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Defile

Tear an enemy

Toes to Smile

Mar a monster

Make it shout

As within, so without

The words sculpt themselves onto the back of my knee, burning hot and sharp as a scream breaks from Poppy’s throat. She scratches at her face as thick boils pop and burst on her skin. Her round cheeks that I’ve seen break into smiles a hundred times turn raw and bloody in seconds. Saints, what have I done?

“Bury her,” Orla gargles from the ground.

“I—I . . .” I can’t look away from my friend, horrified at what my magic has wrought.

“Bury. Her.” Orla groans, and she lifts a hand to point toward the charnel house. Its door is topped with the visage of a demon, mouth open wide in yawning horror. And then I understand.

I look at Poppy, blood trailing from her like the train of her dress, mixing in the black mud. She had intelligent eyes. Her smile was my favorite sight, and her face turned as red as her hair when she laughed at my jokes.

This is too much. They teach us at Gossemort that we can endure what others cannot, that we are strong enough to survive the worst that war and magic have to offer. Well, I’m not strong enough. Not for this.

I understand with sudden horrible clarity what the Ridding is really for. It isn’t just some test established to weed the Dark from the Light.

Now I understand.

It is meant to destroy us. Whatever claims I’ve been told about the goodness of the Light, about the virtue of our fight, this is meant to turn us into monsters. A noble cause—it’s the lie they told us to convince us to fight in their war. Good and evil do not exist on a battlefield. Only broken people can be killers. But I’m already broken.

I descend, more desperately than ever, into the brokenness of my heart. I let ice slide over me till I feel nothing.

I charge at Poppy, grabbing her about the waist. She screeches and scratches at me, trying to get away, but I’m used to pain, and I’m already bitten. I wrench the door of the old charnel house open, its heavy stone groaning after so many years untouched.

Poppy senses her fate.

“No,” she begs, her voice suddenly human and desperate. “Vesper, please, no.”

I stop. My arm is still gripped around her. I pull her back, pushing her against the wall of the charnel house to look her in the eyes. Rain pounds against her scarred and bloodied face, but she looks at me through soaked eyelashes. Wide blue eyes meet mine, the ones I’ve known for seven years.

A flicker of hope.

“Poppy,” I say. “Poppy, fight it. Please. Please fight it.”

Poppy blinks. She looks toward Orla, who’s back on her feet, standing in the rain and cradling her wrist. Her face falls, horror covering her like a shroud. “What did I do?”

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “We’ll find Galvin and kill him. We’ll fix it.”

But her breaths are coming faster. And because of foolish hope, I make the mistake of thinking she’s grieving. I pull her to me, wrap my arms around her, hold her through the filth and rain and blood. I pull back to look her in the eyes, and whatever reassuring words I was about to speak fall away.

Cloudy white film covers her eyes again. She grins. Before I can react, Orla careens between us, shoving Poppy into the depths of the charnel house. She falls backward into the pit, a grave’s depth below the surface, bones clattering as she hits the bottom.

Orla stands in the doorway, breathing heavily as she looks down at a raging Poppy. She turns back to me. Her normally luxurious blond hair is plastered to her face, pale as bone and streaked with blood and earth. “You have to shut me in there with her.”

“What?”

She raises her bloody wrist. “I’m bitten, Vesper.”

“But that doesn’t mean—”I grasp for an argument. “I’m bitten.” But perhaps that means I should be in the pit of bones as well. Maybe we’d all be better off.