Amara responded by snapping her fingers and dropping Theodore to his knees. The crack of bone sent a sharp ache through me. Clearly, I connected too much too soon to Theodore’s mind. I needed to be cautious, avoid sinking too deeply.
“This makes some sense, though,” Amara said while Moire whispered a spell. “I believed the old gods simply worked slowly when cleansing the world of branchless tragedies. When in truth, they’d simply never received the proper tribute.”
“Wait, what?” Caleb asked. “I’m the reason—”
“You’re not the source of branchless witches,” Amara clarified. “Their diseased presence is the price of keeping all of Hell out of this dimension. Sadly, with magic mostly cut off from our world, too many are born weak and worthless, such as yourself.”
Amara’s cutting comment dug deeper into Caleb than any mean word about branchless witches ever had. So much of this overwhelmed him, unable to wrap his head around being related to Tara, being an abomination meant for sacrifice, being adopted by a mother who left when he was four, raised by grandparents who lied to him his entire life. Unless they didn’t know. Who knew? Was this true? How was it possible?
“You were merely meant to serve as a cure to the cancer those witches bring to our world,” Amara continued. “Powerless, useless, broken things. You were supposed to put an end to that when gifted to Hell.”
Caleb’s face turned a stark, ghostly white. “Gifted to Hell?”
“Of course,” Amara continued. “An abomination such as yourself was only brought into this world to descend into Hell. And as you descend, the goddess shall ascend.”
“You’re disgusting,” Tara spoke with pure hatred for her mother and abject horror for Moire’s actions.
The enchantment witch controlling Katherine used a knife to carve open Tobias’ chest, then reached inside and pumped his heart, still chanting some spell.
“Don’t you see, Tara? This thing is the source of your stagnant troubles.” Amara described Caleb as a thing, delight in her venomous green eyes. “I believed your father’s poor tutelage led to your slow understanding of your gifts. It is simply because the abomination still walks this world.”
“Stop calling him that,” Tara shouted, the effects of her Banshee’s Wail cracked the air around her.
It wasn’t enough to break her free from the pentagram trap, but perhaps if Tara applied more of her magic, she could overpower the confinement.
“You’ll see.” Amara smiled at Tara. “When we properly fulfill the ritual, the old gods will bestow their blessings on you, and your magic will amplify a thousand times over.”
“I don’t give a fuck about being your stupid goddess,” Tara screamed, cracking another layer of the barrier containing her and Caleb.
“If you were stronger now, not held back by that thing you were forced to share a womb with, you could break this barrier now.” Amara tapped her fingers along the cracks, more amused by Tara’s efforts than concerned by the potential threat.
Caleb sank into himself, barely comprehending the unearthed revelations of his existence. Never in his life had he felt so truly useless, but knowing his breathing held back Tara, held back thousands more. It devastated him. For so long, Caleb had believed that if he worked hard, he could achieve so much. Now, he questioned every choice, every desire.
Katherine’s eyes rolled to the back of her head as Moire chanted louder, running her bloody fingers over her face. The droplets moved of their own accord, following the guidance of this bizarre ritual, and formed bloody symbols across Katherine’s cheeks.
“This is necromancy,” I whispered.
“How dare she?” Theodore’s nostrils flared, contempt and fury ate away at him as he believed his father was being granted a second chance.
“That’s not how necromancy works,” I clarified. “There is no true resurrection, no second chance.”
After losing Finn, I scoured the world a hundred times over researching ways to bring him back, to fight against my grief and avoid ever having to face the horrors of his absence.
Necromancy didn’t bring the dead back to life, so much as it turned the corpse into a puppet for whatever memories were stored in the body. They were just animated, rotten flesh that could parrot old times.
In the countries where they’d legalized necromancy, people went to great lengths to resurrect their loved ones. They’d use rejuvenation magics to keep the corpses healthy and life-like; they’d use necromancy to keep as many memories as possible intact; they’d use enchantments to keep the memories from deteriorating. The longer a corpse rotted, the more memories faded away.
It was a foolish endeavor, the most desperate attempt to hold onto their lost loved ones. I couldn’t fault them, having come close to considering the rituals and practices, but never having anywhere near the funds for such abominable magic.
Tobias’ eyes glowed with a black hue, and his jaw cracked as he opened it wide to wheeze a pitiful breath of life into his corpse.
“Tobi, it seems you kept a secret from me.”
“Many, my love,” he gasped with a foul echo of something sinister crawling inside to help utter the words.
“You didn’t kill the abomination.”
“Tried,” Tobias wheezed. “Theodore was far too crafty, surviving despite my best efforts to cleanse the world of his rot.”
