Page 359 of Alchemised
Her throat contracted, and she rolled to her side and vomited so violently, there was tearing pain through her back as her body convulsed.
She looked up again as Pace used a scrap of fabric to wipe her mouth for her.
Helena turned away. “How long have they been—”
“It started at dusk,” Pace said, her voice wavering, “once they were sure that Headquarters was secured. They don’t have Luc, though, or Sebastian. There’s still hope.”
Helena’s throat tightened so much, she thought she’d choke. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Pace that Luc wasn’t coming, that he couldn’t.
She looked down at herself. She’d been stripped completely and put into a grey smock. Everything was gone: hairpins, ties, hospital call bracelet. The only thing that remained was Kaine’s ring, hovering in the corner of her vision even when she looked directly at it. It had worked; even resonance hadn’t found it in a strip search.
Now her left wrist bore a suppression shackle, like what had been locked around Lila’s wrists. Her right wrist was bare, apparently too swollen for the matching shackle to fit around.
Rhea’s screams were growing fainter.
There was a roar of excitement, and Helena looked up, terrified of what would come next.
A long, low motorcar was pulling in through the gates. Helena’s heart dropped as it stopped at the steps leading to the Tower. The door opened, and Luc stepped out, his expression hesitant, almost bashful, as if arriving late to a party.
A hush fell across the courtyard. Everyone stared in shock as he surveyed the scene around him.
“No …” Helena said at the same time as Pace.
Luc turned and gave a low, obsequious bow as someone else emerged from the back of the motorcar. The person was tall, dressed in intricately decorative robes and a cloak of blue and gold, with a crescent-shaped crown rising from his head. Morrough.
He walked in front of Luc, ascending the marble stairs, which ran red with blood. All the remains of the Eternal Flame’s military leaders were in pieces on the ground or dangling against the walls.
Morrough turned as Luc ascended behind him, revealing a masked face; the crescent, like an eclipsed sun, concealed the upper half. The little bit of skin that showed was a pale, lipless mouth.
Helena had never seen Morrough. There had been stories of his appearance at a few early battles, but he’d let the Undying fight his war.
So this was Cetus. The first Northern alchemist.
The silence remained as Luc followed him up the steps obediently, while Morrough surveyed his audience.
“Paladia has followed this family of false deities for too long,” Morrough said in a rasping voice that barely seemed like it could carry. “They showed you fire and gold, and you thought these paltry tricks divine.” The mouth twisted in derision. “I have conquered death. Immortality is my gift, and I do not hoard this secret knowledge but grant it to all who are worthy.”
There were loud cheers at this. But that was not the worst of it. As Morrough spoke, Luc sank to his knees as if he were one of those begging for immortality.
Helena watched Luc’s every movement, trying to make sense of what she saw.
Luc was dead, she knew he was dead. Morrough must have found and reanimated him, made him seem so lifelike in order to have the satisfaction of being his executioner.
As everyone watched, Luc leaned forward, pressing his head to the stones which were slick with blood; it stained his clothes, his skin, his hair. The blood of those who’d followed him and his family so faithfully.
“Do you beg for immortality?” Morrough asked.
Luc paused as though hesitating, as if ashamed, then he lifted his head, looking up at Morrough like a supplicant, blue eyes wide, and nodded.
“You are unworthy,” Morrough said, but he held out a long bony hand as if extending it to Luc. Then his wrist turned, palm faced down, above Luc’s head.
Even from the distance, Helena felt the resonance in the air, and Luc’s head slammed down into the marble, skull splitting, breaking apart like a cracked egg. His face caved in, and his body toppled over, brains smeared across the blood-soaked marble.
The air filled with screams of horror.
Morrough turned away from the body. “Store him. He will never burn.”
Then he entered the Alchemy Tower, the monument his brother had built to memorialise necromancy’s defeat.
