Page 16 of Vervain

My Blessed peels my fingers from the umbrella, and when I let go, he holds it high above my head. I reach into the woven basket, grab a handful of the soil and vervain from the outskirts of the village, and hold it over her head.

She had dark, chestnut-brown hair, and she was pale. Ceramic. The Elder had left her in the clothing she wore when she passed—a custom. Removing the death clothes of a vegodian would curse them in the afterlife.

“May Mother feed you to the ground, and arise something new,” I say in common tongue, not vegodian. I didn’t want to taint words for the dead by not pronouncing them correctly.

I sprinkle the soil over her body. After the last of it falls, a tingling sensation stirs like pins and needles in my fingertips. Heat, unfamiliar, burns up from the tips, and I recoil, placing my hand back at my side. The strange sensation subsides.

“Saya,” my Blessed says. He takes my wrist, his long fingers wrapping tightly around my flesh. “Let me take you home. You’re tired.”

“I’m not,” I assert, rolling my frosty eyes in his direction. The air between us ripples with tension. Knowing he needs to hide the hate behind his mask, he smiles, relaxes his hold on my wrist, and we walk back down the row of mourners in silence.

I never dreamed, not even in the feeding ground. I locked most of my past away behind a formidable wall, but it seems to be slipping. Forced-down memories slip through cracks in my mind, spooling their blackened taint until my brain matter becomes tar.

Sitting upright on the bed, grogginess swirls around me as if I slept for far too long—and without a clock or windows, that might very well be the case.

After another shower, I dress in something similar to the white nightgown I wore last night and ignore everything else in the dresser that is unfamiliar and colourful. Then, I stand by the door. My fingers twitch and my shoulders tense at the prospect of leaving the relative safety of this room.

It would be smart to stay here and wait it out, but the thought immediately shatters at the prospect of waiting for hours when I want to get to the feeding ground as soon as possible. I need my brother safe and by my side. Every second he is with them is another second in danger, and at this shitty point in time, the slayers are more of an enemy than the damn nightwalkers.

Screw it. Unbolting the door, I press my hands against the wood and push it open with a creak. My ears bend back, and I wince at the sound. Still, I continue, determined.

Barefoot, I try to navigate around the water flowing through the cracks of the stone floor. Serun said that if I became lost, he would find me. So, I suppose there’s no need for concern about which direction to take.

Somewhere new.

I walk towards the sound of rushing water. My ears twitch in anticipation, and I bite my lower lip, my fangs sinking into the plump flesh. The taste of wet stone settles in the back of my throat with every sharp breath, and my feet lightly patter against the growing puddles of water.

The corridor ahead bends, and as I turn, I stop abruptly to find a brick wall blocking my path. Muttering under my breath, I turn around, only to come face-to-face with another wall.

“An illusion?” I murmur, reaching out. Touching the rough stone, my fingers return wet. “Not an illusion…”

As I rub my fingers together, something moves in the corner of my eye. A darkened corridor appears to my right. Few torches burn in the sconces, but I step into the gloom. More passageways open, and others close. Not illusion, but control. Something or someone lures me to them.

I lift my hands and say, “Ardulgyu prus urot.” The sword of rot materialises, the leather straining as I grip it tight.

My arms move effortlessly, as if the weapon is an extension of me. It is as if saying the words that woman spoke in Serun’s memory has unlocked centuries of training.

A damn cheat code.

The sword glows, illuminating the dimly lit corridor. Light, as well as deeper shadows, stretch across the walls and doors. I reach out to the first door and twist the knob. Locked.

I grimace and creep down the corridor until the only source of light comes from the glow of the sword. More doors come into focus, and I try all of them, though now I strain to even twist them. It is as if someone is forcing me forward.

My grip tightens on the sword as a brick wall comes into focus.

Another dead end?

I turn until yet again, there is only one way to go—this time to my left.

Time passes as I’m herded somewhere, and the light in the sword dims as I struggle to keep feeding my magik into the blade. The leather disintegrates, falling apart at the seams in my hands, and the glimmer of the blade turns to shards until the sword flakes away. I lower my hands to my sides with a huff, when a sudden burst of firelight comes from the left. Candles line the corridor, drinking away the shadows.

I face the door, and as I open it, the sound of the hinges creaking is eerily familiar.

Am I back where I started?

The door swings open, and bright fluorescent light blinks over a room that isn’t the one I slept in. Stainless steel lines the walls, and there are white, glossy tiles in place of the stone floor.

In the centre of the otherwise bare room is a table.