| |
THORNS. THORNS. AND even more thorns cover all four walls of my room. The thorns are as little as my pinky toe and as long as my arm. Sunlight trickles in through the window behind a wall of green needles. Sunrise is not my friend; it’s a reminder of the coronation to happen in possibly the next hour or two. I doubt Vahilda will keep me prisoner after she claims a seat as an Elite. I don’t think the witch possesses even a drop of decency in her blood. She may have saved me from execution and provided me with food and a roof over my head, but that’s where the niceties end. The witch used me, and I was foolish enough to allow her to.
The front door slams, announcing Vahilda’s departure. My doppelganger is on her way to my coronation to claim a chair she does not deserve. If I don’t free myself from this prison of thorns, Vahilda will be back to do Goddess knows what to me. I’m sure the witch will kill me like she did my father. I must get to her first before she gets to me. As awful as it sounds, I must slay Vahilda and free myself.
When Vahilda trapped me hours ago, I thought all was lost. If this were the end of my story, the end of me, I would never forgive myself if I just sat and waited for my death. Instead of crying about my fractured heart that Percy broke, or my unfortunate circumstances, I’ve made it my mission to get the hell out of this prison.
I claw and gnaw at a series of interlocking vines blocking the window. My efforts have proven fruitful, but my lips, gums, fingernails, and hands ooze blood from being pricked too many times to count. My stomach rages, hunger pangs rattling my body, begging for food. But I protest, refusing to give in as I continue my work.
My nose twitches, noting smoky smells seeping under the door frame. Plumes of blacked smoke rise to meet my bare feet, then my kneecaps. The air becomes paper-thin as the heat inside the room explodes to inhumane levels. Savoring every breath that may be my last, I triple my pace in my attempt to escape. Racing against time, against the promise of flames, throws me into a frenzy of dire attempts. My hands are so doused in my blood that it looks as if I’ve grown a crimson outer layer of skin. I’ve grown numb to the thorns stinging my hands; the adrenaline flooding all my senses replaces the pain.
The bedroom door and the wall nearest the bed erupt in glorious red flames. The flames beckon me into an excruciating death, but I fight against it as the fire caresses my back. Oxygen sparse, I cling to the last bit of breath in my lungs like a frightened child does their teddy bear.
Finally free of vines, the window invites the full sunlight inside the already scorching hot room. With trembling, weakened fingers, I pry it fully open, then hoist myself over the windowsill and collapse into the garden below. The bed of flowers and soft, mushy soil soften my landing as I fall face-first into the dirt and petals. Something sharp pricks at my side when I stumble to standing—a thorn, a fist-sized thorn, is implanted in my thigh. Ripping the prickly nuisance from my skin, I cry out in pain and bite my bottom lip.
Staggering around out of the garden and around the house, I make it to the front of the blazing home. Any chance I have of finding anything that belongs to my father is lost to the flames. Confronting Vahilda is not going as I had it planned in my mind. I never wanted a fight with the witch. Yet, as I slog down the road like an undead monster covered in blood, all I can think are morbid thoughts of death.
Vahilda’s death.
***
THE TOWN SQUARE IS alive with witches and wizards, who have come to celebrate this special, once-in-a-lifetime occasion. The townsfolk are dressed to the nines; witches wear lavish hoop skirts, incredibly high heels, and funky hairstyles; wizards don top hats, multicolored suits, and wing-tipped shoes so sharp, they remind me of thorns.
Thorns. Like the thorn I hide behind my back. The thorn that will end Vahilda’s life. The crowd is too thick for me to push through. Everyone who’s anyone is here today, it seems. I walk the sidewalks, keeping a safe distance away from the boisterous townspeople who have yet to notice the woman drenched in dried blood. They’re all too focused on the commotion ahead, the blaring of trumpets, the tune of a symphony of lutes and harps.
Someone in the center of the crowd makes an announcement, but I’m in too much of a murderous daze to care. Standing on my tiptoes, I search the crowd for Vahilda’s face—for my face, craning my body every which way. My eyes widen when I spot my twin in a sunflower yellow dress that steals my breath away. Is that how I look? Am I that... pretty? Or has Vahilda made enhancements to my body, to my face? No, she hasn’t.
