Legends of Astræa_Cupid's Arrow

by Sophia Alessandrini

  I willed my mind to turn those pages, but the pages flipped out of control. Crap. It seemed always more difficult to control the smaller things than it did moving the large things. Fortunately, when the pages stopped moving, it showed something interesting.

  I realized this handwritten notebook was a money and investments journal, from the numbers written on it. In the last fourteen months, the Count had received billions of British pounds, European euros, and seven hundred million in small quantities of American dollars. I sighed, how could one person have so much? However, the better question was who deposited that money in his accounts. “A” was the one letter preceding each of the many and various deposits. Who was A?

  My gut said it was Ash at it again.… Asmodeus, letter A. Nickname Ash. Ha, Francis couldn’t say I didn’t have any common sense left. A was for Asmodeus. At that moment, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christy were looking down on me, and I felt one step closer to Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot.

  I focused my mind again and opened the second notebook on top. I had no control where it opened to. It stopped fluttering pages somewhere in the middle of it. It was a journal. The page had been dated September 29th, 1360. Holy Crap.

  With the support of the Queen Helen de Anjou, someone named Mata de Balsich de Antibaro had shown two possible excavation sites to the Count, in Montenegro near the border of Croatia.

  The enquête—”research” in French—had records for “Aes Sídhe Ligaturam Cucurreris.” Although I understood the Latin words ligaturam cucurreris—which meant a relic, actually amulet, or to be more precise… a medallion?—I had no idea what Aes Sídhe meant. I recalled Francis mentioning the Sidhe Medallion when we were looking at those frescos. I had to look into that.

  The record showed several vestiges of Illyrian ceramics and artifacts but not the amulet. I realized then that I didn’t have the kind of resources he had. I fluttered the pages to go through it very fast to reach the last pages. Another fruitless exploration in 1970, south of Iran.

  The Count had been searching for the medallion for a long time. Why? Why was it so important to him? According to Émil’s frescoes, I was the legend, and the one who had used it before. Unless… the Count was looking for it because Asmodeus appointed him with this task? If so he had been looking forever, according to this journal on his desk. It was a good reason for me to be on the look for this medallion. I wanted—no, I needed this notebook to study these notes. I had to know where had he been searching and why. It would make my search so much easier.

  I moved on to the last notebook of three. It held highly developed chemistry formulas and a journal of scientific results with dates. The first and oldest entry dated to… six months after my birth date, sixteen years ago. I read it twice.

  I was trying to convince my eyes I had been mistaken, but I was out of luck. The inscription read:

  Gregory Pearson-Marr/Type 2,

  My ancestors’ house name—my father…

  Could that be possible?

  Chapter 31

  This was awful. Why was my dad in this journal?

  I flipped more pages. The Count had ten different names registered. Each had a different code number. I gathered it corresponded to the formula contained in the notes attached to each of them. The last three entries were: E. Lavard-Estridsen/Type 5, dated two years ago; Marcum Aurelius-Hadrada/Type 7, dated one year ago; and H.R.H. N. Lambert-Neustria/type 9—No date. The names didn’t mean much to me, but I was sure that Francis or Émil would know them. I also wondered who was partaking in this awful thing. Trust no one. Crap.

  The thing was, I couldn’t take those books with me. Ugh. How was I going to get a hold of them? How was I going to study them from the cell downstairs? How was I going to search for the medallion when I was in a dungeon? And what good would that be anyway? I needed to understand so many things like biological information and DNA, and when I got out of this place, the crown royals were going to get me married whether I wanted to or not. My college dreams were quickly turning into smoke. Crap.

  I looked at the notebooks. These three notebooks held many answers, like where the medallion could be or perhaps how the poor creature below ended up like that, why Ash was paying the Count these exorbitant amounts of money, and lastly, why he was the only honcho in the palace. Wasn’t the prince the ruler?

  Where was he anyways?

  I had no choice but to go back to see the creature. He could answer some of my questions. Zoom… I blinked out and blinked back inside his prison cell. I stood there until the creature acknowledged me. He sniffed the air again and raised his face to me.

