The Opal Blade (The Ashen Touch Trilogy Book 1)

by Kristy Nicolle

“Look, I’m not the best person to teach you how to do this. I’m not exactly qualified.” The wind stirs the locks of his dark, coiffed hair, and I look at him with an expression of pure confusion.

  “So why the hell are you teaching me, then?”

  “Because someone needs to, you need to know how to protect yourself, and it was either me or…” he falls into silence, and I place my hands on my hips.

  “You or who?” I demand and he sighs.

  “Me or your father. Haedes… he’d have you convecting already,” he looks sad, like he’s pitying me, and it makes me angry.

  “Haedes isn’t my father. He’s just a sperm donor. Alright?” I growl, partially wanting to ask what the hell convecting is, but not having the resolve to calm down enough. Haedes hasn’t been a father to me. He hasn’t raised me, or loved me. He isn’t anyone to me. He’s just someone who screwed my mother and then messed up her life.

  “Alright. Let’s try again.” Xion doesn’t argue back; he merely shifts atop the grass and folds his arms across his chest. I sigh, trying to focus, to recall what I had done during the Banshee attack, but honestly, it’s an adrenaline fuelled blur.

  “Alright. Here goes nothing.”

  I hadn’t known I was speaking a self-fulfilling prophecy, but exactly five hours later, as rain begins to pour from the grey skies overhead, I return to the house having accomplished exactly what I had predicted.

  Nothing.

  “At least we didn’t have to use the fire extinguisher,” Jules comments, trying to perk me up. I shake my head.

  “Normally, I’d say yes that’s great, but I didn’t even manage to produce enough fire to light a freaking tea-light,” I complain, and Xion looks stoic.

  “I’m sorry. It’s probably my fault. Like I said before…” he begins, but I cut him off.

  “Yes, you’re not qualified yada, yada, yada, I know… I don’t blame you. It’s probably just me. I’m not exactly up for using the powers that led to my parent’s death.” I’m candid with my words, and Jules flinches. They echo out around us in the high ceilings of the entrance hall and silence falls shortly after. Nobody knows what to say next, least of all me.

  “Look, I’m tired. I’m going to go try and relax. We can try again tomorrow.” I pivot so I’m facing away from them, walking towards the double staircase with aching feet and the beginnings of a headache.

  “Do I need to go and hang out underneath your bathroom window again?” I hear Xion call after me, so I turn back and look at him, plastering a cocky grin on my face to cover up the inner turmoil I can’t seem to shrug.

  “Only if you’re interested in catching me getting out of the tub.” I feel a little more like myself as the quip leaves my lips, like things are settling as I see him smile up at me, as though he knows to use my level of humour as an indicator of how I’m feeling.

  I finish my ascent of the stairs, but rather than turning left towards my suite, I instead turn right, feeling my curiosity overpower my sense of fatigue. I walk the length of the landing and then turn into the deep hues of the upper east wing corridor, making a left into the library.

  The stacks are covered in sheets to protect them from the years of dust that have accumulated. It seems like nobody has used this room in at least twenty or so years, which surprises me because I would have thought Peter or maybe even Jules would have been starved of something to read at some point. I know I’ve never been in this library because of its proximity to Peter’s study, but what’s their excuse?

  I pull down the sheets, not even truly certain of what it is I’m looking for as my eyes scan the worn leather spines, which are too neat upon the sturdy oak shelves, from lack of reading. I stand, wrapping my thin leather jacket around myself as I feel a chill draft move around the room, even though the windows are shut tight. Raindrops on glass are the only audible sound as I spot something which spikes my interest.

  The Myths of Ancient Greece.

  I grip it with my fingertips and pull, feeling the weight of it come loose from the shelf as it falls back into my palm. Pacing across the rich wooden floor, I’m drawn to an armchair which is also covered in a dustsheet. Stripping it back and lounging across the arms like I used to sit when I was a small child, I settle into its hold and exhale. I reach back over to the table beside me, pulling a heavy spherical lid off a crystal bottle of bourbon and taking a swig straight from its depths.

  I open the book to the index as the alcohol heats my throat and then my blood, looking down the long list until I find the required letter.

  Scanning it quickly, I find him.

  Haedes.

  Flipping to the first suggested page, I inhale deep, and begin to read.

  In a swilling together of bourbon, my own name and his, I stir from sleep. I don’t know what wakes me, nor when I fell asleep, but something does. The light, which I had turned on shortly before giving in to slumber, flickers, the lightbulb having come loose or being faulty from lack of use no doubt.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I adjust my position in the armchair, a shiver running through me whilst my stiff spine loosens slowly. I gaze down at the story I’d been reading before falling asleep, eyes still foggy with sleep.

  The tale of how Persephone had been stolen away by her own Uncle, Haedes, and forced to marry him.

  It makes me wonder, had my mother called me Persephone as some kind of sick joke? Or had she intended me to follow in her footsteps and live out my adult life in The Underworld?

  With the amount of debt my father has seemingly accumulated with the Indicatus Courts, it seems unlikely that they wouldn’t have told me about it as I grew.

  Then again, after seeing the vision presented to me by The Fates, I’m beginning to wonder how well I really knew them. I was only six years old when they had died. So maybe I didn’t really know them at all.

  The thought depresses me, and as I slump back into the arm of the chair, the scent of alcohol still heavy on my breath. The light flickers again, and the wind outside howls with a ferocity I haven’t heard in a long time.

  The hairs on my arms stand up this time, and I reach for my jacket, which I’d slung over the back of the chair before falling asleep.

  As I twist to pull the leather around myself, something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. A flit of shadow, an abruption of the light cast by the struggling bulb.

  I shudder against my own volition, looking around to find nothing before turning my attention back to the book I’ve been reading, shrugging it off as paranoia.

  I look in detail at a depiction of Haedes, wondering how accurate it is, wondering if I look like him. I place my hands on my face, tracing my features, my slim jawline and wide eyes, my straight nose. Now I think about it, I look nothing like the man who raised me.

  As I’m pondering my lineage, the light beside me gives up entirely leaving me in the dark.

  I sigh, twisting to stand and turn on the main chandelier.

  As I do so, I see it again. Several long protrusions, silhouetted against the dim light falling through the window.

  Lightning strikes, causing a flash of stark white light, and then the silhouette is gone. I spin, becoming quickly angry, sure that someone must be screwing with me.

  “Hello?” I call out, balling my fists at my side, ready to defend myself should I need to.

  Instantaneously, a white smoke begins to seep out around my ankles from beneath the floor boards, causing chills to run rampant across my flesh.

  Murderesssssssss…..

  The word comes to me in a whisper that curdles my blood as I slam my palms into the side of my skull, trying to block the sound.

  Murderesssssss….

  It continues in spite of the fact I’ve got my ears covered.

  It’s inside my head.

  Smoke begins to rise into the room at a too fast rate, and as long-legged arachnid shadows close in, it narrows into trails which move unnaturally toward me like ropes and bind me. Cl
imbing up my nostrils and into my skull, I feel myself doing the only thing I know how to as I fall to the floor, powerless.

  The last thing I hear before the nightmare takes me into its grasp is my own, long, harrowing scream.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

  SEPHY

  It’s the same scene as before, but this time I can’t look away. It’s like a waking dream, overtaking my consciousness so that I cannot escape from it.

  Stuck in this prison of memory, I look on.

  I’m standing, six years old, stance wide this time. I’ve not fallen; I’ve not moved towards the fire place. Instead, I’m furious, my wide, innocent eyes transformed by fury and hate. My hands are shaking by my sides, as though my tiny body doesn’t have the capacity to hold my feelings inside. My parents cower, their voices coming to me.

  “Please, Sephy! No. Don’t. Come on now.” They’re begging with me, pleading, and I find myself wanting to scream for it all to stop.

  “No!” My young-self screams, stretching out her palms and shooting two hot streams of liquid flame directly upon them. They perish before my eyes, their screams torturing me as they rip through my soul, tearing it to shreds.

  Is this real?

  Did I do this?

  “SEPHY! SEPHY, SNAP OUT OF IT!” The side of my face is met, full force, with a fleshy foreign object as I open my eyes. My entire body emits a jerk. I’m on the floor, holding my knees and rocking.

  Xion is on his haunches, looking down at me as moonlight casts deep hollows in his features and exaggerates the dark grain of his facial hair. He looks over his shoulder to a twitching body, to something not human. I stir, my curiosity overwhelming my pounding heart and the roaring of my blood.

  “What is that?” I ask. It looks like an enormous alabaster tarantula, but one that’s been genetically modified in some horror flick. It has bright red eyes, eight of them, and a gaping mouth with needle-esque black teeth which weep dark saliva. The body has been ripped asunder from its legs, no doubt by Xion who looks only slightly out of breath.

  “That, Sephy, is a Phobia. Barbas’ Kindred. The Demon Lords… they must know where you are, and worse than that, who you are.” He looks at me deep in the eyes, fear flickering behind his dark pupils in the shadows.

  “What did it show you? Whatever it is, forget it. They prey on our worst fears and show us what we’re most afraid of. They lie to us,” he whispers to me, placing a rough finger on my cheek and lifting my eyes so they meet his.

  “I…” I am lost for words, physically shaking as I get to my feet. Xion offers me a hand, but I use the arm of the chair to steady myself instead, unable to take my eyes off the dead Phobia’s body. “Is it… dead?” I ask him, my brow furrowing with concern as I take a few steps forward.

  “This form is dead. But its soul will return to Mortaria and resurrect in another body of the same breed if Barbas so desires. I do not have The Eternal Flame… so any demon I kill is only ended in a temporary capacity,” he explains, and I nod, still hearing only his voice and the sound of my blood rushing in my ears.

  A bolt of lightning causes the light in the room to flicker, and I take a few steps around the corpse, wondering if it’ll turn to ash like the Banshee had before. Thunder sounds, finally bringing me back to my surroundings as I tear my gaze away from the body.

  A single tear is let loose from my eye and falls down my cheek.

  “Sephy, don’t think on it. Not for one second. It was a lie. An illusion preying on your worst fears. Please. Don’t let it make you believe you’re anything less than innocent in all this.” Xion’s words make me turn back to him a second, surprised he knows the nature of what I’ve just seen. “What were you even doing in here?” He picks up the book, which is still laid open on the armchair, and snorts, rolling his eyes.

  “If you want answers about Haedes, these books are nothing but propaganda, a slander campaign run by the muses. I’ll see if Peter has any books that are actually accurate. It’s time we give you access to any information you need.” He gives a small smile, trying to be kind, and as I turn to move through the doorway, Jules appears, dressed in black pyjamas with a shotgun in one hand.

  “Where are they?!” Jules loads the gun in his hands, all business.

  “Woah, it’s okay, Jules. Xion killed it.” I step aside, showing him the body, which is leaking black fluid all over the wood of the floor. He looks horrified.

  “I know, it’s terrifying,” I state, almost sounding bored, but internally scared at the thought of what that creature could have done to me while I was trapped in my own false memories.

  “Actually, I was just thinking that getting that out of the floor is going to be a nightmare,” he admits, and I smirk.

  “I’ll clear this up. You take Sephy and get her a drink,” Xion points, directing us to exit the room. Jules grabs my elbow, yanking me away from the demonic murder scene like I’m a little kid.

  “Hey, stop manhandling me! I can walk,” I complain, and he rounds on me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

  “You can’t see yourself. You look completely out of it. What happened?” Jules demands, acting more like a parent now than ever.

  “They showed me… they made it look like I killed them on purpose.” I swallow hard, wiping beneath my eyes as they begin to tear in the corners yet again.

  “Persephone Sinclair, you may not be full of sweetness and light, but you’re not a killer. Not in any sense of the word.” He looks down at me and I feel the tears threatening to spill but this time in greater force.

  He puts his arms around me, and I stand stone still, letting him hold me but not falling into the embrace. “Let’s go sit in the record room; you’ll feel better with some music on,” he suggests, and I nod, pulling away and wiping a few stray tears that have escaped my lashes and fallen in salty globules down my cheeks.

  “Okay. That sounds nice. I haven’t been in there since I came home,” I admit, moving quicker down the corridor now as I have a destination in mind.

  “I’ll go and get you a drink… whisky?” Jules asks, but I frown. I’ve had enough alcohol for one night.

  “Actually… you think you could make me some cocoa? Like you used to?” I ask him and watch as his mouth cannot help but spread into an unmistakably joyful smile.

  “Of course! Coming right up!” He turns on his heel promptly, as we reach the top of the staircase and descends down to the kitchens while I carry on, striding straight past the door of my suite and pivoting left.

  I stand in front of the door where I’d spent so many hours of my childhood they’ve all blurred together. Hours spent dancing with my parents, listening to music and being told the history behind each song, each band. My parents loved the music of the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, and this room reflects them more than any other in the entire house.

  I feel my heart pounding again, suddenly anxious at the thought of stepping inside. I know it’s silly and so push through, bringing my hand to the door handle and bearing down, letting myself inside.

  More dust sheets. More evidence that not a soul has entered here in far too long.

  I put the overhead lights on, filling the room with a slight warmth as rain continues to slash against the windows from outside. The thunder rolls, but I ignore it as I pull down more dust sheets. The black shelves pop against the cherry red walls, and the onyx coloured carpet caresses my feet as I stare up at the records in their thousands.

  I’ve never touched these. I’ve wanted to, so many times, but never wanted to disturb the meticulously organised system my father had arranged them with.

  I don’t know it; I was too young for him to teach me when he had died, and moving them has always felt like it could mean washing away the last remnants of their presence here at the estate.

  Taking a deep breath, I know it’s time. Everything is different now. I know that my happy childhood had been anything but. I know that my mother’s deep dark secret was what had g
otten them both killed. They’d want me to have these records, these words that had meant so much to them.

  In this second, I realise something important.

  Whether or not I’d killed them, whether or not it had been an accident, they loved me regardless. They’re gone now, but that doesn’t diminish how much they loved me when they were here.

  I smile to myself at this fact, the chill place where fear had taken root within my stomach warming as a flickering flame of hope re-ignites within my chest, heating me all the way through.

  I look up at the towering shelves filled with cardboard cases, at the collection of vintage phonographs, their turntables stationary and sad.

  I hear tread coming down the corridor, so quickly select the first record I remember listening to with my father.

  The Bee Gees- Saturday Night Fever

  “Sephy? Are you in here?” I hear Xion’s voice approaching and so move to turn my back to him, busying my hands with pulling the record from its cardboard slip and blowing on its black grooved surface, making sure there are no scratches or residual dust. I don’t want him to see I’ve been crying.

  “Mhmm.” I call back, acknowledging that I’ve heard him.

  I hear him round the doorway, a little breathless.

  “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you can’t stay here. This is the second attack in as many days. It’s not safe here… we need… you need…” He can’t bring up the words, so I turn, flipping my hair over one shoulder and glancing back at him.

  “To go and live in Mortaria for a while. I know.” I speak the truth I have already surrendered myself to. I can’t stay here. I never want those Phobias in my head again.

  “Right. Well, I’m going to head back and set things up for your arrival. Pack a few things, not too much… alright?” he instructs, and I nod, not able to come up with the words to reply. He leaves, hesitantly, but he does leave, so I’m alone with the sound of a needle crackling against vinyl.