Monster (A Cassidy Edwards Novel - Book 1) (21 page)

The fog and mist vanished at once.

Agony arrived, full force.

The unholy amount of mana that I’d consumed from Dougall was gone, as if I’d never taken it. In fact, now I felt faint with hunger. Instinctively, I curled into a fetal position. It was several interminable moments before I managed a long creaking pull of air that sounded like the last gasping breath of a dying human. And then the agony washed away, and all at once, I was back in the bright, earthly world again.

But I felt drained—stiff, sore, and aching beyond belief.

Remorseful? I couldn’t even begin to think of what I’d done to Dougall. Yes, he was a Chosen One, most likely he’d taken many lives. But still, I’d … turned him into dust. I pushed the memory away, down deep, and hoped it would stay buried.

Instead, I turned my thoughts to anger. Yes, this whole thing had only happened because I’d been threatened. Growing only angrier by the second, I sat up and shoved Dorian back.

“You threw a stake at my heart! You killed me!” I gasped in outrage. “And my mother! Where’s my mother?”

“I’m here, Cassidy,” my mother called from the door.

I glanced back to see her standing there, her face far whiter than her cream-colored suit. She watched me in complete horror, like she didn’t know what I was.

I guess that was justified, but it hurt to see. Salt on the wounds.

Rounding on Dorian, I accused fiercely, “You killed my mother, and you killed me!”

His green eyes flashed. “Ach, you’re both fine. Can you not hear yourself blather, lass?” He tossed his chin a bit angrily himself. “Your mother will never know death. Aye, and neither will you. ‘Tis nothing to get riled up about now.”

It was logical, in a very twisted way, and I knew he had a point, but I wasn’t in a mood to grant him that at the moment.

Holding onto my fury, I spat indignantly, “You didn’t know for 
sure
 I was going to live!”

I knew 
that
 much had to be true. I was one of a kind and I’d never died before.

He rolled his eyes and nearly shouted his response. “Ach, but you gave me no choice. You had to be stopped or else none of us would have lived, now. You’d have done to all of us what you did to Dougall.” His voice dropped and he added in a hushed tone, “Aye, Dougall. Because of you, he’ll no longer walk on this Earth, and I don’t even know if he’s walking in the Nether Reaches now. Do you?”

I froze, recalling the Chosen One turning into dust under my hand. Feeling sick, I turned my face away. So much for burying the memory.

Surely, it had to be some ghastly dream, but I knew that it wasn’t. No, I’d really destroyed someone—maybe even completely. Granted, I’d been caught up by some Incredible Hulk-like experience outside of my control, but there was no denial of the fact that it had still been me.

I wanted to vomit.

“Aye, it happens,” Dorian said, shrugging matter-of-factly. “You did it. ‘Tis done.”

Yes, it was. But I didn’t feel like I should carry the entire blame. “You gave me no choice!” I defended myself in a low tone.

Dorian just watched me for a time, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

Finally, I broke the silence with, “I want to leave. I’m done will all of you.”

I’d said the words even before I’d thought them through, but now that I had, I meant it. I was finished. I was weary. Utterly done. Completely through.

At least for now

I needed a break from this insanely complex Charmed world.

And as far as Emilio went, well, if I’d learned anything the past day or so, it was that I needed a better plan in going after him than three knives tucked in my boot.

I needed to regroup, and I needed to rest.

Reaching over with a finger, Dorian trailed it up my jawline. “Ach, you’re too valuable to throw away now, lass,” he murmured. “Now, I’ll never let you go.”

And with that, he rose and, still limping, left the room.

Helped by a … Portrait

I don’t know how long I lay there with my cheek pressed against the splintering, rotting floorboards. I was shattered. Broken inside. My thoughts caught in a mire of confusion.

Where had I gone? Had I died? Were the gray swirling mists the Nether Reaches? Had it all been my imagination? Part of the process of dying? Could I die or not?

And what had I done? How had I known to tap mana from the solar plexus chakra and the third eye at the same time?

Where had I learned 
that?

Everything had spiraled into chaos so quickly. I couldn’t account for what I’d done. I’d morphed into something hideous, and I still didn’t understand how or why.

Depression threatened—not something I’d ever thought to battle.

