Inquest

by Gladden, DelSheree

  “The Audi.” The venom in my voice doesn’t keep Lance from grinning. He’d been hoping for the Audi. It is much faster than the Lexus. And Lance loves to go fast.

  “Maybe we can take it out after your Inquest,” he suggests. The eager shine in his eyes is very nearly catching. The last word of his sentence sours any hope of my reciprocating his enthusiasm.

  I offer him the best smile I can manage, which isn’t much, and say, “Yeah, maybe. Let’s go to lunch. I’ve got some homework to finish.”

  Lance’s arm wraps around my waist and guides me down the hall. I try to focus on the feel of his touch, but all I can think of is how stupid it is that I’m worrying about my homework. My chances of not being murdered after my Inquest are pretty slim, which means this assignment is the last one I will ever turn in. At least there’s one upside to dying.

  Chapter 2

  Death Sentence

  My mother glares at me as soon as I step out of my car. The fact that Jen and Lance are right behind me doesn’t faze her at all. Her slim hips twitch back and forth angrily, and she stamps over to me. She is the model of upper-echelon sophistication in her two piece silk suit and gauzy white blouse peeking out from under the neckline of her jacket. Her eyes flick over my own clothing, a pair of dark denim skinny jeans and a turquoise t-shirt I hand painted in my clothing design class last week. I thought the sparkly silver paint I used looked great in its swirling, abstract pattern.

  “That was the best you could come up with, Libby?” my mom sneers. “You would think you lived downtown instead of in a gated community by the way you’re dressed. If your father were here…”

  “He’s not,” I snap.

  “This is supposed to be an important occasion. Your place in this society, the rest of your life, is about to be determined! You could have at least attempted to treat it with some respect. You wouldn’t have dressed like an urchin if your father were the one doing your Inquest the way it should have been.” She never talks about my dad except to throw his death in my face. She has never made a secret about who she blames for his not being here anymore. Her fingers snatch up a strand of my dark hair. “Would it have killed you to do something with your hair besides let it hang like limp spaghetti?”

  I yank my hair out of her grip, and say, “Who knows? Maybe it would. You could always hope, right?”

  Furious, she turns her back on me—big surprise—and marches up the staircase to the front door of Inquisitor Moore’s expansive mansion. She swings the door open and marches inside. Lance thinks he’s helping when he reaches up and touches my shoulder softly. His kiss on my head follows, sweet and wonderful, but I want to shake him off. He’s trying to calm me down, but I don’t need calm. Anger is the only thing keeping the terror at bay for the moment.

  When I don’t respond to him, Lance sighs and pulls me toward the doors of Inquisitor Moore’s home. “Just forget her,” Lance says. He pauses before opening the door and kisses my forehead gently. He pulls me up the staircase to follow after my mom. I can’t help but drag against him. He feels it and looks back at me with an encouraging smile. “I think you look great, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter as he pulls the door open and pushes me inside.

  Standing in the foyer of the Inquisitor’s office is too much for me. Self-control leaves me as soon as I step into the richly appointed house. The centuries-old tapestry hanging on the wall, antique chaise, and solid gold candelabra should be welcoming. Instead, the layers of texture and finery only press in on me. I feel claustrophobic right away. I know my nails are digging into Jen’s hand, but I can’t force myself to ease my grip on her. Not even to elbow the “I knew you were scared” look off her face. In all reality, she looks scared, too. Nowhere near as terrified as I feel, but definitely worried. Lance standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders can’t calm me down either. He shifts and the edge of his Guardian blade brushes across my shoulder. Hot, frightened tears spring to my eyes, but I summon up enough control to keep them from falling.

  Please don’t let it be his blade that ends my life, I beg.

  “It will just be a few more minutes, Mrs. Sparks,” the Inquisitor’s page says to my mother. “Inquisitor Moore and the resident Guardian are just confirming all the paperwork for your guests. They shouldn’t be much longer.”

