All That Bleeds

by Kimberly Frost

  She clenched her teeth, the weight of her actions pressing down on her. She would never be able to go back, and if she couldn’t get Merrick out, she would lose him anyway. This would cost Alissa her life in the Etherlin, and possibly her dad. Would it feel worth it if she didn’t save Merrick?

  Don’t grow a wishbone where your backbone should be.

  Her throat tightened, and memories of Merrick crowded her mind, the shared secrets, the feel of his muscles under her fingertips, the intoxication of having him nearby. Longing gripped her, and she suddenly realized what her dad had meant when he’d said she should be stealing fire. It was a Delphine de Girardin quote.

  To love one who loves you, to admire one who admires you, in a word, to be the idol of one’s idol, is exceeding the limit of human joy; it is stealing fire from heaven.

  She closed her eyes briefly, the hurricane force of her dad’s passion galvanizing her resolve.

  Yes, Dad, I am your daughter.

  She stepped under the light that illuminated the door’s landing, not lowering her eyes. She placed her palm on the pad and then keyed in the code. The door slid open. She walked inside, glancing at the muses in the portraits whose gazes seemed to follow her down the hall.

  The center room was the shape of a hexagon, and Alissa’s shoes clicked against the parquet floor. During the day, light streamed in through the bay windows, but at night there were only a few recessed lights in the ceiling shining on the center pedestal. Under faceted glass, the Wreath waited. Strands of gold and bronze formed interwoven twigs and delicate leaves, which were dotted with emeralds and peridots.

  Alissa bent in front of the column that held the Wreath and dipped her hand inside her shirt. She extracted the folded pages and smoothed them. Her fingers trembled as she entered the multistep code.

  With the final numbers, letters, and symbols entered, she waited. A soft whoosh of air, like someone exhaling, emerged from the case as the front glass pane opened. A shimmer of magic emanated from the Wreath.

  She extracted it with care. Tipping her chin up so her hair flowed back to leave her forehead bare, she lowered the Wreath until it ringed her head like a crown.

  “He came here to protect me,” she whispered. “Inspire me now to do the same for him.”

  Ways to help Merrick didn’t surface. Instead, a rush of images assaulted Alissa’s mind, making her muscles contract and her joints lock.

  She saw Phaedra among megalithic stones, bound hand and foot. Her aspirant, a freckled witch, spoke words as she scored Phaedra’s hand, causing blood to pool in Phaedra’s cupped palm. Tears spilled from Phaedra’s wide eyes, and the witch tipped Phaedra’s wrist, raining blood onto the ground as she said, “With a muse’s blood, I command you to open.” The witch shoved a small stone in the dirt and turned it like a key. A seam between worlds split, and darkness poured through it.

  Alissa gasped as she was plunged into an oily, sulfurous fog. The witch hadn’t just used Phaedra’s inspiration to raise a demon. She’d used Phaedra’s blood as part of a ritual to open a gateway to hell. Demons roared forth, and Phaedra screamed a verse to close the gate as one tore her flesh. A fierce pain ripped through Alissa. She grabbed the Wreath to drag it off, but her fingers cramped, clamping on her head.

  New images roared through her mind, of her mother bathed in light at the mouth of a cave. Words in ancient Greek. “With a muse’s blood and breath, I implore you to open. That I may discourse with the source.” A glare of white light, the smell of floral perfume, heat to warm the coldest night. Soft voices. Alissa strained to see through the light’s glare. Then harsh words and a pain pierced her mom’s heart, ripping her soul from her chest.

  Alissa’s lower abdomen cramped like a fist closing on a razor blade. Fear, pain, and desperation tore through her. She sank to her knees, breath rasping in and out of her lungs.

  She shook, tempted and wounded by the memories the Wreath offered.

  This isn’t the time! Merrick needs me now.

  “I don’t care about the past,” Alissa cried. “I care about him. Guide me to save his life. Tonight. Right now.”

  Her head pounded painfully, her chest burning, then the pain eased to a terrible ache. She held herself still and forced her concentration onto Merrick.

