My chest heaves, but I step forward, nonetheless. He peers behind me to Arabella. “Go with your mother, darling.”
I wet my lips as she hovers a glance at me. “I’ll see you there.”
I nod, turning to meet my father’s gaze as the sound of footsteps behind me fades, swiftly replaced by the door closing. At last, I’m alone with him and he knows everything.
“I suppose there’s no point in lying,” I say, rubbing my arm. “Yes, I hold decay magic, and yes, I destroyed the statue.”
I wait for him to say something, anything, but instead, his heavy sigh breaks the silence, and he stands to pace the large room for what feels like a lifetime.
Eventually, he stops by the window, staring out into the darkness, the lines on his forehead and around his mouth deepening.
Unlike my mother, he doesn’t hover over details. When he finally speaks, his tone echoes that of preaching a sermon—except this time, I am the congregation. “You’re going to die,” he says simply, then turns, his face ashen. “The God of Death is after you.”
“Oh,” I reply, trying to act surprised, but failing miserably.
“Oh?” he questions. “Are your ears plugged, child? The God of Death is hunting you for your crimes. If you had returned to speak with me sooner, I would have gotten you out of Ennismore.”
Holding my breath, my lips part as I stare at the man I was certain would have handed me over to Death himself after what I did to his church. To his reputation. “Wha…” I can’t even finish my sentence, and glance up. “How?”
“There’s a convent in the south. The elders agreed that dedicating your life in service of the church is penance enough.”
My eyes widen. “You want me to become one of the devoted?”
“I did. Not even the God of Death would have found you there.”
Chewing on the inside of my lip, I mull over my choices while processing my father’s sudden care for a daughter he barely acknowledged before this. As tempting as it might sound, I can’t imagine a life where I’d be tasked with enforcing the laws of our society, administering punishments and executions to those merely striving to survive or daring to rebel against the elders. Not to mention overseeing blood sacrifices. There’s nothing more dreadful than that. Besides, I promised Death I would leave Dahryst, and a blood oath cannot be broken.
“It’s too late now,” I say.
“Why would you do this?” he barks unexpectedly, and I wince. Wild-eyed, he tracks me from across from the room, tears brimming in the corners of his eyes. “You had everything to look forward to. Your rebellious act will cost me my daughter.”
I find my voice, a small, buried thing in the back of my throat that I’d suppressed for years. Talking back to my mother was nothing, but I could never do it with him. “Since when do you care about me?” It was a childish question that sounded even worse once it left my lips. But I need to know.
“Care?” his brows furrow, his expression softening in a way I’d only seen when he looks at Arabella. A tear falls, splashing against his cheek, and I hold my breath. “I love you, Calista,” he says, his brows creasing. “You’re my eldest daughter. I know I’ve been stricter with you than the others,” he admits, while my skin breaks out into goosebumps and my heart balloons—a sensation I hate. The vulnerability is going to crack me, and I try to block him out, squeezing my eyes closed. He continues, his words piercing through my every defense. “You have the same fire I do. I worried it would burn you too, and now it has.” The disappointment in his voice is deafening. “I tried to tame you when your mother couldn’t. If you did this just because you thought I didn’t love you, then maybe I have failed you.”
I open my eyes, tears hazing my vision. “That’s not why I did this,” I admit, my tone growing harsher as the truth spills out. “I destroyed the statue because The Harvest is barbaric. These are people’s lives and the fact that Arabella and I cannot be chosen shows how corrupt The Choosing really is.”
His dark brows furrow. “What makes you think you or your sister won’t be chosen?”
The conversation with our mother floats back, assuring us we won’t be picked. That elder’s children never get chosen, but then, I remember that only two of them have children. My father included. “Mother told us countless times.”
I watch carefully as his fists ball, his knuckles turning white. The air between us is dense, and every breath is laborious when I realize Arabella may be in danger. He sits back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. “Your mother likes to believe that I have power over everything, but I do not. Especially not The Harvest,” he says, his tired eyes meeting mine. “Death is choosing the sacrifices in person, and it is his decision who is chosen. I can only pray for mercy for my family.” He pauses, then presses his hands together, his eyes glossing. “However, if you are at the church tonight, Death will kill you after. Your demise outweighs any resentment I might harbor toward you right now. You must run.”
“How can you say that?” I ask. “You’re an elder.”
“I’m a father first. You must go, before it’s too late. Flee to the winter courts in the mountains,” he says, each word strained, as he goes against everything he preaches. I almost want to pinch myself to ensure this isn’t a dream. “You will be safe there.”
As I gaze at my father, perhaps for what may be the last time, I see the person behind the elder, and I want to hug him.
I’m old enough not to need parents, and until now, I didn’t think I did. But standing before him, as he shows he cares, evokes a vulnerability I’ve spent years fighting against.
“I must go,” he states. “Do not come to The Choosing. For both our sakes.” He rises once more, and as he makes his way to the door, our arms briefly touch. Neither of us is known for showing affection, but when his hand lands on my shoulder. I remember the tenderness he’d shown me when I was a child, something I’d forgotten existed. “Don’t come back and stay hidden. Gods be with you,” he says after a brief pause, and leaves before I can respond.
As I close my eyes, processing what just happened, one thought forces me into action: Arabella. She could be chosen, and there’s no way I can allow that to happen.
Because if what father said is true, and he has no influence over the decision, my sister could be picked, and she’ll have no choice but to go. Because magic bound in blood is permanent, and once selected, there is no escaping The Harvest.
FIFTEENAzkiel
I silently watch a female guard—a weaver—slip into the boy’s mind, sliding through each intrusive thought and shadowy, dark corner, unaware of my presence. She sits across from him on the floor of the Incarcuri cell, eyes closed, a sinister smile enhancing her sharp features.
Astraea would weep if she saw her magic being used for such suppression. My sister created the subconscious, a place where mortals can hide their fears and darker base urges, then slowly discover them throughout life, learning lessons in guidance with Nyxara’s destiny.
I crouch and place my hands on my knees as I watch the one Calista calls Drake, grind his teeth, repressing a scream. His tattoos come to life against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, painting vivid images of what’s happening in his mind. I’m captivated by the magic the woman uses to manipulate Drake’s subconscious, not only altering his memories, but twisting his dreams to relentlessly torment him.
I tilt my head, my brows furrowing. In one inky scene, Drake’s greatest fear becomes an illusion for all to see on his body. Calista, painted in blacks and grays, sports a terrifying, hollow smile as she peers around at the piles of ash, her fingertips tinged with darkness. As Drake’s whimper rings in my ears, I inched closer to watching the tattoo version of her leaning over a living person. Without missing a beat, she grasps his throat and witnesses his body disintegrate under her touch.
He cares for her deeply.
Another tattoo forms a scene. This time, Calista’s beautiful hands are on his chest, her deep, blue eyes staring into his as if he’s the only person in the world that matters.
My jaw clenches. Does she love him romantically?
The ink swirls into a more nefarious scenario, and Calista’s eyes grow hungrier, darkness leaking from her pores as she threatens to consume him. The weaver’s magic shifts every memory, every dream and desire into a nightmare.
“That’s enough,” I say, my gravely tone jolting the woman. Her eyes snap open and she releases Drake’s temples, the tendrils of blue magic hastily curling back into her body.
She stands, then steps back against the wall, her green eyes narrowing. “Y-you’re the God of Death,” she shakes her head, fumbling for words, and I lean over the boy so lost in torture he can’t see or hear us.
