Page 41 of Night of Death and Flowers

FIFTEEN

Azkiel

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.

A growl rumbles in my chest, knowing Astraea’s magic has been tainted like this. She is the only one I still hold even a harbor of feeling toward.

“This is where you bow,” I command.

She drops to the floor, her hands pressed together in prayer. As I grit my teeth, the room submits to my darkness, shadows encroaching on every corner, stealing the woman’s sense.

Shadows ripple out from my core alongside my brother’s magic. “You insult your goddess by twisting her magic,” I state, Cyna’s powers pulling back against my will, but I harness it, my shadows choking the green sparks until they’re forced to obey.

“No, please. I’ve not done anything wrong,” she cries, scrambling in the darkness, her fingers gliding over the stone floor in search of grounding.

A smirk carves my expression as I lean closer, desperate for a release of the anger building ever since the witch. Even thinking about her makes me want to choke someone. “You cannot escape me,” I say, as she finds my silver gaze in the darkness. “Do you enjoy making others suffer?”

Her words come out broken in places, fragments of who she is. “They deserve it.”

“As do you,” I say with a tilt of my head, savoring her blanching face. “There is so much suffering in the Darklands, and my Phovi are always so hungry.”

“No!” She yells, then attempts to run out the door, but my shadows are coiled around her before she can escape.

Cyna’s powers of judgment spark to life, burning through my chest as I drag the woman before me.

My brother’s discernment magic moves inside of me, then arrows from my eyes. Wisps of green smoke leaves me, then slither under the eyelids, blinding her. I feel her emotions alongside my own, and flashes of her past, and the truths she keeps hidden in her heart, are undressed for me to witness.

Sadism lingers on every act of torture she had been ordered to do, harbored by the pain of being beaten as a child. There is a fork in her path, after she underwent such heinous abuse, where she may have turned such hurt into empathy. She chose to walk into the darkness instead, wielding her sorrow into a weapon to ensure everyone else feels the same emptiness she does.

Seeing it resonates with something far too deep for me to acknowledge. I bring my fingers to her throat, placing them against her skin. Usually, I would elate in these moments, but as I close my eyes, feeling her touch under my palms, I realize it is no comparison to Calista’s.

Digging my nails in harder than needed, I squeeze so tight that her windpipe crushes under my grip before my touch consumes her. She’s on her knees as the ash steals the first inches of her limbs and she grasps her torso, as if she can stop the spread of decay. Gray leaks under her skin, her skin tumbling into a pile of ash, her blood and bones now cinders.

Her spirit leaves her in a tidal wave of black. After several seconds, the shadows take the mortal form of her body, and she opens her inky mouth, staring at the mound of ash with disbelief.

My eyes narrow as a cruel grin curls my lips, as the shadowy version of the woman attempts to touch her body, then realizing she has no physical form. The rooms grow darker as she runs out the door, and I let her go. She can haunt the walls until my reapers come for her.

Despite enacting my control over the weaver’s death, my anger is not quenched. I’m still left wanting for more, desperate even.

I turn my attention to Drake. My nose scrunches as I hear his incoherent whispers. “Calista freed you,” I inform him, and her name seems to reach him. His green eyes refocus, and a pang of envy shoots through my chest.

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