“And I opened my mouth and let it happen.”
“Not by choice. Now shut. The. Hell. Up,” I growl, turning to head back into my room.
“I’m telling you, you should let him. Illion knows I’ve done my fair share of fucked up things over the centuries, and I’m aware that I’ve barely been punished for it.”
I pause. Cy’s words tempt me, almost as much as they tempt Mavrak.
It’s because someone else has been getting punished in your place. I can’t tell Cyake that though, doing so would be a crueler punishment than any I could ever subject him to.
Eyes clenched, I change the subject. “I’m heading to Hell to see your brother.”
“Which one?”
“Renentr and Hell.” First stop, Crius. Then Lucifer.
“Hades will feel left out, you know.”
Shaking my head, I ignore his playful remark. “I already told Ved to stay in touch. You do the same.”
“Just don’t disappear again and maybe we’ll be able to.”
Touché.
With that, I’m gone. One moment I’m in Enzyria. The next I’m standing before the Sivigh.
CHAPTER 9
Five years ago.
– 114th Precinct, Astoria, NY (USA)
EVESSE
S he’ll understand. She has to understand. He went too far this time. I had no choice.
I flex my stiff hands, feeling the dried blood on them crack. I wasn’t even allowed to wash it off yet. I’ve been examined, photos were taken, and my cheek was swabbed for DNA.
But they haven’t let me wash and change.
I was lead straight into interrogation after they “examined” me. The blood—his blood—is still all over me, tainting my insides it seems, and leaving behind a stubborn, indelible stain that’ll never wash out.
The scent of it is going to haunt me forever. I continue to stifle my breathing, keeping it as shallow as possible.
Where’s Mom? I’m sure they’ve reached her by now. Why isn’t she here?
Stone-gray slabs stare back at me silently. A dull throb dances all over my head and face, trying to get my attention. My eye is swollen and hot. The corners of my vision remain black. The quiet surrounding me isn’t merely taunting me.
Oh, no. It whispers that my mother’s going to abandon me, just as she did to my older brother.
At the thought of Alexis, cold seeps into me, the kind that violates my bones and leaves me shaking. My teeth clack together. I move to hug myself, then remember that I’m covered in blood.
God, I feel so sick. So dirty. So . . . afraid.
I want my mom. At the same time, I wish someone would let me wash and change beforehand. It’s bad enough that I must look at my mother and explain what my stepfather tried to do, and how I killed him in self-defense.
But am I really going to have to do it while covered in his blood and wearing my torn-up pajamas?
Oh God.
Bile rises and when I move to clap my hand over my mouth—my blood caked hand—the urge to throw up makes me heave.
She adored him. She’s going to hate you.
No. My mom loved her husband, but she was also aware of his perverted behavior towards me. It’s been going on for years; the hungry looks, the suggestive comments, the stalking, and the smorgasbord of lewd, fucked-up acts.
He never touched me as a young child, but I knew he wanted me sexually before I was even old enough to know what that really meant.
My mother knew it, too. Not only did I tell her many times, my stepfather was disgustingly blunt when it came to his interest in me.
Mom knew. She didn’t care, remember? She made excuses for him because she loved him so much.
But this time is going to be different. Right?
I came to terms with my mother’s obsessive and irrational love for that man. So much so that I tried to put up with my stepfather’s attentions in order to keep things peaceful for mom.
In the last year, I let that soulless bastard begin to touch me in ways I’ll never forget. And yes, my mom is aware of this, too.
Tonight, however, was different.
My stepfather came home drunk and furious over God knows what. I knew the moment he barged into my room that his desires had veered into darker territory. I felt the blackness of his emotions in the air.
He wasn’t going to be content with just touching this time around. He was determined to take what he considered his—my virginity.
The memory of how he climbed on my bed and ripped the covers off me is like being dunked in ice. Tremors break out everywhere and my adrenaline spikes.
I want to call out for someone. Why did they left me alone for so long?
There’s a two-way mirror in front of me. I already caught my reflection. Saw my drawn, beaten face and the blood caked on my skin. I refuse to look again, but wonder if someone is back there watching me break down.
Are they studying me? Getting some sick thrill out of seeing me suffering?
A tiny voice, one I’ve become acquainted with over the last year, whispers that I should have just let him have me. Where did fighting him get me? What did it get me?
This. This is what.
I considered lying back passively as my stepdad crawled over me. Another voice, though—this one louder and stronger—roared to life inside me at the critical moment. It screamed that my virginity wasn’t his, and demanded I find a way to stop him.
I remember how rage took over and I lashed out, desperate to get off the bed and away from him. He finally took my struggles seriously once I clawed strips of skin off his face.
Other than that, I don’t remember how I got out from under him, only that I made it to the other side of the room before he tackled me from behind. We bumped into my computer table, knocking over a small, blue vase.
The sound of glass breaking and my desperate gasps reached my ears. He was choking me. I reached out, frantic, not even aware of what I was searching for.
My vision was almost gone, darkness shrinking in from the sides, when I felt the shard in my hand, slicing the skin. There was no pain, but blood gushed between my fingers.
