he takes another sip, then places the bottle onto the kitchen table and turns front-facing in his seat toward Amina, nodding.
“I’m ready.”
Amina glances at Grandad and me across the table, alerting us to brace for what’s about to happen. In solidarity, I lift the whiskey bottle and take a cautious sip, wincing at the burning in my throat.
Carefully, Amina places her hands on either side of Henry’s nose, forming a triangle shape. When she’s in a good position, she peers down at him. “In a count of three, alright?”
Henry nods, closing his eyes to prepare for the pain that’s about to come. Without thinking, I reach over the table to clutch his hand, and he clasps onto it with a firm grip. He shifts his gaze to me, and I give him a reassuring nod, affirming he can do this.
“One…two…three.” Amina snaps his nose back into place—a loud crack echoes across the kitchen.
I cringe upon hearing the painful readjustment. Henry’s eyes squeeze tight, flinching from pain. He clutches his nose with both hands, then, after a moment, he sits back up in his chair, eyes wide in shock.
“Well, it’s nice to breathe normally again,” he jokes, glancing at Amina. “Thank you, Dr. Baccar.”
She pats his shoulder, smiling. Then hands him a wet handkerchief to wipe away the blood caked on his face and hands. She walks over to the bucket full of water, washing the blood from her fingers.
I glance at Grandad, noticing he’s been unusually silent. His eyes have that mile-long stare—a look meaning he is deeply lost in thought. He was his usual self when we arrived at the cottage, sharing all the details about our perilous journey and how we defeated Richmond.
Did the horrors of the car chase from Richmond’s men to eventual kidnapping finally register in him? Or is it something else? Possibly the death of his only son?
Placing a comforting hand over his, the sudden touch jostles his focus back to me. “Grandad…”
He gives me a weak smile. “Yes, Thena?”
“You don’t have to hide your grief.”
He tugs on my hand, giving a brief chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”
I shake my head and wait in silence for him to unburden himself.
He lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “He hasn’t been my son in decades, and yet…”
“You always held on to hope that one day he’d come back?”
Grandad drops his gaze, nodding and embarrassed.
“I held onto that too,” I admit, realizing where the sadness I feel is coming from. “It’s possible our grief is from losing what could have been—not what was.” I peer at his hidden face. “And there’s no shame in that.”
He looks sheepishly at me, the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen him. A warm smile rises on his face. “When did you get so wise?”
I give him a knowing look. We both know exactly how it happened.
Grandad emits another sigh, running a hand across his face. “I’ll need to notify the military of his passing. Come up with a fabrication to hide what really happened.”
I nod, knowing the military will be concerned if they don’t hear from him soon.
We sit in silence, our backs facing the fireplace that is burning brightly in the background. When my ears detect a lack of voices around me, I peer around to find we are the only ones in the kitchen, possibly in the whole cottage. Where could the others have gone?
Suddenly, the cottage door opens, and Amina glides in, followed by Henry and Dr. Alarie, carrying in the golden chest. A grin rests on Henry’s face as they place the chest onto the kitchen table, eager as I am to know what Amina found in Constantinople.
Carefully, she opens the chest, taking out the scroll. Her eyes look downcast, sullen.
Grandad clears off the kitchen table, making room for her to unravel the ancient scroll. Delicately, Amina unwinds it, with the yellow and brown aged paper crinkling with every movement. Ancient Greek is written across the parchment with fading ink. Some words are nearly gone.
With the few lessons I had with Amina, I can read a few words, but my skills aren’t advanced enough to fully translate them. I try not to feel horrified by the words death and sacrifice. Instead, I look away and wait for Amina to translate for us.
“See here,” Amina says, circling a paragraph of text in the middle. “This is the only academic text the three of us could find that ever mentions the artifacts.”
She trails her finger across the first sentence.
“This line details that to become the Eudaemon, one must prove one's worth to the Olympians by making a sacrifice. By giving a bodily offering, the deities will determine if the human is worthy to be bestowed such an honor. If the deities deemed them unworthy, they would take their life as penance for wasting their time.”
