Chapter Twenty Seven
Theodore
I'm never alone. Even when I'm the only body in the basement, scores of souls surge upwards, seeking an outlet or else seeking to be heard. The most familiar of them are the easiest to spot but the hardest to grasp. I don't blame them for fleeing from me. I'd do the same if it were possible to shed my own skin.
When I rise to the surface of my consciousness, the power forced upon me by people I trusted—stolen from people who trusted me— also rises. It pours from my skin, sizzling on my arms before the chains catch it and force it back into my body. My body, a mass grave, a tomb full to bursting.
Among the screaming and thrashing, one voice whispers. Not Elias, as he shies away from me. Not Gemma, as she's among those wrestling towards an escape that doesn't exist.
The boy cowers just below the surface. He's been dead for a while now, picked apart by my own hands. I can barely parse the shape of his memories, but he offers them to me anyways.
This is a sunset, he says, and I see a burst of reds and oranges.
This is a laugh, he says, and I hear a tinkling and an unabashed snort.
This is iced tea on a warm day. This is a birdsong. This is a hug, a hand held, silence in the comfort of another. This is a tree in spring, then in fall, then in spring again.
Melancholy tinges each scene, casting a shadow over the smudges of color. He needs me to endure. He wishes he would've.
In exchange for his kindness, I offer him a boon. Over and over, as he forgets once the sound finishes ringing. This is an oath.
I'll take care of her, I say.
He asks, Who?
I say her name.
This is a song sung off key. This is a dance stumbled through. This is a laugh before the punchline.
I'll protect her, I say.
He asks, Who?
Footsteps shuffle towards us— me. Not a memory. I consider ignoring the call back to myself and the embodiment of a single, miserable form. What if I stayed here forever, not as the master of these memories but as one of them?
This is a paper cut from a good book. This is an ankle worth being sprained. This is a sunburn soothed by aloe.
I squint against the light. This is— real. The energy zapping my skin and burrowing beneath, the iron around my wrists, the unforgiving floor pressing into my knees. It must be real, or I'd believe it was if Rosalie wasn't standing at the top of the stairs.
Her face is tear-swollen and splotchy, arms folded over her stomach like she's in as much pain as I am. She's wearing the same t-shirt I last saw her in, loose-fitting and filthy. Bringing her here is barbaric enough, but my mother couldn't even offer her a change of clothes? A comb for her hair?
She's beautiful, and she's sobbing, and she's staring at me like—
"You killed him."
Like she knows.
She takes the stairs one step at a time. Every drop of her foot is a condemnation.
A new wave of agony pulses through me. I groan, dipping to press my forehead against the tile and shielding my eyes from her approach.
She's been here before. As far as I can tell, she comes at random intervals and always with a different script. Sometimes she's panicked, or angry, or distraught. She's been affectionate, and she's been cold. Her clothes change, as does the state of her skin and hair; even her weight fluctuates with every appearance.
Every time, I tell myself that she isn't real. She can't be, not with how often she appears to be entirely different than the last time I saw her. It's a trick, a ploy to make me react, to draw out more of my pain so it can be inflicted on myself.
It's unnecessary. The ripples of searing energy haven't paused for even a moment since I put these cuffs around my wrists. A wave of souls lurches towards my skin before receding, leaving debris of lingering jolts and heat intensified by the restraints.
She's not here, but maybe she is. This time, like the last time and the time before, I convince myself that she is.
"Look at me."
She's closer now, circling like a lioness watching gazelle through brush, waiting for me to announce my presence so she can pounce and tear me apart. But she won't touch me, not really, not when she's like this.
It's worse when she's kind. When she brushes my hair back, fingers catching in the tangles, it's easier to pretend she's here, to relax into her touch, to let her presence stifle my sobs and imagine, just for a moment, that I'm the person she thinks I am. That things can be as they were.
"Look at me."
I pull my head up to find her feet, her ankles, her calves. I reach for her, but the chains pull taut with my fingers inches from her skin. Agony rolls through me again like glass trying to break skin from the inside. A groan slips from me. I strain against the restraints, wishing she'd move closer or else leave and never return.
"You're as bad as they are. No, you're worse for pretending not to be what you are. Did you think I would've turned away if you told me the truth? That I would've cursed and shunned you? Or maybe I would've acted in vengeance the way you have."
Through a tight throat, I manage, "I'll fix it."
She squats beside me, still just out of reach. "And how are you going to do that?"
"I'll end this."
"You—" She laughs, and it's not her laugh, because she's not here. "Pathetic. I'll ask again, Prince of Carrion, how are you going to manage that? Tied up here," the nail on her index finger flicks the chain, drawing a bright sound from the metal, "and wallowing in the wake of the devastation you've caused."
I drag my eyes to meet hers, red-rimmed and swollen. She's grinning like she's waiting for me to keel over so she can take a bite. That expression on her face makes me shiver, then ache, then groan as energy surges forward within me.
"Well, I always know where to find you," she continues. "In the eye of the storm with your head between your knees."
I shove the souls down long enough to manage, "You got her nose wrong."
Uriel sighs from Rosalie's lips. "Perhaps I'll need a closer study. It'll be difficult now, with what The First One did to her."
"What—" I groan, pressure building within me. Once these chains are removed, the explosion of energy might sunder these walls. I can only hope I'll fall with it, or take my mother with me.
"Easy, usurper. You're only hurting yourself."
"Where— is— she."
"Dead," he shrugs, "or not. Promised or not. Flayed like your last pet, or consumed like your others. Like you said, I'm not a reliable source."
Shock clears my mind enough to give me the slightest of reprieves. "You're working with Marcella."
His predatory grin is foreign on Rosalie's face. "It's easy to believe me a devil, isn't it? Easier than admitting you might've misjudged me."
"I'm confident in my assessment."
"Of course you are." He stands, brushing his palms— Rosalie's palms— on his thighs. "The succubus went to Azmaveth. The girl is safe and mostly intact, or she was when I left them."
"If you hurt her…" I lurch forward as energy sizzles on my arms, pulling the restraints tight on my wrists. The metal digging into my skin is a small nuisance compared to the searing pulse of souls trying to burst from me.
My pain only widens his grin. "Your lack of control will doom you. And me, though I suspect my time wanes regardless." He tips his head, almost a bow, not the incline offered to my mother. "Hold fast, Prince of Rot. The First One will tire of you soon enough, and you'll be released to condemn mortals once again."