The Midnight Before Me

by Elizabeth Lo

  Why’d they do it? I thrum my fingers on his back in thought. If they took it from a nuagepanthère they’d probably get drunk on their own magic and burn out.

  You just said the answer to your own question. A refined magician—and trust me, there is an abundance of those in Thyrmia—can control the amount of magic they let in. Just enough to give them a high. But a sloppy hand could easily spill in too much magic and kill the nuagepanthère from magic deprivation and kill themselves from a magic overdose. Though, most magicians, after getting addicted, would get sloppy regardless of their skill.

  He stops himself from saying more. The extinction of nuagepanthères plays out in our heads without any more words.

  You should prepare yourself, he says instead.

  I know… I’m ready.

  I’m not really.

  I feel like we’re too close to the castle. And yet, with the castle almost right there—less than a mile away—we can’t approach it any slower.

  In the distance, the trees are touched with the evening sun, and a peridot glow engulfs us. The Summer Palace is a center beacon on the horizon. When I hold my hand in front of me, the white figure is the same size as the palm of my hand, but even so, I can still see the majesty in its old walls still as pristine as white toothpaste bought just yesterday.

  Without warning, Sucre touches down into the forest below and slides into the gaps between the trees just as a ball of fire soars through the air and crashes through the trees, lighting up some trees behind us like a bonfire. I can already smell smoke again. Glorieux’s arrived before us.

  Meanwhile, Sucre takes us on a swaying, bumpy ride as he gallops through the maze of foliage all around us. Crashing through branches, leaves, dirt, and every other appendage of trees that wants to scrape at us, he finally breaks through the wall of woods, and we’re faced with the front gate of the Summer Palace.

  Or at least, what’s left of it. It’s been half-melted, half-torn off of its hinges.

  Sucre pads up to the entrance, though his back has flattened and his shoulders carefully swing up and down underneath my legs as he slinks over the mangled remains of what used to make up the gate.

  I jump off, sending spots into my vision upon landing but giving my legs and hips a break at least.

  White walls stretch high above us. Short and wide granite steps lead up to a daunting pair of double doors with a little circle of cobble in front of the steps most likely for carriages to circulate through. A neglected garden sits on either side of a long pathway onto the grounds as if an entire celebration could be held just in the front yard. The edges of the castle seem to be gilded with gold and the top spires of the castle look like darts piercing the heavens. Even in its half-burnt state, it still retains its grandeur.

  We’re not alone, Sucre hisses suddenly.

  Without warning, Annabelle stands up from his pink back somehow, runs along the top of his head, jumps off, and then shoots. A woman a few yards away from us screams and runs away. I only just noticed her—she was crouched behind a bush in the surrounding garden.

  “What was that for?” I ask.

  Annabelle settles next to me in a defensive stance, her entire body coiled and ready to spring into battle. “Just a warning shot.”

  Joining her side, I watch the woman run away. The woman’s clothes are smeared in soot, but she’s wearing a ripped hair veil over what used to be an elegant, robe-like dress. An outfit of a very, very distinct style. Is she… someone from Hanbury?

  “Wait.” Annabelle puts an arm in front of me, keeping her pistol trained on the woman running away. “Do your eye thing.”

  A double-souled individual, Sucre growls before I can say anything.

  Why would she be here?

  But before we can answer that, more people step around the corner of the palace, looking down at us from the top of the slope. All wearing grimy, though undeniably Hanburian attire.

  “Who are you?” a man asks.

  “You don’t even recognize the national symbol of our country?” Annabelle retorts back.

  “Are you here to kill us?” another person says from behind the man.

  “That depends.” The sharp look in her eyes as she stares down this ragtag group looks like an eagle zoning in on her prey. This is the real assassin, Annabelle.

  “Her Majesty told us not to let you in until she’s ready,” another woman says, her words slurring over each other.

  “We’re going in anyway.” Annabelle pulls out a second gun from her pocket and points them both menacingly at the small crowd.