  “Help me have him,” she said, then white-hot power flowed through her.

  Oh, yes!

  Alissa rose and left the Wreath building. She snatched up one of the decorative rocks that lined the cobbled path. Continuing, she walked in the shadows to avoid the cameras. She positioned herself outside the spa center and launched the rock. The window shattered, and she heard glass rain down onto the floor of the yoga studio. She turned and broke into a run.

  After smashing three more windows, she returned to the lounge bathroom, quickly wiping the melted snow from her skin. She entered the lounge quietly and noted that the two ES officers had left, presumably called to check the grounds and secure the buildings.

  She hurried out of the lounge. In the hall that held her father’s interrogation room and an empty one, she heard alarms sounding in the distance. Over them, Troy called her name. Alissa turned to find him and Dorie rushing toward her.

  “What are you doing with the Wreath?” Dorie yelled.

  Alissa stepped inside the empty interrogation room, knowing they would follow.

  “I told you!” Dorie said triumphantly as they entered. “Tobin hinted that Mills was ventala and that Alissa knew all along. She helped him get in. He probably killed Theo Tobin to keep him quiet, and now she’s trying to steal the Wreath.”

  “Alissa, what are you doing?” Troy demanded.

  “Obviously, I’m using the Wreath.”

  “The vote—” Dorie cried, but Alissa cut her off.

  “The council was formed so the attainment of the Wreath would be based on achievement, not popularity or nepotism. Who’s done more this past decade to earn the Wreath than me? No one.”

  She moved slowly around the table, and they pursued her.

  “I’m just as good a muse as you. All I need is more experience. The council might decide I’m the best choice of all of us,” Dorie said.

  “You really are clueless,” Alissa said, rolling her eyes. Dorie flushed with fury. “You’re lucky you’re so young. Ventala are vengeful. To them, injuries must be repaid. You lied about him trying to bite you. Your deceit caused him to be locked in that room.”

  Dorie shrugged. “I’m not saying that I lied, but so what if I did? I’m not afraid of him. He’ll be dead in the morning. Grant promised. Will you wear black to his funeral?” Dorie sneered.

  Alissa stared at her. How had a muse been born with so little empathy? Dorie relished the prospect of Merrick dying? And of Alissa’s pain over his loss? Dorie enjoyed stabbing her friends in the back and then twisting the knife?

  Alissa thought of her hapless father being made a spectacle, and her blood grew colder and colder, until it was roughly the temperature of ice-melt.

  When Alissa was closer to the door than they, she infused her voice with persuasion and said, “Troy, help Dorie sit down.”

  Troy grabbed Dorie and forced her into a chair.

  “No, Troy!” Dorie shrieked, thrashing.

  “And for that, I didn’t even use the Wreath’s power,” Alissa said.

  “Troy, let go!”

  “Don’t let her go, Troy,” Alissa said softly. Alissa and Dorie locked eyes for a moment, and Alissa inclined her head. “You see? All muses are not created equal.”

  “You’re hurting me. He’s holding my arm too tight!” Dorie screeched.

  “Unfortunately, it’s in Troy’s nature to subjugate innocent young girls. Although if he hasn’t tried with you before, maybe he finds you too wretched to be appealing.”

  Alissa closed the door on Dorie’s shrieks of rage and keyed in a lockdown code.

  Alissa knew it was probably too optimistic to expect that insults and the shock of being trapped would inspire a change
in Dorie, but Alissa hoped for it. The girl’s muse magic deserved to be used for good.

  The Wreath’s inspiration thrummed through Alissa. She strode toward the second hall, the alarms growing louder as she approached. Instinct told her to remove the Wreath. She slipped it off and concealed it behind her back.

  Two ES officers still guarded Merrick’s door, their guns ready.

  She moved her mouth as if speaking and waved her free hand wildly, the picture of distress. They yelled over the alarms, “What, Miss North? What is it?”

  She feigned frustration until they removed their earplugs.

  “You have to hurry. Grant needs your help at the spa building. Hurry!” she said, infusing her voice with power. They instantly grew dazed. She repeated herself, and they turned and rushed away.

