Lilah wrings her hands, her anticipation growing reckless.
“Then, a weeks later, Alessandra came back, demanding that the child be given to her, but Florence had already gone great lengths to protect you by giving you to an orphanage. Alessandra raving, absolutely mad. She kept saying she’d been shown ‘the truth’ about anima and that a shadow had come to help her.” A sad smile comes over Jia’s lips.
Leaning forward, Lilah asks, “What did the seer say?”
Aza, her eyes dark and her mouth covered by lacy fabric, says, “Does it matter what the seer actually said? We all know Alessandra wants you dead. That is that.”
Marcus shifts his feet and the floorboards creak underfoot, echoing in the silence. “Essentially, it says that a new world will begin. Alessandra clearly took it to mean that you would be the leader of that new world.”
Lilah listens to his voice, hears the words rolling from his lips, but they lose their structure and turn into a death knell. The word but lingers on Lilah’s tongue. But what if she’s wrong? What about the dreams or visions? Why would she . . . It is much easier to deny than to accept, to question rather than trust. She tempers herself, like iron in the forge, and sets her mouth into a hard, straight line. I want to hear this prophecy for myself. “And Florence? Does she believe this prophecy?”
“Florence believes you can control your destiny,” Marcus says. “She’s . . . optimistic in that way. Jarred Roth, your uncle, believes the same.”
“Isn’t destiny inherently uncontrollable? Isn’t that why it’s called destiny?” Lilah says, glaring from him to the hand he rests on her shoulder. He retracts the gesture. “Why was I never told this before? Why did no one try to find me? Why did Alessandra stop coming after me?” she says with a torrent of anger.
“Florence hid you from both the Six and Alessandra so that you could have a chance to live normally. She gave you to a Lux guardian for that reason, too. As for why Alessandra stopped trying to search for you . . .” Marcus shrugs.
Lilah’s lip curls. “So, the other members of the Six are after me, too?”
Marcus angles his shoulders away from Lilah, as she eyes him suspiciously. “According to what Florence told me, the other four members of the Six seek to eliminate you, along with Alessandra.”
Glancing to each face, they all avoid her gaze. Lilah stands as her signa burns against her torso, but the pain does not bother her. It does not compare to the unobservable pain and unnamable emotions in her heart. She stalks out of the living room, up the stairs, and into the last room at the end of the hallway, the room she was told by Jia earlier that she could use.
Grasping the wooden bed frame, she sinks down onto the bed. She stares out the window, where she can see the moon high in the night sky. How it calls to her with its silver embrace. Mesmerized by its light, she is numbed to the tears that creep down her face and slip down her lips. Like iron as it cools and hardens, Lilah too becomes a thing that cannot be broken lest one risks being shattered in return.
Though darkness envelops her, it does not grant Lilah the thing she wishes for most, a reprieve. Tortuous images flash across her lids the moment they close, beckoning her to fight the heaviness with every strength she has. There had been a period of time in Lilah’s life where she fought against the “truth” Verna told her. How she was just another orphan of the war, her parents another casualty. The details never lined up in Lilah’s mind. She is a Nox and should have gone to a Nox orphanage. Once, she brought it up to Verna, who gave Lilah a vague answer and a stern chiding not to ask again. But the lie speaks. In whispers, it reels on and on. You are not one of them. She will never accept you. Lilah acted out, testing the words. But time after time, Verna took her within her arms and said words of comfort, which echo in Lilah’s soul even now—especially now. “I am here, you are safe. Be calm.” Then, as now, it is a lie.
Lilah gasps, clutching her open mouth, suffocating the noise. How can I think such a horrible thing about the dead? Verna has been—had been—devoted to her. How can I betray her? Her mother, Verna.
No. Verna was not my mother.
Lilah bites down, hard, on her inner cheek.
Verna was a Guardian, someone charged to care about her. How many others had there been? How many others did Verna hold against her chest and coo such hideous lies to? She grips the blankets, tears spilling free from her eyes.