“None of this is surprising. The deities were always about the dramatics,” Henry chimes.
“Wait,” I interject before she proceeds. “Are you saying I could have died when I accidentally placed my blood on the chest?”
Amina nods solemnly. “Thankfully, the deities deemed you worthy. But yes, they could have taken your life if they hadn’t found you worthy.”
I message my temple as I’m hit with the blow of how close I was to death. “Bloody hell.”
Without hesitation, Henry reaches for my hand and rubs his thumb across my knuckles.
I’m too distracted by this revelation to register if anyone notices the gesture, or any of our gestures, since we arrived at the cottage.
We haven’t had time to discuss if we wanted to announce our courtship to everyone, but given the high level of intelligence in this room, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already gathered on it.
“What does it say on how to break the connection?” Henry asks, eager like the rest of us to know what else the scroll details.
“The connection can only be broken in two ways,” Amina explains. “One, if the Eudaemon passes, the connection dies with them. And two, if the deities are presented with a worthier human to carry on the title, they will sever the current Eudaemon’s connection and pass it onto the worthier opponent.”
“The only option for Clara is to find someone who’ll make the same sacrificial offering, hoping the deities will select them over her,” Grandad says, horrified at the prospect.
“But how will we know they will choose this person over her? Isn’t there a chance they won’t and they’ll be killed?” Henry asks.
Amina shakes her head, “There is no way to pre-judge who the deities will deem worthy.”
“But who could we trust to become the next Eudaemon after me?”
The room is silent, everyone glancing down, unable to look me in the eyes. And I know why. They don’t want to volunteer to put their life at risk or be stuck with such a responsibility. They’ve seen what’s happened to me—to all of us—since I became the Eudaemon.
It’s been nothing but a life on the run and putting everyone you care for in danger. That is no life to live. The people I entrust the most are right here with me, and I cannot let them make such a sacrifice, even though it would break my connection to the artifacts.
Glancing back down at the parchment, I analyze the archaic text and notice there is still another portion that hasn’t been translated.
“Amina,” I say, hovering my finger over the sentence in question. “What does this part say?”
Amina clears her throat and looks down at the parchment with hesitation, unable to meet my eyes.
Ever since she stepped back inside the cottage, I noticed her demeanor has changed.
The once joyous and relieved look on her face has now been replaced with apprehension and sorrow.
The only thing that could have caused this drastic shift is the scroll.
Could there be something she is afraid for us to know? For me to know?
“That’s the final section. It details how to destroy the artifacts,” she finally admits.
Every hair on my body rises, and shivers run down my spine. This is something I’ve been hoping we could do. After translating the few words earlier and seeing the look on Amina’s face, I’m frightened to know how this can be done. “There’s a way to do that? How?”
Amina squeezes her eyes shut, as if what she’s about to say will physically hurt her.
“According to the text, the artifacts and their subsequent powers can be destroyed only by the Eudaemon themselves. For them to do so, the Eudaemon will need to give the deities one last sacrificial offering, an exchange of their human life to rescind the powers and existence of their gifts.”
Deafening silence hits my ears, and my stomach plummets.
I understand why Amina has been so reluctant to share the details in the scroll; doing so would mean she’d have to tell me of my bleak and downright horrid options.
I knew there were ways to break the connection and destroy their powers, but I never thought it would take such drastic measures.
“For supposed gifts, they come with quite the baggage,” Dr. Alarie says, his attempt to lighten the blow of this revelation, which I appreciate. He glances at each of us around the table. “What do we do?”
“It’s really Clara’s choice,” Amina says. Our eyes lock, and there’s nothing but sympathy and helplessness inside her gaze. “Whichever you decide, dear. We will support you.”
I stare down at the ancient scroll before me, pondering the three choices I have: remain as the Eudaemon, give the burden to someone else, or sacrifice my life to stop this whole madness entirely.
What choice do I make? There is no single choice that feels like a winning option. All of them have heavy burdens that come with them.
It seems the real choice is, which one can I live with?
“Dr. Baccar, are there no other options? There must be something else in the scroll that doesn’t involve sacrifices or death,” Henry pleads.