“It’s safe now,” a tiny voice whispered in my ear.

The third time it repeated itself, I focused my eyes.

Ricky stood in front of my nose, looking bright, chirpy, and anything 
but
 under-the-influence.

Almost mechanically, I asked weakly, “Aren’t you drunk?”

With his trademark giggle accompanied by a roll of the eyes, he tittered, “Allow me to introduce myself once again, eh, doll? The name’s Richard Thaddeus Mavromoustafakis. Imp, culinary artist, and thespian extraordinaire! But you, love, you can just call me Ricky.”

So, he’d been acting?

Really?

Or was he lying now? Or acting now?

I winced, my head hurt.

“I’ve something to show you, doll,” Ricky piped up with his wide, tacky grin. “But you’ll have to move. Spit spot, time to rise! You can douse your sorrows in whatever spice you choose once we’re out of here, but it’s time to go.”

“Vice,” I corrected, still woozy.

The smoky imp grabbed my hand and tried to yank me up, but it was a futile exercise. I mean, why did he even try? He was made of smoke. I could disperse him with the flick of my finger.

I did. A couple of times—just to prove my own mental point.

“Stop faffing around, now, will you, love?” Ricky complained once his teeth had returned to his mouth. “Here now, let’s have a butchers hook—come see what I’ve got for you, eh? That’ll get you mobile.”

Butchers hook?
 I grimaced as he skipped to the corner of the room and disappeared behind a large picture frame propped up against a pile of cushions. There were a few scuffling noises. Someone threw a cup. It landed on the floor with a clang.

I recognized it as the old silver chalice I’d discovered before.

It rolled my way.

But it wasn’t the cup that caught my attention. I frowned. How could a smoke-creature like Ricky pick up an old silver cup when he’d failed to even lift my hand? Something didn’t add up.

Curious in spite of my newly fallen misery, I rose to my feet. And picking the chalice off the floor, absently rubbed it with my sleeve. I paused when something tickled my nostrils, and I peered at it again. It was the same cup as before, but this time, it was mana-infused.

I stared and almost dropped it.

For a fleeting moment, a woman’s face had appeared on its dark surface. I shook my head and looked again, but it was gone.

Along with any hint of mana.

Odd.

Had I hallucinated? I’d just gone through something traumatic. A bit uneasy, I set the cup on the floor and headed towards the sounds of Ricky swearing.

“How did you toss that cup?” I asked, but cut myself short as the large picture frame teetered my way with Ricky balanced on top of it like a monkey.

“Stop it!” I snapped before a bright glint arrested my attention.

Metal. My knives. All three of them.

“Found ‘em,” Ricky said, hopping down from the portrait to casually lean against a cushion and fold his spindly arms.

“How?” I asked, astonished.

The knives hadn’t been there before. Surely, he couldn’t have carried them there. He was made of smoke.

Ricky just grinned, clearly pleased with himself. If he’d been a dog, I’m sure he would have wagged his tail.

“Thanks,” I said, bending to inspect the blades.

I hadn’t been that particularly nice to Ricky. Perhaps I should make an effort to be a little nicer.

He chose that moment to giggle again.

It grated on the nerves and any thoughts of being nicer were instantly washed away. He wasn’t that easy to like. But then, wasn’t that the definition of an “imp”? They were basically like little demons, not cuddly puppies.

I’d just slid the last knife back into my boot when a 
new
 tiny voice whispered in the room. “Even the most powerful can be undone by their arrogance,” it said.

I froze.

“What’s up, doll?” Ricky asked, noting my distraction.

“That voice,” I said, searching in all directions.

He was confused. “Vooooice?” he repeated, drawing the word out.

“You didn’t hear—” I began, but shut my mouth when the voice spoke again.

“What’s inflexible breaks in the end,” it said.

“There!” I announced triumphantly to Ricky.

But he couldn’t hear it. I only half believed him. With Ricky, there was always a chance that he was lying for some reason or another.

I scowled.

But the voice wasn’t done. Again, it spoke. “There are times that we must fight for what we want, even if we turn to savagery ourselves.”

This time, I got a better sense of direction. It sounded like it had come from under the picture frame. Drawing a knife, I used the blade to cautiously lift the edge.