Verna must have known the truth of Lilah’s story, the truth about her mother. Why else lie so ardently?
Lilah touches her forehead where beads of sweat perspire. Wild, she searches the room. For what, she scarcely knows. The shadows of the night dance on her walls, provoking her, begging her to come to them. They hold out their branched limbs in welcomed embraces.
She closes her eyes, convinced that she has begun to hallucinate from lack of sleep, but the onslaught of images chokes her back to seeing. This time, they don’t leave her sight. Her eyes rove the room until they land on the figure of a woman. Lilah blinks several times, but the hallucination doesn’t leave.
At the foot of her bed is Verna, three knives perpendicular in her chest and shoulders. Blood seeps out the wounds, uncontrolled. Her eyes glow red.
Lilah pulls her knees to her chest. Her breath comes out in ragged pitches. Have I lost my mind? Lilah does not wonder anymore. Lurching from the bed and throwing the blankets from her clammy skin, she rushes to the specter and throws herself upon Verna’s cold feet.
“Forgive me,” she cries out. “Don’t leave me!”
The specter pulls Lilah to her feet and places a hand on Lilah’s heart. “I am already gone.”
Lilah looks into the eyes of the specter. Red and bright, they look back at her. She hiccups. “No.” Lilah grasps through her body. “Come back!”
The air warms, and the specter slips through the ether. A quiet moan escapes from the back of Lilah’s throat, and she slouches to the window, then glances down. A red fox slinks through the waves of grass and then sits at the base of the hill, admiring the moon.
Lilah turns away, feeling as though she has glimpsed something her soiled eyes should not witness, unless they should ruin the tenderness of the moment. She paces up and down the room. Her thoughts overwhelm her and she clutches her face between her palms, swaying back and forth. What is happening to me? In the periphery of her vision, a mirror hangs on the wall above a small vanity table. She swivels, catching sight of her transfixed image. The blue in her eyes shifts and becomes darker, until black smothers the blue. Her wheat-colored locks fight against the rush of anima, but soon the tresses succumb, too.
The edge of the precipice rests near her. Lilah perceives a sheer drop of some magnitude, the consequence of which will be irrevocable should she fall. But for now, she assuages the compulsion to make the leap as a weight drags her to the bed. She embraces the darkness with open arms.
A mist shrouds the eyes and what they behold is only a fraction of the destruction. She glances down slowly at her own two hands. The blood that runs thick on her fingertips confuses her. It isn’t her own, yet fear rushes through her nonetheless. Gaping mouths where screams must be emitted go unheard. The warriors bolt. But she stands transfixed to the spot. Suddenly, she searches the ground, once grass but now scorched earth. Her eyes come upon the limp body and her feet carry her to him. The grievous wound is the origin of the blood on her hands. She grasps it, her heart. It palpates, and her breath catches. She falls upon the ashes and keens. How? How? A gaping hole resides where his heart used to be, but the longer she gazes at it, the more it looks like her own chest, her own lifeless body lying on the battlefield.
She had warned him, pleaded with him, but to no avail; he would not listen to the ravings of a woman, even if she shared his name, his heart. She places a hand on the wound to touch the shredded, torn flesh. Closing her eyes, she feels an invisible heart beating in her hand, pulsing with one last push of life. She opens her eyes and closes his lids. He will be burned, she thinks, it is only right that he
should be burned. It is only right. Later, she will take a handful of ash and swallow it. The necessity of a vow, now worthless, filters all the broken, shattered bits of her being. Mortar—dirt, ash, blood, bone—crudely stitches her together, leaving uneven edges—false comfort.
She turns her hands over; black brands cover her pale skin, showing brightly even in the fading daylight, and she sees the ring. She takes it off her finger and throws it on the pyre with his body.
We are all that’s left. You and I. She caresses the chubby cheeks of a sleeping toddler. But she says even you will betray me.
Lilah wakes with a start, clutching her chest. She shivers. She doesn’t even recall opening the window. Wariness weighs on her as she rolls out of bed and shuts it. The madness consumed her in the night, perhaps she did it then. She lies back on the bed but does not dare close her eyes.
