Authors: Alyson Noël
“It’s starting.” She speaks in a whisper. “The Last Days are here. This is one of the signs.”
I roll my eyes. Dig my fingers deeper into her flesh, hoping to awaken her from her trance. “It’s no such thing. Your father is crazy.” Though my words go unheard, she’s transfixed by a sky bleeding fire.
“I tried to warn you. Tried to talk to you. Remind you of what we once shared—if only so you could see what I see—know what I know.” Her gaze is unreachable, voice weary, defeated. “But you didn’t want to listen, and now this…” She gestures to the chaos occurring all around us. “Now it’s too late for any of us.”
I grip her shoulders tighter, searching for some hint of the girl I once knew. A sad, beautiful, complicated girl with a crazy doomsday prophet of a father. A girl who lost her mother too young—vanishing without a trace, her body never found. A girl I once cared about, however briefly.
“Come with me, Dace.” She trains her focus on me. “My father will help us. Save us. He’ll know exactly how to survive this.”
“Your father can’t help anyone,” I remind her, but one look in her eyes tells me my words fail to penetrate. Still, I can’t help but add, “Get yourself out of here. Go to Leftfoot’s—he’ll look after you.”
When she fails to move, when she fails to react in any way, I give up and go in search of Daire. Figuring there’s only one place she would ever think to go under the circumstances, and cursing myself for not heading there first. It’s what I came here to do.
I race through the club. Ignoring Leandro’s cries for help as he fights to break free of the fallen bookcase he’s trapped underneath. All too aware of the earth violently shaking as bursts of fire erupt all around.
All too aware that the prophecy has started without me—forcing me to catch up.
I breeze through the vortex—noting there are no demons in sight—make my way through the cave house—now completely trashed, surely the result of Cade’s rampage—then onto the valley of sand—all the while looking for Daire.
She’s out there.
Somewhere.
Hunting for Cade.
I pray I will get to him first.
forty-four
Daire
I roll to a stop, spring to my feet, and take a quick look around. Pleased to find I’ve landed not far from the mine.
It’s the first time I’ve been able to nail it like that.
The first time I’ve been able to declare a point of entry and actually find myself there.
A good omen, no doubt.
I hope more will follow.
I stay crouched and low, knees slightly bent, hands flexed and ready. Stealing a moment to adjust to the rhythm of the ground rumbling precariously beneath me—a long string of aftershocks coming in quick succession. Though, thankfully, their intensity lessens a little each time.
Good omen number two?
I’ll take what I can get.
A crescendo of shouts drifts from the mine. The captives, apparently no longer enthralled by the Richters, are crowding the mouth of the shaft in an attempt to break free. Their bodies surging against the army of undead guards who push hard against them and shove them back in.
My gaze darts among them, searching for Cade but not seeing him anywhere. I slip my athame into my fist and advance.
Despite the odds stacked against me—despite there being only one of me and loads of them—I find I’m bathed in a strange sense of calm with not a trace of fear to be found.
This is the moment when theory and practice finally consummate after months of chastely dating.
This is my chance to use all the skills Paloma has taught me.
This is when I fulfill my destiny—do what I was born to do or die trying.
I creep toward the Richters, keeping my movements so silent, so stealthy, they remain completely unaware of my presence. Remembering what Paloma told me, that the only way to rid the world of them, send them back to their afterlives, is to either remove their heads or cut them cleanly in half.
Sounds simple in theory, but judging by the sheer number of them, my only hope of seeing it through is to focus less on the act and more on the end. Envision them lying in headless heaps all around me. See it as though it’s already done.
With the image fixed in my head, I rub my lips together, tighten my grip on the knife, and spring toward the first one. Amazed at how easily I catch him.
Then again, he didn’t see me coming. Failed to sense me sneaking up from behind him, blade at the ready.
Doesn’t even realize what’s happening, until the razor-sharp tip jams all the way to the hilt. And though he puts up a bit of a protest, it’s too little, too late. My knuckles are already dragging clear across his neck as I go about the business of severing his head.
