Chapter 40 #2
Before I can register what the fuck happened, I’m wrapped around his chest, free falling until we both impact the ground. Jace rolls our bodies, pressing his full weight over me, and clamps down on both wrists.
“That temper of yours will get you killed,” he whispers, his mouth a hair’s width from my ear. “Rage is your greatest ally, but also your deadliest of enemies. You want to hurt me? Good. You’re pissed off? Good. But don’t lose yourself to the anger. That’ll get you killed.”
“Get off me!” I shove a boot toward him, but his thighs catch my ankle and hold it in place.
“Do you see how easy it was for me to get under your skin? Now look at what's happened. If I had shifted, you’d be drained of blood in seconds.” His voice is slow and steady, dripping with a darkness that sends a shudder down my spine.
“I fucking hate you,” I seethe.
“No you don’t, but you should,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. He’s right, I don’t, but the rage coursing through me is white hot.
I squirm against his body as Jace brings our intertwined hands to his neck, then his chest, directly over his heart. “Don’t forget the killing blows, Nova. Even in soulless form, I’m susceptible to them. Never forget that.”
Then he lifts his weight from me and rises to his feet. I glance at Isra, now gaping and grey.
“Sea accepted our offer. We’ll leave tomorrow.” Jace turns his back to us. I beg my body to go, to shove off the chilled grass and charge him again, but no amount of will has me moving.
“Tomorrow? What about now?” I ask, breathless and glazed.
He holds up a hand and there between his fingers is a simple stone, etched with a rune I don’t recognize. “Because I owe you a protection bond. Meet me at Morvayne’s Well tonight. Don’t be late, it’ll only work if the moon is full.”
Come on, you fucker.
Sweat trickles to the floor and spatters on impact. My brow furrows and I clamp my teeth tighter. The little glass vial, as if it’s mocking me, rests silent and cold. The room is still, quiet, vacant—save for my grunts, and exhausted groans.
I’ve been at this for an hour, sitting as quiet as possible with my legs crossed in my lap, and still there’s nothing. Just as it was back in Storm.
Yaris’s note remains crumpled in the corner. That wound is one I’m not yet ready to reopen, but curiosity gnaws on me until I’m nothing but bone.
“Walk the plane,” the phantom voice had told me. It wasn’t difficult to connect the pieces in its meaning, even if I’d withheld the truth from the others. I’m still not even sure I’m fully capable of astral projection, seeing as our cosmic mother hasn’t answered a single one of my pleas.
The draft seeping in from the frosted windows chills my skin, but I force my body quiet. A fading evening light washes my bedchamber in shadows. I should get up, pack a bag, and prepare for tonight’s offering, but I don’t move. Not even to light a candle.
Focus, Nova. Fucking focus.
I tell myself this time will be different. I’ve opened a door that once was barricaded shut. That means something, right? I’ve faced myself again, let myself feel again. This heartache won’t—can’t be for nothing.
Just as Yaris taught, I focus on the vial. Retrieving a satchel of herbs, swiped from the kitchen, I pull open the strands and waft the scent.
It pricks my nose and instantly clears my airways with a singe of spice. My eyes water in protest and my throat burns. Overtaken by a coughing fit, I nearly keel over, sputtering up bile and scorched saliva.
Maybe dragon’s bane wasn’t the best option, but, gods be good, my senses are definitely clear…if not entirely incinerated.
I resettle into my seat, keeping my back straight and palms open. With a long drawn breath, I close my eyes again, and let the room’s little sounds filter away.
The foundation creaking, the whistle of the draft, even the slight rustle of my own clothes fades until I’m floating in a void—silent and still.
Time slows to a halt, or races by, I don’t bother distinguishing between the two.
All that exists is the thrum of blood in my veins and my steady, rhythmic breaths.
And yet, nothing happens.
My limbs prickle with phantom sensations, alerting my body I haven’t yet died. An itch on my nose begs to be scratched and my tunic tickles my waist like a little reminder of my failure.
I open my eyes. This is pointless. I’m too grounded by the physical world, but how do I even begin to untether myself? I can’t simply jump out of my own flesh.