A heavy fist smashed into my left eye and my skull vibrated with the blow. My hand tightened around the shard. A broken cough sounded out of my throat.
His legs trapped mine, and his fingers pulled on my sleeping pants, dragging them down.
My vision shutdown. My racing heart sputtered. Fear shrieked like a banshee, flying through my nervous system.
My hand shot up on autopilot and flew at his throat.
Contact.
A gurgled gasp reached me. The hand around my throat slackened. Enough air rushed back in for my sight to return.
That’s when I heard my stepfather’s last, watery breath.
He fell on me, dark eyes wide and unseeing. Lifeless. His blood erupted from the wound on his neck, bathing my chest and neck. Some leaked into my mouth, hot and metallic.
With a shove, I pushed him off me. I made it three feet, on my hands and knees, before the need to throw up won out.
Lord help me, I must have stabbed his carotid. Blood pooled on my bedroom floor. It coated my knees, spreading like a slow tide of red sludge.
I have no idea how long I knelt there, but I do remember throwing up a few more times before I was able to drag myself out of the room. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911 in a daze.
I told the dispatcher everything, exactly as it happened. Then once more when the police showed up. When we arrived at the station, I repeated the process all over again in interrogation.
In a numb haze, I relived the events for a third time, up to the point where the cops had escorted me outside the house and I watched as the paramedics rolled my stepfather’s body into the ambulance.
I shoot out of the seat. The chair scrapes across the floor. Fear-laced energy brutalizes me, fueling the anxiety. For a second, I entertain the idea of flinging the chair at the mirror and demanding someone’s attention.
<
br /> There’s no way they haven’t reached mom yet. What the hell is going on?
Intuition flashes an image of Alexis in my mind. My mother gave him up for adoption five years ago, when he was thirteen, simply because my stepfather demanded it.
What will my mother be willing to do to me for killing the same man?
The answer comes in the form of the male detective. He walks into the room, a blank look on his face, and motions for me to sit down. He takes the seat across from me, then places a notepad and manila folder gently on the table.
His movements are slow, deliberate, and each one is like a punch to my gut.
My chest feels so tight that I have a hard time pushing words past my throat. “What’s going on?”
“Please take a seat, miss.”
“Where’s my mother?” I ask in a small voice.
“Miss Salazar, please sit dow—”
“No.” I’m surprised how steady my tone is considering that the ground seems to be shifting beneath me. I raise my chin and meet the detective’s stare. “I want to know where my mother is.”
There’s no mistaking it, pity shadows the man’s eyes.
“Hun,” he begins in a soft, sad tone, “I need you to sit down so I can explain.”
He doesn’t need to say anything else. Mom did it. She turned her back on her own daughter. Just like she did with her son.
There’s pain with this revelation, a fuckload of it, but my mind throws up a wall, blocking it. The human brain sometimes knows its limit, and I just reached mine.
The detective rifles through the manila folder, his lips moving, so I know he’s speaking.
With effort, I focus on what he’s saying.
“ . . . you’re thirteen, so if they do try you, hopefully they’ll try you as a minor. Honestly, I don’t think they will, but if they do, I know you’re going to win either way because the evidence is obvious. But the state has already assigned a lawyer to represent you just in case . . .”
I shut him back out. On weak legs, I walk to the chair and fall into it. The detective stops talking abruptly. He stares at me and I stare at the wall behind him.
“What kind of woman tries to make her own child look like a cold-blooded murderer?” he whispers more to himself than to me.
My mother. That’s who.
Yelling drifts from down the hall, a raised voice that I know well. A voice that, despite everything, I love, damn it.
The tears slide down my face when the door to the interrogation room shoots open. The detective jumps to his feet and runs towards my mother. Another cop rushes in behind her and joins in the effort of holding her back.
I stare into my mother’s pain-filled eyes. She fights against the men holding her as she yells at the top of her lungs. I don’t bother hiding my tears as I watch my mother try to break free so she can get at me.
My mom screams at me, telling me how much she hates me, asking me how I could do it. Oh, and my personal favorite: how she’ll dedicate herself to making sure I pay for what I’ve done. As if her husband wasn’t a sexual deviant.
As if he didn’t try to rape her daughter after spending a year touching me in ways he had no right to.
The cops eventually drag her out, leaving me alone with the fucked-up truth. My mother blames me for my stepfather’s death. No doubt she told the police a fake story, saying I did it on purpose.
She did it in the past, every time I brought up the abuse.
“You tempt him, you selfish girl. Pay attention to how you come across to him, or I will punish you for tempting my husband away from me. He’s mine, Eve. I love him.”
I clap my hands over my ears, trying to block the memories out. The detective mentioned something about a lawyer. They might put me on trial. I might end up in jail and my mother . . . my mother will probably dance with joy over it.
My small sobs are the only sound I hear. My brother’s face is the only thing I can see. I have no idea what’s about to happen to me, but as much as I miss my brother, I’m glad he isn’t here. If he were here to witness what our mother is doing, he would murder the woman.