  “Jasmine and vanilla. You came back.” His sibilant but brusque voice filled the cell. He was squatting in the darkest corner of his cell, on the floor like a live gargoyle with his wings folded on his back. Apparently, I had a signature essence, whether in my body or insubstantial. Eerie.

  “Only a lass would smell so… enticing.” He shuddered. Suddenly his hands and face contorted into a painful spasm. Poor thing. I felt compelled to help him.

  “Let me heal your shoulder,” I offered. I didn’t even know if I could in my light form.

  “What for—” he broke into a pathetic and probably very painful laugh as he spasmed again. “Why are you here?” He looked at me as if I were a twert.

  His name was Marcum. I easily listened to his thoughts. Marcum… Holy crap. He was the entry of one year ago in the Count’s notes.

  “They think I know something they want, but I haven’t told them anything valuable. Rurikovich plans to kill me after he is done with his great-grand experiment just as he killed the others.” His growl became a long, painful, and disturbing shrill.

  The others—my dad. I gasped. So it had been Scarface playing with those syringes. I stepped closer, hoping he would accept my help. I knew I would have wanted my dad to be helped.

  “Please, let me try. I am a Pearson.” He looked at me surprised then nodded and accepted my help.

  “Gregory was a friend of mine. He was a good man,” he said.

  Was. “What happened to him? Do you know?” I asked. His gaze looked around his cell, and then he shook his head.

  “No one knows exactly, but no one knows what happened to me either.” Marcum didn’t move as my light hands ignited with the familiar green glow. He gasped at my energy touch and closed his dreadful blood-filled eyes. I felt his blood poisoned—changed—and instantly understood there was nothing I could do to change it back. At least not yet. All I could do was repair his flesh and bone.

  Crap. Had my dad been poisoned like him? I couldn’t even imagine something so evil. Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised by now. Not after suspecting Ash’s involvement in the Count’s finances. Francis suspected that Demyan was responsible for my father’s death. What if he had a reason to kill my father, like in self-defense from a transformed Strzyga? Demyan was the one who could answer this question. I didn’t have the luxury to feel outraged; I was keeping my concentration on the mend. Time lost all meaning in a healing trance. It was the rush of his blood, racing from broken bones to ruptured tissues as the green energy tendrils shooting from my hands moved as proficiently as they could.

  “This is going to be painful.” I winced as he labored to breathe in painful pants that sounded wet. The wound marred his clavicle from his chest into his shoulder section. It was far more grotesque than any injuries I’d healed on smaller animals—natural wounds, from predators’ claws and teeth, or from falling on rocks and wood.

  His clavicle bone aligned and returned to its place as the light tendrils made their netting and healed his flesh. Marcum’s wide-open eyes watched me with fearful reverence. I knew then that he felt better, even when he didn’t look like a regular Strzyga. I had the feeling all those chemistry notes and formulas were the key to helping him, but I had to know more. I stepped back.

  “We are prisoners too. Tell me what you know about those syringes.” I directed my gaze to one of the discarded syringes. He grunte
d with absolute despise and spoke after a minute.

  “Rurikovich has been experimenting with my blood, but I am sure I won’t be the last one he tortures,” he confessed, looking at me, implying I was next. “I would stop him if I could get out of here, but it is useless. The royal guards will execute me on sight. Strzyga can’t tolerate impure blood.” His voice sounded resigned to his fate. Was that what happened to my dad? Had he been executed? I knew then Émil was in worse possible peril than we thought. We all were. Dear God…

  In a quick snap, he caught one of those furry ten-pound rodents in his hand and fed from it. I was grossed out. Will we end up eating rodents—whatever their name was? God forbid. It wasn’t like we had a grill inside the cells or that I was going to make smoothies out of them. Eew. Marcum caught me watching him.

  “Rurikovich is the monster here. Not me.” He grinned back at me with his very long and sharp fangs full of blood. I tried to focus on how we could help each other instead.

  “Do you know anything about a medallion?” I asked him.

