“Capture the traitor boy before the Choosing,” I command. “Else others may believe they can get away with such treason.” Dephina lets out a sigh of relief at my statement. “Let us hope this year’s crop is stronger than all of you.”
SIXCalista
Lightning intermittently flashes in the sky in blue and purple, illuminating the knot of gray trees surrounding the abandoned mansion that is now our hideout. I breathe in a crisp, icy breath, a welcome reprieve from the musty air inside the mansion in search of my frequent visitor and friend, Thorn.
We’ve been here for less than a few hours, and while I didn’t want to call on my sister, there is little I can do to help Drake. He’s still inside, writhing on a bed, and my potions have done little to help the internal damage caused by the constriction from the Phovus.
I cast my eyes to the mansion as I venture further from the door. The mansion, a crumbling testament to the beautiful home it once was, stands strong against the battering storm. Ivy wraps around the weathered, gray bricks, nestling deep into the crevices and cracks, revealing the decaying structure beneath. Broken windows silently overlook the forest with a haunting darkness, and a moss-stricken fountain fills with rainwater.
It’s not the first time I’ve visited the decrepit building, sneaking into its dark corridors with handfuls of deadly ingredients so I can work on my potions in peace. But this morning feels different. No matter what I tell myself, or do, I can’t remove the dread growing in the pit of my stomach.
“There you are,” I say, holding out my arm as my crow flies down from a branch. “I knew you’d find me out here. You always do.” He tilts his head, his ebony eyes searching mine. “I’m okay, but Drake’s hurt,” I explain. “I need you to deliver something for me.”
Thorn squawks as I attach the parchment to his leg, his ebony beak opening when he turns his head to look at me. Crows are mostly a nuisance to those in town and seen as pests. But I’ve learned they’re clever, angry little things with a mischievous sense of humor. So, naturally I’ve always been drawn to them.
Raindrops glide from his body as he prunes his shiny black feathers, then gives me one last look, his beady eyes boring into mine. “To Ari,” I instruct, very much aware that she’s probably going to kill me for this, if she’s able to sneak out after we were caught last night. Although, I doubt mother is awake.
Thorn takes off, and I watch as he soars into the stormy sky to deliver my note.
I step back from the branches of a graywar tree, then turn my gaze to the morning sky thick with rain and fog.
I run my hands down my rain-slicked face, then push my locks behind my ears. Drake’s scream carries from a grimy, shattered window on the second floor, and I clutch the fabric of my cloak, wincing. After weeks of planning, deciding we were going to destroy the statue and basin, so the so-called volunteers couldn’t be chosen at The Offering, we failed. The basin remains intact, but without Death’s statue to reveal the names, surely they can’t go ahead with The Offering.
Rain pelts against the trees, the branches creaking and groaning under the heavy winds. I pull my hood up and walk under the sagged front porch, wooden boards groaning with each step, then reach the door. Mildew and a burned herbal smell leak into the back of my throat as I step into the mansion. The stark echo of my footsteps carries around the large foyer. I track the shadowy corners, and a sense of being watched pricks goosebumps over my skin.
Cobwebs drape dusty chandeliers, and tapestries hanging from the walls depicting fables and lore are faded and torn in places. I hurry up the grand staircase, my boots crunching twigs and skeletal leaves swept in here over time.
“Aghh.”
Another scream resonates in synchrony with the old grandfather clock, chiming three times. I splutter out a cough when I halt outside the heavy, wooden door of the room Drake is in. I gaze through the crack, at the flickering candlelight, and my stomach dips.
If I possessed powers like the rest of my family, I could alleviate my best friend’s pain. Instead, I only harbor the power to end suffering permanently, rather than healing it.
“Hey,” I mumble as I cross the threshold. He turns onto his side, the flame from the candelabra illuminating drops of shimmering sweat coating his face. “Ari is coming.” His lips part, as if he wants to speak, but only a shriek of agony uncurls from his tongue. “Don’t talk. She won’t be long. This’ll be over soon.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting beside him, his hands in mine, when the door finally creaks behind me. I whip my head around as my sister walks inside.
Her violet eyes narrow, scanning the scene. “You said to come quickly. What happened?”
I stand, then turn my back to her, carefully positioning myself out of Drake’s line of sight, sliding into the shadows of the room.
“He was attacked by a Phovus,” I explain.
Drake groans, shifting onto his stomach.
“Oh, Gods.” In a flurry of movement, Arabella dashes across the room, discarding her black cloak that tumbles to the ground in a pool of silk.
She drops to the side of the bed, her fingers tracing the contours of Drake’s face, golden swirls of magic seeping into his skin, offering him slight relief from the pain. I can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy, knowing I can never offer that kind of comfort. It is why I keep my magic buried so deeply, because should it ever surface unexpectedly, I fear I may accidentally destroy them.
“Stay still,” Ari says softly, “it’s going to be okay.” She turns her head towards me, her hand outstretched. I know the routine, having watched it a hundred times.
My sister can use her own energy and health to heal him, but she knows I will never allow it.
Considering Drake’s actions, giving up a portion of my health to aid in his healing is a small sacrifice. His roar still echoes in my mind from when he charged at the creature to shield me.
Our hands intertwine, her grip firmer than expected. Creation magic is beautifully dark. Despite being opposing entities, the covens devoted to the Goddess of Creation and the God of Death share similar attributes, although neither group will openly admit it.
Through her magic, my inner vitality is used to charge her healing force. While my physical energy dwindles, being drawn out by Arabella, I can’t help but wonder how we healed prior to the god’s arrival, when they bestowed their powers upon us. During that time, we considered ourselves folk witches and used the residual energy from nature and the blood of our fallen companions to access magic, though its power wasn’t nearly as strong.
Every breath is a labor as my sister channels me. Drake’s anguished screams are muffled by the pillow he holds to his face. I wince as a loud crack resonates from his body, signaling the bones being mended.
While struggling to stay awake, I eventually hear Arabella softly utter the words, “It’s finished.”
Her fingers slip out of mine, and I slowly peel back my heavy eyelids. “Did it work?” I ask, each word croakier than the last.
“Yes, but you both need rest.”
I nod, allowing her to guide me into the adjacent room. Our footsteps cause the rotting boards to creak.
Finally, I find a bed and climb onto the mattress, not caring how old it is. Arabella tosses me a blanket I’d brought here several weeks ago when I was creating a new poison, and I curl up into a ball.
I embrace the exhaustion and discomfort as atonement for letting Drake get hurt. “Thank you,” I say, lifting my gaze to meet hers.
She shakes her head, staring at the shreds of fabric dangling from the dress she made for me. “Pretty things are wasted on you.”
Both our lips curve into half-smiles, but it does nothing to the shine of betrayal and hurt in her expression. “Get some sleep,” she says. “It’s probably best if you don’t come home today.”
“You know,” I state.
