5. Labyrinthine
CHAPTER FIVE
LABYRINTHINE
Saya Claymore
Death is everywhere. In the garden, as ants drag away dusted moth wings, and the butcher hacking away at the bones of livestock. The stench of rot from animals left for dead in the woods near where the vervain grows.
We see it but turn a blind eye until it is one of us.
Rain spatters the plastic canopy of the umbrella. Gloom thickens in the sky until it weeps, and the graveyard near the lemongrass-lined river holds only muted tones. No colour near death.
The Elder found the body of a woman just outside the entrance to Cherry Bloom village.
I knew of her, but we had never spoken. She played Biters-and-Feeders with the others my age while I watched in the moonflower valley.
I plucked at the blades of grass by the river while they laughed, and I envied them.
She looked happy—but then again, so did I. Until I met my Blessed.
We hold our skeletons close.
“Go with your Blessed and pay your respects, sweet,” Mum whispers as she leans closer to me. Her hand cradles Cole’s head, and she bounces him to keep him soothed.
“I didn’t know her.” My hand tightens on the handle of the umbrella.
I peer towards my Blessed. He watches me like a hawk.
Distant green eyes, light brown hair combed back, dressed in the attire all men wear to mourning ceremonies: a black suit and silver tie.
The women are wearing the colour she was last seen in. White, with silver jewellery.
“Doesn’t matter,” she hisses. “Pay your respects, Saya.”
I sigh, and with bitter thoughts that accompany me like friends, I make my way down the row of mourning, bleak-faced vegodians. My Blessed moves into step beside me, his hand over mine, tightening.
We don’t talk. No one really does at mourning ceremonies. Some cry, and others speak of her as if she were Mother herself, when they never really cared to know her before this. They care more about her in death than they did in life.
It’s fake. Performative. And I find it hard to straighten my slipping mask.
I don’t know her.
I don’t even know her name, and I’m at her funeral.
They must have said it. The Elder made a speech, but I had retreated into my mind when I noticed my Blessed watching me—the hungry look in those sickly green eyes.
There’s nothing sweet about them.
All of him makes me sick.
Standing over her deathbed, the Elder raises his hands.
Sharp eyes narrow, and he inclines his head towards the basket of soil and vervain.
My Blessed takes a handful first, and he sprinkles the dirt and petals from her head down her lifeless body.
“Re pir ars cia ru be fentrix,” he says as he flicks the last of the soil on her feet.
“Your turn, Saya Claymore.” The Elder says in a deep voice, looking at me.
I’ve never liked how he says my name. As if it were a statement—a demand.
My Blessed peels my fingers from the umbrella, and when I let go, he holds it high above my head. I reach into the woven basket, grab a handful of the soil and vervain from the outskirts of the village, and hold it over her head.
She had dark, chestnut-brown hair, and she was pale. Ceramic. The Elder had left her in the clothing she wore when she passed—a custom. Removing the death clothes of a vegodian would curse them in the afterlife.
“May Mother feed you to the ground, and arise something new,” I say in common tongue, not vegodian. I didn’t want to taint words for the dead by not pronouncing them correctly.
I sprinkle the soil over her body. After the last of it falls, a tingling sensation stirs like pins and needles in my fingertips. Heat, unfamiliar, burns up from the tips, and I recoil, placing my hand back at my side. The strange sensation subsides.
“Saya,” my Blessed says. He takes my wrist, his long fingers wrapping tightly around my flesh. “Let me take you home. You’re tired.”
“I’m not,” I assert, rolling my frosty eyes in his direction. The air between us ripples with tension. Knowing he needs to hide the hate behind his mask, he smiles, relaxes his hold on my wrist, and we walk back down the row of mourners in silence.
I never dreamed, not even in the feeding ground. I locked most of my past away behind a formidable wall, but it seems to be slipping. Forced-down memories slip through cracks in my mind, spooling their blackened taint until my brain matter becomes tar.
Sitting upright on the bed, grogginess swirls around me as if I slept for far too long—and without a clock or windows, that might very well be the case.
