Page 53 of Night of Death and Flowers

Hands reach inside, toward me, and I close my eyes, willing the decay magic to come. Death said they only will allow those with the chosen one’s magic in their veins to pass, but as the decay magic slips into my fingers, bile climbs my throat.

She shoves me harder this time, her weight slamming against mine.

I grab her wrist, and my fingers darken at the ends. “I’m sorry,” I say as the townspeople’s yells fill the night, but it is Isolda’s blood-curdling scream that runs me cold.

Under my touch, her fingers turn to ash, and as the rot swiftly climbs through her veins, her skin adopts a sickening gray color. She grasps at her chest as it caves inward, her jaw slacked as her screams dry into silence. I avert my eyes, unable to watch as I will the magic to consume every inch of her.

Her family’s cries ring into the night, following me to Tenenocti as they watch their daughter crumble to ash, dead before she even had a chance to fight.

A tear slides down my cheek, and my stomach knots. Isolda’s magic leaves her body, and siphoning becomes as easy as breathing. Her mental resistance seeps unfamiliarly into my mind, melding with the decay magic until they are forced to coexist.

In my peripheral vision, I spot Drake and Ari, horror mixed with disappointment in their expressions. Tears fall, thick and fast, but as the dead rest back within the waters, sensing Isolda’s magic inside of me, I accept my inevitable fate.

I am a murderer, a monster just like Death, and as Tenenocti draws closer, I know I am about to become so much worse.

TWENTY

Azkiel

I have never seen such destruction at the hands of a mortal. It is wondrous, like watching an echo of myself.

If she wasn’t heading to my sisters and brothers—bringing the prophecy to the precipice of fruition—I would be proud of her bravery. However, the sentiment is overshadowed by the panic shuddering in my bones.

She cannot die there. I must stop her.

I run cold as the reality of what I must do sinks in.

Fuck.

I watch from the empty stretch of shoreline, away from the crowd. Calista’s every movement demands attention. Flames flicker from inside the boats, and the pale, rotting fingers of the corpses caress the symbols etched into the wood.

They long for the souls of the sacrifices to join them, to quench the loneliness. But no matter how many they drown to join them in the Black Sea, they will always feel empty. Or perhaps some of the dead, foolishly, believe if they obey my commands, I will one day free them.

Under my command, through the power of my Skhola ring, they leave the boats alone.

Their spirits cry out in distorted screams, a reminder of the danger of what is in the waters in case any of the sacrifice’s families get the urge to aid their loved ones.

The chosen one’s wince under the shrill shrieks of the dead, but not Calista. She wears murder and death so well that I cannot help but wonder if she somehow belongs to it—to me.

My breath hitches as Calista’s eyes widen under the hue of her torch.

My heart hammers as she grabs the oar, navigating away from the others and toward the shipwreck. “Clever girl,” I admit aloud. She waves for her sister and the boy to follow her, but they do not and instead sail with the others to the docks.

Idiots.

I watch as Calista stands, knees bent, extending her arms to steady the boat. Her eyes fixate on the island, the magic we share darkening, weakened only by her own guilt. Her long, brown hair glows under the light of the torch, cascading in waves down her back, stopping at her waist. She runs her hands through her strands, pushing some from her face, then slides her hand over her waist. My eyes follow the trail of her fingers, and I lick my lips, some desperate ache in me wishing they were my hands, gliding over the contours of her body.

What am I thinking? This must be our shared power drawing me to her and nothing more.

Fate has bound the witch to me, and as I reflect on every step I took that brought me here recently, I know I have only aided the prophecy. I should have taken her to the coast and watched her get on a ship.

Yet, I am certain destiny would have weaved another path to reach this very moment. So far, I have been unable to kill her, and my blood oath prevents me from doing so. Because Calista was wrong. I love someone—my sister, Astraea. I cannot understand what led me to trap her with the rest of them when she wasn’t like them. She was kind and always there for me, but she must’ve betrayed me.

I simply cannot remember.

Gritting my teeth, I focus only on the witch, panic stifling me as the dead near her boat. Seeing her get closer to the island instills a dread in me I have seldom felt.

To awaken my siblings, she must die in a sacrificial ritual. Once her blood is spilled, it will undo the magic I used to bind them into a sleeping spell. However, it’s more than that. The thought that I may lose her pains me. The sentiment makes no sense, yet it feels so raw, it could be real.

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