He crumples to my feet, his pathetic gurgle lost among the noise and the chaos, leaving no one the wiser.
As far as gore goes, there’s surprisingly little. One of the older ones I would guess—judging by the pile of bones and dust he leaves in his wake. Though the small chunk of soul that once served to revive him, hovers briefly, as though testing the limits of its freedom, before zooming through the sky.
It’s a sight to behold. Though I don’t watch for long. I’m quick to move on to the next one. Once again, imagining the deed as if it’s already done, I shove my blade deep into his spine and saw a deep and steady line. While it proves to be an effective method of slaying, what Paloma failed to mention is it also gives them a chance to shout and scream and warn all the others.
It’s a mistake I won’t make again.
Clearly, decapitation is the better way.
With the eyes of countless undead Richters upon me, I take a moment to smile and wave.
While I would’ve preferred to have slain a few more before it got to this point, I’ve still managed to get them exactly where I want them: focused on
me
, instead of the mine. Which in turn allows some of those poor trapped workers to start sneaking out.
The Richters’ first reaction is to erupt into an angry chorus of menacing shouts and growls. Though despite the show of bravado, it takes them a while to organize and adjust to the sudden change of plans. They’re so used to following orders from Cade, acting on their own is pretty much a foreign concept to them.
No matter. I just cool my heels and wait where I am. Willing to hang for however long it takes for them to regroup, knowing that every second of delay allows more people to escape. Besides, there’s no need to charge them when, soon enough, they’ll be coming to me.
With one hand holding the athame, I rub the blade across the front of my jeans, staring impassively at the thick layer of sludge that falls away, while my other hand grabs hold of my pouch. Calling upon the elements, my ancestors, and whatever intrinsic bit of goodness is left inside our spirit animals and paying homage to the ancestral knowledge that lives deep inside me, that courses straight through my veins.
The blood of Valentina, Esperanto, Piann, Mayra, Diego, Gabriella, Paloma, Alejandro, and Django—all of the Seekers who’ve made great sacrifices so I could be here. Having braved the face of evil so that others could live their lives in relative peace.
With so many counting on me, I can’t let them down.
When the largest among them comes at me, it’s clear he’s fueled on nothing more than anger and rage—reminding me of the way I used to operate until Chay drew my attention to the absolute foolishness of it. Warning me that raw emotion without the strength to back it is a sure way to find yourself dead.
Luckily for me, I listened. I’m no longer that girl.
Unluckily for the undead Richter, he never had a chance to know Chay.
He comes at me with gleaming eyes and a warrior’s cry—his hands curled to fists that swing about wildly. And though it’s an impressive display at first glance, it’s only a second later when I grab hold of his arm and twist until it snaps. Barely allowing a second to pass, before I rend my athame clean across his neck, watching as his body falls separate from his head.
I gaze down at my feet, waiting for him to deteriorate. But when he bleeds out in a thick, black, viscous crud that seeps from his stump of a neck, I figure he must’ve been dead a much shorter time than the last one.
I kick him aside, wait for the next wave to come. Sure there will be one. Surrender is the last thing on their minds.
This group is smarter, taking a moment to gather axes and picks to use against me. Not getting very far before I relieve them of their weapons. Using my talent for telekinesis, with a little help from my element Wind, to disarm them—I take them down one by one. Indulging the occasional glimpse at the mine, relieved to see it still untended. The captives continuing to escape, as I continue slaying Richters.
As soon as that group is eliminated, the remaining Richters fall on me in a swarm of undead stench, fetid breath, gnashing teeth, and kicking feet. And, to their surprise, I refuse to fight back.
I refuse to deflect.
I stand loosely before them, head raised, arms held out to either side, accepting whatever they give me.
Allowing them to push me to my knees. Shove my face into the dirt. My nose jammed with bits of scorched earth as they bite me, punch me, savagely assault me—while I tell myself I deserve it.
That it’s what I get for the long list of failures that resulted in so much misery and destruction.
That fist in my gut is for all those who needlessly died in the mine.
Those claws piercing my scalp is for those who suffered because of my inability to sacrifice Paloma’s soul.