  I don’t know what to say. They have that look in their eyes. That… look that seems as if they are ready to burst at any moment.

  A low growl sounds from Sucre’s throat.

  They’re cursed people who’ve been let to sit for years. How did she manage to bring them here?

  It must have had something to do with that night in Hanbury.

  There are twelve people in total standing there, but two souls float in each body. The cursed, purplish tinted souls almost completely cover the fluorescent white ones behind them. From the color alone, it’s clear who are the dead versus the alive souls.

  The cursed survivors jump into action before we can even blink. A blast sends us both flying backwards. The bush in front of us is reduced to nothing. A crater sits where we sat just moments ago.

  It’s an explosive version of Decomposition. When Black taught me the spell for the first time, he told me that when uncontrolled, Decomposition is explosive but actually so simple any inexperienced Mover could do it. Did Glorieux teach them all this or did they pick it up themselves out of their own destructive nature?

  One of the twelve Hanburians holds out his hands like an amateur magician; I jump just in time before a two-meter-wide blast takes out a chunk of terrain. Sucre is still near the entrance, his ears flattened to his head and fur standing skyward.

  My hand pulses with magic. I spot my target just a few feet away, and the sleeve of my shirt shrivels and blackens at the cuff as I bring my fist back to land a punch.

  But I see his eyes, and I hesitate.

  A hand is placed firmly onto my chest, and I’m thrust back. A buzz waves through my head when I hit the ground, and I can’t lift my face fast enough to meet the man as he jumps onto me, his hand ready to blast my entire body away.

  A loud yowl shakes my head even more. A giant pink paw cuts through my vision, and the man goes flying into a wall. Even from where I am, I hear the bones in his body crack upon impact.

  Don’t be rash, girl, he growls. We can’t lose you now.

  Sucre’s hiss alone is terrifying. His tail lashes and shears off the tops of an unfortunate bit of shrubbery, and his pupils narrow into slits.

  Get off my lawn, he snarls, pawing at them ferociously like any house cat would do to a mouse toy.

  They fly off to the side, but, just as fast, they stand up and charge, their gazes turning feral and wild.

  I run to the side, picking up a rock lining the edges of the lawn. Another one runs at me.

  “You’re not allowed to enter the Palace!” he screams.

  To both my amazement and horror, my rock lands square on his face, knocking him down to the ground.

  He swings back onto his feet instantly, his nose crooked and dripping with rivulets of blood. An earsplitting scream comes pouring out of his throat. His breaths are so noisy, they spit blood onto me. He digs his feet into the ground and catapults himself straight at me, once again slamming my behind onto the not-so-forgiving dirt. His hands push my shoulders down as he yells incoherent gibberish.

  See, this is true single-minded attacking. Unorganized, instinctive, and desperate.

  But I’m demonstrating single-minded defending… which means haphazardly kicking him and punching him without making any progress in actually defending. From what I can see, it’s not going well for either of us.

  With a kick to his stomach, he coughs, but it only seems to fan the flames of his
distress. His hands snap to my throat, pushing down. My lungs draw for breath and receive nothing, and I can feel my eyes bulge in their sockets.

  Panic takes over. What to do what to do…

  Flesh evaporates at my touch, and bone melts away. I see the blood drip down onto my arm only to disappear into the air. His wrists shrink and simmer away until my hands are nothing but clenched fists.

  Spluttering, my hands seem to move in slow motion, grabbing at the severed hands around my neck, wrenching them off. A gasp of air refills my chest, and I refocus, sitting up and shoving him off of me. Two handprint-shaped holes form in his shirt where I push him.

  Well… at least that did something.

  That magic buildup comes again. He doesn’t seem too happy at the sight of seeing his wrists with no hands, so I clumsily claw myself over the rocks, realizing he’s going to counter my Decomposition with his own. Without waiting, I sprint off in the direction of Sucre in the center just as the BOOM goes off behind me.

