Page 156 of The Cerulean Sister
Two figures inside stand unnaturally, and my eyes take too long to make sense of them.
I blink rapidly and when my vision adjusts, what comes from my body is not a gasp or a sharp inhale, it's a primal snarl.
The elder priestess who ran from the fight holds my sister in a spiderweb grasp around her neck. Silky strands constrict, cutting off her airway as Leema scratches and tries to free herself, plucking tiny threads that continue to manifest and multiply up the column of her throat.
Blood covers her gown from a wound I cannot see, and her hands are stained in old blood, dried and blotchy around her wrists.
I scream her name so loud my ears ring and pulse with my heartbeat, drowning out the sound of the elder’s biting words.
My light rushes out of me on its own, doing my bidding without waiting for my thoughts to catch up, the emerald energy striking out of my fingertips with electric rage.
The fire is so green and brilliant, I have to squint my own eyes from the intensity.
Without aim or reason, it launches forth, knowing who it is meant for.
I see a glowing reflection in the wild shine of the elder’s eyes right before contact, and in an instant, she is gone, the mist left behind crackling into nothing.
Leema falls to her knees, taking in a gulping breath as the last of the elder’s silky strands falls to the ground and disappears.
I stumble to my sister, holding her hands and running my palms over them, her stomach, checking for the origin of the blood that coats her.
"It's not mine." Leema tries to wipe it away as if disgusted, but the sticky smudges do not move.
Knowing she is unharmed, that she is not bleeding out and I am not too late, breaks something in me.
I crush her chest against mine, feeling her forearm protecting her rounded belly from my sudden embrace. Her other hand slides to my back, hugging me like she is just as happy to see me.
I want to stay here, let myself cry and outpour the tension I am holding in my shoulders, but if the blood is not hers, then it belongs to someone else.
"Whose blood is this?" I pull her hands together, gently forcing her attention.
"I didn't mean to. I did not know if you were truly going to help me. I told her I wanted to leave."
"Who? Who did you tell? Leema, where is the highest?" I beg for an answer, but her eyes look through me, wild from shock.
Leema can't answer me. She only whimpers helplessly and begins smearing her hands on the clean parts of her white gown.
"Ferren." Calliape's calm tone is forced and unnatural. She stands over a vast puddle of blood on the far side of the domed room, red stripes following the grout lines of the mosaic tile.
It is answer enough.
I nod at Leema reassuringly. "It's alright. This is Calliape, my friend. She will stay with you."
As I stand, Calliape has folded the distance next to us. I meet her eyes, and though she says nothing, an unspoken understanding crosses between us, a deep trust in each other and what our roles will be in what happens next.
The sound of Selene's gift cuts off, the wind coming to an abrupt stop, and my ears pop from sudden change in sound. I know without looking she is already in the archway behind us.
I weave around the displaced furniture, fueled by my sister’s fear and desire to end this.
I walk to the portion of wet tile, the light so low the blood takes on an inky black.
My insides move in a strange twist when I see a smeared trail on the edge of the pool, as if someone has dragged themselves away.
I press my palm into my cramping side and brace as I follow it with my eyes.
Crixa lies at the base of an ornately upholstered chaise lounge, weakly holding her abdomen. A slender but lengthy dinner knife lays on the floor by her drenched temple robe, casting the midnight blue fabric in a wet black where she pulled the knife from her wound.
She is pale, her breath shallow, but she is alive.