It certainly didn’t look like anything was there.

Ricky even crawled underneath and announced an, “All clear.”

With a quick jerking motion, I flipped it upright. It was just an old painting of some somber brown-haired woman standing in a red dress holding a book of some kind. A castle sprawled on the hill behind her.

I peered closer.

There was mana in the canvas weave. It was old, aged like fine wine. And as I stared at the face, I suddenly recognized it as the one I’d just seen in the silver chalice, a minute before.

“Greetings, child,” the woman in the portrait whispered.

I drew back, alarmed. A possessed painting? I turned to Ricky, “She’s talking. You heard that, right?”

He gave me an uncomfortable smile and looked as though I were a patient in a mental hospital. “Eh … you’ve had a trying day, love,” he offered with a forged sympathy.

“Only you can hear me, child,” the woman in the portrait interrupted. “I’m trapped in the Nether Reaches. Only those who have wandered there can hear my voice.”

I turned back to her, uneasy. The Nether Reaches. So, it 
was
 a real place.

“This is your chance to escape from this room,” she continued in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s almost dawn. The vampire’s warlock is on his way up to lock you in for the day. If you slip out now and to the attic, you can escape his spell. Go! Go now! Do not hesitate. Give wings to your feet, child!”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d never had a conversation with a portrait before. But it really wasn’t a time for questioning.

I decided to just take her advice.

“Let’s go now, Ricky,” I said, heading for the door.

Surprisingly, the door was indeed unlocked, and I charged out into the hall. The place looked empty. I could see the first morning rays of sunlight flooding through cracked windows, illuminating the interior of the dilapidated old building with vivid shafts of blazing light. I was almost tempted to just dash down the stairs and make a run for it, but just like the painting had forewarned, I heard the Terzi warlock’s voice below.

“Assuredly, she’s weakened into harmlessness, but I warrant it’d be wise to spell her door again just to be certain,” a man’s voice filtered up the stairs. “Can’t be taking any unnecessary gamble that might let the master down, now can we?”

“Crud,” I swore under my breath.

I dove for the steep attic steps, climbing as fast as I could while on tiptoe. With Ricky close on my heels, I slipped through the attic door just as booted feet arrived below.

It had been close. Too close.

I took a deep breath and glanced around.

I stood in a narrow cobweb-ridden attic with two gabled windows. It was mostly empty, except that one wall was lined with stacks of paintings. There must have been over a hundred old paintings. I could smell the mana hanging in the air, an odd collection of fragrances and ages.

Lucian had been working for a portrait. Was it one of these? Were they all possessed?

As Ricky swung from the rafters like a monkey, I headed for the paintings.

The woman’s voice came again. Muffled this time. It took me a minute to find her in a medium-sized portrait that had been tossed up in the rafters. Reaching up, I pulled it down and dusted its aged surface.

The same woman but younger this time. She sat on a stool in a dark room, light from an open window illuminated her opulent fur-trimmed gown and the small leather book in her hands.

“I must say, it’s so refreshing to finally be able to speak with someone,” she told me with a lovely laugh and pointed to her book with a sad smile. “I’m so weary of reading these quotes all day long. There’s little else to do though.”

“Yeah,” I murmured under my breath. Had I suffered brain damage? I mean, I’d had a stake driven right through my heart. Suffering some side-effects 
should
 be expected.

“But I haven’t given up hope,” the painted lady continued pleasantly. “In recent weeks, I’ve even been able to reach my treasured comb made of ox horn. The curse is weakening, at long last! The Terzi simply underestimated the strength of my beloved Lucian!”

“Lucian?” I seized the name. “You know Lucian—Lord Rowle?”

“Do I know of my dear Lucian?” She actually laughed at that. “He is my favorite descendant, you sweet child! Although, I’m ashamed to concede I’ve lost count of the generations betwixt us … nevertheless, he is a son of my grandson all the same.”

“Then … you’re the Lady Rowle from Heath’s story—the one who was cursed?” I gasped.

The mirth on her face died and she bowed her head.

Ricky chose that moment to swing down from the rafters above. Hanging upside down, he waved his hands in front of my face. “Heelllloooooo! Off your trolley? Anyone in there? Cassidy—is there a Cassidy Edwards in residence?”