Javier greets Ren in his typical fashion—a slight bow of his neck and a generous smile. Ren hated him the moment they met, but he always found his hatred useful; it makes him cautious. He couldn’t care less about Alessandra and her reasons; this discovery will change the world. He can’t help but grin with childish excitement. “How’d you get away from those hounds?”
Javier lets his head fall back against the tree he leans on, his topaz eyes gently closing. “I used—”
“Oh, right.” Ren waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “I forgot you enjoy making doubles. How many transfigurers do we have in our care now?” Javier cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t open his eyes. Ren scowls. This man . . . He takes the sealed letter containing the incantation from his pocket and wraps Javier’s hand around the paper. Javier opens his eyes and glances down with a grunt. “For our use . . .” Ren says, smirking. “Make sure to burn it once you’ve committed it to memory. Tell no one else. This knowledge should only belong to those deserving few that understand its power.”
Javier nods and blinks slowly, then turns on his heel and strides back into the forest. In the billows of Javier’s white cloak, Ren’s comfort sways. Prickles rise on his neck, but he turns to find the forest devoid of anyone beside himself. He wrings his hands before rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the signa of the Six. Then, he hastens to locate the others.
Caleb sits on his bed, watching the moon rise in the sky, as if it is a trick of the eye, through his window. Hour by hour, he replays the events, trying to make sense of it all. He had his orders, but he couldn’t do it. He had to interfere; he couldn’t watch her die.
“You have to eat and take a shower, you stink and look pale,” Dalia says, her voice full of concern.
“Thanks,” Caleb snorts, sitting up and staring at his sister. “Do you—”
“We’re not talking about that girl.” Dalia stands in the doorway with arched eyebrows while her gray eyes—dull and swollen—rake over him. “I’m serious, Caleb, I’m worried about you.”
With ten years separating the two siblings, Dalia quickly took up the role of mother after the tragedy of their parents’ death. There wasn’t much of a choice. Caleb was five and she was fifteen. It suits her well. To him, it seems she likes giving him orders, though hollow they are, they give her importance in his life. Now that he’s eighteen, an adult, her inability to assert parental power over him has caused her to panic in the last few months. All they ever seem to do is disagree and argue.
“Fine.” Caleb slouches out of bed, past his sister, and down the hallway to the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower.”
Caleb can’t shake the memory—Alessandra holding Lilah to the ground and stabbing her twice. He wouldn’t have agreed if—no, he clutches his wrist, stopping his hand from trembling, she might have forced him either way. When Alessandra came, he knew what it was about. She had summoned Dalia already, and Dalia kept Caleb in ignorance of her given task, but now it was his turn; the price of being alive.
“We need to talk,” Dalia says, her voice shaking.
Caleb turns back to her. “What do you mean?”
“Are you joking?” Dalia crosses her arms and scowls.
Caleb faintly smiles, a flash of a memory coming back to him; her eyes sparkling up at him, her warm hand on his shoulder, the twirling steps and music echoing on forever.
“Don’t smile. Sweet Aura, help him.” She looks up at the ceiling, her long fingers beseechingly intertwined. He gives his sister a sideways glance. There is something unspoken hidden in her gray eyes. She hides something from him, and it—the lie—further divides them. She shakes her head. “Go, go. I’ll get dinner on.”
Uncomfortably warm water falls on his head, while Caleb tries to forget about what he did to Lilah. Her blood stains his hands and the look in her eye before she lost consciousness, speaking the name of her guardian . . .
He rests both hands on the tile and closes his eyes. This isn’t who he is. This isn’t what his parents would want. It isn’t what he wants.
He thinks about Dalia, wondering what her own task was. Had she completed it? He thinks back to the unaddressed letter he found just hours ago, presumably for Dalia—it was placed on her windowpane. The paper was heavy, official, and sealed with wax. He had opened it, of course. He hadn’t ever thought they’d lie to each other.
