Page 121 of The Lies We Conjure
I watch in my periphery, horrified, as the shrouds dissolve into dust and debris, littering the star-shaped tiles.
The Blackgate matriarch steps forward, steals the Blood relic from Hector’s stiff hands, and tucks the box with Cleopatra’s heart into the same hidden pocket holding the Bones of Ribe.
Marsyas has another master relic now. Two by my count, but perhaps three by hers. She killed Luna. She is already itching to hold the ring. It’s not much of a stretch to believe that the Celestial relic went missing because this woman stole it.
And if that is true, that means the Elemental master in Wren’s grasp is the last one Marsyas needs to gain control of the Four Lines.
Add the ring and it’s over.
Endgame unlocked in two easy steps.
I expect Marsyas to approach Wren. To use her magic the same way now, and I brace for what will happen when she breaks the magical prison and gets her hands on Wren—right in front of me as I stand here, frozen and helpless to stop her.
Instead, Marsyas crouches closer to the bodies, and places a palm on Sanguine’s forehead, as if checking her for a fever. Before I can even guess what she’s doing, the impossible happens.
Sanguine awakens.
I silently gasp as the woman blinks a few times, and then, as if directed, pushes herself up and braces against the ground on extended arms. Sanguine’s blue eyes are glazed over under heavy lashes, her face pale and mottled with gore, gaping wounds fully revealed as she moves to clutch her husband’s arm.
“Yes, my dear, of course,” Marsyas says. “You’re always better together.”
Then, Marsyas places a hand beneath his fall of hair, and Hector’s eyes open too.
He springs up, faster than his wife, uncoordinated but enthusiastic. Sanguine meets Hector with a calming grip and a kiss to the temple.
Then, supporting each other, they stand.
And Marsyas greets them like she’s the one hosting a party now in crumbling, isolated Hegemony Manor.
“Welcome to the team.”
I can’t look away, even as Marsyas exits my line of sight. The Cerises stretch, examining their arms and legs, scratched and bruised and mottled as they are. Hector and Sanguine don’t say a word, and how could they, with their throats gone? But they’re dead and standing and there’s only one thing I can make of that.
They’re zombies. Literal zombies.
A day ago, maybe two, I would’ve immediately thoughtthis can’t be real. Now, after all we’ve seen? My fatigued mind doesn’t even allow the beginnings of that thought to fire. Of all the things I’ve witnessed since Saturday night, the walking dead might be the most unreal of all. Still true. Still more than plausible as a magical possibility.
These are Death witches.
They wield magic gained through the dead. Why couldn’t theymovethe dead? Reanimate them at will? Use them for gain?
My heart freezes as my mind halts uponwhyHector and Sanguine are standing tall.
Marsyas doesn’t even attempt to hide her intent—Welcome to the team.
The Death witch hasn’t given new life to the Cerises.
She’s made them into soldiers.
As if he can hear my thoughts, Hector drags a long, elegant finger across the gaping maw of his ruined throat. Crimson blood coats his fingertip, still wet under the cover of the shroud, even after at least an hour, maybe two since he first died. He draws his hand up to eye level, flexing the fingers, a small smile gathering on his ruined mouth.
Testing his power.
I can’t see his magic, but a spark of something shivers deep within my own veins. The seed of Hex’s blood within mine. One drop is all it takes for Hex to control me like a marionette, and his father can control him.
Blood upon blood.
The call is distant, ferried through Hex to his father, dead and gone, and I hope beyond hope that Hex can feel that spark too and know his parents have been awakened from death.
