by C. J. Canady
Catching my breath and pulling myself upright, I slump against the tree. I wrap my arms around my torso and shiver from head to foot. My ears burn at the unholy sounds of Ashley and Dana howling in agony as they do their best to fight off the pack. I can’t see much through the downpour, and I’m thankful for that. I’ve witnessed enough death to last me a few hundred lifetimes.
Something crunches to my left. A shadowy silhouette trudges through the snow; an arm extended for me. Panicked, I reach for my bag, ready for a fight. But the figure’s face comes into view, and I sigh in relief. Justine lumbers toward me, face reddened, hair covered in snow.
“H-H-Here,” she stutters, body shuddering from the cold. The witch hands me a lupine flower, its petals battered by the wind. “F-Fly to the p-peak.” Justine collapses to her knees.
I’m by her side the moment she hits the snow. Frowning, I press my lips together, fighting the urge to cry out for Justine as the helpless witch bleeds out from her side. A set of wolf teeth has ripped her dress and flesh. The wound is gaping, bones jutting out, blood spills through her fingers as she depresses her hand over the gash.
“Justine,” I cry, leaning her against the tree. “Hold on. Please.” It’s foolish of me to attempt to revive her, to heal her wounds when the threat of wolves still lingers near. I can’t let her die, not after what she’s done for me, not after the witch saved me.
The witch’s eyes flutter closed. “G-go. I’ll... I’ll be f-fine...” her head lolls to one side, the life slipping from her as she exhales a breath.
“Thank you.” Is all I can offer her, all I can give as a parting gift to her. I wish I would’ve gotten to know her better. I wish things were different. And yet, all my wishing won’t bring the witch back to life. Justine deserves better than this. All the slain witches and wizards deserve far better than this. So many lives were lost just to have a seat at the table.
With no time to grieve, I call forth the magic within the lupine. My back aches, shoulder blades twitch, spine tingles as membranous, rainbow-colored wings bulge, unfurl, then flutter on my back. Lupine, also known as the monarch flower, allows the user to fly, unlike the anemone—the wind flower—which is normally not used for flight but to scatter seeds by way of wind. I’ll have about an hour and a half of airtime compared to the mere five to seven minutes of wind time.
The pack of wolves encircle me, licking their maws smeared in blood. Jaw set, I take a running start toward my canine enemies. The bloodthirsty overgrown dogs launch themselves at me, hungry for my flesh. But their effort goes to waste as I soar up, up, and away.
Chapter 16
CHILLED TO THE BONE, I crash land in a mound of untouched snow near a cabin-sized, rectangular stone building. Clawing my way out of the icy heap, I stagger to the arched, stone entryway and flop to my rear like a fish out of water. My breaths come in ragged intervals. Every inhale burning my frozen lungs. Every exhale stealing bits of my life away from me.
Torches on opposite sides of the small structure burst to life, orange-red flames heating the inside like a furnace. I welcome the heat with open arms and chuckle, delirious from winter’s wrath. Wiping my eyes of frost, I sweep my gaze around the small room, searching for the last item on the list—Holy water. I followed Justine’s word and reached the peak, but this is not what I expected. The only thing in this heated hellhole is torches and only torches.
I’m beginning to think all is lost when I look down. There’s something carved in the center of the room; a drawing etched in the stone. I can’t make out what it is from here, so I crawl on my hands and knees to the spot in the middle. A familiar flower is carved in the stone, deeply etched lines curve to form the petals, and a curlicue makes the pistil.
Where have I seen this flower before?
I gasp aloud, “The envelope.” Shifting through my sack, I find the envelope under the flowers. I observe the wax seal, then the flower of stone. Sure enough, it’s a match. I may have solved that mystery, but now I am as lost as I can get.
I have all the items I need, the fairy wings, rabbit’s foot, Egyptian bean but no Holy water. Did I mishear Justine? Was I supposed to fly to the peak, or perhaps elsewhere?
Grumbling obscenities under my breath, I wipe my brows slick with sweat. The droplets plop down within the crevasses of the stone artwork, and a tiny blue spark of light glows within the drops. I lean a touch closer, inspecting the strange glow as more sweat and melted snow drip from my body. More of the artwork begins to glow, shimmering like a pond at night.
