Railesza’s fangs sink into my thigh, relief washing over me.
“Grimm, your archaic mind games won’t work.” The waning pain emboldens my words. “Vi, I love you because of your magic, because of all the good you’ve done with it.” My confession is a prayer to the six Gods, a plea to forgive my prejudice, a promise to change.
Viola’s gaze shifts from Delaney to me, and she smiles, tears twinkling in her eyes.
“All my lives, Sylas,” she says, before facing Delaney again. Why does this feel like goodbye?
“Only when the maiden and the crone die at the hands of the usurper will he be free,” Viola recites. “The dead do not lie, Overseer. It’s the single fundamental truth of death magic.”
Grimm mutters a curse and shoves me backward. He stalks toward Delaney, but she clutches the pack of relics tighter and backtracks as fast as she can, her face warring between confusion and realization. Viola got through to her.
Our escape window narrows by the second. If we want to make it out, we have to move now.
Ready. I hear Ysenia, and Viola meets my gaze again with one last smile. Thisisgoodbye. Whatever she’s planning to do, I wish she wouldn’t do it.
“Don’t blame yourself,” she mouths as I stagger to my feet.
“Ysenia,” Viola shouts. “Now.”
I struggle to keep up. Viola unclips and throws her cuff at Delaney, and she catches it and shoves it into her bag.
“What are you doing?” Grimm roars at Viola, his eyes darkening with fury.
With a single flick of his hand, two undeads emerge behind Delaney, closing in on her at rapid speed. She slows down, palms out, raising her own undead to fight his, and they succeed. But for every one she defeats, Grimm raises two more. I take a step forward to help her but immediately retract. Murderers don’t deserve mercy.
“This is a lost battle, Aurelia. You’ll deplete your lifeblood. Surrender,” Grimm orders.
Delaney runs.
She only makes it three steps. She stumbles right as she’s about to leave the clearing, at the edge of the forest not too far ahead, falling on all fours, the contents of her pack spilling out. All six relics that she brutally murdered mages for: Beau’s Silver, Victor’s laurel, Fable’s pen, Wren’s knife, Sierra’s key, and Viola’s cuff. It’s ironic, how the relics she killed for are now her downfall. She screams in frustration and tries to reach for them, but Grimm steps on her hand.
Now’s our chance. I move, reaching Viola in two strides. I tug on her arm, but she doesn’t move. “Vi, let’s go.”
She stands still, palms open, her head facing straight ahead. I wait for her to snap out of her death magic like she always does, but it never comes. This can’t be ghost paralysis; she’s anchored to Ysenia.
“Viola.” I step in front of her, reaching for her face. Haal, it’s too late. I am too late. Her eyes are no longer the soft brown that sets my heart alight. They are pitch-black.
“Aurelia, dear Aurelia. What a disappointment.” Grimm kisses his teeth, dragging my attention back to him and Delaney.
I wrap my hand around Viola’s; hers is as cold as the magic that flowed through my veins the night we bonded. I don’t have a clue what she and Ysenia are doing, but I’m not leaving her.
“Sacrifice is at the root of our magic.” Grimm draws his golden blade.
Delaney holds her face up, prepared to meet death. She knows it’s over. She stands no chance against a five-century-old mastermind. Then again, do any of us?
“Willow deserves peace. Don’t let her die again,” she begs as she looks at me. “Forgive m—”
In one fluid motion, Grimm slides the blade across Delaney’s throat, and blood sprays over the relics in front of her. He doesn’t waste any time, and his palms are up, black veins creeping along his forearm to his fingertips that ooze darkness toward the ground.
“Run, Sylas,” Viola purrs, but it’s not her voice. It’s Ysenia’s. It’s so strange hearing it come out of Viola’s mouth. “It’s what she wanted.”
“I’m not leaving her,” I mutter, watching Grimm’s eyes cloud over. His fingers splay out, and the relics hover in midair over Delaney’s body. The ground undulates like angry waves right before a storm, threading mud over her still-bleeding corpse. Grimm closes his palms, and the relics drop with force, shoving the overseer deeper into the ground. He kneels, brings his fists together, and the ground swallows the relics and Delaney whole.
One moment, it’s eerily quiet. The next, a gradual scream pierces through.
Grass clippings and clover leaves swirl low on the ground, and a young woman about our age materializes, translucent at first, then entirely human. She runs her hands through her short black hair, feels her arms,and pats down her body. When she lowers her head at Grimm, still kneeling in the mud, her catlike eyes flare in horror.
I remember her from the photograph in Paltro’s office. Willow. Delaney’s daughter.