by Cora May
A DARK INHERITANCE
The Broken Scythe Series, Book One
Cora May
Copyright ©2019 Kate Bloom
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Glass Spider Publishing
www.glassspiderpublishing.com
Cover design by Judith S. Design & Creativity
www.judithsdesign.com
For Mom, my rock in life and business.
For Dad and Grandma, my first beta readers.
And for my boyfriend, who lets me ignore him for hours at a time as I stare at a blank document until creativity strikes. The single use of “pitter-patter” is also for you, boo. ;)
PREFACE
I t was 1940. Vissula was a naïve eight-year-old girl, living in the suburbs of London. Food was scarce—a fact that was evident by her small, fragile body and the way her clothing hung off her frame. Big, brown eyes dominated the top portion of her face while sunken cheeks dominated the bottom half. In that moment, quite a bit of her face was also covered in soot and dust.
“This will all be over soon,” her mother soothed, mumbling quietly in her ear as the pair huddled together under the kitchen table.
The words were empty to Vissula. The bombs had been falling from the sky long enough now that she had plenty of time to contemplate the fragility of life, especially when she knew Papa was directly in the line of fire. Her Papa, who was only a baker his whole life; who made her smile with pastries that smiled back at her and frosting that tasted sweeter than sugar. Her Papa was not a soldier, but the men had come to their door months ago and told him it was his new job and his duty to the country.
Her Papa was not a fighter, yet he was fighting, taken away from her in the middle of dinner that day.
“We will be together again,” her mother said, as if reading her thoughts, “happy and safe. Just you wait. It will be okay.”
Folded in her mum’s arms, she listened to the explosions behind her, inhaling smoke and debris from the broken window. She wanted to accept the small bits of comfort from her mother’s words, but in the present circumstances, small bits of comfort were buried beneath the rubble of the bombs.
Even if Vissula had been comforted by the words uttered under the table that day, there was not enough comfort to last through the fifty-seven days of the London Blitz. Vissula’s young heart was not equipped to handle the death and destruction she witnessed every day. The near-constant bombing wore on her childhood, her innocence, and her demeanor. By the end of the Blitz, she wasn’t even surprised when her mother’s body was pulled from the rubble of her childhood home.
She didn’t cry at the funeral.
Vissula was able to bid her mother a short, jealous farewell before she was shipped off to the place where most children were being taken—to the orphanage.
An entire year had passed after the Blitz, but Vissula barely noted the passing days. She spent them cleaning, cooking, and half-listening to the lectures about how she did it all wrong. She never cared what the nuns in charge had to say. She never cared what the other orphans were doing behind her back. She never made any friends. She never even smiled.
In her heart, she knew there was no more reason to smile. As more and more time passed without word from the soldiers, she knew that her Papa had died as well, and no one had cared enough to tell her. She knew she was no longer a child with a father at war and no mother to watch over her; she was a child with no parents at all.
Day after day, month after month, life remained unchanging for the orphan. She grew skinnier, her nails broke more often as she scrubbed the floors, and she continued to only half-listen to the daily scolding.
The monotony finally broke one night when she was woken from a deep sleep. She wasn’t really sure what had woken her—she could only say that the air suddenly felt heavy and unbearably cold. It was not a subtle change, yet as she slowly turned her head from side to side, she could see that none of the other five girls she shared the room with had woken from their slumbers. It was as if they hadn’t noticed the change at all.
She told herself to go back to sleep. She told herself to close her eyes and forced her eyes to obey, though at first they seemed to be fighting the command from her brain. They continued to dart around the room while the rest of her body stayed still as a statue until she snapped them shut. She squeezed them together and tried to focus on counting sheep.
She counted thirty-seven sheep, eighteen more sheep than she usually counted, and had yet to fall asleep. She could feel the presence growing heavier in the last five sheep, as if it was pressing for her attention. She could no longer keep her eyes shut.
When she opened them, she thought for sure she had fallen back to sleep, for her mother was standing silently at the foot of her bed.
Her mouth opened in a small, round O.
Her mother motioned for her to follow with one finger before turning for the door.
Vissula watched her mother glide effortlessly across the room. It was not the normal, choppy gait of a regular person. Her mother was as graceful as a swan on the water, and she wore a long, white gown to match the metaphor. Vissula watched as her mother slid out the door.
Without a second thought, the child threw her covers aside and stumbled to the door, nearly falling to her face as she tripped over her own feet in her haste to follow her mother.
Outside the bedroom door, the hallway was quiet. It was empty, too, save for the spiders living in the cobwebs too high for the orphans to dust away. She slowly scanned the hallway, from left to right. She could hear the soft snores of the other orphans coming from behind closed doors, but she could see nothing beyond the light of the moon streaming in from a few open windows.
