Page 8 of Cursed Shadows 4

clock,

click,

clock.

Of course itisreal, and I am to enter the second passage of the Sacrament in less than two hours—and that pendulum clock likes to remind me of that harrowing truth.

I swear on my ears, it’s taunting me.

But I throw no glare at the clock this time.

All that self-obsession I have been accused of, the self-pity I have marinated in, I see it now, right there in the mirror, looking back at me. It’s in the gloss of my eyes.

I watch the tear fall down my blotchy cheek.

The flush spreads down my neck to my chest, hidden by the sweater, as my heart starts to thump, and my breaths sharpen.

I look a way I never thought I would.

A way that mocks me for my own defeat.

Father meant me for dresses and gowns.

But now, I look the part of a warrior.

And I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

Leather trousers cling to my legs so firmly, so fluidly, as though painted on, and I suspect they might just become a second skin to me.

An array of black metal and silver weapons glitter at me. Dozens of them slotted into the weapons belt that’s strappedaround my waist, another two holsters to boast even more daggers and throwing knives wrapped around my bicep and thigh.

The corseted vest is moulded to my shape, the firm leather fitting snug on my midsection, something of an armoured bodice. Yet, there is no suffocation to come with it. Firm, yes, but breathable, and leather so thick and laced that it will protect me from any speared blades aimed my way. Dragon leather.

Under it, I wear the fleece-lined black sweater, and though it feels like buttered feathers embracing me, I want nothing more than to rip it off, all of it.

For the first time in my life, I am in leathers.

I am in armour.

In that alone, I am prepared—

But not prepared in the ashy tint to my complexion, the tremble of my clammy hands at my sides, not in the dark circles around my eyes, or the writhing in my gut.

Click,

clock,

click,

clock.

My mouth twists.

My bottom lip quivers, and I turn my cheek to the mirror before the next tear can fall from the reddened glaze of my eyes or the dark, sleepless patches that circle them.

I draw away from the mirror and, with a shuddering breath, snatch a pair of slick gloves from the foot of the bed.

Click,

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