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I grip my scythe firmly. I grasp my timepiece harder. It would be foolish to use Dark magic now. But Orla and Ollinde are lost in the fog. And, Saints, all of this is my fault. Lonan and I are the Dark users that brought Galvin here. People will die, and it will be my fault. My stepsiblings are a terror, but they don’t deserve my punishment.
I hear a flutter of wings just moments before Cavendish lands on my left shoulder. “Where have you been?”
“Busy.”
Caldwell swoops in and lands clumsily on my right and clacks his beak. “Never mind that. What fresh horror is this?”
“I’m not certain yet.” But Orla and Ollinde have disappeared into it.
Cavendish nips at my ear. “No. Absolutely not. Turn around this instant.”
I don’t have time to unpack the evening for them, to tell them there will be no avoiding danger till the dawn comes. “Sorry, can’t.”
Caldwell hops anxiously. “Oh, Vesper, please. I don’t like this. We can help, you know. You need only say the word.”
“You can’t help.” They fancy themselves my protectors, but there’s no protecting me from this.
“Obstinate, headstrong girl. Oh, when you’re grown, I hope you have a brat of your own to watch over, and then we’ll see whose feathers are ruffled.”
I swat them both away. “Off you go. I need to do this on my own.” With squawks of protest, they take flight again, fluttering to the rafters.
Taking a deep breath and steadying myself, I whisper to the malevolent spirits of the school, “Okay, you vindictive pieces of shit. Come and get me.”
Hope is a subtle glutton
She feasts on my fear
But it’s rage I summon
It’s wrath I call near
I bear the weight
Target on my Dark heart
Come have a taste
And tear my hope apart
The words carve into the tender flesh of my thigh, and I clench my teeth through the pain. Scythe glowing lavender, I’m ready. No one else will die for me tonight.
The Ridding is meant to purge Gossemort of the Dark. At first there is no change, no sign that the spirits of the school have seen my treachery. But then the fog kicks up, swirling in agitation. It becomes a whirlwind around me, flashes of light bursting angrily in its shadows.
A silhouette appears, momentarily revealed by a burst of light—a towering, willowy figure, skeletal with long, sinister fingers. It’s swallowed by black.
I back up, watching the fog. I can see nothing but the fog right in front of me, barely illuminated by my scythe. Lightning bursts again, and then the silhouette towers over me, so tall it has to bend beneath the low ceiling.
I strike, sweeping my scythe through its torso. It screeches furiously, lurching back. But then its long fingers whip toward me, encircling my neck and lifting me from the ground. Its flesh is like ice-cold shadows.
It pulls me toward it, and I sweep my blade, aiming for the joint of its shoulder. It stretches out of reach, moving like a cloud of night. It pulls me in till I’m a breath away from what is meant to be its head—a hollow, oblong, featureless shadow. It reaches up with its other hand, and with a finger the length of my arm cuts a gash into its own face in the shape of a mouth. The great crescent mouth smiles and whispers a word with a voice that feels like oil being poured down my spine. “Heretic,” it says. “Dark wielder.”
Fuck being principled. I let my Dark magic loose.
And oh, how Dark it is.
When Lonan uses his magic, it consumes everything in its path, drowning the Light, devouring every flicker of reason and goodness, so pervasive I feel it in my very bones. But I have my own Darkness. And my secret—mine is so much worse.
It takes nothing to access it—a well of grief and pain and rage waiting to be let loose. A verse burns on my thigh, carving the same lines over old scars. I think of my father—of his smiling, reassuring face when he last said goodbye. The apples of his cheeks. The woodsmoke and tobacco smell of him. How he lied. How he never returned.
