Page 25 of Devoured

Bitter, woodsy liquid fills my mouth and coats my throat in a thick musk. I can’t swallow around it, at least not right away. I learned quickly that swallowing the draught too early was a surefire way for it to come rushing back up and out, wasting the potion and leaving me ill for hours. The draught has to form itself into a sludge first, until it’s almost malleable on my tongue. It tastes just as horrible now as it did the first time I begged Evie for help. Like mud, a paste of mulch and dirt and tree bark. But that’s the price, and I’ll pay it.

I’ll pay any price.

Once the draught begins to slide itself down my throat, as though it’s made the choice to do so, I swallow. And I gag. It hits my stomach like bullets, one after the next, shot straight through the lining of my esophagus and into my gut. A wave of acid rushes into my mouth afterward, but I swallow that too. I swallow and swallow until there isn’t a taste of vomit or dirt left in my mouth.

And then—in a single breath, clarity bursts through my mind. Sunshine-bright awareness slips through my bones. It’s as though the heavens have opened, as if my eyes have opened with them, and everything feels right and good again. I am awake.

I will not fall asleep.

That bright, hopeful moment fades quicker than last time, however, leaving only a jittery sense of stimulation. My leg bounces as thunder continues to roar. The sound pummels my nerves, raising every hair follicle on my skin until the walls feel tighter and tighter. Closer and closer. Until I think they might suffocate me. The darkness seems to mock me, candlelight flickering in and out, and those tapestries—the viscera appearing and disappearing every few seconds—force me to my feet. I wipe my sweaty palms on the wispy skirt of a new ivory nightgown. One Cora tucked into my drawers, right beside a beautiful oil painting of her son.

I can’t stay here. Not tonight.

Hiding the remaining draught back in my pocket, I creep on my tiptoes toward the door and crack it open as quietly as possible. But Sin’s bedroom is still dark. He is still gone. So I leave.

I don’t know where I’m going now. This isn’t like when I’m meeting Evie. I have no plan. I’m only walking, and then running—breaking into a full sprint through the empty halls of a castle cloaked in midnight. Thunder follows me, chasing me down corridor after corridor, where lightning sparks in the windows, brightens entire floors, and rain pounds against the glass like a thousand fists pleading for entry. I ignore that too. I ignore everything, even as thoughts explode through my mind and hallucinations waver at the edges of my vision.

Sin betrayed me.

I run.

Calix killed Celeste.

I run.

Evie and I could have died tonight.

I run and I run and I run. Until my brain hurts. Until my bones ache. Until I’m throwing myself into two massive doors and hurtling out onto the old Combat and Conquest field. My lashes flutter as rain sluices my skin. As wind whips through my hair and claws at my nightgown. I stumble onto the grass, and then—I stop. Moving. Feeling. All of it.

My knees give out beneath me, and I sink to the earth with a silent cry.

Maybe it isn’t so silent, though. Maybe I just can’t feel my tears because of the rain.

Lightning spears the blackened sky, spears the spires of Castle Severi too, in streaks of molten gold, while freezing water soaks into my nightgown. It’s cold. I’m cold. But I still don’t move. When the next bolt of lightning scorches the grass inches from me, I don’t even flinch. I don’t care that it smolders. That it blackens. I don’t care that it could hit me next.

“You should cry,” a soft voice croons from the shadows. “If you want to cry, you shouldn’t stop yourself.”

My gaze lifts from the earth to the silhouette moving slowly, gracefully, before me. My heart squeezes painfully at the sight of her. Bruised flesh, a split lip, and gaunt cheeks that used to be so beautifully round. Even her long billowing sleeves hide too-thin arms and bony shoulders. “Lyra.”

She shrugs at that, lifting one shoulder with a careless, almost mischievous grin. “Vanessa.”

“What are you… How are you…” I search her wrists and ankles for chains, but there are none. “Did they set you free?”

She laughs, and the gentle sound is so familiar, so comforting, that tears clog my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I picked the locks.”

I shake my head, and soaking-wet strands of purple and brown stick to my neck from the hasty movement. “You picked the—”

“Locks, yes. I am the Oracle of the North American Wolf Queen’s Court. Do you think I cannot handle some chains?” She tilts her head and sits on the patch of earth the lightning just scorched. When I part my lips to warn her, she strokes the charred ground almost fondly. “Do you know how rare it is for lightning to strike twice?”

I haven’t heard Lyra like this in a week now. Haven’t heard her inane questions or her confusing riddles, and I didn’t know how much I missed them until this moment. Until a laugh—a genuine, surprised laugh—bubbles from my lips. “You never make any sense.”

“Oh, I make perfect sense to me.” She flashes her pearl-white teeth, and it takes me a second to notice that two are chipped and stained with blood.

“They’ll hurt you if they find you here.” My gaze drops to my hands. I pick at the blades of grass in front of me until every single one is plucked free. “Especially if they find you here with me.”

“They hurt me anyway. Just as they hurt you.” She shuts her eyes and leans back on her elbows, letting the rain soak her black hair and pale skin. Her tattoos don’t shimmer anymore. I hardly see them at all. “I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.”

I sit and watch her. This is the first time I’ve felt almost at ease since the massacre. Lyra is safe enough. She is one of the only people here I have never needed to fear.