  My mother nods the barest acknowledgement and goes back to ignoring everyone in the room. Jen squirms at the mention of guests. I want to reassure her again, but I can’t.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” I whisper to Jen.

  She looks over at me with alarm. “Well, if you do, just make sure to aim it away from me. I will not be happy if I end up with barf all over my new Manolo Blahnik shoes. These babies are precious.”

  “Just for that,” I say with a scowl, “I’ll make sure it gets on your dress, too.”

  Horror springs onto her face for a second before she loses her calm and starts snickering. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Lance says as he hugs me. “We’ll be out of here in half an hour, tearing up the road in the Audi.”

  Neither of them have any idea just how wrong they are. I’m not about to point it out, though. I’m happy to let them, and me, bask in the fantasy while we can.

  Our basking only lasts about thirty seconds.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Inquisitor is ready for you. Please follow me,” the page says.

  Everyone—which is basically my mom, Jen, and Lance—moves to follow him but me. It’s a small group, even with my guests. I have cousins, aunts, and uncles that could have come, but my mom has no desire to parade the daughter she despises in front of anyone. Even with so few, the room feels crowded. A sudden desire to bolt for the door and never look back grabs hold of me. I might have given in if not for Jen and Lance holding onto me, waiting for me. If I run, I will never see them again. They are the two most important people in my life, the only ones who really care about me. And for some reason I can’t stomach the thought of dying alone.

  Alone is what I will be if I run. I will be hunted down and murdered by strangers. If I die tonight, at least I’ll have them with me. Maybe I’ll even get to see my dad again. My heart clenches inside my chest. What will he say to me when he sees me again? Will he spurn me because of what happened, or will he open his arms to me like he used to? The image of his warm, compassionate smile fills my mind and comforts me. He’ll understand. I know he’ll be happy to see me again. That thought gives me the strength to take a step forward.

  It’s not that I want to die, I would rather avoid that happening at all costs, but knowing that if my life ends tonight I will be back in my dad’s arms gives me a certain measure of peace. Before I know it I am walking into the ritual chamber, standing across from the Inquisitor. His wizened form trembles in front of me, a low-level shiver that constantly runs through his body. His eyes, though, are soft and gentle. Honest welcome plays on his features as he holds his hands out to me. I take them carefully and return the feeble squeeze he gives me.

  “How nice to see you again, Libby,” Inquisitor Moore warbles.

  “It’s nice to see you again too, sir,” I reply. The calmness in my voice is surprising. I still feel like I might empty my stomach at any second, but thinking of my dad has given me back just enough control to fake being calm.

  Inquisitor Moore places one of his hands on top of both of mine. His eyes fill with glassy tears as he stares at me. “If your father were still alive, he would be the one standing here now. I’m sorry it couldn’t be that way.”

  He knows nothing of what happened to my dad, but I feel the sting of accusation regardless. My dad was supposed to be the next Inquisitor. I’m not sure whether it would have been better or worse having him be the one to tell everyone what I truly am, to pronounce my fate. It would hurt to hear the words coming from his lips, but that would have meant I’d have had five more years with him. It would have been worth it.

  “I’m
sorry he isn’t here, too,” I whisper.

  “I’ll do my best in his place. Now why don’t we get started?”

  I can only nod when a lump of fear lodges itself in my throat.

  “Everyone please take your seats,” Inquisitor Moore asks. The resident Guardian slides into place at the back of the room, watching everyone. Inquisitor Moore waits for the rustle of chairs and clothing to settle before continuing. “I would like to thank everyone for coming tonight to support Libby. She grew up playing in this house while I trained her father, but this is the first time she has ever entered this room The ritual chamber is sacred. In this room, Libby’s true identity will be revealed.”

  My heart stops. Does he know? How could he possibly? I very nearly bolt, but his next few words calm me back down.

  “We all know Libby for the good, kind young woman she is, but by identity I mean who she will become. Will she be an artist as she would choose if only she could? The time for wondering has come to an end. In a few moments I will reveal Libby’s true name and class and unlock her talents. These elements of her future identity will determine the path her life will take from here on out.”