  He dumped his French rodent on the other side of the cell, where that disgusting mount was. His bright red eyes observed me carefully, even suspiciously. His seriousness turned into a smirk. “Whether you are just an act of my very disturbed mind, or a trick they put me onto, or whether you are who you say you are, I wouldn’t tell you or anyone, even if I knew. May you have mercy and kill me trying to find out.” Marcum didn’t trust me. He mistrusted anyone at this point asking questions. Particularly someone insubstantial like me. Sad. So sad that death was a better choice for him at this point.

  “Marcum. We will survive this. You hear me?” I tried to convince him.

  He snorted and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his filthy hand and broke into a pathetic laughter. “You think I haven’t tried everything to escape? You think they will not do this to you and the others you speak of?” He stood, and his muscles expanded and contracted as he struggled with his shackles and chains, constricting the circulation of his neck, wrists, and ankles. Of course, he had tried to escape; I had just fixed his clavicle. He growled at me. Loudly.

  I stepped farther back even though I felt somewhat safe.

  Marcum was a sight with his wings not fully open. A moment too late, I realized he was naked. I detoured my glance instantly. How could the Count treat anyone like an animal? He truly was a monster. I really, really disliked the Count even more now.

  “They killed my Draugr first. Do you have any idea what that can do to you?”

  No, I didn’t. I had seen Émil act strange, but I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. But I understood with renewed eyes why Francis left Enit at home. As I had nothing to say, he continued.

  “They left me incomplete. The isolation from my Draugr will turn me into something terrible, and I am not speaking of this.” He gestured to his physical body.

  I didn’t think he realized he was naked. I hoped my light form couldn’t show my embarrassment. If I could just show him that Émil had no Draugr, and he was fairly good. Not counting the voices, he was no monster.

  “May God be merciful and end me.” His voice roared with utter despair.

  I wished I could help him. If I could free him from all this pain and torture. He slid onto the floor. Like a child, he cried with despairing sobs.

  I felt for him. I wanted to comfort him. “Marcum—”

  “Aghrrrr, GO AWAY. Please get out of my head.” He covered his ears and roared in despair.

  Trying to help him, I had done something I shouldn’t have. I had listened to his thoughts and used his name.

  Nobody liked the idea of losing control over their minds. I knew the feeling well. At one point, I had thought I was going insane when I was at St. Mary’s having weird dreams. How could I convince him I was real when I was kind of insubstantial? He was convinced I was a product of his drug-induced hallucinations. Except, the drugs he had been forced to take were not that type of drugs. No. This was DNA-altering type of science. Evil.

  The sound of steps coming down the tunnels made us turn to the light coming into the hallway. I watched Marcum’s body shake. He feared whoever owned those echoing soles. He turned his red eyes to me.

  “Go,” he warned me. For someone who didn’t trust me or had lost his Draugr, he was still a gentleman and a good soul.

  “We’ll figure something out. I’ll be back, I promise.” First things first, I had to seek a way out of the dungeon. Then there was a long to-do list that waited for me. Find the medallion, ask Demyan about my father, free poor Marcum, vanquish Ash, and get the Count accounted for his crimes. I sighed. The list was growing longer.

  Why couldn’t I be normal instead?

  Zoom… I blinked out of his cell.

  Chapter 32

  The night seemed to extend indefinitely. Tonight, I was burdened with Marcum’s abominable affliction, and I prayed for Émil. Needless to say, I was hungry, thirsty, and tired. No doubt I wasn’t the only one. I turned on my left side and sneaked inside Francis’s mind. Excluding, he wasn’t there. At least not his mind, but his cool and unmovable body sat in Lotus posture. I knew his mind was traveling somewhere unknown, just like he’d taught me.

  I pondered over my last mind trip. It was different from others. I had a body of light, and I was able to speak to another. That made it different. I wasn’t just a third-party, remote viewer or a psychic navigation tourist taking pictures with no one, minding my business. I wished I could tell Francis or Gavril, but thought it not the wisest. Anyone could be at hearing distance.