The message hadn’t helped him much. Written on the thick vellum was only a vague, “Circumstances have changed. Wait for my summons.” The “Watcher of the Aequum” signed it with a flourish. Can this be Dalia’s task? He thought that she finished her part, but can Dalia still be working for Alessandra, even now? And who is the “Watcher of the Aequum?”
Feeling refreshed and energized, Caleb comes out from the bathroom to find Dalia sitting on his bed, waiting.
“Tell me what she requires of you,” she says, gray eyes locked on him.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve done first?” he says, matching her stare. Where’s the lie?
“I’m doing what I have to do to keep you safe!” she says, throwing her arms up.
“I can protect myself. I’m not a child anymore. Stop lying to me!” He gives her a scathing look and then frowns, shaking his head. He skirts around, grabbing clothes from drawers. “Are you going to let me get dressed?”
Dalia stands and turns her back to him. “If it deals with that girl,” she says, solemn, “please forget about it.”
Caleb throws on a pair of slacks and a white shirt. The color makes him feel clean, even though he still feels dirty. He faces Dalia’s back and notices her marked breathing and stiff shoulders. “Why?”
She huffs and her shoulders hike up. “Can I turn around now?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re naïve, little brother. So very naïve.”
“It has to do with the Aequum, doesn’t it?” he says coarsely.
“What?” she says, breathless. Dalia shakes her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sighs and rolls her neck. “I’ve made dinner. Can we manage to enjoy that together?”
Caleb meets her eyes, her gaze now soft. “Of course.” Who are you?
“I can’t lose you, Caleb. We’re family, we have to stick together,” she says, her voice creaking with a sob.
Then why not tell me the truth? Caleb grabs her and smiles. She smiles back, embracing him. Her head rests comfortably in the nook of his shoulder. He tries not to picture her face when she finds his bed empty in the morning, but his mind is unruly and he imagines it anyway. A pit forms in the bottom of his stomach, and suddenly dinner doesn’t sound so appetizing. “Don’t worry about me, Dalia. I’ll be fine—we’ll be fine.”
He has orders. She’ll understand. She’ll have to.
Dalia pulls away from him and wipes her cheeks, nodding her head. “Okay. Come down when you’re ready.”
Caleb watches as his sister leaves the room and wonders how long it will be until he hugs her again. He deflates, defeated. How did he not see how large the rift had grown between them? Quickly, he finds a pack from beneath the bed and shoves clothes and a map into the bottom before hid
ing the pack back under his bed. He takes one last sweeping look around the room, the pit in his stomach expanding. The yellow walls are spotted by words, lyrics he’s written in ink overtop the paint. He runs a finger along the edges of letters, until he hits the sharp corner of a framed portrait of his parents. His mother’s gaze seems to follow him. He closes his eyes and rubs his temple. What should I do?
Finding Lilah won’t be the hard part—though it brings its own challenges—but what comes after. Can he really sit by and watch as Alessandra tortures her like she did at the Ludi? He drops his arms and a shiver rolls across his shoulders. I have no choice . . . right?
Chapter Eleven
The moon hangs low in the sky and the changing light alerts Caleb that day is about to break. He had been traveling now for some time, following the moonlight as it portrayed the ground beneath his feet. He whistles softly to himself, an ever-branching guide to his state of mind. He doesn’t remember the first melody he heard, but it must have sounded like his mother’s heartbeat. He finds himself thinking of his mother more often as he gets older, though he hardly remembers her now. Everything remains in fragments, mixed with things Dalia has told him over the years and fantasy. Now, he doesn’t know what is real or fabrication. What would you have me do? He sees her eyes now because they are his own, too.
The forest extends out in front of him: a barren wasteland. Where trees once were, now lumps of rotten bark and leaves sit. The ground, too, bears this same stain. It is too mushy, too soft to support life. Everything is dead or dying. It had been a battle lost, the forest razed to the ground. Caleb doesn’t know the story of what happened, but he knows enough to understand that had Rowley Eadwig survived, there would be more than mere patches of land scorched.
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