by Lucia Ashta
With the Count’s magic bound, he could no longer do magic. But that didn’t interfere with any spells he might have already set in motion before the binding. Once a spell was cast, it held a life of its own—an energy—that wasn’t altered by what happened to its caster. A spell could remain active for as long as it took to carry out its purpose—centuries even—without its strength diminishing.
The Castle of Washur was more than a space enclosed by thick stone walls. It was the Count’s domain, and he’d undoubtedly fortified it with his defense, and offense, in mind. The castle became a living entity that might now be more dangerous than the Count himself. They would have to navigate it as carefully as a field spotted with land mines.
And Marcelo and Mordecai would have to retrieve Sylvia and Marcelo’s split from that guest room urgently and hope that it wasn’t already too late.
Urgency replaced the joy of moments before, and Mordecai’s eyes trained on the Count and Salazar, searching for the fastest way to contain them.
So long as Marcelo’s split was unprotected on the floor beneath them, Marcelo’s life was in danger. It was already unclear whether or not his split would be able to survive the dark infection the blobs inserted into his flesh. Any other harm to his split, however slight, would tip the odds toward almost certain death.
With Marcelo and Sylvia’s life threatened by an enchanted castle that would inevitably be dark like its master, Marcelo came to accept that it might not be possible to rescue Salazar from Washur’s clutches.
It was clear that Salazar was still under his father’s spell; the young man’s eyes reflected the same murderous intent. Marcelo didn’t want to abandon Clarissa’s son. Now that he knew he was alive, he felt responsible for him. He owed his sister that and more. He hadn’t been able to save her, but he could find a way to save her son.
But it might not be now. If he allowed his split to die, he might not survive it. And then there’d be little point in a responsibility he couldn’t fulfill from the grave. If he had to come back for Salazar, with all the crushing weight that accompanied the thought, he would do it.
Marcelo and Mordecai pushed their backs together and held their swords in front of them. Marcelo wouldn’t kill the man he faced that looked so much like him. Yet if he had to wound him to get out of there, he would. These were times when a man and a magician must do as was needed. Emotion had no place in calculations of warfare and minimization of casualties.
Mordecai stared into eyes of ice. He’d kill Washur. He’d decided he would before stepping foot on the castle grounds, and nothing had persuaded him otherwise. If anything, what he’d seen at the castle had affirmed his intent.
He would kill Washur without hesitation. Washur knew that, and Mordecai knew that.
Both men battled for their lives, and only one of them had magic on his side.
With each set of fighters locked in duel, Winston saw his opportunity. He edged away from the combat, attempting to be inconspicuous for one of the few times in his life. Always, he sought attention and power. Now, he sought only to escape with his life. Even if Washur could no longer use magic against him, his cruelty and skill as a fighter remained. He’d been sword fighting for centuries before the Count and Countess of Chester had even thought of conceiving an heir.
Washur might kill Winston, if for nothing more than to punish him for a life that could still access magic—albeit limited magic—when his could not. Winston didn’t want to be around when Washur vented his rage.
No one looked toward Winston as he moved quietly toward the door. No one dared break the gaze of his opponent.
When the clashing of swords began, Winston drew open the door. The creak of old hinges was nothing compared to the sounds of punishment that rang out across the rooftop. With one last look at the fighting behind him, he slipped inside.
Yet what he’d thought of as the means to a safe exit wasn’t that. The castle would swallow him whole as easily as the dragon that continued to sleep in the courtyard, rattling the windows to either side of the front door with each of its snores. It’d be some time before anyone would see Winston, heir to the House of Chester, again. And when they did, there was no chance of him being the same person that he was that day when he walked off the roof of the Castle of Washur.
Perhaps the forces of nature were punishing him for all the wrong he’d already done in his relatively short life. Or perchance a force greater than him was offering him the chance to see himself differently, through grander eyes.
Whatever forces were at work that day, they’d transform the very essence that shone through Winston’s eyes.
Chapter 49
Despite the grave odds that had weighed so heavily against us as we hurtled toward the ground, Gertrude and I weren’t hurt. We moved slowly across earth that was parched and infertile nearest the castle, because even nature shrank away from the darkness that emanated from the Castle of Washur.
Gertrude walked beside me as we moved in utter silence. I didn’t know if she could speak as Mina, but I was in no hurry to find out. I’d moved to save her on instinct, moving too fast to think. But now the understanding of how close I’d actually come to losing Gertrude gripped me at my core, shaking me.
Seconds after we touched the ground, I reached for Mina, wanting to convince myself that she was real and with me again after all this time of separation. She came to me easily, searching for the touch of a loved one after what she’d endured at the Count’s whim.
We needed to leave the castle’s perimeter as soon as possible. When we finally reached the bottom of the hill where the grasses began to grow, we were more shaken than before, not less. Gertrude’s upset was evident in her eyes, those human eyes that were incongruous within the furry face.
I realized all she might be going through. What had Count Washur done to her? Today, he’d tried to kill her. What had he done before then?