That face, those cheekbones, those brown eyes, the dark skin is exactly what I see when I look in the mirror. Has been for my entire life. Yet, I never thought of myself as—
“My, she looks beautiful,” someone in the crowds says.
Another agrees with the sentiment. “As lovely as a garden of roses.”
I’ve never heard such words uttered in my presence. Blinking away tears, I stifle a hysterical, maddening laugh that wants to break free. All along, I never saw myself as someone worthy of being called beautiful. Mum would’ve never allowed me to think such fairy tales about myself.
I’m lost, dazed by the beguiling compliments the fake version of me is receiving when the Elites enter to circle Vahilda, bowing at the hips. Neither one of the old codgers regards the imposter with a celebratory smile, just wrinkled, displeased frowns. They never expected—or desired—a witch to win the trials. What should be a groundbreaking, historical moment for all witches, young and old, to celebrate, is sullied by the wizards, who despise the witch, who dares to become one of them.
Zerachael raises a hand, silences the crowd. He inhales a breath through grit teeth. “Today is a most interesting day in Parnissi. Today we celebrate the beginning of a new reign and the end of mine.” He waits for applause, then continues, “When Parnissi was new, the founders desired to make this land a place where magic was celebrated and not demonized. The founding wizards sought equality in a world that saw them as other. The Flower Trials were created to allow all wizards—and only wizards at that time over a thousand years ago—to compete for the honor of becoming an Elite. Hundreds of years after, witches were permitted to compete, much to our dismay. And the dismay it would cause to the proper order of things. Witches are to be seen, not heard. To be housewives, not warriors.”
Zerachael presses his lips into a thin line and observes the imposter witch. “Times have changed. Let’s hope Miss Elyse can uphold, and keep true, to the ways of the Elite.” The old wizard summons the other six members to loop around Vahilda. “A moment of silence as we open the gateway to the Astral Veil.”
All seven wizards bow their heads, mutter something like an incantation. Vahilda’s unnatural brown eyes drift about, a pleased, victorious smile lifts to her lips, to her razor-sharp cheekbones. Her winning grin slips into a frown when she spots me.
The incantation brings a golden, otherworldly portal to life in the center where Vahilda stands. Releasing their hands, the wizards take a few steps away from the portal, all but Zerachael. He holds his head high, steals a glance over his shoulder at someone I can’t see through the crowd.
“Father.” Markus takes slow, uneasy strides to the wizard. He wears an all-black suit with matching shoes. It’s fitting, given that his father will cross over into the veil.
Zerachael comforts his son with a hug and a peck on the cheek. “It’s time for me to go. I’ve lived a wonderful life. And you’ve made that life much better, my son.”
Markus bursts into tears and wipes at his eyes as he slinks into the horde and vanishes.
“Farewell. For now.” Zerachael steps through the portal; his body shimmers like gold once he fully crosses over.
Vahilda inches toward the gateway as told to by the six other wizards. Gracefully, the imposter nears the portal as the Elite congregate around her with hands raised to the sky. More chanting choruses through the town square, the collective sound of the six wizards’ voices like a song to my ears.
Red roses materialize from thin air. All six wizards hold a flower high and wave them like magic wands. “The time has come, Elyse,” the wizards say in harmony. “May the Gods of heaven and earth bless you with the almighty magic of the Elites.”
Vahilda is showered in rose petals that cascade all around her like a rainstorm. Vibrant, psychedelic colors swirl around her. The magic of the rose—the sealing flower—warms the air through the entire town. Roses, their petals and thorns, bind the contractor and the contractee in a bond that can only be broken by death.
Vahilda chuckles sinisterly. “It is time I claim what is rightfully mine.” The body the witch has been using to mimic me crumbles to ash like the petals around her, and in their wake, the true witch comes to life.
The wizards are too slow to respond as Vahilda rolls her wrist and conjures a storm of chrysanthemum—death flowers—to rain atop the six remaining Elites. They drop like flies, writhing on the cobblestone road, gasping for breath.