For a moment, she cursed herself. She stood in the hallway, barefoot on the cold wood floor. She would surely catch a chill, and for nothing more than the dream of a child who missed her mother.
She slowly scanned the hall again, from right to left this time.
And there she was.
Her mother was poking her head around the corner, motioning again for Vissula to follow. Despite her momentary self-hatred, she followed her mother once again. She kept closer pace with her this time, not allowing her to turn a corner too long before she did herself. Her mother led her down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the courtyard. Vissula did not even question it when her bare foot hit the ground outside in the frigid December air.
“My darling girl,” her mother breathed at last.
Vissula collapsed to the ground, shaking with relief and sobbing with a different kind of emotion. It was her mother’s voice, just as she had remembered it to be. The sound fell sweetly on her ears.
Her mother’s next words were spoken low to the ground, fallen to Vissula’s level.
“My darling,” her mother said, “you must gather yourself together now. There is much I have to tell you.”
“About Papa?” Vissula said with a shaking voice as she looked into her mother’s face. Hope had touched her heart in the slightest. “Is he alive? Is he coming for me?”
“Do not concern yourself with such matters,” her mother said. “In time, you will see how inconsequential your father’s life was, and how inconsequential mine was. Yours, my darling, will be the life that matters.”
“I…” Vissula uttered, trying to absorb her words. “I don’t understand. Is Papa alive?” she asked again, desperation coloring her voice. She knew the answer, though.
Her mother did not reply.
“Teach yourself to forget about the small matters
of your life. What I am about to tell you is far more urgent. I need you to listen carefully to everything I have to say. Know that you have been chosen for this task, and only you. It is a burden you must bear, and a journey you must follow to the end. Do you understand me?”
Vissula did not, in fact, understand a single thing. Regardless, she nodded her head.
“Very well,” her mother said, looking as unconvinced as Vissula was unsure. “Though I am still your mother, I am no longer bound to the physical body of a human. I have taken a form called Anam Solas. That means that I have died and traveled to the Realm of Light. Most Anam Solas are given the privilege of watching their loved ones after death. Some of us, like myself, are given even more privileges. One of the highest rewards we are given is the ability to Bless the people we have left behind. These Blessings are strict, and I have chosen you, my girl, to Bless. I have given you the Blessing of Celestite.”
“The stone?” Vissula inquired, more confused than ever.
“Yes, the stone. There are seven Blessing and stone pairs. I will teach you of each one, but right now you only need to know of your own Blessing and stone pair, which gives you the ability to communicate and travel with the Province of Death. You will not be in control of your own Blessing until you secure a piece of the Celestite stone. That is the first thing you must do. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Vissula said, finally making sense of some of the words from her mother.
“Good girl. Once you have secured the stone, I will teach you more. You will begin your training, and once you have grown as a Blessed human, you will be responsible for a great means to a terrible end. I beg you to listen closely to what I have to say.”
She knelt to Vissula’s level, speaking more gently.
“In the Province of Death, there are three Realms; the Realm of Light, the Realm of the Dark, and the Realm of the Reaper. The Reaper is responsible for taking the soul of everyone out of the human world and placing it in the right Realm. It has been his duty for an eternity and will be his duty for an eternity more. There is no soul in the Realm of Light or the Realm of the Dark that he himself has not placed there, save for one lonely soul; Dimonis.
“When the world began, every creature had the right to free will. In those days, the Reaper’s job was easy—he had no need to make a decision based on someone’s life. Instead, his job was to escort the dead souls from the human world to the Realm of Light. He did so with care, watching over the human world with love. We were like children to him, you see.
“But one day, Dimonis was born. He was different from the first breath he took, shrieking with hatred as he came into the world. Fearful, his mother did not accept him as her own. She did not hold him as mothers hold their newborn babies. Instead, she cried, hugging her knees into her chest, refusing to touch the child. She left him in the forest where he was born, shrieking and naked. He was taken in by animals so twisted, they have long become extinct. Legend says they had a human form, but with the hooves of an animal and a crown of horns atop their heads. No one knows where they came from or where they went, and no one knows how Dimonis lived his life in the human world. The Reaper never touched his soul, though. Some say it was too black for the Reaper to even see. Dimonis worshipped himself as a god, practicing rituals that released evil spirits into the world. Those spirits came from the bottom of his heart, where he harbored hatred for humanity. When he died, he was swallowed up into a new Realm—the Realm of the Dark—because the Reaper had rejected his soul as human. Dimonis is the embodiment of hatred and evil. He is trapped in the lowest level of the Realm of the Dark, never to be let out, never to escape. But still, his influence reigns. He is the darkest being, and those who he can reach are left darker than before. He is the ultimate enemy, and he has begun his war.
“It has been a great effort of the Anam Solas to save the human world thus far. But no longer can we do it ourselves. We need you, Vissula, to learn everything that you can so that one day you can lead an army of the Blessed against Dimonis. I will guide you through this until you are ready to begin your journey. Gather your stone, and we will begin.”