  The young officer appeared in the control-room doorway, his ears covered with headphones. She moved her lips, but he shook his head, not fooled.

  “It’s no use talking, Miss North. I can’t hear you, and I’m not going to remove my earplugs or unlock those doors. That interrogation room is sealed under Director Easton’s orders.”

  “He’s overstepping his authority,” she said, but the officer retreated into the control room, locking the door behind him.

  She turned to Merrick’s door and punched in the access code, but the red light blinked. They’d changed the code. She put the Wreath back on, walked to the fire-extinguisher box, and removed the ax. She hurried back to the door and swung the blade against the handle, which broke off.

  The officer rushed out of the control room and grabbed her, but the interrogation room door swung open, knocking them back. She stumbled, but kept her balance, her eyes wide with surprise.

  Sweat-dampened and covered in debris, Merrick emerged, rifle in hand. He knocked the officer down and cuffed his hands behind him. Merrick glanced around quickly. Finding no other threats, he looked at her and the ax she’d dropped.

  “What have you been up to, North?”

  “Exactly what it looks like,” she said as relief at seeing him free overwhelmed her. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

  He kissed the top of her head. “If this is the greeting I’ll get afterward, I’ll arrange to be locked up more often.”

  She smiled.

  “Nice headgear,” he said.

  “I borrowed it,” she said, glancing past him into the interrogation room where the massive inner door lay on the floor, the wall around it torn and jagged, plaster crumbling. She may have taken care of the guards in the hall for him, but Merrick would eventually have freed himself from the room.

  As always, he’s a force to be reckoned with, she marveled.

  Letting him go, she said, “My diversion was only a few broken windows. Some of the officers will be back soon. Let’s get my father and leave the retreat center as fast as we can.”

  Merrick nodded, retrieving the rifle, and they hurried to her dad’s room. She keyed in the code, and the light turned green.

  “That’s a nice trick,” Merrick said, but when she opened the door, Alissa’s triumph was short-lived. The interrogation room was empty.

  Chapter 33

  Lysander woke from dreams of war to an image of Merrick raining blood onto the snow, then falling six stories onto a rock face. Dead eyes stared up from a shattered body.

  “What the hell?” Lysander exclaimed, climbing from bed. He strode to the window and stared out at the clouds. The vision didn’t recur, but he reviewed the details in his mind. It had lacked the hazy, surreal quality of his dreams.

  A premonition then.

  Merrick could be reckless, but he fought like he’d been born to the brotherhood of angels, and he could anticipate an enemy’s attack as well as Lysander. So Merrick wounded and falling to his death was likely the consequence of his involvement with that girl. Lysander shook his head. I warned him!

  Lysander rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully. For years, he’d thought the woman who could stand in the way of his redemption was someone he himself would foolishly become involved with, but he should’ve known better. Statistically, Merrick was far more likely to get dangerously entangled with a woman than Lysander was.

  Lysander slid on a pair of leather pants, then pushed open a window. He dove out, plunging through clouds in the black sky. His wings burst from his back, and he soared around the mountain, whispering on the wind.

  He had to separate Merrick from that girl before it was too late.

  Alissa raced back to the cuffed young officer who’d been manning the monitors.

  “Where’s my dad?” she demanded, adjusting the Wreath, allowing its power to surge through her.

  The officer ground his teeth together, shaking his head. Merrick reached out for him, but she waved off his intervention, knowing it might be brutal. She bent and took off the man’s headphones and removed his earplugs.

  “You want to talk to me,” she whispered.

  His lids drifted down.

  “Where is Richard North?”

  “Director Easton took him to the crime scene.”

  She stepped back, surprised, and glanced toward the control room. The alarms still rang. “He took him out in the middle of all this?” Why would Grant do that? She shook her head, her mind searching.

  Show me the truth.

  Alissa’s mind unearthed a memory with sinister implications. When Grant had confronted Merrick through the interrogation-room glass, he’d said, “I looked at the checkpoint logs.” If there were logs, the identity of the person who’d driven Alissa out of the Etherlin on the night of her abduction had been recorded.

