Page 98 of Vilest Things
Clearly, Otta doesn’t find her very funny.
“You’re a pest,” Otta spits. “Nothing but a child wearing shoes that don’t fit. You don’t even know what you took.”
Otta lunges. Calla spits a curse, then darts away, the crown still in her hand. It hums with every rough movement through the air.
“Tell me,” Calla taunts. She holds the crown close. “I’ve heard plenty of conjecture.”
“Not the crown.”
Otta doesn’t try to make another grab. Instead, she flings her arm hard, and an arc of light strikes Calla like a physical weapon, burning a mark on the arm she throws over her face in a panic. It takes the air out of her when she hits the floor again.
“You know what you took,” Otta goes on. “Why else did I bother getting you here? Why else would I waste so much time? You didn’t know what you were messing with, and now the rest of us have to suffer for it.”
She flings her arm again. Calla avoids this attack, rolling, but she’s getting too close to the wall. Shit, shit,shit—
Somehow, Otta knows that she is an imposter. That Calla is not Calla, but an invader from years and years previous, one who has been around long enough to snuff out the original princess.
“You’ll inflate my ego,” Calla says, trying not to sound breathless. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who could move this crown.”
When Otta’s expression flattens, Calla knows she’s hit her mark. No one else could have picked it up. Queen Sinoa Tuoleimi was born again as Calla Tuoleimi, returned to the world for unfinished business, and then a desperate province child invaded her and absorbed all her might.
“Don’t think so highly of yourself. Your use is done.”
Otta lifts her foot, meaning to kick, and Calla takes her chance. She yanks hard on Otta’s leg, sending her to the floor. Her offensive tactic clearly has a limited run, because Otta twists before she’s fully fallen and lands on her knee rather than her full body. Calla hisses, jerking aside before Otta pivots and extends her leg in an attack. In the time it takes Calla to attempt scrambling upright, Otta throws a punch while on her knees, barely missing Calla’s face when Calla dodges.
This is a shock.
Otta Avia fights like she was taught in the Palace of Heavens.
Calla shoves hard before Otta pulls back. Though Calla lands an attack, Otta is fast to recover, rising to her feet and staggering a few steps away. The Palace of Earth liked to teach defense. It’s why August can’t fight for shit—he will invade at a distance and spill blood in gallons, but he flinches before he hits.
Calla, going off a gut feeling she can’t entirely put into words, stands and tries to jump.
Her eyes open and close in the same view of the world. She is blocked out. Otta Avia… is doubled.
Otta must feel the attempt. When she swings, Calla doesn’t duck quickly enough. She’s clipped in the shoulder; Otta swipes her feet out from underneath her. This all feels familiar; it’s all an echo ofsomething. Calla, cursing, grabsOtta’s arm and tries to incapacitate her, but she’s made Otta angry in trying to invade her, and when Otta slams her head into hers, Calla flinches.
She can’t give up the crown.
Calla twists around. In the corner of her eye, she finally sees Anton stirring. She doesn’t give him any time to recover. She shouts, “Anton, catch!” and she throws the crown at him. In the same gesture, she lets her fury surge, and when her arm swings back around, she aims at Otta. Light unfurls from her hand in an arc, slamming Otta back.
It feels like firing energy out of her palms. As though she’s turned herself into a weapon that uses gunpowder, exploding outward upon impact. But Otta is clearly better versed in this sort of maneuver. She wipes her face hard.
When she lifts her hand and clenches her fist in midair, Calla can’t breathe.
“This could have been so easy,” Otta says. She steps closer, her fist still extended. “You could have returned what you stole. We could have all gone about our merry way.”
Calla pulls at her neck. Her nails are scratching lines down her throat, but she cannot get air.
“What I don’t understand is how you did it.” Otta is within reach. Black spots are clustering into Calla’s vision. “Whoareyou? Do you yourself even know the answer? I gather not.”
“Otta, stop.”
When Otta turns toward Anton, her fist loosens the barest fraction, and Calla gets a gasp of air in. Anton has staggered to his feet by the staircase. One side of his temple is bruised red. His arm is bleeding from the shattered glass, smearing blood onto the crown he’s got in his hand.
“Trying to come to her rescue?” Otta snaps.
“No,” he replies, holding the crown up. “But I’m sure the heavens will when they strike.”
