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Oph—ee—lliiaaa. Run. Stay. Choose. Choose. Choose.
“So are we calling a truce?” Ambrose’s eyes narrowed.
Pushing herself up to sitting, Ophelia squinted back in return. Lipstick had faded on the inside of her lips leaving the corners still vibrant as they turned down. “Why would a truce need to be called?”
She nearly sputtered with a laugh. “Come now, dear sister, we don’t need to play games any longer. Aren’t we being honest with each other now? Or if you would like to keep your secrets let me know because that may help sway my decision.”
“You think I have time for petty games? This is not a competition, no matter how much Farah tried to make it one.”
From the corners of her vision, Ambrose could see Burke make his way to the fireplace. He picked up a fire iron pushing about the wood to help stoke the flames. When the flames reached a little higher and the wood popped and sparked, he rested an elbow on the mantle.
Ophelia stood from the bed, her feet bare, high heels long discarded. “From the moment our parents passed away, I have been working. Tediously. I’ve been setting this family up for success, for a reunion far greater than even you could ever imagine, and we all know you were always the creative one.”
Papers rustled in a small nightstand where Ophelia reached to pull out a thick book. The spine looked broken, loose pages sticking out oddly from where they’d been shoved back in, but the front cover remained shiny and pristine. Ophelia turned it for Ambrose to see.
Just as bright and vibrant as the flames that glowed within her staff a fire had been painted to near-perfect realism over the leather. Ambrose cocked her head as the fire flickered. No, not painted. Firewasshifting on the cover.
“What is that?” Ambrose stepped closer.
“A book.” Her sister snorted as if that answered her question and Ambrose was just ignoring the obvious. The book opened with a crack of the spine as Ophelia flipped through the pages. Satisfied she’d found the right passage, she set the book down on her bed and turned back to the nightstand.
The bottom of Ambrose’s staff tapped against the floor as she moved closer to the book trying to get a glimpse at its pages. Images and ink were stamped in haphazard tilted paragraphs. Letters ran together in blotches that blurred words together. The closer she looked the more it appeared that the words were shifting and changing with each passing second. Then she realized it wasn’t any language she recognized at all.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. All Wrong.Something inside of her screamed while another voice hummed in approval and somewhere in the back of her head yet another voice mumbled its interest in the pages.
“Ophelia. What sort of book is this? Where did you find it?”
“Where did I put it?” Ophelia muttered to herself, closing one drawer and opening another. A few of the pins in her hair had fallen out allowing pieces to drape down at her neck; they snagged on her sparkling ruby necklace as she turned to glance at Ambrose. “How many people have you killed since our reign begun?”
“What?”
Burke picked at his nails, crossing his legs as if discussing the amount of blood on one’s hands was not anything of significance. Ambrose looked at him as if he might be able to make this all make sense for her. He only shrugged as their gazes met and looked back down at the flames.
“We’ve all been on a killing spree since we got this magic.” Ophelia paused her search to point at her staff then Ambrose’s. “It is no secret. Does your power call for death? Does it crave to spill blood?”
It had. Time and time again, she’d killed to meet the demanding pull of power inside of her. Over time she’d gotten better at ignoring the desire, finding other things to occupy herself. That did not change the fact that she’d burned several disappointing servants in her backyard or that she’d killed anyone who could have somewhat been suspected of being under the Impelling. She’d convinced herself it was all to show the people that she was protecting them from the Fae and whatever influence they had…
All while falling in love with a Fae herself.
“I’ve killed plenty,” she finally settled on responding.
Ophelia looked suddenly serious as she stopped to settle her gaze on Ambrose again. “Enough to last several lifetimes?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t keep count.” She was starting to get impatient at her sister’s vague questions.
Going back to her mutterings with an impatient huff, Ophelia moved from one nightstand to the next. “Sacrifices have to made. It all started with our parents and then Aylee—”
“We didn’t sacrifice our parents. They were brutally murdered in front of us.”
“Then as we became queens we sacrificed the lives of several people to meet the demands necessary. Immortality requires a lot of spilled blood. But it’s going to all be worth it, I promise. We will all be reunited soon.”
“What are you talking about? Ophelia, get to the point.” Ambrose stomped around the bed, stopping behind where her sister crouched in front of the other nightstand and shifted stuff around.
There was a damp sweat along Ambrose’s spine and her hand threatened to slip from her staff. Her hair stood at its end on her arms. A churning dark feeling was flooding the room, tensing up every muscle in her body. Neither Ophelia nor Burke responded to the sense that was making Ambrose wonder if she should flee now or wait for an explanation.
“Ah!” Ophelia stood so quickly she almost toppled Ambrose. “I’m assuming you’ve decided immortality is what you desire for yourself and our family?” She held Ambrose by the forearm to hold her steady.
Ambrose gave a short nod.