“The Holy water,” I say, a satisfied smile on my lips, “it’s the snow—”
Someone claps behind me. The noise startles me to my feet. “Such a shame,” Markus snorts from behind me. I peer over my shoulder just enough to verify my worst fear has come true. The wizard is back, and now we’re all alone. “You’ve come all this way just to die.”
Through ground teeth, I snap at him like a wolf, “Don’t come any closer.”
“Or what?” The wizard crosses the threshold. Arms folded triumphantly across his chest. Smirking at me like the devil he is, Markus’s bloodshot eyes stare a hole through me. “A witch will never become part of the Elite. Do you believe you have what it takes to defeat me? Be a good witch and surrender. Or else.”
I don’t take kindly to threats. Balling my fists, I steady my shivering body as I await the hulking wizard to strike first. This is it. If I die here, everything I’m working toward will be for naught. I’ve got to best Markus with everything I can throw at him. I’ve got to win this for myself, for Justine, for all the innocents who’ve given their lives for the Flower Trials.
Markus lowers his head like a bull, then charges for me. His feet crunch against the stone, emitting tiny quakes that shake the building to its core. With my last bit of strength, I evade his attack, leaping out of the way only to slam against the wall opposite me. This tiny space we’re confined in allows neither one of us enough breathing room. Markus looms a few feet away like a reaper of souls. His overwhelming height and weight rocket a shiver up my spine.
Markus pants and lets his tongue loll like a dog. “I won’t hurt you too much,” he snickers.
If I can get to my bag, I can take the wizard down. My gaze flicks to the sack for a millisecond, which gives Markus the leg up he needs. His fingers clutch my throat a beat later, nails like tiny pocketknives dig into my flesh. Markus slams me on my back so hard, I see stars dancing on the edge of my vision. He slams me again and again. My body thunders with deep pain, head ringing like church bells.
Markus holds me down on my back, presses his knee against my stomach, stealing any chance I have for catching my breath. I claw at his arms, his face drawing blood, but my efforts do nothing but anger him more. Vision darkening as Markus holds my throat tighter, my hand brushes against burlap. I blindly reach for the bag as everything slips into darkness. My fingers find purchase, and my knee finds Markus’s groin.
Markus grunts, hisses, and loosens his hold for just a moment. At that moment, I move whatever flower I’ve grabbed before my eyes. Huffing out a breath and thanking whoever is watching over me, I expel a breath to unleash the life-saving dandelion seeds. In no time at all, the wizard’s eyes roll to the back of his skull as he keels over on one side and rolls on his back fast asleep.
I’m unsure of how much time passes; I don’t care too much, really. I’ve fought my way out of death’s hold yet again. I would celebrate my victory, but that’d be premature and foolish of me to do so. I’ve still got one problem: Vahilda. I’m not out of the clear just yet.
Back on my wobbly feet, I limp my way over to the snow outside and scoop up handful after handful. I perform this task a few dozen times until I’ve covered every inch of the stone flower. Slowly, the snow melts to sparkling, crystalline water.
“Please prepare all the items,” a voice, thick with phlegm, reverberates from all around me. “Place them in the center.”
Upending my bag, I do as told by the disembodied vo
ice, planting every item in the center. The fairy wings, rosemary, rabbit’s foot, Egyptian bean all dissolve to ash atop the water. The water swirls like a cyclone at my feet, then spirals downward down a hole forming in the middle of the flower.
The wall before me splits in two, sliding open smoothly, parting to allow brilliant sunlight to engulf me in a divine embrace. The light fades so quickly I’m startled to realize I’ve been transported back to Parnissi on the flowery knoll where I first touched down in this magical land. However, this time though, I am swarmed by witches and wizards of all ages. Some older wizards regard me with scoffs, snarls, and unhappy grunts; the witches, however, break out in cheers of merriment, pure happiness.
A young witch, about six or seven, hands me a bouquet of multicolored flowers. “Congratulations,” she squeals. “I can’t wait for my turn. I want to be just like you.”