There were things much worse than death. Mother, who found discussion of sex inappropriate, had nevertheless warned my sisters and me of the dangers of rape. Rape was an act of aggression that violated the soul as much as the body and, terribly, it was commonplace. Mother had ingrained her methods of rape prevention in us. I rarely agreed with Mother or any of her ways, but this was an exception. I followed her recommendations of caution and did what I could not to find myself alone with men I didn’t trust. But Gertrude would’ve been unable to shield herself. I prayed to a merciful god that Gertrude had been spared this insult, though I shuddered, knowing what kind of man the Count was.
Count Washur had made Gertrude his pet cat, Mina. I knew too little of magic to comprehend what else a magician would be able to change in a person. I again prayed that Gertrude would be the same girl she’d been once her human body was restored.
The Count had flung Gertrude off the roof to what she must have thought was a certain death. What did that do to a person? And then she’d seen me fly, when I was supposed to have been dead for almost four years.
It was too much. It was all too much for me, and it certainly must be for my innocent little sister.
I didn’t want to, but I sank heavily to the ground behind a tree trunk that I hoped would conceal me. My shoulders began to shake against my will, and I hoped Gertrude wouldn’t notice. I wasn’t the bastion of security I hoped to provide her with after all she’d been through.
As was so often the case, Gertrude didn’t do what I wanted her to, but what she considered best for me.
With my eyes closed already, I didn’t see her approach my outstretched legs. But I felt her nestle into my lap. She curled into a circle like all cats do, and settled in. Her loyalty to me spoke louder than the words her feline vocal chords wouldn’t utter. She was there for me, just as she’d always been, even when it was I who should have been there for her instead.
I opened my eyes then, but didn’t look at her. I breathed deeply—in and out, in and out—if I focused enough, I’d forestall the inevitable crash. I had to keep it at bay.
But when my shoulders shook harder I realized I wouldn’t be able to stop it. It was coming.
When Gertrude rubbed her head against my thigh, and I felt it through all the layers required of a lady, I knew my fight was over. I accepted the unavoidable.
I cried so long and so hard—at relief that I’d found the way to rescue my sister, at the thought of Marcelo and Mordecai in danger, and Marcelo’s split and Sylvia still at terrible risk, at the terror of Count Washur’s reign, and everything else I couldn’t yet contain within categories of emotion—that my eyes were swollen and my sight blurry.
At first I imagined what I was seeing was a distortion of tear-coated eyes. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. Because who advanced toward the horses’ hiding spot was unbelievable, even when taking into account the kind of day filled with the incredible we’d already had.
Life with Marcelo and Mordecai had trained me to expect the unexpected. I was no longer surprised—or as surprised, I should say—by the appearance of creatures that I assumed didn’t exist. But this sight was shocking enough to halt the tears I’d predicted would never end. They ceased instantly once I made out the red hair and the red scales in such close proximity to each other.
I picked Gertrude up from my lap and stood, holding her, waiting. There was no way I was going to receive the apparition heading our way sitting down.
Chapter 50
Gertrude and I stared, mouths agape.
I lost count of how many times I faced the unforeseen today, of how many times my heartbeat threatened to stop. With everything that happened, it seemed impossible that our arrival at the bottom of this same hill had only occurred at daybreak. But even more unbelievable was the red-haired woman approaching us riding a dragon—the terrifying, formidable scarlet dragon I’d last seen in the courtyard.
I was eager to confirm the identity of the redhead, who must’ve been traveling toward us well before the resolution of the conflict with the Count.
She descended from the dragon, legs sliding along red scales as vibrant and rich as spilled blood. She approached, head held high and shoulders straight, knowing that every set of eyes in that hillock were upon her. Long, undulating hair billowed behind her, framing skin that was the same color as mine, soft pink like seashells.
When she reached Gertrude and me, she looked at us with a fiery gaze I’d seen many times before, only in a looking glass and not in anyone else. And I realized there was no need to ask who she was. The answer to my unspoken question was as obvious as it was improbable.
The woman waited. Why speak when we could figure it all out on our own? All the clues were there, out in the open, written across the woman’s face. There were things in life that were undeniable, and this was one of those things.
The moments ticked by, while neither one of us said anything. We needed to accept impossible—yet unavoidable—conclusions. Stillness was pervasive, until Gertrude began to squirm in my arms.
As persuasive as any cat, Gertrude got me to set her down. She walked over to the woman and traced a circle around her skirts, rubbing against the woman’s ankles, just as she’d done with me when Count Washur brought her to the court in Bundry. Ginger fur rubbed against the silk blue of royals and the woman smiled big and broad. There was no other smile like it in the world. It lit up those amber eyes of the wild.
I’d seen that smile before. And even though I’d been no more than a girl when I last saw it, I recognized it.
“Grand-mère?” My voice was soft, one of the whispers reserved for specters and apparitions of the long dead.
The smile broadened, and the woman bent at the waist with supreme elegance to pick up her youngest grandchild. She rubbed soft fur against her cheek, and spoke in a rustle I was certain I’d never hear again while still on this earth. “Hello, my darling Gertrude.”