  The blasts and explosions make Sucre yowl in surprise as he’s forced to back into us. He shakes it out despite the missing clumps of fur on his front breast and paws, and he prepares to pounce again. His growl sends a shudder through the ground, and he thunderously slams his paws down, creating a full earthquake.

  I glance at Annabelle, and we unwisely take the time to have a silent conversation.

  You go.

  No, you go.

  Just go, already.

  Sucre continues to smack more people away like little dolls, but just as they fly through the air, they twist and aim their hands down. The cycle then repeats, keeping Sucre’s paws tied.

  All right, fine, I’ll go.

  Don’t trip up the steps, avoid the man who just flew by, get to the door…

  Fumbling with the handle, I sink my weight back. But even with my entire strength to the task, it still opens at the speed of thick paint drying on a cold day. The hinges have been partly welded together.

  Someone’s coming from behind. Their boots click against the stone steps. I pull harder and harder until my arms feel as if they’ll pull apart at any moment.

  A BANG from my right causes a scream.

  A bloody hand with a hole through it smears blood onto my shoulder just as the door finally surrenders enough space for the toe of my boot. Hot breath tickles my spine.

  Twisting myself so my back is against the doorframe, I use my feet to push outwards. Even pushing the door takes all the energy I have left in my body. I feel like I’m parting a sea. My muscles are groaning just as much as the door is.

  I don’t have enough time.

  BOOM!

  The ground and my backside are acquainted again, knocking the air from my lungs. A chunk of my shirt goes missing as a red dent forms on my shoulder like someone just took a bite out of my arm.

  I grit my teeth, trying to silence a scream.

  The person in front of me smiles demonically, limping forward. She strikes first, her punch landing on my cheek and coloring blue clouds into my vision.

  “As long as I don’t die! As long as… I don’t ever have to go through that again!”

  Her eyes are wide with insanity, still in shock from her death. My feet slip as my body reflexively, though ungracefully, jerks backwards.

  “I will live!” she screams. “I won’t… I won’t die again! I don’t want to die again!”

  My mind whirls to put together a plan.

  I scramble on the smooth stone just as I wrap my head around what is actually happening. It’s finally dawned on me the true extent of damage the Memento Mori has done to the country by taking advantage of Galviton’s weaknesses and mistakes over time—senseless war, warped justice, and jealousy and ignorance. Everything has piled up to create the mess on our hands now.

  I have to make it to the door quickly. Quickly, quickly, or else…

  BOOM!

  Another explosion. A bite of the steps is eaten, and I fly through the air. The out-of-control Decomposition spells must be unevenly dispersing particles in the space of an instant, creating a force that feels like being slammed into a wall. I almost forgot how to breathe.

  I change plans, calling the wind to me and rising into the air.

  Annabelle is caught up in a fight of her own, running and shooting at her pursuers too distracted to see me. My pursuer has already given up on me.

  I should’ve stashed that knife before we left.

  Blasting myself down with the wind so that I’m at eye level with the door, the door groans as I try to rip it open with Telekinesis, digging my heels into the edge of the top step. If my muscles can’t do it, why not try magic?

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  BOOM!

  The explosions become more and more frequent. Hisses, yowls, yells, and gunfire all intensify, and the lawn of the Summer Palace becomes embedded with craters and holes comparable to the moon’s.

  The door blocking my entry into the Palace finally opens enough.

  Now’s my chance!

  Using the Telekinetic connection to pull me into the opening, my shoulder is the first thing to collide with the magenta and gold carpet inside. I roll a good three times before standing again, dizzy as all hell.

  Fancy interior with intricately carved tables and expensive-looking vases uniformly spaced apart bathe in the shadows of the foyer. It’s haunting in the dark.

  The world sways around me, and my eyes can barely focus on the painting at the end of the hall of a tall, dark man with hair like golden thread—typical of the Royal family—and a boy at his side. I trip forward making it about three-quarters of the way through the long foyer.