  I really, really hope not. Every cell in my body is begging for a miracle.

  “Libby, would you please join me?”

  I wait just a moment longer, but no one rushes in to save me. So I stand and walk over to the two chairs placed in the center of the room. He gestures for me to sit. Surrendering, I take my place.

  Inquisitor Moore takes his seat as well, and we sit facing each other while the others watch intently from the edges of the small room. I feel one gaze more intently than any other. There is a bored look on the resident Guardian’s face, but I know it will disappear in a flash when the time comes. Turning away, my gaze is pulled to Jen and Lance sitting to my left. Their encouraging smiles are impossible to return. It’s almost physically painful to turn back to the Inquisitor when he takes both of my hands in his.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, “everything will be just fine.”

  For a moment I almost believe him.

  Then he closes his eyes and the Inquest begins.

  Silence falls on the room so pressing that I can feel it on my skin. Goosebumps scatter across my flesh even though the room is pleasantly warm. I close my eyes and feel the Inquisitor’s power start to flow through me. The rush of soul-scouring intrusion that flows through my hands makes me tremble, slightly at first, but as the sensation travels up my arms my convulsions grow more noticeable. The pressure to control it has me grinding my teeth. I try to hold it off, but the second the Inquisitor’s power touches my mind it saps my strength and leaves me shivering like a puppy in the rain. My arms feel limp, but the Inquisitor’s own hands seem to have gained strength that a man of his age should not possess. Pain lances up my arms as he grips my hands.

  When he finally speaks it startles me so much that I jump.

  “Libitina Sparks, the Inquest to discover your true identity and purpose has begun,” his suddenly firm voice says.

  A pitiful whimper slips out from between my lips before I can stop myself. The elderly man falls silent for several long seconds. I can feel the power of his Perception talent searching every inch of me, devouring the secrets hidden there. The blood pounding in my ears makes it nearly impossible to hear anything but my own staccato pulse. It sounds like the Inquisitor is whispering when he finally speaks.

  “Libitina, you come from a long line of very talented individuals. It is now time to uncover your own talents so you may use them to benefit those with whom you come in contact.”

  Warmth suddenly settles around my left wrist instead of my right. Not a pleasant warmth either. An itching, blistering heat that makes my hand begin to twitch involuntarily. The Inquisitor pauses briefly, and I open my eyes to see his brow furrow in…concentration? Confusion? When he continues I doubt I am the only one who can hear the uncertainty underlying his words.

  “Libby, your talents are Naturalism, to speak to and protect the natural elements of this world, Spiritualism, to touch the souls of all living and non-living beings so you may comfort and guide them, Vision, to see what others are blind to, Perception, to know the hearts, emotions, and minds of others so you may not be deceived, Concealment, to hide what needs to be hidden and to find and reveal the truth of all things,” he says, his voice becoming weaker with each talent.

  My wrist burns more fiercely with each one named. I can feel the diktats forming like scar tissue, rising out of the once smooth skin of my left wrist. I’m not the only one that can see them. Inquisitor Moore’s eyes move reluctantly from my right wrist, were the diktats should have appeared, over to my left. His face falls as what his Perception talent must be telling him is confirmed in flaring red reality. Tears drip down his wrinkled cheeks.

  I can see my mom sitting behind Inquisitor Moore, blocked from seeing my wrist. She’s glowing with ravenous elation. When my dad died she lost so much more than a husband who treasured her. She lost the power and prestige of being married to the man set up to be the next ruling Inquisitor. Lording over a daughter who she must believe could very likely take his place makes her look positively euphoric. The problem with her excitement is that the Inquisitor isn’t done yet. Five of the seven talents being gifted to one person is rare enough, but all seven is a death sentence. It is a mark everyone in the world knows, and fears.

  Inquisitor Moore, clearing his voice, barely even makes a dent in my mom’s aura until he gets halfway through his sentence.