She turned her smile toward me, and it warmed my body. “Hello, ma chérie. It’s been too long.” With Gertrude still in hand, she closed the gap between us in a few assured strides and pulled me into her.
I lost myself to blue silk and the scent I’d never forgotten. It was the aroma of springtime in the dead of winter. Heady floral scents transported me to my childhood—to the good bits of it. Jasmine with faint undertones of mimosa.
It was good I’d already cried myself dry or I would’ve been crying again. Here, returned from the dead, was the only parental figure I’d ever felt it was safe to be myself with—before I even knew who I was.
“Grand-mère, I went to your funeral. I laid flowers on your grave. I cried for weeks afterward.”
“Je sais, ma chérie. Je sais.” My grandmother pulled me back into her chest, offering me the comfort her supposed death had denied me. “Je suis désolée. I’m sorrier than you could imagine. But it’s how it had to be.”
“But why? How? Why would you do that to us? Why did you leave us like that?”
“Shhh. It’s all right now, ma chérie. I’m not going anywhere.” She ran her hand down my hair, and it seemed to magically soothe out the tangles. “I won’t leave you again.”
I tried to pull my head away. “But why did you in the first place? We needed you.”
A look of profound sorrow clouded those brilliant honey eyes, and I knew then the truth of the words that followed. “I had no choice.”
I leaned my head against her again. I took the solace she offered me, with the comfort of my sister next to me, safe no matter what her form. Our grandmother ran her hand down my hair again, just as I remembered her doing countless times.
“You’ll understand everything soon enough, ma chérie. I’ll answer all the questions you have for me. But it will have to wait. You’re still in danger here, and you’ll remain so as long as we’re near the Castle of Washur.”
I sighed a heavy sigh that made Gertrude’s fur in front of my nose float upward. Was there ever time for the answers I wanted? Was there ever time for the peace my heart craved even more than answers?
I nodded against the blue silk. The arrival of my dead grandmother had awakened a desperate yearning to be in the arms of a caretaker who could make all the worries of the world go away. I longed for arms that could shield me from cruelty and make me feel like it never existed in the first place.
But a part of me realized that my grandmother’s embrace could no longer create the same effect it once had. It wasn’t that my grandmother’s power of comfort had diminished, it was that I was no longer a child. Childhood held an enchantment all its own, very similar to magic. And when I left childhood behind, its delights became inaccessible. No matter how much I tried to return to my previous innocence, I no longer met its conditions.
I stood back from Grand-mère and tried to compose myself. I was unsuccessful at it, but it’d have to do. I’d depleted my stores of courage and all I could manage now was to go through the motions required of me.
My face was tear-streaked, my hair matted with dirt and debris, and my eyes rimmed with red. Yet I was still closer to being the person I really was than when Grand-mère had last seen me in Norland Manor, before her supposed accident.
Her eyes swept over me unabashedly, taking in all that her eldest granddaughter had become. Meanwhile, my gaze found my friends and the focus I’d struggled to find arrived abruptly. They looked as beaten down by the day as I was.
I took quick steps toward the figures that hovered alongside Marcelo. I ran my hand along Sylvia’s opalescent scales. They were cold and stiff. My eyes widened with fear and darted toward Marcelo. “Is she—” I found it difficult to ask. “Is she alive?”
Mordecai looked away, off into the distance, anywhere but at the source of my fear. Marcelo nodded, but his mouth was set in a frown. “Yes, but just barely. We need to get her someplace safe right away so that Mordecai can work his healing magic.”
“And hope it’s enough,” added the magician who looked every one of his three hundred and seventeen years just then.
I nodded. My eyes expressed
all the grief there was no need to voice in words.
I inched toward Marcelo’s split. As dead as Sylvia looked, the split looked worse. I moved the cloak to the side and gasped before I could suppress the sound. The seam of jacket and shirt as far up as the split’s underarm had been sliced open. It revealed the continued spread of the black. What had started as a small spot on the forearm had consumed the entire arm.
The flesh was putrid. At least it was still attached to the bone, but it didn’t seem likely that it’d remain that way for long. I felt the darkness spreading toward the split’s heart. There wasn’t much time. Too much time had passed already.
“It’s spread into the shoulder, front and back,” Marcelo said matter-of-factly. There was no trained emotional response for watching darkness consume half of you. Instead, he watched the castle, alert.
“What will we do?” I looked to Mordecai.
“We’ll leave this area, and we must leave now. We’re all in danger as long as we remain near Count Washur. His magic may be bound, but his will remains fixated on harming us. And he’s a determined man. I can’t heal anyone while all of our lives are threatened. We ride quickly away from here, toward the nearest town. But as soon as we’re hidden from sight of the castle, we’ll take all the time I need to staunch and at least stop the progress of the darkness. That’s as far as I can plan for now. I’ve never seen this happen before, but I’ve lived long enough to know that whatever its consequences, none of them is good for the heart of the living.”
I rubbed my hands along the arms of my dress, deep within my cloak. It’d suddenly grown very cold, and I doubted it had much to do with the temperature.
Grand-mère handed Gertrude to me. “Voici, chérie. Take your sister.” Surprised, I accepted the tabby cat.