Chapter 4 #2
“I’m never going to know,” I whisper, giving in to the impulse to brush my fingertips across my aunt’s cheek. Her skin is colder than mine. “Not all of it, at least.”
I can’t feel even a hint of essence from her, but I need to know for certain.
I reach over. Not bothering to look because I know I’ll hit the right buttons, I turn off the machines.
As they die one by one, I clumsily unhook their wires and tubes.
Sobbing, I wrench the breathing tube out of my aunt’s throat, then rip away the remaining tubes and lines attached to her.
There must be some proper way to do all this, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Disa doesn’t breathe again. She doesn’t open her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I cry, clasping her inert hand and not even knowing what I’m apologizing for, except none of this was supposed to happen this way. “I’m so sorry.”
I press a kiss to her forehead, my tears streaking over her skin. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch my grief rain over her. “Rest now. I promise … I’ll be okay. Somehow.”
I’m not certain how much of Disa was the Conduit and how much of her was the vessel, but maybe … maybe … her energy will return to the section of the universe from which the soul of the vessel was pulled. And there, maybe she’ll be reunited with those intrinsically connected to her.
“Ward, Ingrid, Mack, and Devlin …” I murmur. “Trace your ties to their souls, their essence, back to them, Disa. I wish that for you now.”
Energy shifts through me to her. I breathe it across her skin, giving her in death what I’m now fairly certain she somehow stripped from me in life.
Then my hand is empty.
I open my eyes.
Disa’s body is gone. Her lingering energy fades into the essence that fuels the universe, into the aether. Into the After.
I straighten, swiping the tears from my cheeks and blowing my nose in some gauze I find in one of the metal drawers.
I open all the doors to the fridges, yanking container after container of blood out over the floor.
Then I set the fucking room on fire.
It only takes a couple of nudges from the universe for me to find rubbing alcohol to use as an accelerant, and the lighter that is still somehow in Devlin’s pocket.
I wedge the door open behind me when I leave. I’m not certain the fire will spread through the bunker complex, but I need to feed it enough oxygen to consume the medical bay at least.
The fire won’t spread without extra encouragement. But I can wield a lot of that, even while the universe is pissed at me.
My chest aches, knowing that I can’t stay and collect Devlin’s ashes to inter in the family plot. I keep his lighter instead. I doubt the medical bay will be the only thing I set on fire today.
I head for the stairs again, realizing as I step across the next landing and start up the next set of stairs — heading all the way to the top for the confrontation sure to be waiting for me there — that despite the seething wound at my neck, I feel stronger than I have since being bequeathed the mantle of the Conduit.
I pause, letting myself cry over the reason for that — that some part of the Conduit power was still contained within my aunt, and now she’s truly gone — for another few minutes.
Then I keep climbing.
I step through the final metal door into what appears to be a domestic basement of some sort, given the antique water heater, plank floor, and lack of concrete. A set of wooden open-tread stairs, gray with age, lead me up into a narrow, naturally lit hall.
The Cataclysm’s bunker is at least partially built under a palatial but badly maintained heritage house.
I was evidently brought in through a secondary entrance away from the main house, a glimpse of which I caught across the expansive property while being carried inside.
I still have no idea of the extent of the underground sections of the compound, though.
I pause, enjoying the worn hardwood under my chilled bare feet as I take a moment to glance around.
A sweeping staircase rises behind and over me, leading up to the second aboveground floor.
To my far right, large living spaces appear to be set to each side of a huge entranceway.
Heavy, sun-bleached brocade curtains are partially pulled over the windows I can see, but I catch a glimpse of white-painted pillars supporting a covered patio that spans the front of the house.
I make a guess that the hall to my left leads back through the center of the house to a kitchen and possibly to a back patio or entrance beyond. The plaster walls are in need of a coat of paint. The crown moldings are dingy, and the wood casings around the doors and windows are cracked.
Though none of that really matters now. Since I’m in the process of burning it all down anyway.
I can feel the presence of shifters in the living spaces and beyond the grand front entrance, as well as where I’m assuming the kitchen lies.
