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Content warning: violence, gore

 

 

Chapter 29

 

They’re making this my fault. It doesn’t bother to rail against the unfairness; fair has nothing to do with its life. It forces its face expressionless and stares at the survivors of the six Houses, at the parents clinging to their youngest, at the older children huddled together, and the young men and women who look to one another helplessly. It recognizes several of the last group from its time with Silinie.

All of them are going to die if I don’t do the ritual.

No. This is a fight. Everyone in this room is a knife wielded against me. It scans the elders on either side of it, unchained and with their House Masters of Death behind them. How come they’re free? How do I fight this?

And as it tries to think, the demon appears.

Its tail-spike pierces through a man standing before the council platform, coming out of his mouth with the sound of a bloody cough. Screams fill the room. Tentacles wrap tight around his body, crushing him and gouging into his flesh with their spikes.

Its brand erupts with fresh heat and it jumps up, ready to tear the thing apart with its hands. The Deaths grab its arms and twist them behind it before it takes another step. Those standing near the demon’s victim scramble away, shouting with horror. Councillor Davina stumbles back, trips on the steps and lands hard. Only the soldiers and Deaths remain silent and in place, though several look ready to vomit.

The demon squeezes the man and the chamber echoes with his bones cracking. Then it vanishes, leaving the corpse to fall to the ground and the man’s ghost standing over his body, eyes wide and staring. His mouth opens and shouts, the sound faint and lost in the screaming.

Davina comes to her feet as the cries fall silent, her face pale. Her voice is hoarse as she demands, “How many more, Death of Kilcharni?”

Its vision blurs with tears not for the dead man or the ghost, but for the knowledge that everything is falling on it. it cannot sit, watching everyone die. Sooner or later it will give in.

No. Fuck that. Fight. It closes its eyes tight, takes a deep breath. Fight, fight, fight, fucking fight.

“Answer her, Kilcharni,” the Litarch of Felcina says. “Tell us how many you will let die.”

“Fuck you,” it snaps without looking at her. It asks Davina, “How come they aren’t in chains?”

“Because we know the ritual.” The Litarch’s righteous tone lights an anger in it that burns hotter than its brand. “We gave our children and grandchildren to save this city, and we are still giving them while you hesitate.”

“Next scion, come to the front,” calls the Trimagh.

A woman walks up and takes the dead man’s place. Tears cover her face, and her body trembles. She looks up at it and her voice shakes as says, “Please, stop this.”

“I didn’t start it!” it yells. It points at the elders of Tralique, Glarin and Paskoni. “They’re the reason we’re here! Not me! They cleansed House Kilcharni! If they hadn’t, no one would be dying right now!

“Kilcharni betrayed the city,” the elder from Tralique protests. “They murdered the sons and daughters of our house,”

“Bullshit!” It spits its words at them. “I’m the Death of Kilcharni. My master and I would have killed them and we didn’t, so stop fucking lying.”

“Whether or not they started it,” Councillor Davina says, “you’re the one who has to end it.”

“And what do I get for that?” It demands. “They’re free and I’m a prisoner. They have everything and I have nothing.”

“More will die if you don’t,” Davina argues. “More children will—”

“The children of Kilcharni are already dead!” The words are raw and scrape at its throat like caustic bile. “Silinie is dead, Anilia is dead, Celil is dead. They died screaming and you didn’t care so why should I care now?”

Davina’s lips press together in a tight, angry line. The room buzzes with the people’s anger. They want to attack, it knows, to force it to do what they need, but no one is ready to try it, yet.

“If you do not help us,” Trimagh Ashinitha says behind it, “Then they will have died in vain.”

It turns on its stool and the council’s Deaths press on its shoulders to keep it from standing.

“The children of Kilcharni are in the hands of the God,” the Trimagh continues. “But every child in this room—every child in this city—is in your hands. If you don’t do the ritual, thousands more will die.”

It’s true, and it knows it, but its refusal is the only weapon it has.

“And when the ritual is done?” It asks. “I’ll still be a cursed thing. I’ll still have nothing.”

“Do it and the church frees you from the curse that makes you a thing,” the Trimagh says, her voice gentle, “We will make you a person.”

It shakes its head and turns away. “Give me my daggers. Give me my bag and everything that was in it.”

“We can control the other curse inside you,” Trimagh Ashinitha says. “The one that is killing you. We will keep it weak so you may live a proper life.”

“Give me my daggers,” it repeats. “Give me my bag and everything in it.