While the foot that repeatedly slams into my back is for my failure to stop loving Dace.
My skin splits, allowing rivers of blood to seep from my wounds, as my insides rattle and crunch, and my eyes stream with tears—though the tears aren’t for me. They’re for everyone I failed by allowing love to rule me.
Problem is—the pain and punishment I seek never comes.
The relief I expected to feel with each blow eludes me as well.
Despite the barrage of fists raining on me, I don’t feel much of anything.
You can never be sick enough, poor enough, or beaten enough to help those less fortunate than you. The only way to empower others is by empowering yourself. Never apologize for the gifts that were bestowed upon you. Never punish yourself for your ability to love. Love is never a mistake—it is the epitome of grace—the highest power of all. It is the only thing that will lead us out of the darkness and into the light …
The voice belongs to Valentina. And though I’d planned to let them beat me just a little bit longer before I got back to the business of removing their heads and ripping them to shreds, I realize she’s right.
Redemption can never be won in this way.
The best way to atone for my failures is by ridding the world of these foul-smelling, hate-filled, malevolent Richters.
I’m up like a shot.
My athame swaying before me as though conducting a glorious symphony heard only by me. Removing one head after another, knuckles repeatedly pounding into dead rancid flesh, as bodies fall all around me. So caught up in the melody, I hardly notice when the music has stopped and there’s not a single dance partner left.
I just keep pounding bodies, snapping skeletons into small useless bits. Rendering them incapable of ever resurrecting again—ensuring the remains return to a place they never should’ve left.
When it’s over, I still my athame, wipe a hand across my brow, and lift my gaze skyward. Dazzled by the constellation of brightly shining souls glittering overhead. Twinkling, circling, blinking, and spinning in a flurry of movement—unbounded and free. They float briefly, allowing me to see them, appreciate them, before winking out of sight, and soaring toward home.
Then I lower my gaze to the heap of remains at my feet, marveling at how it looks exactly as I envisioned it. And as I continue to pick my way through, I’m amazed to find I’ve wrought more change than I ever would’ve thought.
With each Richter felled, with each soul released, the Lowerworld has taken one giant leap toward healing itself. Patches of once-dead grass now sprawl into a lush and velvety lawn. While the hollowed-out trees, once bent like old crones, begin to straighten and stretch, as though encouraging their branches to shake off a long arthritic winter.
And it’s not long after when the animals begin to venture out of hiding. Raccoon, Red Fox, White Wolf, Wildcat, Monkey, Squirrel, Jaguar, Bear, Lion, Bat, Opossum, Hummingbird, Eagle—even Horse and Raven come out to greet me.
Their bright and happy eyes providing all the proof I need to know that with the Richters finally evicted, the curse has been lifted.
The Lowerworld thrives once again.
I head for the mine, ensure that it’s cleared, then make a quick assessment of the wounded, and discover that while it’s not nearly as bad as I feared, that’s not to say that it’s good.
With no way to attend to them all, I turn to the animals for help. Pairing those who can’t walk with the bigger, stronger ones like Horse, Bear, and Jaguar, while the rest follow the path set by Eagle and Bat, who fly overhead.
Trusting the elders are doing their part, working their magick, and remaining alert to the signals that will lead them to the crowd soon to be arriving at the vortex of twisted juniper trees, I take leave. Guided by Raven soaring ahead of me and the whisper of wind that swirls featherlike over my skin, I go searching for Cade.
forty-five
Dace
I check all my pockets. Hands obsessively patting my jacket, my pants, assured by the solid weight and heft that I find there.
This time I’m ready.
This time I’m armed.
With my blowgun loaded with darts dipped in poison no beast can survive, I make my way across a dry and scorched land, which, although it seems crazy, appears to be improving with each passing step.
Leaves are forming on trees. Buds are sprouting from the tips of once-barren flower stems.
Even the spirit animals, having spent the last month in hiding, are now out and about. Though, strangely, once they spy me they beat a fast retreat, eager to keep their distance and steer clear of my path.