  We all stirred at the sound of steps in the tunnels. Many of them. They were heading this way. Hopefully, my hardheadedness had cooled off by now. I attempted to count the Draugr and Strzyga royal guards by the sounds of their footfalls. It was smaller this time. Good. Except they had swords, and we didn’t.

  This cannot be good news, Gavril said.

  I witnessed speechless, holding onto the bars of my door, two royal guards dragging Émil as if he was a worthless trophy. I felt like I was drowning in horror at the terrible sight of him, semiconscious and severely beaten. I held my breath. My hands shook. I felt responsible in some way for the safety of Émil. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. Poor, poor Émil. What kind of beastly violence had the Count used on poor Émil?

  Reginald stood behind them, grinning somewhat sinisterly at me. Two invisible armed Draugr stood directly in front of Francis and Gavril’s door. Count Something-Devilish came into my view after them. I was so tense that the air crackled a little with electricity.

  The royal guards dumped Émil on the floor like a sack of potatoes. Why would they bedraggle someone as nice as Émil? Why had he allowed that? He was a powerful Strzyga. For God’s sake, he had been a Templar knight. However, I suspected he had been protecting me. The fact that none of us had a weapon played a great part on this too.

  They had no regards for Émil, a prince himself. I couldn’t expect any less treatment for the rest of us. I sneered at them. They were mine, although I would likely have to fight Francis and Gavril for the honor.

  They were opening a different cell for him—the one next to mine. It made them turn their backs on me—a mistake on their part.

  Two opposite thoughts assaulted me at that moment. I had the choice to heal Émil, for one. For all of his troubles, he deserved that more than anything else—even when I was burning with anger to fight the Count and Reginald and anyone who had harmed Émil. Or, I could go into war.

  If we didn’t go into battle, I wasn’t going to be given a chance to live or leave this dungeon—ever. I had to risk it, or one by one we were going to be tortured and left forgotten like Marcum. This was Émil’s best and last chance, because I was going to fight them. I knew what I had to do now.

  Gavril, I can open our locks. Prepare Francis for battle.

  I didn’t have to tell him how bad Émil was. I was quite sure he had seen the entire thing through my head. These doors seemed very old. My
eyes focused on the lock across my cell. The mechanical principals couldn’t be much different from the locks I had opened before in St. Mary’s. I closed my eyes and concentrated into it, as if I was inside the lock. I saw the engrains and mechanism and understood how they worked and which dents had to be clicked. My mind made them turn, giving us an imperceptible click as everyone else was busy dragging Émil’s body into his cell. He moaned in pain.

  I opened my eyes and turned next on my lock. I repeated the process and unlocked mine, while the guards were still busy closing Émil’s prison cell.

  Everything can be a weapon, Francis reminded me in his mind.

  I took off my disgusting wet socks. I smirked, turning it into a wide grin. Reginald observed me, tilting his head not as much suspicious as he was intrigued by my grin.

  Two Draugr right in front of your door, guys, I informed Gavril. I was sure he had seen them through me, but telepathy wasn’t always an exact science.

  I’ll clear the way first, Gavril told me.

  Suddenly, their metal door slammed open into the two Draugr standing directly next to it. The guards, Reginald, and the Count were startled. I used their moment of distraction, and with my cry of battle, my hands electrified, and I slammed into the other two guards next to mine.

  I sought Francis’s gaze, and I saw decision in it. We were going into battle after all. I realized my fight wish was coming true. I nodded back at him and saluted him with my fist on my heart. He grinned amusedly as he caught one of my socks that I offered him.

  On one,

  Gavril launched one invisible Draugr against the other with his supernatural strength.

  On two,

  Francis was onto the second line of defense. He had reached the Count faster than the Count had moved his hand onto his sword, thrusting my disgusting sock in his mouth, and taking the element of surprise on his behalf. The Count’s first instinct was to take the filthy, wet sock out of his mouth instead of fighting. Another mistake. Francis stole a sword from one of the guards I had slammed the heavy, electrified iron-bar door into. I had done that, and it felt good.