Page 5 of A Haven of Brimstone and Darkness

The shocked burst of energy that slams into the outside of my barrier is followed by a low growl. I yank harder, tightening my grip. Whatever it is feels stringy, like long strands of very fine hair, but at the same time, each one is wickedly heavy and it takes considerable effort to bring it towards me, back through the barrier.

When my arm is inside once again, I slam shut the opening of my barrier and stare down at what I have. Long blackstrings, not hair, but ribbons. Each one is frayed at the edges and shimmering with ... colors? No, not colors. I bring the ribbons closer to my face. Images form.

Bodies with open ribcages, faces splattered with blood, monsters with sharp teeth and black eyes. I drop the ribbons to the ground at my feet and back up, staring in horror as I lift my palm and see that the darkness has shifted to my flesh. Black stains the skin of my fingers and wrist. The shadow of the ribbons' powers stretches and changes, turning into veins that burrow beneath my skin.

Then, suddenly, the images reflected in the ribbons are in my head, pouring into my mind.

Malachi, sobbing and struggling beneath ebony chains—brimstone chains—a large angled blade rising over his chest. Blood spilling, not from Malachi, but from the wrist of another, onto the Mortal God strapped to a stone table. More struggling. Pleading. Confused words.

"Why?" he asks. "Why me? Why are you doing this? Please! I only want to serve—" A scream echoes out of his mouth, interrupting anything else that he might say. The blood on his chest bubbles up and does exactly what the ribbons had done. It takes on a life of its own, spreading out like rivers over his chest and abdomen, up to his throat and down to his thighs.

Voices, low and hypnotic, begin to rise up around him. A language I don't recognize. Malachi begins to shudder upon the stone slab, twitching and seizing under some phantom disease that has taken root inside him.

A hardbangslams against the outside of my barrier, but I'm too far into the scene to pay attention to it. It's not just a scene but the man's memories. This is a memory.

Horror and revulsion fill me as Malachi screams in agony as his chest cavity cracks and splinters open. Bones break. Blood spurts. The shadows surrounding him move closer. Asone, they connect hands from beneath their robes and hoods and begin to breathe. At least, that's what it seems like. Beneath their clothes, the figures inhale, chests expanding, and through Malachi's pained wails, a cloud of shimmering light emerges from him.

The light glistens, floating above Malachi's jerking body, and then, as the figures continue to inhale in deep draws, it splits apart. As if the light itself is a cloud of smoke that can be sucked inside, equal tendrils of it disappear beneath the hoods of those surrounding Malachi. As more and more of the stuff ceases to exist, Malachi's body slows its twitching. His cries dull and then, ultimately, go silent.

All five of the figures release each other and throw back their hoods. My stomach rolls and vomit threatens to come up my throat. "Much better," Tryphone says as he cracks his head to the side.

I watch the thin lines of age fade from his face as if by ... what had Caedmon called it? Magic. Not Divinity.

This is the taboo.My eyes go to Malachi, but he's no longer there. The shell that remains has withered. Gray skin stretched over bones that are far smaller than they should be. The opening of his chest appears like the mouth of an ancient beast, the ribs protruding outward like long bleached teeth. All of his youth is gone. The skin over his body appears like that of bark, lined and almost transparent. The blood has dried and turned to dust.

Lifting my eyes, I break away from the memory and find myself staring at the barrier surrounding me. Now that I'm here again, I can hear the rage on the other side and I know who it is. Tryphone.

A crack forms across the stones surrounding me, growing wider and wider until a dark, clawed hand penetrates through.Coated and bleeding from my webs, Tryphone's voice echoes through my head.

I will know who you are,he warns me.You cannot hide from me. You cannot run. You are mine. You are all ... mine.

I wakeslick with sweat and panting for breath. Sitting up, my hand passes over the opposite side of the mattress, patting around in search of something—someone—only to find it empty. Blinking away tears that I hadn't known I'd let slip free, I slow my racing heart with steady, even breaths. The dream is not my reality, but this room, this bed, and the scent of rum and spice on the air is. Tryphone is not in my head anymore. I'm here. In the Darkhavens' chambers. Safe. I'm safe.

But for how long?a voice whispers back. In response, I lift my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

Breathe. I need to fucking breathe. In and out. In and out. I force my lungs to work, counting down the seconds between each breath as I go. Rocking back and forth against the pile of pillows that take up the headboard of Ruen's bed, I try not to sob at the fresh new scar in my head.

The memory of Malachi's death is only one of many. Caedmon's face had been there too, amongst the ribbons, his face bloodied and beaten so badly that one eye had been swollen shut. He'd been saying something to the man—to Tryphone, to his fucking killer—but what had it been?

I don't know how long I sit there, rocking myself on the soft cushion of Ruen's mattress, but as the dusky light of dawn begins to peek through the curtains over the lone window, I decide it's long enough. Getting out of bed, I walk across the room to the armoire and retrieve a pair of solid black pants frominside. Donning them, I bind my chest and slip on a blue shirt, adding a leather belt around my hips.

No doubt the tossing and turning I'd done during the night had kept Ruen up. As shaken as I am by the whole ordeal that Tryphone had set upon me during the arena announcement a few days prior, I'm not the only one struggling to sleep. I pause in front of the long mirror on my way to the door, stopping as the sight of my own face shocks me into stillness.

Hollow cheeks. Sunken eyes. I reach up and pass a hand over my throat, which seems to stand out more above my jutting collarbones. Have I really gotten this bad?

I know that this isn't right. This isn't me. I need to get myself together. A plan needs to be made, actions taken. We can't let the Gods win this way.

Caedmon is ... I shut my eyes, both against the image of myself reflected back at me and against the reminder of what I'd seen when Tryphone had attempted to insert himself into my consciousness.

While presenting himself before the Academy and informing all of us of his plan to move everyone to Ortus, he'd been silently attacking my mind. That kind of power ... I truly don't understand what Caedmon had been thinking, why he swore that I would be the one to kill the God King.

Reopening my eyes, I turn away from the mirror and move towards the door. Twisting the handle, I let myself out of Ruen's bedroom. The living room, to my surprise, is empty. Frowning, I glance around, seeking out any sign that might tell me where the others have gone. A whisper of emotion in my mind has me turning towards the window and striding forward.

Aranea, my little Spider Queen, rests against the wall, her mental call answered by me as I lift a hand and let her hop onto my palm. Her fuzzy little legs twitter as she circles and then sinksdown against my skin, the weight of her belly so small and fragile despite the fact that she's one of the largest spiders I've ever had.

"Do you know where they've gone?" I ask her gently.

It soothes me to press a fingertip to the top of her tiny skull and rub lightly. I've never owned a pet before and I'm not entirely sure I'd consider familiars to be pets, but this one is far closer to me than any that have come before her. She nuzzles my fingertip back and the burst of emotion in my mind that comes from her is all affection. My eyes mist over and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. Perhaps all it takes to really cherish the things in life is more than near death—but complete mental annihilation. As if she senses my uneasy and complex thoughts, Ara nudges me and answers my earlier question as well as she can.

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