My stomach knots. I haven’t made even a shred of progress, sitting here like a fool with stolen herbs and a vial of water no more significant than from the fountain outside.
“If I’m supposed to walk the astral plane can you just help me out?” Whether I’m speaking to ghosts, Astora, or my owned damned self doesn’t matter, because only silence obliges an answer. My toes curl into the stone tiled-floor, my thighs tense and every muscle in my body seeps with rage.
Stupid. Useless. Nobody.
I have no place in this world, nor in the cosmic plane.
Time and again I’ve battled a way out of myself, and yet when I finally feel a sliver of freedom—a shred of who I truly am—I’m left with nothing.
There is no Nova outside of the mercenary.
Outside of the slave. Outside of the selfish, angry woman I’ve become.
When the violence simmers and the blood is wiped from my hands, I’m left facing a truth that threatens to break me irreparably. I am no one of relevance—no friends, no family, no deity. Just a carcass painted with old scars on her back. Would anyone care if I simply ceased to exist?
Would I?
I’m a fucking shell, and no matter how often I refill myself, I’ll always be empty. Nova the mercenary. Nova the slave.
Nova the hollow.
Silently, I retrieve the vial from the room’s center and return it to rest on the mantle.
Why fight when there’s nothing left to live for?
I wrap my arms around myself, clinging to the pieces before they shatter to the floor. Darkness floods the room, and the fireplace lies vacant and frigid. My hands shake beyond control. So does my body.
Tears fall, but I don’t swipe them away. I deserve to feel this pain, this humiliation, this isolation. Did I expect a drop or two of sacred water to fix me?
That phantom voice in the tomb—maybe a guardian rider, maybe not—must’ve been mistaken. And yet a glimpse of hope burrowed its way in, leaving me dangerously close to the edge. Now I’m in free fall.
My knees crack on the floor when I collapse. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t scream or sob or trash the room. I simply tuck in my thighs and let the seconds creep by without me.
Now would be the perfect opportunity for Astora to send her blessing or a vision of a long dead parent. My heart quakes my throat and I offer a silent plea for someone, anyone, to pull me from the void.
But there’s no one. No magic or cosmic blessing. If I’m to keep from falling apart, it’ll be my own hands that hold the fracture.
I watch the glass vial, pleading for some sort of divine intervention. Time ticks by.
I keep staring. Still there’s nothing.
My knees ache as I finally claw myself up and pace to the armoire. If this was entirely a waste of time, I might as well pack for tomorrow’s journey, at least that’ll keep my hands busy.
I throw open the doors and rummage through the various hanging clothes, occasionally retrieving a tunic or pair of trousers from their hooks and tossing them into a pile beside my satchel.
When the evening light has diminished beyond visibility, I light a match. It sparks to life, illuminating the room in copper-hued flickers.
Something rattles on the mantle.
The flame in my hand eats away until my fingertips burn and my heart stutters.
The water glows, swirling and writhing in faint bluish hues as if it breathes, as if it has a pulse. A pain reaction has the match falling to the floor, extinguishing on impact in a curl of smoke.
The vial vibrates like it contains the essence of the cosmos. I risk a step closer, praying that any slight movement won’t scare it back to sleep.
“Find me. Find me.”
A voice, or many shiver through the room, now louder than a draft through broken glass.
“W-what?”
“So tired…So tired…must sleep now.”
I lunge for the vial as it shakes once more, balancing haphazardly close to the mantle’s edge. Its contents flare to life with an intense flash of crystalline blue. Then it settles and fades, leaving me blinking and frozen.
Either I’ve lost my damned mind or the water spoke to me. My eyes narrow. The room is vacant, still, just as it was before. Did that truly happen? Did I hallucinate? Maybe the stress and exhaustion finally won.
I’m not stupid enough to deny what I saw with my own damned eyes, but do I trust my mind enough to have faith it was real?
I watch the vial like a hawk tracking its prey, but when the clock chimes half past eleven it’s silent and ordinary. Just water.
My mind unravels with doubt until I’ve almost certainly convinced myself I’ve gone mad. This is hopeless. Pointless. Sighing, I slither on my overcoat and leave the vial to rest, just as it requested.