After another shower, I dress in something similar to the white nightgown I wore last night and ignore everything else in the dresser that is unfamiliar and colourful. Then, I stand by the door. My fingers twitch and my shoulders tense at the prospect of leaving the relative safety of this room.
It would be smart to stay here and wait it out, but the thought immediately shatters at the prospect of waiting for hours when I want to get to the feeding ground as soon as possible.
I need my brother safe and by my side. Every second he is with them is another second in danger, and at this shitty point in time, the slayers are more of an enemy than the damn nightwalkers.
Screw it. Unbolting the door, I press my hands against the wood and push it open with a creak. My ears bend back, and I wince at the sound. Still, I continue, determined.
Barefoot, I try to navigate around the water flowing through the cracks of the stone floor. Serun said that if I became lost, he would find me. So, I suppose there’s no need for concern about which direction to take.
Somewhere new.
I walk towards the sound of rushing water. My ears twitch in anticipation, and I bite my lower lip, my fangs sinking into the plump flesh. The taste of wet stone settles in the back of my throat with every sharp breath, and my feet lightly patter against the growing puddles of water.
The corridor ahead bends, and as I turn, I stop abruptly to find a brick wall blocking my path. Muttering under my breath, I turn around, only to come face-to-face with another wall.
“An illusion?” I murmur, reaching out. Touching the rough stone, my fingers return wet. “Not an illusion…”
As I rub my fingers together, something moves in the corner of my eye. A darkened corridor appears to my right. Few torches burn in the sconces, but I step into the gloom. More passageways open, and others close. Not illusion, but control. Something or someone lures me to them.
I lift my hands and say, “Ardulgyu prus urot.” The sword of rot materialises, the leather straining as I grip it tight.
My arms move effortlessly, as if the weapon is an extension of me. It is as if saying the words that woman spoke in Serun’s memory has unlocked centuries of training.
A damn cheat code.
The sword glows, illuminating the dimly lit corridor. Light, as well as deeper shadows, stretch across the walls and doors. I reach out to the first door and twist the knob. Locked.
I grimace and creep down the corridor until the only source of light comes from the glow of the sword. More doors come into focus, and I try all of them, though now I strain to even twist them. It is as if someone is forcing me forward.
My grip tightens on the sword as a brick wall comes into focus.
Another dead end?
I turn until yet again, there is only one way to go—this time to my left.
Time passes as I’m herded somewhere, and the light in the sword dims as I struggle to keep feeding my magik into the blade.
The leather disintegrates, falling apart at the seams in my hands, and the glimmer of the blade turns to shards until the sword flakes away.
I lower my hands to my sides with a huff, when a sudden burst of firelight comes from the left.
Candles line the corridor, drinking away the shadows.
I face the door, and as I open it, the sound of the hinges creaking is eerily familiar.
Am I back where I started?
The door swings open, and bright fluorescent light blinks over a room that isn’t the one I slept in. Stainless steel lines the walls, and there are white, glossy tiles in place of the stone floor.
In the centre of the otherwise bare room is a table.
And on that table is Cole.
Pale, almost lifeless.
My heart pounds, aching to break out of my ribcage as I dash forward.
“Cole,” I breathe. My shaking hands reach toward him, only to hesitate. His flesh is somehow translucent. Sinew, muscle, and veins are visible up his arms before meat and pale skin connect, coated in dry blood.
Then something moves. A worm, or some kind of black thread, writhes within him. Inside an arm I shouldn’t be able to see within.
My heart thumps painfully as my thumb presses against his skin, pushing at it, and then my ear twitches.
Insect noises violently flood my ears—and when I look up, the creature who attacked Cole is standing on the other side of him, a broad grin splitting across its face, drool slipping down its vicious jaw.
I stumble back, slip on wet stone and hit the ground. Then, I’m staring at the room I slept in last night.
“Cole?” I choke out on a sob. Confusion muddles my brain, tormenting me.
What the fuck was that?
I run my hand down my face and pinch at the bridge of my nose between my eyes, rubbing in a circular motion to try to rid myself of a pounding headache.
This labyrinth must be messing with my head. That couldn’t have been real.
Could it?
I need to find Serun so that Reyes can find Cole and take me to him. Right fucking now.