ELEVEN YEARS LATER…
“I will break through,” the raspy, demonic voice whispered into Vissula’s mind. “I will take the souls of the human world, and I will consume the Anam Solas…”
Vissula tossed and turned in her bed, pulling the covers into her ears as if she could silence the voice.
“Starting,” it continued anyway, “with your mother.”
She clenched her teeth tightly together. She was utterly exhausted and didn’t want to pay the voice any mind, but how could she ignore it when it brought up her mother?
The voice, she knew, belonged to Dimonis. She had grown to be familiar with his voice over the years… With his taunting… He never followed through, though. He wasn’t capable.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
Vissula had been Blessed with the ability to communicate with the Anam Solas, but she had also been cursed with the voices of the Anam Dorcha. Their voices crept through her barriers from time to time. She had become better at silencing them, but that night was different. That night, she let anyone through who would speak to her. She had been begging for a familiar voice, but her mother had not answered any of her calls.
She felt in her gut that it was not abandonment; she was compelled to believe that something far worse had happened to her mother. She was compelled to believe that Dimonis had done something to hurt her mother. She dared not speak directly to him, though, for her mother had warned her of the power that would give him over her.
Day after day, she continued to call out to the Anam Solas. Day after day, she was ignored. She could sense activity in the Realm, but still, no one stopped to answer her. Not a single spirit bothered to acknowledge her call.
Day after day, she was left in the dark about her mother.
She was exhausted. Sleep evaded her, and comfort was a thing of her past. Her mother had died once before, and it seemed that she would be permanently lost to her. She couldn’t hold back the tears that flowed freely into the comforter she held around her face.
“I’ll make sure she suffers,” he continued to mock her. “I’ll make her end agonizing.”
“Tell me…” Vissula uttered, her grip on the covers loosening.
There was a deep silence then, shock and determination filling the air—form Vissula and Dimonis both. It was the first time she had spoken to him. All of those warnings from her mother meant nothing for that split second. In fact, as far as Vissula was concerned in that moment, nothing held any meaning at all if her mother was gone.
“Tell me where she is,” she demanded, throwing the comforter down and speaking in a low, firm voice. “Tell me what’s been done to my mother. Speak!”
Still, it was a moment before Dimonis spoke.
“Allow me into your mind,” he lulled. “Give me your eyes so that I can see your mother.”
The request made her stomach drop. Something seemed wrong about it… Sinister…
But she needed to know where her mother was, and Dimonis was the only spirit willing to speak with her. She made a decision she knew she would come to regret.
“Come,” she whispered.
Immediately, her chest was thrust toward the ceiling, as if she had been punched in the back by something below. Her head fell backward as the spirit welcomed himself inside of her. She felt the joy of his release, nearly as much as he felt it himself.
Power ran through her veins. Darkness veiled her heart. Laughter filled her head. He was swimming inside her body, not just her mind. She could feel him taking his place in her.
Though it only lasted a moment, she felt like it had gone on forever.
When it was over and Dimonis had welcomed himself inside of her, she fell to her bed with a thud.
She was unable to move for quite some time. It was the shock that held her paralyzed—the shock at what she had done. Her mother had
warned her of this very thing.
She had given Dimonis permission to invade her body and her mind. She had given herself over to the darker power. She had forced herself into a position of eternal struggle.
And for what, she asked herself? Now that the Anam Dorcha was in her mind and in her thoughts, she knew very well that he had never had her mother. He had not done the things he had threatened—at least not yet. But now he had the power to use her in the human world, though he remained locked up in the Realm of the Dark. She had given him a vessel to let loose his evil into her world.
She had enabled a monster.
Worst of all, she would have to face this monster without her mother. Though she had no one to tell her so, she was sure that her mother had been killed, her spirit removed from the Realm of Light.
PART ONE:
THE FIRST LIE
CHAPTER ONE: CHANTA
I t was cold and dark in the small room where Chanta spent most of her time. No moonlight filtering in through the small window in the corner that night, and no lamp for her to see by. She had been shut out from the world.
She understood why, though. She was a monster. She was probably a killer, too, she decided. After all, she never meant to hurt anyone—never even touched anyone, yet she left burn marks and bruises on most people she came in contact with. How many more people did she have to injure before someone would die?
The doorknob turned, and, like a robot, Chanta’s face turned toward the door. It was her brother, of course, coming to give her a late dinner as he did every night. He never came in to see her anymore. Instead, he carefully watched her, never losing eye contact, as he set the plate of food down just inside the doorway. Meanwhile, Chanta stayed absolutely still, watching him until the door had closed shut. She knew that if she moved even a little, she would frighten the boy and he would take her food and run. She was sick and tired of starving all the time, so she waited patiently for the meager portion of food.
