Their history remains, but Elusian teachings are long gone, destroyed during the Crimson Night. My father told me to deny any pull of magic, to turn away no matter what the pain or consequence.
Kera, never, my father said when he finally admitted my adoption.Any time will be one too many and you will be found, tortured, and executed. You must be Kerasea Vestal, and only her.
But as blood wells on my wrist, I have to be something else—the last Elusian. For Mirial.
I raise my bleeding wrist above Mirial’s mouth. Every move I make is on instinct, but my motions feel as natural as a bird leaving the nest.
And I have done this once before. So at least I am prepared for the impending horrors.
The moment my blood hits her lips, an inky black substance begins to pour out from around Mirial’s corpse. It smells like rot and festering wounds, but it is godless death rising through her to answer my call.
Mirial gasps, her chest convulsing.
It’s anathema to me, turning my friend into a conduit, but she’s not alive—not really. My blood can’t resurrect anyone. This is either death itself or Mirial answering from beyond the River of Death. I can’t be sure which.
“My dearest one,” I say. “Who killed you?”
It’s hard to get the question out as the tendrils of death wrap around me. The black substance feels like barbed vines and fanged snakes constricting around my limbs. It’s both solid and smoke, real and imagined, but it fills the room and converges on me, wanting more.
Death always wants life.
I shudder from the smell and the chill. The touch of death is so cold, it’s scalding and so hungry, it’s stomach-turning. I try to move away, but it’s hopeless. Even in my robes, I’m freezing as death covers me. Screams of agony begin, and I am not sure if everyone can hear this or just me—it’s why I needed Torren out of the tower.
My vision starts to fade. I can’t tell if it’s the black substance or just the death grip that is now choking my throat and chest. I claw at my neck but there is nothing—just my skin and robes. It’s a futile attempt—death can’t be held at bay or pushed aside as it comes for me, but my primal response is to fight.
I try to breathe, to focus only on Mirial, her back arching and her limbs moving in the sick dance of death throes. I did this for a purpose. I disturbed her eternal rest so that I would know the truth and be able to avenge her murder. I need answers. I have to stay conscious.
But my hold is slipping. It took guided practice to commune with the god of truth, to handle the weight of the divine, and this is something else entirely.
Death is far too strong. The pressure is so immense that no matter how I try, the world goes dark. I’m barely aware that I am falling until I hit the ground.
And then there’s nothing.
I wake up on the stone floor of the divining room. Breathless, I stare up at the twinkling stars through the oculus of the domed roof. I’m alive…I think. I hazard moving my limbs. It’s painful, but my arms and legs rise as I command them.
I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. A minute, maybe, though it could have been hours. But it doesn’t feel like it was very long, even if my body aches from my scalp to my soles.
Stumbling to my feet, I’m dizzy but otherwise whole. There’s no remnant of the inky-black substance that had poured out around me. The divining room looks as it always does—white altar, purple eternal flame.
Death comes and goes without a trace.
I wobble and place my hands on the cold altar to brace myself as the horizon slants. My wrist is still bleeding, red drops falling on the white stone. The surface is empty aside from the sickle knife and bloodied sheets in the center. Death fully took Mirial’s body.
The same happened last time.
But this was all for nothing. I lost consciousness before Mirial could answer.
I grit my teeth at my failure, my heart pounding and head throbbing. I subjected her body, her memory to all of that for naught. In truth, I don’t know what happens to her corpse now, or if I disturbed the entire Underworld. I don’t know what the ramifications will be, but I was willing to pay the unknown price. I subjected myself to the waking nightmare of death and risked being discovered for nothing.
All because I wasn’t strong enough.
I hang my head, but then catch a streak of red in my vision. Raising my chin, I finally notice the wall in front of me. There is one word written in Mirial’s handwriting. The fresh blood drips down the stone.
Medea
LII.
Torren
