Page 73 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood
“Take me to her garden.” I stride out the balcony, diving off.
Mytha takes flight beside me, banking hard and circling to the right.
We land outside the garden. This is a newer area. Only six souls currently occupy it. I know the queen the moment my eyes find her. She’s older, but the resemblance to Lenore cannot be missed. The same fair skin and elegant face. She wanders about the garden, oblivious to the world beyond her flowery hedges.She won’t be missing Lenore or her kingdom. The gardens are designed for their occupants to live in peaceful bliss. An eternity without worries. Today, I envy such ignorance.
The amulet around my neck pulses.Fucking great. Ravens dart about us, cawing their alarm.
“What now?”
Mytha drops into her Serpien form beside me. “The river. They’re sssaying it’sss the sssame one.”
My gaze flicks to where the last garden was consumed. That level of destruction cannot be allowed to happen again.
“We need to move fast.” The gardens and fires blur past on my way to the river. I must protect what peace is left in my kingdom. There are greater dangers than a few corrupted souls when the Underworld is thrown too far out of balance.
The escapee comes into view. Mytha is right. It is the same cursed spirit. Its oozing, tarry appearance sets flame to the lengthy list of things that have already pissed me off today.
Some entities are simply too powerful. While I much prefer they suffer in the river for all eternity where I can watch and enjoy, it looks like I’ve had all the fun I’m going to get out of this one.
“Mytha.”
“Sssire?”
“My throne is in need of new bones. I think it’s time for an extraction.” The ravens go wild. Their excitement manifests in their squawks and swoops.
We haven’t had an extraction in ages. This is not how I saw my day going. It may end up being to my benefit. My monster needs to stretch its wings.
Four shadows as thick as trees whip forward, wrapping around the creature’s arms and legs. This fucker is even heavier than before. He may have found a way to feed off the souls in the river. I should have moved him to a new prison the last time.
Hundreds of birds encircle me. I guide the suspended spirit toward a sharp, triangular door that sits embedded in the stone at the base of the mountain. Its handle is made of a skull-shaped chunk of Vivianite. Unlike the dark impenetrable glass of the rest of the mountain, the door beneath the mountain is translucent. Swirling smoke flashes past. Palms press against the glass, pounding, clawing, sliding down.
The mountain prison is where cursed spirits go when they’ve been deemed too dangerous to torment in the river. Their darkness will continue even after I’ve stolen any traces of their corporeal form. Inside the mountain, they fight, constantly trying to devour one another. Darkness against darkness. A nonstop horror fest with no winner. The whistling sounds that can always be heard from beneath the mountain make my skin crawl.Soul sucking. They’ll fight to take each other’s souls, literally sucking them down and inflicting more pain than their bodies would have been able to handle. It’s a bone-chilling fate. One they must repeat for eternity with no escape from the suffering and no victory at the end of their struggles for power.
The downside is that they don’t have much recognition of who they were or why they’re here. That’s why I find the river to be more rewarding. They know what they did to get there. They’re also much more alert, forcing them to experience drowning over and over.
The mountain prison is more horrific. But in my opinion, the river is a more satisfying form of torture. For me at least. I enjoying looking into their eyes as they breech the surface. There’s always a split-second where I can see it: the relief. They still believe, after all this time, that there may be a way to escape. Before they can take a full breath, the other souls drag them back beneath the debris-filled water, fighting for their own chance at air. This happens all day and night. Always.
Before this one can enter the mountain, he needs to be de-boned. My ravens love this part.
Slipping free from my human skin, I allow the monster to take control. Talons replace feet, claws protrude from my fingertips. I grow, taller and taller. My shadows strengthen as my monster reveals itself fully. A snap of my newly sharpened fingertips has my shadows pulling taut. The spirit is stretched wide, ready to be drawn and quartered. I’d do it if it worked. Sixteen new shadows latch on, encircling various parts of him. As the bones are removed, the spirit becomes airborne. Keeping hold of him is key to ensuring he doesn’t free himself once his body has been separated.
The average adult has over two hundred bones. I delight in finding and removing each one. Lenore will join me here someday. These could be the first pieces used to create her throne.If my ravens are willing to share—naughty things. The vision of our joined hands as we sit side by side in my castle is too perfect a picture to forget.
This will be her home one day. Corrupted spirits, like the one I have hanging from my shadows, cannot be allowed to ruin it for her.
“Swarm.” My command thunders across the sky. Ravens line up, adopting a spiral swarm formation. Two hundred bones means two hundred opportunities for my ravens to choose a bone to pluck for themselves. They get everything but the skull. That belongs to me. There was once a time when I ripped out all the bones myself. After seeing the joy it brought to my hardworking spirit ferriers, I vowed to never deprive them of another chance to take part. The Serpien chose the form of a raven for many reasons. Ravens are collectors by nature. Like the Serpien, they love to find treasures and horde them away.
A single snap releases them from their death spiral. Watching them dive is like living poetry. They drop one at atime, aiming for their preferred bone with expert precision. By the time they’ve ripped it free, the next raven is latching on to their bone of choice.
The spirit shrieks, howling in pain as its bones are wrenched free, bit by bit, socket by socket, until it’s a flailing pile of black tar and putrid, rotting flesh. That’s when I step in. The skull is the last step.
My claws extend as I bury my fingers beneath its chin, jerking from side to side until the lower jawbone breaks free. A high-pitched keening rings in my ears. I toss the bone above me like a breadcrust to a seagull. A raven snatches it from the air, dashing off, bone in beak. Shoving my fist into the skull, I push my fingers through the eye sockets and rip my prize free.
The keening stops. I sigh. The fun always ends too quickly.
Channeling magic, I reinforce the door beneath the mountain, opening the tiniest sliver to force the spirit through. The symphony of sorrowful and rage-filled shrieks blasts from within the mountain, rumbling the ground. I only have to squeeze the spirit a fraction of the way in before the others drag it fully inside.
“Let the endless nightmare begin.”
