Page 87 of The Ordeals
Suddenly, I feel my magic welling within me, determination and power flooding me. I wrench my gaze from my friend and focus back on Fion. ‘So you take out me and Tessa, and what? Is Alden next? He’s got to be a stronger botanist than you. What can you do, summon a few rose plants? I hear Killmarth needs a new groundskeeper. The professors won’t want you here. You won’t be the strongest wielder. No one will trust you; they’ll see you for what you are. You may as well give up now, yourdivine giftsare so ordinary. Nothing special.’ She hisses, opening her mouth to speak, but something occurs to me. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? The night of the masquier ball …’
She eyes me quietly. ‘The cold one? She was hungry. Caught the scent of a wielder, needed to feed.’ She shrugs. ‘The least I could do for an ally of Alloway.’
Her face darkens and she takes a step towards me. Her eyes are bloodshot, features twisted and pale, and I wonder if … I wonder how much this is costing her. Wielding her magic to this extent. ‘Botany is my lesser gift. My dominant divine gift is illusion. Surely you know that by now, Sophia. Surely you recognise what arealillusionist can do. Besides, I already have something of Alden’s. Something he will want back, something I can control him with.’
‘Fion, but what about the gods, your plans?’ I wonder if I can keep her talking, keep her wielding, even as the thorns dig deeper, skewering and twisting, wrapping around my left arm and reaching for my throat. ‘In the Attestations, Argus is a liberator, he works with the other gods!’
All she does is smile.
Terror takes root in my chest as the whole room shakes. Plaster falls from the walls, colours leaching away, leaving me in a forest, a ghostly, moonlit forest. The Morlagh. I thrash against the thorns, knowing what’s coming, knowing what she’ll do, what she’ll try and convince me of.
‘Fun night, this, wasn’t it?’ her voice calls through the mist, echoing off the trees.
Not real, not real, not real …
I try to remember what she was saying before, try to pick up that thread, lead her away from this illusion, back to my questions about Alloway, the gods, her revelation—
‘Didn’t you tangle with a werewolf? You know, I think you got off a little too lightly …’ Her voice turns cruel and twisted with mirth.
A growl vibrates through the forest.
I snap my head up to where it came from, my body flushing hot then cold. A distant shape lurks in the mist, a hulking shadow … and it’s coming my way. I whimper, smelling loam and night and the distinct scent of wild, and all I can do is try to convince my damn mind that this is an illusion. Just like the house when I walked in, none of this is real, it’s just Fion playing with me, just an illusionist, nothing more.
I struggle against the thorns wrapping my wrist and finally, manage to nick one loose with my switchblade. Then with more movement, another, then another, until I can pull against them, a hundred tiny blades leaving me gasping, but I saw my arm free. The vines seem to loosen, as though her botany wielding is waning, too much of herself given to the illusion she’s created. I slice through the last of the thorns at my chest, feeling the damp warmth where the blood, my blood has soaked through and I twist, slashing the final vine at my ankle and roll to the side.
‘Stupid bitch …’ I hear Fion mutter and know she’s after me. But I can’t see her, all I see is trees and mist, that shadowy shape moving my way—
There.
A gleam, catching on a tree trunk, a gleam that should not be there. I grit my teeth, blood soaking into my boot as I slam my hand on the tree, finding polished wood beneath my fingers. The threads of her illusion shrink as I rip through them. Fion shrieks as the illusion cracks, breaking apart and I see her. I see her, just a foot away and in desperation, I twist my hand in the air, summoning every ounce of my magic.
And I crack myself in two.
She screams, mouth a jagged line in her too pale, bloodied face, fingers outstretched, clawing for my throat.
Her hands meet nothing but air.
Nothing but my illusion.
As I step up behind her and slide my blade up and under her ribs.
‘That’s for all the hopefuls you murdered,’ I breathe, grabbing her shoulder to twist it in deeper. Her body falls to the ground, limp. Dead. The thorns, the roses, the mess crawling through the window retreats, creeping back to the gated garden across the street below. I watch as the blood blooms where I stabbed her, her magic leaking out over the floorboards. Then I wrench her over and check she’s really, truly dead.
‘Sophia?’ I hear a pained murmur and whip around, finding Tessa curling in on herself.
‘I’m here,’ I say, crossing to her, falling to my knees beside her.
‘You have to run. Fion—’
‘She’s dead.’
Tessa blinks slowly then her gaze travels past me, to the body on the ground. Her lip trembles. ