Ashes and Ice

by Rochelle Maya Callen

  “No, stop!” His voice is desperate. His hands flail forward to brace against the blow. I do not yield, do not hesitate. I ignore the plea in the man’s voice and knock him back, while seizing the sword. It sizzles in my hand. The weight of it feels right. I clutch the hilt and swirl the blade in a wide arc in the air before aiming for his neck. He shifts his weight away, I maneuver around and slant the blade for another strike. He doesn’t fight back, just moves away from the blow. Then he stands in front of me, arms raised, palms forward in surrender. I gasp as I lunge the blade forward, why am I still attacking?

  Because… he must die.

  “Jade! No!” The words are out too late, my breath catches, surprised at the sound of my name. The blade penetrates flesh, but just as it does, the young man disappears into a ball of blue light.

  The blade burns my hand and I drop it. I watch as the headless body oozes black tar blood. I gasp, waiting for the pain in my hand to subside. It doesn’t.

  Heat flares around me and I am transported to the woods far away from the city in a single breath. I stand desperate and shaking with the gnarled limbs of trees towering and leaning towards me. It’s cold. Too cold. My breath leaves puffs of whiteness in the air. No wind, no gentle coo of pigeons, or rustling of leaves. Nothing. I swallow my fear and look around. I sit in the center of a grassy clearing. I see subtle shadows between the trees in front of me. I turn slowly. More shadows—still, solemn, and human—to my right, my left, and behind me. I’m surrounded.

  I stay still, hoping to wake and for this eerie place to be washed away and be replaced with stagnant humid air and floral, peeling wallpaper. It doesn’t. Instead, in frightening unison, as if one shadow was connected to the others, they all step forward and stop. Again, they shift together, coming closer. I still can’t see their faces, but just as I squint to see them more clearly, a terrible hiss seethes out of them. A now familiar lyric, a horrible reminder, and now even more treacherous because it’s a chorus beating down on me from all directions: You are wicked. You are wicked. You are wicked. You are wicked…

  The cold reaches deep inside me and squeezes everything tight.

  It’s them. All of them. Every girl that the Etcher has killed is here. And they are here for me. I look at each of their faces: a young, oval-faced brunette, the freckled red-head, the tall, seductive blonde, the older, black-haired bartender, the black girl in the sweet knee-length dress and then there, in the center of all of them, stands Clara.

  I gulp in frigid air and feel an aching pressure behind me eyes. My eyes feel too dry, as if the air itself scratches them. I look away from all of them, ashamed that their ugliness is too hard for me to bear. Their skin’s a strange, almost bluish tinge, their eyes fading to only a hint of color amidst stark whiteness in their eye sockets. Necks twisted, broken, arms reaching. Mouths open too wide with pointy, decaying teeth revealed through cracked lips.

  All at once, they stop. They stop moving, stop screeching. They are within several feet, encircling me like vultures approaching the dead. I narrow my eyes. The girls aren’t wearing their normal clothes. Instead, they wear long red cloaks that drag on the ground. For a moment, this comforts me. I’m not sure why, I’m ashamed of it. But the cloaks are like veils over the women I dreamed about, as if somehow, stripped of their corsets, overalls, stockings, boots, and funny animated shirts, they aren’t real.

  The second the tension eases, the girls twist around, backs toward me. Silence. Then in one swift motion, their cloaks fall to the ground. I suck in my breath. Each of the girls’ backs bears jagged, rotting lines.

  I yelp. My symbol, my doodle that I’ve drawn over and over again, my little flurry of lines and shapes that retracing gives me release, peace, stability is gouged into their backs.

  “Oh no…” It was me. All along. I’m the monster—the evil thing capable of far uglier things than their bluish, twisted faces. I killed them. I killed them all. Images flare out in my mind and I’m unsure what is real and not real, what is my memory, and what is my imagination. I had thought it was all my imagination, but now I know I was wrong. It wasn’t all a nightmare. It was me. I am the nightmare. And there is no saving me now. No amount of good can wash away these sins, this blood. And there can’t be more blood. No more.

  Clara steps forward. I resist the urge to flinch away because I know I deserve any pain she may cause me. She puts her palm to my forehead. The blade still burns in my hands. With her fingertips pressed to my skin, a flurry of images blind me. Symbols, runes, a… ritual. Understanding is crisp in my mind. I take a slow, unsteady breath and Clara pulls her hand away. The vision is gone as quickly as it hit me. I am on my hands and knees in the alley, breathing in humid air, trembling. The sword is splayed out on the damp pavement. I know what I need to do.

  I slowly stand, every motion is pained and shaky.

  I pick up the sword, holding it tight even though it scalds my hand. I’m empty and desperate and want to run away, but I can’t. I can’t outrun myself. Emotions swell and I feel a prickling behind my eyes.

  I start walking… to where, I am not sure. I ignore the dark hum caressing my mind. My feet are deliberate in their course. They somehow know where to go; they somehow know where this needs to end. And with a flutter of clarity and memory, I do too.

  Chapter 60

  Connor

  Jade is already gone.

  I can’t even imagine the Jade I knew being locked in that body with cold, calculating eyes.

  A void expands in my chest and a strange thought flutters in. Jade is gone and I can’t even bury her, can’t even mark the loss. She said once, she hoped it would be sunny on the day of her funeral. Well, she will never have one.

  I sift through the pages Lynx gave me. Half-heartedly, because it all feels irrelevant now. Symbols mark pages and underneath is the translation. Notes are scratched onto note pages. This is my dad’s handwriting. I run my fingers over the letters.

  One page reads, THE RECKONING & THE FINAL PROPHECY.

  In the corner, he wrote in jagged, shaky letters: She is coming.

  I read on…and

  Holy flying crapfest. I slap my palms to my forehead. Rubbing slow circles, I try to scrub out everything I learned today:

  Jade is essentially the daughter of a DEVIL.

  Jade is turning more into the Devil’s prodigy every day.

  There will be a moment of reckoning, and if Jade Turns, she will be a weapon against mankind.

  Once her choice has been made, the Apocalypse begins.

  I sit back in my chair hearing the crinkle of the beanbag. Well, that would blow anyone’s Saturday evening.

  The reckoning will be marked by an eclipsed Blood Moon and the beginning of the Apocalypse will be marked by twelve shooting stars and the earth’s quaking.

  Blood Moon. Eclipse. 12 shooting stars. Then, bam. It begins. My head ping-pongs from apocalyptic movie to movie. Lava, floods, earthquakes, demon legions slaughtering the world. I shudder. Jade could be one of those demons. Those green eyes black, that laughing smile quirked up with malice. The Jade I held could be a monster… the monster I already had a glimpse of, a monster I could see taking control.

  I tap my fingers on the page. But,wait… I re-read the passage.

  The eclipsed Blood Moon is the night of Reckoning… the night that the Greater Demon, Dejanira, could rise up.

  Which means… whatever is poisoning Jade at this very moment could still be fought off, could still be denied.

  There was still time.

  Still time to get Jade back.

  “Connor, Connor!”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Come take a look at this.”

  I walk downstairs and see the news on. “What’s up?”

  “Just listen.”

  “The Etcher’s symbol has just been leaked to the press,” says a wiry reporter in a brown, suit, a microphone poised in her hand.

  Two symbols flash on the screen. I stare at them. The lines, slashes an
d curves, familiar.

  The first one is similar to Jade’s but the markings are slightly different. More intricate curls around the edges and slashes through the middle. The other one I have never seen before.

  Or have I? I run upstairs.

  “Are you okay, Connor?”

  I ignore Mom’s call. I scatter papers with the strange writing across my bed, searching.

  I find both images immediately as if they were searching for me too.

  The one on the girl’s backs: Sacrifices to Raise a Greater Demon.

  The girls… they were all sacrifices. The seven sacrifices. I think back to the news reports. Six. There have been six victims. If the prophecy is right, there would be one more.

  The one branded on their necks: A Mark To Animate the Dead. I draw my brows together. What does that mean? I keep reading, grateful this symbol has a longer explanation.

  This symbol is marked on the dead for the purpose of torturing or haunting a living soul. It is generally used to persuade the living into a specific course of action or is used to drive the living into insanity.

  I sit back. Haunting? Have these sacrifices been used to haunt and torment Jade?

  My eyes fall to another image, a very familiar one. Jade’s symbol. I take a deep breath before picking it up. I don’t know if I want to know what her symbol means. What the symbol she drew on everything means. I take another breath before reading the translation.

  A Symbol to Fight Inner Evil.

  I deflate. She was fighting it, even if she hadn’t known it. She was fighting. Fighting Dejanira.

  Pain stabs my stomach. I double over and lean against the wall.

  “She is coming.” The voice is a low whisper in my ears. I try to open my eyes, but my vision is blurry. “She is coming. You can’t let her win. She cannot rise.”

  “Dad?” my voice trembles. Could it really be him? I gather my strength and stand upright, my shoulder still braced against the wall. “Dad, is that you?” Tears burn behind my eyes. They’ll spill over any minute. Not because of the pain. Because I hear him. His voice isn’t frantic or desperate; it’s familiar and…real. He’s here.

  “It’s me, Connor.” His voice is a low steady sound in my ears. “But I can’t stay…”

  “But Dad, I—” I want to tell him he needs to stay; he can’t leave me again. I reach an arm out to grab his body, but my fingers meet air.

  “Connor, you don’t have much time. You have to stop Dejanira from rising. Otherwise, all is lost. I tried to save you from this, but I was,” his voice falters, “too weak. You are strong, Connor. And the vessel that holds Dejanira…”

  “Jade.” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. Jade isn’t a vessel. Dejanira is a leech.

  “Yes, Jade. There is still time to save the girl you love, Connor. You must seek her out where you first saw real hope in her eyes. This is where Dejanira will want to rise. She is a destroyer of hope.”

  “I thought—I thought she was the destroyer of man?”

  “Yes, but man cannot live without hope, Connor.” A warm presence is beside me now. I can almost feel his arm over my shoulders. “You are her hope.” With that, the warmth starts to slip away.

  “No, Dad! Wait!” I stumble forward, reaching, and end up on my hands and knees on the floor. I swallow hard. He’s gone. I rock back onto my heels. Gone.

  The pain is gone too.

  You must seek her where you first saw real hope in her eyes.

  I look to my desk to the bowl of gold orbs I gathered there for safekeeping. If I lost Jade, I would still have these memories. But I didn’t want memories. I wanted a real girl in my arms. I walk over, grazing my hand over them and pick up a single marble. I close my eyes and re-live it, see it as if I was there all over again. Jade’s eyes were open, looking at a sky, her arms and body within my arms, within the water. Her eyes were alive and clear, bright with awe and peace.

  I know what I am holding in my palm. I am holding hope.

  I run downstairs to head out into the night. I open the door and gasp.

  A red, harvest moon burns in the sky and creeping along its edge is an ever-growing black crescent.

  The Shadowed Blood Moon. Tonight is the Reckoning.

  Chapter 61

  Jade

  It makes sense it should happen here. I stare out across the beautiful landscape. Trees reach for the sky, the lake is a glistening inky stain under the red moon. I once was within Connor’s arms in that water. I held him tight until I was happy, whole, and fearless. I am nearly quaking with fear now. I am uneasy because I feel the insides of me are pulling apart. One side is here and it breathes in the scene, holding onto it tenderly. The other part of me feels disconnected and smug as if letting this place go would somehow strengthen me…that loving this place is a weakness needing to be squashed. I look away from the lake and back to the symbols below me.

  I wince with every line I draw in the mud. The burn starts at my hand on the hilt of the sword and stings all the way up my arm. I grit my teeth. I can’t stop. I must finish the circle. I look at it. This collection of lines radiates power. It’s electric and sizzling. The moment I finish a rune, it glows.

  I hear a rustle of leaves just as I draw the final line. The Circle is complete.

  A hesitant voice calls out, “Jade?”

  I whip around. “Connor?” I tremble, hoping it is really his voice calling me from the dark.

  “Is it—you?” He comes closer and eyes me cautiously.