  “You also have a talent of…” His voice falters again. My dad was his apprentice, his son in every sense of the word, save for actual blood. I grew up playing in this house while he and my dad worked. I love him, and he me. He knows the weight of what he is about to say. Tears fall, but he can no more lie in the middle of an Inquest than I can make myself disappear. “Libby,” he whispers, “you also have the talents of Speed and Strength.”

  Pain flares across my skin as the next two diktats emerge.

  Everyone in the room gasps in horror as the reality of me having all seven talents hits them. My mom nearly topples from her chair as her visions of the future are shattered. They hear the Inquisitor’s words, but the meaning has yet to sink in through the shock. Inquisitor Moore spits the rest of my death sentence out in a sudden rush.

  “Your true name is from the Iconic line. You are Cassia, the one and only member of the Destroyer class.”

  Everything happens at once. The Inquisitor slumps in his chair as Lance leaps from his. My heart swells for a brief second as I think he is reaching out for me. That illusion shatters when I see the blade in his hand. The only thing that saves me from being left to drown in my own blood is the sudden blinding agony that grips the entire left side of my body. The remaining eight diktats that accompany my name and class sear their way out of my flesh as if I have just been branded like a witless cow. The crippling explosion throws me to the floor just as Lance’s knife slices through the air that my neck just occupied, clipping my skin briefly before meeting empty air again. Somewhere through the haze of gut wrenching pain, betrayal lodges itself into my heart.

  Tears pour down my cheeks and soak into the expensive carpet beneath me. Not even I know whether they come more from the pain or the dying hope that Lance would protect me. I want to be strong in my final moments of life, but I can’t face it. I can’t die with the image of the guy I love hovering over me, intent on seeing me dead. A thin trickle of blood slides down my neck, the pain behind it lost amid greater hurt. I close my eyes and hope he will at least make it as painless as possible. He knows how much I hate pain.

  My heart beats once. The double thud of one chamber pulling precious blood in and the other pushing it out is loud inside my head. For some stupid reason I open my eyes. Lance stands over me with a stunned expression on his face. His features twist, as if he is waging a war between his heart and mind. A tiny spark of hope erupts inside of me. There is a flicker of doubt in his eyes. I wa
it for him to drop his knife and wrap me up, show me that he would stand by me no matter what, that it was all a mistake. The only move he makes is to run for the door. Leaving me alone. Abandoning me.

  The pain of his betrayal breaks me. When I look away from his retreating form, I am so furious and hurt that I almost don’t see the resident Guardian stepping forward. The blade in his hand stops me cold. My anger at Lance evaporates as the Guardian steps into the room. I had momentarily forgotten him. But he would never miss this moment. Vigilant, the Guardian’s only purpose is to find me, to kill me. I am suddenly within his reach.

  There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he knows he has just found his prize. Murderous victory is painted in every weathered line of his face. With his talents of Speed and Strength I know there is no hope of stopping him, not while I’m still in so much pain. My eyes lock with his and dare him to kill me while I face him. It’s all the resistance I have left. It doesn’t make a bit of difference.

  He lunges toward me, his blade leading the way.

  “Horace, no!” Inquisitor Moore cries out, his wizened hand snapping out to grab him with incredible Speed.

  Horace turns a furious glare at the Inquisitor. “What are you doing?” he demands.

  “Stop, Horace. You must not harm her.”

  “But…but she’s…” He can’t even say it. The venomous words refuse to form on his tongue. “I can see the diktats on her left wrist. I know that’s the mark of the Destroyer! Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong about this. You named her yourself. She has to be stopped!”

  “Don’t! You can’t,” Inquisitor Moore begs.

  “I can’t just let her go! She’ll kill us all! I can stop her, now!”

  Inquisitor Moore’s wrinkled face hardens. “You would really kill her, Horace? A defenseless young woman? You would slice open her throat and watch her blood pool on the rug as the life fades from her eyes?”