“We don’t have them.” Councillor Davina’s voice rises on the words.

“She knows where my daggers are.” It shoves its chin at Kilieteria. “And Silagh Lacinth will know where my bag is.”

Kilieteria stares back at it, her face impassive. The angry muttering grows louder. People rise to their feet and start toward the council platform. Councillor Davina gestures, and the council soldiers make a line before the platform, bodies and blades between the crowd and the object of their fury.

“They will tear you apart,” Davina warns.

“My daggers,” it says, eyes locking on the councillor so it doesn’t see the terrified children and their furious families behind her. “My bag. Everything in it.”

“You would let—”

“I am a Death!” It snarls the words, letting its anger fill the words to hide the fear and grief beneath them. “I’ll let every fucking person here die and not care. So get me my fucking daggers and get me my fucking bag.”

Davina’s eyes narrow, her hands clench into fists, and she shakes with a fury that radiates from her like heat from a fire. It waits, knowing they need it, knowing they can’t hurt it until after the ritual is complete.

The councillor’s gaze shift to Kilieteria. She asks, “Do you have its daggers?”

Kilieteria looks at her Litarch, who gestures for her to lean closer. The old woman whispers something into the Master of Death’s ear. Kilieteria nods, and walks down the platform stairs and out, the crowd parting like water before her.

They’re doing it. Relief washes over it, followed by an exhaustion that makes its hands tremble. It hides the first behind an emotionless mask, and the second by crossing its arms. It needs patience, now, and indifference. People in the room are yelling at it, their fear coming out in threats and pleas. It looks at the walls above the crowd so it can’t see their desperation and anger, and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The demon arrives in a stink of acid and smoke, impaling another man and crushing him with wet snaps of ribs and spine, before dropping his broken body and vanishing.

A boy shrieks and tears himself free from the woman holding him. He runs to the body, wails of grief tearing out of him, and falls to his knees beside the corpse. The woman doesn’t move, just stares, frozen with shock.

The dead man’s ghost stands above his body, unseen by his wife and child. He stares at his son, then shifts his gaze up to it, face twisted with fury and hatred

“How many more will you kill?” the Litarch of Felcina asks. “How many will die because of your refusal?”

Shut the fuck up, it thinks but doesn’t say, because if it speaks, its voice might betray it.

It pretends it can’t hear the angry shouts and the bitter arguments taking place around the room. Dozens of people fling accusations at it. It raises its eyes up to the lamps and tries to not listen. But it is so very hard.

They’re bringing my daggers. They’re bringing me my bag. Then what do I do? How do I kill the demon? Do I wait for it to attack again?

It is still wondering when the chamber door opens. Kilieteria steps inside, its dagger belt with the weapons in their sheaths dangling from her hand. Behind her come two soldiers wearing Felcina’s colours, dragging Micka and Silach Lacinth with them.

“Death of Felcina!” the Litarch’s voice echoes through the room. “Those people are under my protection!”

“Were,” Kilieteria says. The soldiers pull Lacinth and Micka down the aisle to the platform. Micka’s eyes go to the corpses and he gags. The Silagh sees the ghosts standing above them, and her face twists with horror and despair.

Kilieteria walks up the steps, says to the council Deaths, “Stand it up.”

The Deaths grab its sleeves and pull. It rises without resistance. Kilieteria wraps its weapons belt around its waist and cinches it tight enough to make breathing difficult. It pretends not to notice and asks, “Where is my bag?”

“We don’t have it,” she says. “And neither did they.”

“I gave it to Micka before you caught me.”

“And he didn’t have it,” Kilieteria snarls. “Now do the fucking ritual so we can end this.” 

I can’t. Not without the flower daggers, not if I’m ever going to be free.

“I need my bag,” it says. “I won’t do the—”

Which is when Kilieteria grabs Micka’s shirt and drives a dagger into his stomach.

Micka lets out a grunt, half-shock, half pain. Kilieteria rips the blade across his body and he drops to the floor, shrieking. It grabs for its weapons but the council Deaths are faster and two blades are at its neck before it can draw. Kilieteria catches Silagh Lacinth’s collar, drives her blade into the woman’s stomach and slashes her open, too. Lacinth screams and collapses, hands clutching at the wound.

Kilieteria turns back to it, points a bloody dagger at it, and says, “Do the fucking ritual, little Death, or watch them die as well.”

Chapter 30 comes June 27th!

 

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