It’s the only positive thought I have, and the cruel irony of that isn’t lost on me one bit.
There’s a stretching inside me, a pull on my organs and skin. I gasp. Several voices rise, sounding frantic. Is that Ismini and Soleria calling out to me? I try to roll over.
Pain explodes through every nerve.
God. What the fuck is happening to me?
I open my eyes and a blurry mess meets me. Colors and shapes coalesce, making it impossible for me to make sense of what I see. Parts of the blur move and I realize that I’m surrounded by people.
Am I lying on a bed? I try the whole rolling-over thing one more time, but the memory of what happened with my mom returns, threatening to suck me back into that time in my life.
I cry out from the rage. The fire in me grows, demanding I reach out for someone who isn’t here.
Zeniel.
“We’re losing her again. Move back.”
Is that Vedlyl? My friends really are here. One of them can go get Zeniel for me! I thrash, violent in my need to get the words out and beg one of them to find him.
A hot hand lands on my shoulder. A biting shock ignites, followed by a burst of pain that robs me of all energy.
“What the hell is this?” Soleria sounds outright enraged.
“To put it simply, her molecular structure is unstable and the R’mannev is taking over. Her soul can’t be blamed for trying to escape her body. I don’t know what to do for her other than to put her back under.”
Vedlyl smooths his hand over my temple, and it’s like getting KO’d. My eyes roll back into my head. The last thing I hear is Nylicia’s voice.
“Remember that it’s not black and white. Nothing is black and white. You’re going to have to teach him that. Remember that, Eve.”
CHAPTER 10
EVESSE
“R emember that it’s not black and white. Nothing is black and white.”
Black and white.
Light and darkness.
Zeniel and Mavrak.
I gasp, and the darkness sucks me under. Further, deeper, until . . .
ZENIEL
The light fades. It has remained with me for days, it seems, before disappearing. The lack of sight does not bother me. It serves to help my mental turmoil, a turmoil I have been steadily fighting—and overcoming—since I awoke.
I will not let the beast within me break free once more. I am a new being, unable to dredge one solid memory of what I was before.
But there are flashes, detailed enough to sicken me. I killed with my bare hands. I killed with my infernal powers of Vengeance. The things I did . . . the horrid, merciless deaths I caused with my stare.
No. I am not that thing anymore. I am Zeniel now, and new powers are awakening within me.
The new energy inside me is the polar opposite of the brain-splitting roars I was once a slave to, and as it expands, so does my relief.
Yes, I will succeed and beat back the atrocity within me. I have a new purpose now, one that blankets my every breath.
Protect.
Exactly. I do not remember who I must protect, but it does not matter. That does not make my need to fulfill my purpose any less pressing. I will remember who I need to protect when the time comes.
For now, simply knowing of my purpose is enough to motivate and satiate me.
With deep, slow breaths, I focus only on quieting my mind, until silence becomes second nature.
I have not moved from my position on the stone floor of this cell in what must be days. The gods imprisoned me for only they know how long. I have been starved and tortured. Several days ago, however, I was visited by a small female surrounded by light. The torture stopped shortly after.
I do not remember her from before, yet she apparently knew me, and promised to send someone to remove me from this prison.
Tired, I close my eyes and let the
calm envelope me once more. Eventually, the sound of the large stone door sliding open drags me back into awareness. The light that shoots into the cell comes close to blinding me.
“The prisoner is within, and as you shall see, docile as a little pup. We have ripped his will from his bod—”
The guard gasps before he can finish his comment, sounding like someone choked him into silence. There is a strained groan, then what sounds like a body being flung into the cell with me.
“Now wait a moment!” I recognize the sound of the second guard’s voice. “I shall have words with the overseer. We were following his direct ord—”
The second guard goes silent right before he, too, is thrown into the cell.
An unfamiliar voice echoes inside the stone walls. “Bastards. They are lucky I do not separate their spines from their fucking bodies for what they have done to you.”
The male speaking slowly comes into focus. He is white-haired and wearing at least two bodies’ worth of dark blue and silver armor. His black leather boots gleam in the light.
He walks over the hands of the unconscious guards, destroying the bones with a loud crunch. The male continues onward, uncaring, and does not stop until he is kneeling next to me.
“Are you alright?” he asks, looking my body over for injuries.
They healed days ago, each one resealing thanks to the female who visited me.
“I am fine. Are you the one they sent to get me out?”
The white-haired male stares at me, his silver and dark blue eyes sad. “I am Dyletri. Although the last time you saw me, I was still called Salicyar.”
Had he too started out as a different being?
I blink when clothes appear on my body. Black leather breeches, boots as tough as the ones Dyletri is wearing, and a long sleeved, white tunic materialize out of thin air and onto my form.
“We cannot have you walking around balls-out. The females out there might appreciate it, but that is not a sight for my eyes. Agreed?” Dyletri gives me a small smile; I simply continue to stare at him. “Do you truly not remember me?”
Ryze Series: Books 1 & 2 Page 31