“I would never—”
“But you won’t, and for what… your little Aspieri lover?”
“He’s not my—” I roll my eyes at the absurdity of my thoughts. She’s about to kill me, and here I am with a growing concern about what Sylas and I are. A concern I will not address unless I survive.
I bolt.
One moment, I’m slipping past Mara, running down the diamond-checkered hallway. The next, her claws dig into my arms, and I fall. She drags me across the carpet, slamming me against the wall.
My head lolls forward, my vision growing hazy. My tongue fills with the copper tang of blood, and I want to throw up. Mara’s long, sharp fingers pull my hair backward, dragging my face in front of hers. “Pitiful legacy.”
Get up, Viola. You have to make it to the Poisoned Stairwell, Ysenia urges.
Mara raises her arm. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, a dull pain crawls along my spine, exploding right above my tailbone. I try to kick my legs, but they barely move. Gods, I have no fight in me.
Viola, you cannot die now. Try to take over her— No, I don’t know how much lifeblood you have left.
My magic mocks me. It only wants to watch me die.
Delaney’s laugh forces my eyes open. She crouches next to me, peering into my soul, as if she’s trying to find Nan there to claim victory over her. “There, there, my dear. Give me your cuff, and I’ll let you live.”
“No,” I force out, knowing she can kill me, take the cuff, and walk away without anyone knowing it was her. But a nagging feeling tells me she would’ve killed me sooner if she wanted to. My mind reaches to when we fought Mara off at Dearly Departed, how Sylas and Victor mentioned there was more than one puppeteer. No. If I’m still alive right now, it means that she—or they—need me for something. “I won’t.”
“Very well.” She shrugs, rising to her feet.
I let out a slow exhale, trying to steady my pain, but Gods, it hurts.
Delaney flicks her palm forward, and Mara is in front of me again, crouching where Delaney was only seconds ago. Mara wraps her long, bony fingers around my right wrist. Painfully, she drags my own hand to my torn sweater, and with her free hand, forces my fingers to click open the cuff. I try to fight, but I am so… so weak, my eyes struggling to stay open.
Mara collects the cuff as it falls off and promptly hands it to Delaney, who holds it up like a trophy. The brass catches a stray ray of light, blinding her. I seize her distraction and drag myself forward. My arms scrape against the carpet as I try to crawl my way to the Poisoned Stairwell. I must get out of here.
“You are smart, Viola, yet so naive. It’s a pity—” The ringing in my ears drowns her words, and the edges of my vision pull me into the shadows. When I force my eyes open again, Delaney is at the end of the hallway, and Mara stands a few feet away from me.
She’s leaving. Soon, she’ll be too far away to control her puppet. Now is my chance. Digging one elbow into the carpet, I only move a few more inches before something strikes me across the head.
Mara’s bony shins are in front of my face. Instead of ivory, her skin is ashen gray. She eyes me with a newfound interest. Her right leg shuffles forward. I will die here if I don’t fight.
There is no escape, no one to save me. In a poor attempt at self-preservation, I loop my hand around Mara’s disgusting leg, the cold, moist flesh sticking to my skin. I pull as hard as I can. She loses her balance, falling against the wall.
In a moment of delusion, I tell myself that I can crawl the few steps to the Poisoned Stairwell. I will make it. For my sister. For my friends. For all the people yet to die. For Sylas.
Pushing one knee forward, I crawl.
A low, guttural laugh stops me in my tracks.
It’s over.
Mara crouches in front of me. She lifts my chin with her bony finger until the pain in my neck stretches into my spine. Something’s different about her; her eyes are lighter, menacing.
“Go.” She releases me. Is she playing with me? “Go, Viola.” Her voice isn’t her own. It’s foreign. It’s dangerous. It chills me to my bones. “You will bleed to death in minutes, and I want him to watch you die.”
By the time I make it to the door, my pants are thick, warm, and sticky with blood. My breathing wanes. Maybe my last moments give me the strength, or maybe Death has mercy on me, but the door clicks open on my first try.
I crawl inside, welcoming the coolness of the floor on my chest. The feeling is brief, because the next moment, I topple down the stairs until I no longer know if the stars I see are real or Death welcoming me home.
Tilda, effective immediately, you are dismissed from your position as dean of Gorhail. You will be reassigned to the Grimm task force, reporting to Overseer Paltro.
LETTER FROM PGM PARRISH TO DEAN MATILDA RHODES, DECEMBER 1939