  And then it finally occurs to me: I don’t know where to go from here.

  “Sucr—”

  BOOM!

  Rubble and dust fall through the ceiling making my already-disoriented self fall over. Light shines down through a hole just behind me.

  And standing on a chunk of the fallen ceiling is Glorieux.

  I know she’s already noticed me. Where do I go? Never mind, just run… By now, I don’t even know if I’m running in a straight line.

  The painting bounces in my vision, and she springs off her platform of rubble.

  The teeth on the soles of my boots propel me forward; their weight slows me down. I snag a vase and try to toss it backwards, but I doubt it did anything but shatter. Should I dare to look back?

  BANG!

  A cough from behind me sprays a warm liquid onto my neck.

  Blood. But it’s not mine; it’s hers.

  Both Glorieux and I look back at the same time to see a tall figure at the entrance of the palace with a silver gun clutched in his hand and a mop of teal hair on his head.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Midnight

  Lafayette looks like he’s ready to fall over at any moment. He stumbles through the door with rips and tears in his clothing. There’s blood crusted onto his shirt, and he’s bleeding in several hastily wrapped places.

  It’s his eyes that stop me. Dead, hollow… Not a hint of bloodlust in them, just an absolutely soulless gaze staring down the hallway.

  This is a Lafayette I don’t know.

  “Laf—”

  “Mid?” His eyes flicker out of that demonic look when he sees me. A half smile tries to surface onto his face. “Long time no see, travel buddy.”

  Glorieux strikes before he can say another word. She takes a running leap over the block of ceiling she had knocked down and charges at him. Lafayette Teleports away at the last minute and ends up standing just inches from me.

  Shadows seem to swirl around his entire body and tickle my cheek.

  One hand hugs me so close I can feel his tired breath in the rise and fall of his chest and hear his racing heart through his torn-up shirt.

  “We’re going,” he breathes, the smile gone from his voice.

  What’s going on?

  The world condenses around me, pushing me into his body. In a zip, we Te
leport to just outside of the double doors, and I’m facing the shallow gray steps once again.

  The impact against the ground sends waves of impact into my head, and Lafayette collapses next to me on his hands and knees, his entire body heaving with every breath.

  “Lafayette… What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing… Nothing…” he breathes, but then his entire body stiffens, suggesting otherwise. “Stop… stop…” he whispers to himself.

  Glorieux whirls around back inside.

  I rise from the ground, though with much complaining from my extremities.

  Explosions play an unsynchronized march in the background. I wonder if the lawn of the Summer Palace is already ten feet lower than it was when we started. I can hear Annabelle yelling. In the background, a new scream joins the chaos: Artemis.

  Spinning around, I thrust a hand out in a last-ditch attempt to fight. Queen Glorieux Frost freezes in the palm of my hand, her hair floating in the air like white, spindly wires. My muscles tense as if every particle has been condensed into my hand, and it takes all of my concentration just to hold her in place. It feels like the pressure is pushing up against the walls of my palm and struggling to stay within my fingers, yet my real control is over a larger space just in front of me.

  Well… It only looks like I’m in control.

  Her frozen demeanor is misleading—I didn’t quite think this one through.

  My hands begin shaking. My muscles strain so much it feels as if I’m pushing each and every one of them to their limits all at once. The pressure builds—she’s pushing against my magic, and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt so much resistance.

  I hear myself let out a cry.

  My hand feels like it’s about to explode at any minute. It takes everything I’ve got to keep my arm poised in front of me. Come on… Just a little longer…

  Just a little longer and then what?

  As it turns out, Glorieux apparently has a lot more power than everything I’ve got to offer.

  The force sends me flying. All at once, Glorieux rips her arms free, snapping my invisible puppet strings… and then her head… and then her body zips forward like a white bullet, her eyes relit in anger.