Screams of terror reverberate through the town square. Witches and wizards, young and old, run for their lives while an army of officers prepare sunflowers, hydrangeas, and unsheathe batons to do battle with the witch. Vahilda must have thoroughly mapped out all angles at which this scenario could go wrong because the witch is conjuring flowers at such speeds, the officers can’t react or defend themselves. Some innocent souls are decimated from the maelstrom of various, unpredictable magic raging every which way. Balls of deadly fire, currents of sizzling electricity, shards of ice, a storm of hail, a plague of venomous frogs.
The apocalypse has come to claim Parnissi.
“Never again shall a wizard tell me what I can and cannot do,” Vahilda roars over the screams, the terror. The death. “Never again will I be denied the right to become an Elite. Never again shall wizards rule the land. It is time for a change to come to Parnissi, and that change is me! I will bring order to this land once run by these pathetic wizards. I will slay all those who do not bow to me as your queen. As your Goddess. I am Vahilda Marguerite. I. AM. GOD.”
Tumultuous dark clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, swarm the heavens in gloom and darkness. A windstorm begins to brew, carriages, horses, and people are swept in dizzying circles. Vahilda saunters down the road, strikes down the remaining officers and any wizards who dare to stand in her way.
“Bow to me so that you may be spared!”
Fighting against the unnatural combination of natural elements, I dash for Vahilda. The venomous frog’s hiss at me, converge around me as if they know my intent on harming their witch. An officer’s mangled corpse grips a baton in their lifeless hands. I offer my apologies to the dead wizard as I disarm him of his weapon. I had little time to amass a collection of flowers to defend myself against Vahilda and the army of frogs, who weren’t on my agenda of things to slay.
Sweeping the baton left and right, bludgeoning the poisonous amphibians to green goop, I clear a slight path to Vahilda. But the witch is getting further away, and her warpath is destroying the shops, the cafés, and bookstores.
Thunder booms in the sky, purples and blues lash across the clouds. Rain immediately follows, a chilly downpour that soaks me to my undergarments. I catch my breath for a quick moment after a long sprint of dodging wayward fire and ice spheres. Townsfolk try to run, to find shelter, to get far away from the wicked witch. A flood soon claims the town square, and those lost to the mayhem. If I don’t stop her now, I’ll be lost to this madness.
Vahilda lingers near a trembling couple who shields their infant baby. The witch stares down her nose at them until the couple prostrates themselves at her feet. Vahilda is met with more surrender, townspeople fearing for their lives, submit to their new ruler.
All but me.
“Vahilda!” My voice booms like the thunder thrashing the sky.
Turning slowly, the witch scowls at me. “You’re just as resilient as your father. Like father, like daughter, I guess.” She shrugs, wades to me in the rising waters, a half-devilish smile on her maw. “And just like your father, you will know what death tastes like.”
My thoughts spiral out of control, a marathon of things I hadn’t done, things I should’ve done. Of all the books I’ll never get to read. Of the places I’ll never see. Of the love I’ll never receive.
Stilling my breath and reining in my racing mind, I drop to my knees. My head is so deeply bowed, my nose skims the rising floodwaters swallowing Parnissi whole. It’s at this moment that I am thankful for the murky water, for the blood, the gore, the bones that float by, for the carnage-laden liquid conceals the weapon clasped behind my back.
“Elyse, sweet girl.” Vahilda towers over me. Her menacing shadow slows my breath, prickles the nape of my bowed neck. “Do you honestly believe that I will spare you?” I don’t give the witch an answer as my fingers grip tight around the thorn at my backside. “If I allowed you to live, you’ll only grow stronger and wiser. A smart girl like you should know better. There’s no space for you here in Parnissi. You are an outsider—a bastard child—who got lucky enough to be of kin to me. Let death welcome you with open arms, unlike the mother who birthed you—”
Vahilda’s words catch in her throat, a gurgling breath forced from her lungs as I drive the thorn straight into her heart.