Page 31 of Night of Death and Flowers

“No.” He moves away from the door, but his trembling voice reaches me. “Don’t come back here.” Regret resounds in every word. I want to scream and use my decay magic on the woman to break Drake out now.

“It’s too late, but at least you’re safe. That’s all that matters to me,” he says, but his voice is fading.

I shove the bread through the hole. “Here. I got it from the market.”

The loaf disappears as he grabs it and I step back as the woman pulls me away. In response, I grab her fingers and twist. “I’m not done.”

She hisses and wrenches herself from my grasp. “Visiting hours are over,” she snaps, and three prisoners audibly whimper at the sound of her voice.

“Fuck you,” I spit, and she growls under her breath. Her eyes are alight with an unstableness that makes me wonder if she should even manage a place like this.

Her fingers graze my arm, and the room shifts, knocking me off balance. I grapple with the stone ground, trying to steady myself as the room spins. It’s as if I’ve walked into an illusion, but it feels so real. The stone walls turn into a forest and just like in my dream, everything is dying, and it’s my fault.

After a minute, the illusion fades and I stare at the woman, unblinking. A sadistic smile curves across her thin lips and my magic pulses, sensing the evil under her skin. Unlike Drake, she doesn’t possess the magic to bring art to life. Her skin is clear, there’s no proof of her nefarious desires. But as I look into her eyes, I’ve never felt depravity like this before. It’s then that I decide she must die.

Tomorrow, I will return. But this time with poison and decay. I call out to Drake, ignoring the woman who eagerly waits for my reaction. I won’t give her the satisfaction. “I will come back tomorrow,” I promise.

It’s only after she leads me back to the front desk, then the doors, that she speaks. “He won’t be here tomorrow. The God of Death himself has ordered his execution, after The Choosing.”

“Wait, what?” I ask, but she closes the doors in my face with a smug grin, the slam sending a wave of panic through my body.

Everything moves in slow motion as the memory of the hanging earlier slithers into my mind, tightening around every idea of how to get Drake out.

I can’t watch him die. I won’t. I stand outside the doors in the darkening evening, and a heavy helplessness hovers over me. Even if I can do anything, time is running out.

The Choosing is tonight, then so is Drake’s execution.

ELEVEN

Azkiel

The haunting gaze of a threader lures me toward the tent hidden in the entrance of the forest crowding the town square. The tent, emblazoned with the sigil of Nyxara, draped in deep purples, is cloaked by the gnarly, long branches of ancient graywar trees.

Night consumes the small town of Ennismore, and in the distance, the Night Market blooms to life in velvety shades of blue and silver. I turn away from the crowd, my face and hair concealed in the shadows cast by the large hood of my black cloak.

The witch’s icy-gray eyes meet mine as I approach her, standing at the door of her tent. “My most gracious god, I had wondered when you would come,” she intones, sinking into a courtesy.

While she cannot be any older than thirty, her voice is entrenched with the wisdom of a person far older.

“You are the one who answered the calls of my crows and reapers,” I state, sensing my sister’s magic sparking within the woman.

“I was honored to serve you,” she says, as if she had a choice in the matter. Her eyes dart to the side as a shadow viper slithers up beside us but does not attack.

“How about a reading, Threader,” I say lowly, and she sucks in a shaky breath. She was foolish enough to stay here upon hearing of my return. But I cannot deny that I enjoy the naïve ones. After all, they are the most useful. “You can tell me what else you know of this prophecy.” I push past her, then walk into the tent through the fabric doors.

In the center of the tent, a round table holds three crystals and six cards, depicting each of the gods. I notice they’re lined up by the order of a mortal life span—Fate, Creation, Dreams, Will, Judgment, and Death.

I take the seat across from her, placing myself on a chair carved from the wood of the graywar tree. She leans over the table, her long, dark brown waves falling around her dainty arms, covered in tight, purple material. Her dress is simpler than most, with little embellishment on the front.

My eyes remain fixed on her face as her stare plunges into the depths of my soul. Bewilderment etches on her features.

“Speak,” I command, and her hands tremble over the cards, her breath hitching.

“I-I see you must not try to stop the prophecy,” she warns, her long, ringed fingers sliding over my card.

I do not flinch, nor give anything away in my expression. She hesitates, and I scowl. “Speak freely, or I will loosen your tongue.”

With a curt nod, she averts her eyes, lifting my card, then placing it next to Nyxara’s card—fate. “The more you attempt to destroy the prophesied one, the further you will be buried by the prophecy.”

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