The sharp scrape of a match against the stone wall pulls me from my thoughts, and a warm, reddish glow replaces the darkness as Drake lights the candles.
Before us, the statue of the God of Death—Azkiel—stands close to seven feet tall, its surface decorated with the small, engraved names of the sacrifices chosen from the last Harvest. Every decade, the names fade right before the next twelve are chosen to compete, as if the possibility of becoming an elder is a prize worth dying for.
I always catch my breath every time I see Death’s likeness. Hatred swallows my ability to keep my magic at bay, and in the presence of the statue, containing Azkiel’s magic, the decay seeps into my fingers.
“Trying to win a staring contest with a statue, Wildflower?” Drake whispers, and I snap my eyes shut, then shake my hands as if I can somehow will the magic away. Quickly, I shove my hands into my pockets, until the burning sensation subsides from my hands, notifying me the power of Death’s Touch has dissipated.
“No,” I say with a clipped laugh.
Drake gazes at the burning red candles before glancing up at the ancient passages carved into the stone walls, adorned with portraits of gods. Their ethereal eyes watch us from their frames, each one appearing deceptively mortal.
“Are you certain about this?” Drake asks while his hand glides over the short, dark stubble on his sharp jawline. Once again, several of his tattoos move, depicting terrifying inked images of the Phovus flying over his defined muscles. It chases us in every scene, and in one, I am dead.
I point at the art covering his arms and ask, “Can you at least pretend we have a chance?”
“I do. It’s you I’m worried about,” he teases, but in many of the animated illustrations, I am protecting him.
“You’re hilarious,” I drawl, my tone thick with sarcasm. “Seriously. I’d love to see your ability to paint pretty pictures up against a Phovus.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, his eyes alight with menace. “Oh, yeah? What are you going to do? Wish it to death?” he asks, although we both know my powers are far worse than that—just one touch and he will be ash on the ground.
Until now, I’ve only killed the occasional plant with my touch, but I imagine it does the same thing to people. I have no desire to find out. “I’ll wish you to death in a minute,” I mumble under my breath, and he smirks.
I stare at the altar in front of the statue, decorated with clay symbols. Candlelight flickers as we step closer.
I fix a piercing stare on the carved face of the God of Death and grimace. Even being close to his statue—infused with his magic—has me on edge.
Like him, I am nothing but decay and death. I was supposed to become a healer, like the rest of my family. My stomach turns as I look at his deceptively angelic, marbled features, proving that some monsters wear the most handsome of disguises. “Let’s tear the bastard down,” I say, my fists balled at my side. I brush my chestnut hair away from my face, draping it over my shoulder. I regret not putting it in a braid tonight. “It’s just a shame it’s not the actual god.”
Drake murmurs, “I love it when you’re murderous.”
I almost smile, but I stop myself. Admittedly, my hatred for the God of Death far outweighs Drake’s anger at the gods. In reality, I don’t hate them all, although I don’t like any of the six siblings fated to rule over Dahryst. However, there is something about Azkiel. When I think of him, a wound carved in the crevices of my chest rips open.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” he says as he grabs the dagger from the table. “Ready?”
“Do it.”
“Then we run,” he adds.
I nod. “We run really fucking fast.”
Drake’s hiss fills the air as he runs the blade across his hand, creating tiny crimson droplets. “Ready to see something exceptional?”
“Always, but no one else is here.”
He rolls his eyes as we both nonchalantly commit the worst sacrilege of all in the most sacred of places. My mother would weep if she were here. It’s a shame she isn’t.
Using the blood from the wound on his hand, he paints something onto the statue with his fingers.
I’ve never seen another warlock do anything like this before. Although those with illusion magic can create powerful images, the magic is always temporary—except for Drake’s. Blessed with two powers from the Goddess of Dreams, one grants him the ability to conjure illusions, while the other allows him to animate them into tangible objects.
Much like those in Azkiel’s coven, with shadow magic, they are the only witches who can create tangible objects. While Death’s witches can weave tapestries of fabrics from shadows and darkness, Astraea’s witches can bring life to art.
Chains made of blood materialize around the God of Death as Drake finishes painting. There’s one hanging around the statue’s throat, and six around its torso and legs. Gradually, the chains awaken, shimmering in gold as they tighten their grip.
I wrinkle my nose at the smell of smoke and blood mixing with the musty odor of the ancient building. Loud cracks sound as the marble splits in two. Pieces chip away, flying onto the floor with each crack and splinter of stone echoing throughout the church. Despite straining against the stone, the chains never break until the entire statue tumbles to the ground. Stepping back, I smile as the decapitated head of the God of Death rolls toward me.
My heart races as the last echoes fade away.
Drake mercilessly slices his wound deeper, and I groan. Watching him mutilate himself for the second time tonight is enough to make my stomach turn. I can’t help but wonder how he learned that his blood could animate art beyond his body. We’ve experienced enough emotion for one night, so I tuck the question away for another day.
Drake’s legs nearly give out as more blood spills onto the altar. I clutch his arm, and he tries to nudge me away. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Just maybe sit down for a minute.”
Drake stumbles back into me as the magic becomes too much. The tattoos on his skin vanish, as if they never existed.
“This is a bad idea,” I state. “We should just…”
He shakes his head. “We have to destroy the stone basin,” he says, pointing at the bowl used for The Offering.
The candles flicker as they are snuffed out one by one. Ragged breaths reach my ears before I can see the creature, and a shiver snakes down my spine. Goosebumps spread over my arms as I focus on the vestibule to the church, spotting movement within the blackness.
Hunched over by a pew, made of smoke and night, the Phovus’ shifting form is all snarling teeth and glowing eyes, and he’s focused on us.
FOURCalista
“Drake,” I whisper as the creature’s yellow stare latches onto me, its intelligent eyes tracking my movements. It stalks the shadows, wisps of a dark body visible under the light of the moon, pouring in through the door and stained-glass windows. “We need light. Now.”