  Grant knows. He knows who took me…

  Why wouldn’t he tell me?

  She hurried toward the door that led outside, her mind reeling back through her relationship with Grant. He’d never acted angry or suspicious, but he had become distant. When was that?

  If he’d found out about her letters to Merrick, wouldn’t he have confronted her?

  The power of the Wreath buzzed through her, and her thoughts raced along as she started to run. No, Grant wouldn’t have exposed her. He would have wanted to save face—his face. He wouldn’t have wanted it widely known that a muse had chosen a ventala over him. He also wouldn’t have wanted a woman he considered tainted to be crowned Wreath Muse.

  Her whole body throbbed, and she knew Grant was the one, felt it to the marrow of her bones. She pictured Grant leaving her with the Jacobis. She saw her own unconscious body lying on the ground as he drove away, secure in the fact that he could alter the logs and that he had ES officers loyal enough to cover for him if he confided in them and perhaps showed them proof of her betrayal.

  He’d left her for dead in the Varden, in the hands of his enemies. That was how much he hated her for even writing to Merrick.

  Outside, she ran along the path. If Tobin had found out about Grant’s involvement with the Jacobis, Tobin would have flaunted that knowledge. Secrets were only fun for Tobin if he could taunt someone with them. Grant wouldn’t have tolerated that.

  She ran up the stairs of the path, breathless when she reached the spot where they’d found Tobin’s body. She looked around wildly. There was no sign of Grant or her father. She heard voices and lost her footing as she was pulled down into the bushes.

  “Quiet,” Merrick whispered.

  She saw bobbing beams of light as security officers rushed out of the glass house toward the Wreath building. When they were gone, she whispered, “I think Grant Easton is afraid my dad witnessed him killing Tobin. We have to find them!”

  Merrick was silent for a moment, his gaze flicking to the Wreath. “You think he’s the one who betrayed you?”

  She nodded. “He crosses into the Sliver and the Varden a lot. He’d have more access, know his way around.”

  “If Easton wants to get rid of Richard, he’ll try to make it look like an accident. He won’t want to be seen by the other ES officers who are crawling over the center’s campus. You know t
he site better than I do, Alissa. Where would he take him? Someplace secluded, but not so far away that Easton would be gone too long for it to escape notice.”

  Alissa closed her eyes and let Merrick’s words wash over her. The Wreath tingled against her skin, its inspiration soaking into her mind. She imagined Grant and her father tramping through the snow toward the ridge. One small push is all it would take.

  “Northeast. Half a mile from the edge of the retreat, there’s a cliff.”

  Merrick grabbed her hand and pulled her up. He led them over the rough sloping landscape. Once they reached the edge of the property, they ran through the snow with only moonlight to guide them. The ground was uneven under her feet, but the Wreath’s magic coursed through her body, and her legs moved as sure as an animal’s, as sure as Merrick’s.

  She slammed to a stop against him when they reached a downslope just before the drop-off. At first, she heard nothing except her pulse pounding in her ears and Merrick’s harsh breathing. Then she heard her father’s voice. Her head whipped to the side, and she saw a dot of light.

  “This is good. Right here is good!” her dad said, his body lost among a thick group of evergreens.

  “This isn’t the spot. You need to see this view, Richard,” Grant said. “Come this way.”

  Merrick let go of Alissa’s hand and bolted toward the trees. She couldn’t keep pace with him, but followed at a sprint, running toward the light.

  When she was among the trees, she saw her dad and Grant, first spotting her father’s red scarf through the snow-dusted green fringe. Grant didn’t have a weapon in his hand, but they were very near the edge. Her heart pounded and her stomach churned. Grant could push him at any second.

  “Richard North,” she called, infusing her voice with power. “Break away from Grant and come to me.”

  Her father shoved Grant aside and started toward her, but Grant whipped out a gun and grabbed her dad from behind, one arm across her father’s throat, the other pressing the gun to his temple.

  “Stop!” she cried, and her father stopped trying to hit Grant with his flashlight. She strode toward them. “Grant, you don’t want to do this.”