Page 65 of Enthralled

Instead I look down into the Clamor Street coal cellar.

Red mist churns below, consuming the rickety stairs. I hesitate for no more than a breath before diving through that doorway, plunging down those stairs, straight into the mist. Heedless, reckless. What should only take ten short paces stretches on into twenty, fifty, a hundred. I hurtle faster, careless of my own safety, of whether or not I’ll miss my footing and break my neck. The mist roils around me, burning, creeping into my nose, my lungs.

Oscar screams.

Screams of pain. Of fear. Of hopeless horror.

Oscar, Oscar,Oscar.

Suddenly the mist parts like curtains as I reach the final step. I stagger but swiftly bring my sword up into a defensive stance, ready to hack the Eyeless Woman in two. But there is no wraith. Even the mist evaporates now. There’s nothing but the frigid coal cellar with its low ceiling and one grimy window looking out at the world on street level. A little hunched form huddles in the farthest corner.

“Oscar,” I breathe. Dropping my sword, I leave it burning on the floor and race across the cellar. I fall to my knees beside the boy and grip his hands. His cold hands. I touch his face, roll him toward me. He’s so cold, too cold. “Oscar, please! Answer me!”

His head lolls to one side, an unnatural angle. His eyes, staring out from those hollowed-out sockets . . . they’re glazed over. Dead.

“No,” I whimper. “No, no, no!” Then I throw my head back and scream. Scream to the high, echoing, stone ceiling of the palace hall below the library stairs. Scream until my voice fills all Vespre. The coal cellar is gone, as is my sword. There is nothing but a discarded book with a few scrawled lines and a red quill pen lying beside me. And Oscar. Broken on the floor. Every bone in his body smashed, his collarbone sagging at a weird angle, his neck limp, his head crooked unnaturally.

Oscar.

Oscar.

I gather him in my arms, plead with him to speak, to say my name, to give me one last word. I press his bloodied, battered face to my breast, sobbing into his matted hair. “I’m sorry!” I wail, the words thick and broken and useless on my tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, sorry I couldn’t be what you needed. I’m sorry for everything, everything . . .”

He can’t be gone. It was too soon, too abrupt. I’m not ready. Gods damn me, I’m not ready.

Mist coils around my knees. I peer out through my tears, watch the red, glowing tendrils. They crawl out from every corner of this dark chamber, creep down the walls, ooze out through crevices in the stone, filling up the atmosphere. Slowly, I lift my face from Oscar’s battered form and turn to look across the hall.

There stands Emma. Clad in her white nightgown. Barefoot. Small. Long dark hair hangs in straggling strands across her shoulders and covers her face. But then she lifts her head, revealing the sewn-up eye sockets and the black threads dangling against her smiling cheeks. She holds out both hands in gentle supplication.

He really loves you, you know.

My teeth set on edge. Carefully I lay my brother down on the floor and reach for my quill. The instant my hand touches it, it becomes a flaming sword in my grasp. “All right, Mama,” I say softly. “I took care of Dad already.”

I rise to my feet, brace myself, and raise my sword up high.

“Your turn.”

I hurtle straight at the Noswraith. She hisses, looking more monstrous than ever, and raises hands like claws as though to ward me off. I hack through those hands, sword sizzling. The stench of rotten flesh fills the air.

Then mist whirls up around me, blinding me. I angle my blade, slicing through coils which replenish at once, denser than before. I’ve stood in this mist before. I know what’s coming. A battle cry on my lips, I whirl, carving at nothing. My sword passes uselessly through vapors.

The first blow nearly knocks me off my feet.

I gasp, stagger, the breath driven out of me. Recovering quickly, I whirl and lash back, striking once more at emptiness.

You’re not seeing rightly.

Emma’s voice echoes all around me. I scream and thrust my blade, only for another blow to knock me to my knees.

He needs us. He’s in pain.

A third blow cracks the bone in my arm and sends my weapon flying. I collapse to all fours, scrambling around in the mist, searching for the sword, frantic. Another blow catches me in the ribs, sends me skidding across the paving stones.

Dearest, you must come. Come and see for yourself how much he loves you.

Another blow batters my head just as I’m trying to pull myself upright. I go over backwards, my hands flailing. But no—no! I’m not going to take this. I’m not going to give in and let my own wraith destroy me. With a savage cry, I stretch out one hand. No grappling in the dark, no searching—I am a mistress of my craft, a mage, a wielder of ancient magic. I will not be undone by my own damned spell.

So I extend my arm, and the sword appears, flaming bright, burning away the mist. I take hold with both hands and slash wildly upward. The blade makes contact with something I cannot see, something huge, which bellows and backs away on heavy feet. I don’t hesitate. I lunge, striking out again and again. I hit something and smell burnt flesh. I’m utterly blind, but I don’t care. Pure rage drives me now.

---