I whip my arm in front of me and Transformation crackles to life. The stairs I’m sprinting towards flatten. We slide down them, the stepsthunkingback to existence with barbed spikes. Now on the first floor, I pull Lucas with me, my head swiveling from side to side.
A massive set of double doors faces me and my eyes flare in recognition. They lead to the main entry of the estate. Like a king’s great receiving hall, with a green and gold carpet leading from the front doors to the decorative Archweaver seat, it’s where my father holds all his most important audiences. My father does like a good show when weavers, magical creatures, and humans grovel for his assistance or blessing.
Out of options, I point to them. “There!”
Lucas slams his boot into the locked handle. I whip around and hiss a series of counter-incantations to keep an advancing sect of weavers at bay. I throw out my hand, whispering to the wood in the house. My eyes blaze green and I curl my hand into a fist. The hall crumbles, the screams confirming that the collapse of the upper floor traps the magic wielders.
Lucas’ heel splinters the wood and he heaves me through.
I make it three steps into the grand hall before grinding to a halt, eyes widening.
It’s not my father sitting in his throne that makes me stop, nor the army of weavers lining the hall with their glinting masks. No, what makes me go stone cold, arms limp, eyes burning, is the bleeding figure hanging above him, theplip plip plipof blood all I can hear as I take one, infinite, inhale.
Crucified with long thorns of ironwood pinning her body in place is Viola.
CHAPTER 20
Rot bubbles along Viola’s once beautiful face and the flesh along the ironwood thorns barely holds together as her weight pulls on the exposed bone. The scars she bore on her forearms from catching my newborn body distort from the strain. The putrid stench of decay weighs heavily in the air. Preservation magic flicks around her as it slows the decomposition to a snail’s pace.
A scream builds in my throat, the horror numbing my brain.This can’t be happening.But no matter how much I wish, the vision doesn’t change. My aunt is dead. It’s the missing puzzle piece I refused to consider. It’s why the enchantment on our paper died. It’s why no one has seen Viola in six months. It’s why I felt the phantom of hands on me at Monument Park.
My eyes burn, tears blurring Viola’s body. My adoptive mother who warmed me against the coldness in this wretched house is gone. And it’s all my father’s fault.
Atticus speaks. “Separate them.”
My teary gaze meets Lucas’ fear-filled one. His lips part, but it’s too late. Magic wraps around my chest like a vice. Something high-pitched and earsplitting rings and I realize it’s my scream. Lucas’ body hurls away from me, his terrified roar of my name reverberating within my chest. Our hands tighten around eachother, but the blood makes our grip too slick. His fingers slip through mine and my body goes airborne.
The wood floor slams into my shoulder, knocking the wind from me and cutting off my unholy scream. I roll, pain flaring until I’m forced to my knees in the center of the room. My chest heaves, my eyes too wide, shock overwhelming my mind. I flick up to behold my beloved aunt before bowing with a sob, my hands covering my face.
I was too late. It was all too late. A trap has snapped over me and no one is left to help me escape. I’ll face the wrath of my father alone.
My trembling fingers slide down my face, a wet, red trail of Lucas’ blood marking their descent. An echo in my ringing ears sharpens until I can hear him calling for me, desperate and afraid, not for himself, but for me.
My gaze slides to where Lucas is pinned to the fixed double doors we’d come through. His tendons bulge as he strains against the magic that binds him, his rings flickering like candles in the wind. He snarls viciously at the weaver standing beside him and my heart shatters, my body growing weak. My former beloved’s ice blue eyes meet my gaze as he slides his hands in his pockets. Cold and unmoving like a statue, Valentin Bauer the Sixth keeps my friend pinned like a bug on display and obediently awaits orders from his Archweaver.
It’s the sobering I desperately need. I made mistakes. I trusted the wrong people. But I am not alone and I cannot break. I dragged Lucas into this mess, and I will rip through this cage to get us back out. One by one, I force gulps of air into my aching lungs until my strength returns. My hands curl into fists and I lower them to glare at my father.
He will not take one thing more from me. That I swear.
His green eyes stare down at me impassively, his sister’s mutilated corpse dripping on his armrest. Luciana steps forthfrom the shadows, circling the throne until she stands with the small army of weavers lining the walls. There are bleeding scratches down her face that ruin her painted mask, like someone was trying to claw her eyes out.
A familiar waft of cigarettes stings my nose and my stomach twists with sickness. Vincentius steps up behind me and leans down to hiss silkily in my ear, “Don’t make this harder.”
My chest pumps, my eyes wide. “You sent me here when you knew Viola was dead.”
He sighs, “Yes, I did. Your curse left you with only one ally and Atticus did what he must.”
“What he must,” I repeat in a dangerously low voice. My body trembles, my magic crackling within my veins, the heat and chill of my flames within my soul roaring to answer my call. Rage deepens my voice, my power amplifying my words for all to hear. “Then I’ll do what I must as well. For what you’ve done, Vincentius, I will skin you alive like the snake you are. I will use all the magic I have to keep you a living, writhing wreck for as long as possible so that you return to the Weave forever remembering the pain of my vengeance.”
Vincentius’ tone remains unaffected, like I’m throwing a tantrum. “Don’t be difficult for once. Do what he wants?—”
“But first I’m going to find your pretty wife?—”
“—and this will be all over?—”
“—and shred her while you scream?—”
“—without further bloodshed.”