My heart sinks. This little witch has no clue what’s at stake, does not understand the horrors of the Flower Trials. I want to shatter the girl’s dreams, but her eyes are so bright and jubilant as she gawks at me. All around me, the witches burst into tears of sheer joy. They huddle around me and sing my name in praise. If only they knew what I’ve endured. If only they knew I’d never be able to sleep again without seeing the mangled, contorted bodies of all those lost, burned in the blackness each time I close my eyes.
The cheering and the outpouring of love do nothing to quell the firestorm of pain coursing through my body. As a young girl, this is all I ever wanted: love and admiration. Something my mum never cared to express to me. Now, though, I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it.
The next few hours are a blur. One minute, I’m being tended to by healers in Parnissi, the next I’m being interviewed by various publications, and the next, I’m bombarded with shop owners showering me with presents of clothes and baubles. All I want to do is sleep, to go home...
Home. I don’t have a home here in Parnissi. I’m Vahilda’s prisoner.
Come tomorrow, I’ll be an Elite—a title I neither need nor want.
“VAHILDA?” I CALL THE witch’s name as I open the door to her home. I wait a few heartbeats after I’m met with silence to shout her name two, five, ten times. I check all the bedrooms, the kitchen, and the garden to no avail. The witch is not here.
Is Vahilda avoiding me? Does she not want to face my wrath? Has the witch fled Parnissi, fearing the coming execution where I’d share her dark secret with the world? Though I think of berating her and exposing her as the murderess she is, I’m certain Vahilda, the wicked witch, will be present for my coronation. Before that happens, I must find something that once belonged to my father. This is his childhood home. Surely, I’ll find something that I can use to summon him when the veil opens.
The front door creaks open behind me. Spinning so fast on my heels, I nearly topple over. Gulping, I set my jaw as I await Vahilda to enter. The witch never shows her face. In her place, a man with blond curls and blissfully deep blue eyes greets me with a tired smile.
“Percy,” I whisper his name, blinking at the mirage. But it’s him. It’s Percy. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him close to me. “How are you alive?”
The cat-man whimpers, presses his head to mine. “I clawed my way out of the serpent’s gut; it took me forever to do. By the time I was free, night had already fallen. I didn’t know where else to go besides here to wait for you.” He lays a kiss between my brows. “Luckily, you beat me here. Goddess, am I glad to see you.”
“I’m happy you’re safe and here with me.” I squeeze him like there’s no tomorrow. “Have you seen Vahilda?” I ask. I’d hate to break up this reunion, but I must know her whereabouts.
Percy shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her. Nor has Vahilda tried to summon me.”
“Do you think she’s on the run?”
Brows scrunched, he answers, “I don’t think so. She’s somewhere in Parnissi. She and I have a bond that can only be broken with a kiss.”
“Right. Right.” I smile, cheeks burning. “We’ll get right to that in a few. I just need to find something of my fathers before tomorrow’s coronation. I can call upon his spirit so that he may speak the truth about his death. Afterward, I’ll seek justice for his death and—” I bite my bottom lip “—and I’ll assure she is executed by my hands.”
Still in my embrace, Percy sighs against my lips. “I’ll do whatever I can. Let’s see what we can find.”
We start with the living room, scouring every nook and cranny for anything that belonged to my father. Amongst the femme décor that has Vahilda’s essence in and through it, we search for anything remotely masculine—a toy car, a dagger, a shoe—but find nothing. Next, we destroy Vahilda’s bedroom in the same manner as we did the living room, to no avail. My luck must’ve run dry shortly after my Flower Trial victory.
“Damn it.” I pound my fist on Vahilda’s queen-sized bed. My next train of thought is to head to the mausoleum. Maybe there is something there that Vahilda used to summon my father. “We’ve got to go to the graveyard. I think that’s our best chance.”
Percy crumbles to the floor. “G-Go without me.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling at his side.
Propping himself up on one arm, he takes my hand. “Y-Yeah. Just exhausted and starved. I haven’t eaten anything but rabbit.”
“That was almost two days ago.” Helping him to his feet, I escort him around the heaps of clothing and jewelry. “I’ll see what we have, and I’ll cook you something. Okay?”