  As I skid to a stop in front of him, I see how he watches me. There is something tangible drifting between us in the air. It’s desperate and full and pulling us closer. But we stay still, watching.

  “It is you.” He says finally. His eyes stay locked with mine and within them seems something so bold and new: longing. I’ve seen traces of that look before, but then it was mixed with shyness—a guarded expression and a wry smile looking only partly real. I didn’t believe it then. Now I do. I could be his; he could be mine. “I thought you were gone.”

  “I was.” I take a step forward, smiling and watching as he slowly smiles back.

  I falter. No, I was here for a reason. As I look into his eyes though, I can’t remember. Then I remember the mirror, the shards of glass, and the blade left in the center of the circle.

  “You have to leave, Connor.” I say. “I have something I have to do.” My whole body shakes, desperate to sob, but unable.

  “Jade, did you talk to Lynx?”

  I shake my head. “Lynx is dead.” I look away towards the red glow in the sky. “I was too late. Too late for everything.”

  “That’s not true, Jade.”

  “Stay away Connor. I have done terrible things, unforgiveable things. I never meant to hurt you and I never meant to drag you into this.” How could I tell him that I was the Etcher all along? The evil that carved up girls and left them dead. “The Etcher…”

  “Isn’t you.”

  I jerk my gaze to him. “You don’t know that.”

  “I do…”

  “Connor, you have to leave,” I say. “Now.”

  “No, I won’t leave you. I won’t let you do this alone. I can help you fight it. I know I can. I can help you remember who you are…”

  “Connor, you can’t stay with me. I’m dangerous. I am not good for you…”

  “Dammit, Jade! I don’t care!” He’s fierce, lethally potent. It slaps the breath out of me. He’s all fire—as if something has ignited within him and its tendrils are flaring up and out of him until he’s ablaze. There is nothing broken about him now. He’s alive—brilliant, blinding, and beautiful. Looking at him, I feel a now-familiar ache in my chest. A pain constricting my breath and reaching deep in my belly, a pain that solidifies the reality I love him, truly and completely. And I can never have him. He doesn’t see it.

  He strides toward me with his shoulders squared. As he closes the gap between us, he reaches out and grasps my biceps, eyeing me with a non-yielding look. I shy aw
ay, averting my eyes. He lowers his forehead to mine and leans in. “Jade, I don’t care.” He releases one arm and points an index finger to my chest where a heart should lurk beneath, but doesn’t. “I don’t care,” He says again, softer now. “Because I know you are wrong. I know what’s inside you… I know you are real, beautiful, good, and right.” His voice catches. He leans back.

  My eyes flutter up to meet his. They search mine, desperate. As if he’s fighting for oxygen, but holding his breath. When he speaks, it’s a whisper. “You are right for me because I love you.” And the moment he says it, my chest spasms as if my invisible, non-existent heart is growing, unfurling, blooming into something lovely, whole and tender.

  And then, my cold, non-existent heart…starts beating. A heart in my chest beats. It is a steady drum in my ears. His words hush the wrongness in me, the fear and the screaming. The very core of me—my heart, so tattered and raw and untouched—thumps wildly, exposed and vulnerable. It scares me. And yet, I love it. This is why, when he leans in toward me, holding me closer, I don’t pull away.

  He brushes his lips against mine softly. I inhale against him—because it feels so right—and kiss him back. His whole body deflates in a sigh. His hands run up my arms and cup my face and he kisses me again and again, more and more urgently. I gasp against his lips. I realize then, it was me who was holding her breath, me who was so desperate to breathe, to inhale the air, to gasp for life. And here he is, this boy of warm light, giving it to me, giving me this chance to be alive. I want to melt into him, kiss him forever because, with him, I don’t feel raw and wanting, I feel whole and happy and real and alive. I love. I love him.

  “Connor, I love—”

  Heat assaults my insides and steals my breath. I fold over clutching my stomach. I had forgotten how the heat burned, how it felt like it could char me to ash.

  “Jade! Jade! Jade—”

  His voice is lost in a tumble of blackness that stretches out and masks everything. It is just me in this black, hollow space.