Suddenly achingly hungry, as if the universe is reminding me I need to eat if I want to stay upright, I move toward the largest cluster of life force, traversing steadily down the hall until I step into a large kitchen without any preamble.
Six shifters, each double my size and clad in Cataclysm leathers, pivot at my entrance. They go stock-still, staring. All of them are bears — though not berserkers as far as I can tell.
This group includes the blond shifter and the shifter the Cataclysm strangled when they interrupted our weird dinner. The bruise on the strangled shifter’s neck is blackened and painful looking.
That dinner was already odd for a multitude of reasons, but feels even more so now.
Because based on the bright sunshine pouring through the back patio windows, it’s clearly day.
But less than an hour — maybe two at the most — has passed since the Cataclysm went to check on Jewels in the hospital.
Or maybe I’ve lost time — or even gained it, given that the will of the universe is in play again.
And, yes, I can feel essence again. In finer detail than ever before.
I shove the why of that away.
I’m moving now, moving and not looking back. My present, my now … at least the now I want to be living within … is just a step forward, then another step. Not quite within reach yet. But whatever toll the universe demands of me, I already know that the past will not continue to slow me.
Parts of the kitchen have been modernized, but the flooring and cupboards are ancient, missing doors and tiles. The shifters are cooking something on a large gas range. Chili? And based on the shape of the loaf pans I can see through the glass front of the oven, maybe corn bread?
A dark-haired, dark-skinned shifter hovering over the massive chili pot with a large spoon in hand flinches when he accidentally meets my gaze.
A brown-haired, heavily bearded shifter in the process of digging through the oversized fridge to my right opens his mouth, as if to call out to the reinforcements on the other side of the house.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“We can’t let you go,” the cook says, still holding the spoon. “He’ll kill us.”
The blond shifter from down below slides slightly closer to a door that appears to lead to a back patio, adding, “He’ll kill our families.”
I tilt my head thoughtfully.
They all take a step back from me, bumping into the counters and the bare kitchen table tucked in the far corner.
“Your choice is doubly clear, then,” I say, ignoring a sliver of concern that runs through me.
From their reaction to me, to whatever they can sense of my essence now that the previous Conduit vessel has been released to the universe.
“Die now. At this very moment in time. Or die later. But him, you can maybe outrun.”
They glance between each other. The cook carefully sets down the spoon, reaching to turn off the gas burner.
“Leave it,” I say softly.
His entire body seizes as if I’ve shot him, then he steps back from the stove with his hands raised.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” the bearded shifter snarls, abandoning the fridge to step forward and lay a hand on my shoulder.
I don’t even have to reach for his threads. The universe intervenes for me. Apparently, it’s as impatient as I am for me to keep moving.
The shifter’s fingers brush the sleeve of my silk dress. He jerks away as if burned, then drops to one knee before me, clutching his chest.
He has a moment to take another deep breath, to look up at me in horror. Then that horror morphs into a weird kind of reverence right before he keels over onto the floor — all his threads snipped short.
The universe is seriously not fucking around today.
No one in the kitchen breathes for a beat. Me included. Then the three shifters nearest the various doorways bolt. The blond shifter from before helpfully leaves the door to the back patio open.
Shouts sound from farther into the house, likely the fleeing shifters echoing my warning. Unless they think they can rally while in retreat.
The cook remains staring at me. Pure worship is in his gaze, as if he’s just a moment away from falling to his own knees. By choice.
“Please don’t,” I say, loathing the look even as I remember the way I adored my aunt as a child, believed in her throughout my life.
Even as she was supposed to be protecting me, I allowed myself to believe that the segregation — being banished from the estate and all that entailed — was part of my training, was necessary.
Blind faith that I rationalized even as an adult.
“Goddess divine,” the cook whispers reverently, my disinclination to be worshiped not as clear as I’d hoped. “My life is yours. Please use me as you will.”
“You’ve already had your brain warped by someone with a god complex,” I say sourly. “You don’t need me in the mix. Is there red meat in the chili?”
He blinks, shaking his head to clear it. “Um, yes?”
I huff. “And is the corn bread ready?”
He gulps. “You want to eat? You want me to feed you?”