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Chapter Eight
When 4am rolls around I finally give up on getting any actual sleep. The bond settled into a peaceful rest hours ago telling me my Harbingers are out cold.
And probably together.
I slip out of Milo’s bed, tossing on my favorite worn sweater as I head out of the room. Reveling in the way the soft fuzzy sleaves roll across my skin, even if it is a little itchy. Mara showed up just after Carlton passed out on the couch. Easily the most dad thing I’ve ever seen him do. A small smile pulls at my lips despite my pounding headache. This time it has little to do with the fact that I’m dying and more to do with the wine Mara and I consumed earlier, the buzz lingering even now. I walk around the couch, picking up the black throw blanket pooled at his feet, lifting it quietly before draping it back over him and heading towards the kitchen for some much-needed water. I run my fingers over the cool, smooth handle of the refrigerator door, committing the grooves to memory. The dents in the wall on the left side from who knows which time objects have crashed around the room. It doesn’t feel like enough, no matter how long I’m here. No matter how many times I stare at all their faces, I’ll never have them perfectly formed in my mind. I’ll never be able to see them exactly as they are right now. The uneasy feeling in my stomach is the first indicator that I’ve wandered into the library, heading towards the back shelf. None of my attempts to sneak off to it earlier in the night proved fruitful with Mara applying hair and face masks to me like she was basting a Thanksgiving roast. Not that I have a ton of experience with that anyway. There were always better things for our family to be doing. Dad was usually lost to the world in his studio, working onthe next greatest thing. Mom off on business. With grandpa not allowed to see me without them present, it just left... me. I can’t complain, I was always given everything I ever wanted, exceptthem. It was the only reason I started painting in the first place. The only time I could get his attention, although I know I never truly had more than half of it. Even now mom is leaving immediately after the ceremony. Dad all but refused to go when he heard it would be recognized in the eyes of The Order. By their laws and not ones our legal system would see as valid. Not to mention his only daughter is marrying twin brothers. If I didn’t feel like ripe asshole I’d laugh remembering the way his voice pitched up when I first told them about Milo and Tate. My fingers trace the very unassuming bookcase, ignoring the light layer of dust that covers it. Why paint this?
Why should my parents even come if they both hate what I’ve done with my life?
Not that I had any choice in the matter. I would’ve chosen Milo and Tate, regardless. I will always choose them. My parents gave no clue this will be the last time they’ll see me. Part of me feels wrong for keeping them in the dark. Although the truth of my situation is far more distressing than knowing we died in a car wreck on the way back from the honeymoon.
A freak accident.
That’s the main ideas being thrown around depending on how much damage is done to the campus when we collapse the cave. Assuming it will be...substantial there will need to be a more dramatic story. My guilt only doubles when all of that quickly passes from my mind. How little of it has been dedicated to my parents since this all started.
I’m a terrible daughter. To all of you.
I pause as my fingers hit a lip on the smooth wooden shelf, my pulse hiccups as a tingling sensation spreads up my palm. I quickly discard the old books, setting them aside with less care than they deserve. As soon as the left side of the shelf is bare, I pause again, uncertainty flooding me. Shaking it from my head, I run my fingers along the seam towards the back of the shelf, recoiling as a splinter of wood jabs at the pad of my pointer finger.
I should wait for them.
But I don’t. I don’t turn to the people I trust most as something more than me demands I continue, something warm and comforting. I push down on the compartment in just the right places, like I’ve done it a hundred times before. My heart pounding as the lid pops open, a dusty leather-bound book is snuggly sat inside the space, wrapped in red thread. The compartment is only just large enough to fit it. Making it a pain in the ass to pull out, too sacred of tugging it up by the binding. The tingling in my palms spread further, resonating deep in my brand, making my breath come out unsteady. I carefully remove it, knowing it would be just my fucking luck if the second I touched it the old thing fell apart, although it seems to be in great condition.
Someone cared about this. It was important to them.
As soon as I open the book, allowing myself to slump back into the uncomfortable old chair that sits beside the shelf, an old worn picture falls free from the aged pages. Floating back and forth until it meets the ground, the edges frayed and the familiar faces of the four strangers memorialized there are smudged from years of handling. I pick it up carefully, turning my attention back to the book or more so journal in my hand. Emma is scribbled on the corner of an otherwise empty page and my heart is already aching. This was her purpose, her accounting of the journey her Harbingers fulfilled their purpose. I thought hers had been lost.
Why hide it?
All the other accounts are in The Orders archives, I flip through pages the neat but hurried handwriting in the beginning growing sloppy and frantic the further I go. The feeling of dread and torment spilling off the ink infects my skin, forcing tears to my eyes. For reasons I don’t completely understand, crying just seems...like the right thing to do at the moment.
Fire.
Forsaken.
Thousands.
Three recorded deaths.
Sacrifice.
Suicide.
Exorcism.
The Fates Blade.
Ritual.
The longer I look, the more distressed and confused I become. Her words, her account... she hid them out of necessity. She was scared, but not for herself. I almost smile despite the acid feeling in my stomach. It’s a sensation I’ve become well acquainted with.
June 15th, 1846
Our Eli has become ill again. I fear the Fates have cursed us for our transgressions. I know it is my fault and alone I will rot in the Underworld for what I made them do. The scared blade was destroyed, the other ones are being heavily guarded by The Lords now. I regret nothing in our life. I cannot fathom regretting any second of borrowed time with them. I can happily live an eternity condemned to the river of souls if it means a few more days at their sides. They completed their tasks, thousands saved from the great fire we traveled all that way to stop. Why will the gods not let us be? Why must they die? Why must I be cursed to bury them one by one? To record each painful beat of my heart. They did everything they were asked before the ritual. I saved them. Found a way to keep them here only to watch them be punished so severely. I cannot escape from their grief over Garrett any more than I can escape from my own. The triplets were not meant to live apart, to bury one another. Eli says such an act was against their soul’s nature. They were born together and together they should have died. He will die now. I know it. Last night was the worse yet. My sweet kind, Eli can barely breathe on his own. The sound of his raspy wet breaths torment me. Two of them will soon be gone, leaving only us. Even now I can hear the snapping of trees and guttural tone to Jamison’s cries from the forest. I think that they resent me. My Harbingers and my gods.
I devour her words, her tears and hope mixing with mine as a dangerous emotion I thought I had cast out months ago returns full force. A small yelp leaves my throat as heavy irritated footsteps round the corner. Mara’s annoyed expression dissolves into concern. “Are you okay? It’s almost eight.” I blink away the tears blurring my vision.
How long have I been in here?