“You’re the best.”
Leftover bread and apple pie are all the witch has in the icebox. I apologize to Percy because had there been something more nutritious to cook up, I would’ve made a feast for him. He deserves it. He’d be the first person I’d enjoy cooking for.
Nightfall soon claims the sun and whatever time we have left. Vahilda is still a no-show, which is good, I guess. If she saw the state of her home, she’d figure out exactly what Percy and I were doing. With that in mind, I tend to the house to ensure not a thing is out of place. This feat alone leaves me worse for wear and terribly upset.
Pacing around the bedroom, I twiddle my thumbs and mumble to myself. My mind is working overtime to try to figure a way to give my father the justice he deserves. But I’ve got nothing. If I knew more about him—his likes, dislikes, if he has anything hidden in this home—then I’d feel a lot better knowing I’d have the upper hand on Vahilda. Yet, as I continuously pace to-and-fro to distract myself, I lose all hope in taking Vahilda down.
“We’ll think of something.” Percy sits at the edge of the bed. “If we want the upper hand, you must free me of my hex, Elyse.”
The tone of his voice and the urgency with which the words leave his mouth give me pause. He knows how much I want to free him of his hex. I’m merely flustered with trying to find a solution that will free me from the witch’s hold as well. I want to be with Percy on our own accord without a hex or blood oath tethering us to Vahilda.
“Once the hex is broken,” Percy says, “Vahilda won’t know my whereabouts. She’ll be caught off guard when we take her on.”
I wince. Percy makes everything sound so easy. Has he forgotten who and what Vahilda is? Yet, I can’t fault him for his optimistic outlook. I need a sliver of shining hope to breach through the dark cloud lingering overhead.
“This is not the most romantic setting,” I say abashedly. I’d rather our first kiss be in a more... appropriate place like a ritzy diner or whilst on a leisurely stroll through the park. My first kiss should be special and not a life-or-death situation.
Clearing my throat, I roll my shoulders, willing my body to relax. “So, how do we do this?”
Percy brushes the tips of his fingers down the back of my neck. Heat gambols through my beating heart, my veins, my soul. “Like this.”
Our lips collide, gently, passionately. Eyes fluttering to a close, I feel as if I’m floating, standing on a cloud. A tingling sensation tickles my lips, an el
ectric spark leaps from his lips to mine. I moan. A pleasure-filled noise rumbles from deep inside me, from a place pleading to be touched.
When our lips part and my eyes open to behold the man who loves me, I jump back, press myself against the wall, terrified. An older male stands where Percy was standing. His blue eyes crinkled around the edges, mouth in a permanent frown, golden hair speckled with gray strands.
“P-Percy!” I tremor like an earthquake as the older man inspects his body and smiles satisfactorily.
“I’m free,” he sniffles and wipes his eyes.
“Indeed, you are!” In a flash of black and red petals, Vahilda materializes in between Percy and me. “Well done, Percy—”
“What’s going on,” I shout and press myself closer to the wall.
Vahilda whirls around to face me, her red gown billowing at her ankles. Her golden-brown eyes lower at me. “I told you to stay away from boys, didn’t I? And now look at what you’ve done—” she swishes her hand at the older version of Percy “—you’ve gone and freed him of his hex. Funny how things seem to work out.”
Percy pinches his cheeks, then his elbows. “I’m back to my old self.”
“But I thought you were a child when—”
Vahilda cackles like a loon. “Percy told me about your theory. Do you honestly believe I’d hex an innocent baby? No, of course not. Percy was twenty-something—”
“Twenty-five,” Percy says, garnering a snarl from Vahilda. “I do apologize. Continue.”
The witch does just that. “Percy was the only witness to the crime I committed. And so, I turned him into a cat and my personal slave. There was only one way he could ever break the spell, and that was by kissing a half-mortal. I thought Percy would be mine forever. But then you happened to be born.” Vahilda inches closer to me, hands on her hips.
“P-Percy,” I mutter sadly. “You used me.”
“I’m sorry.” Percy hangs his head and rocks on his heels.
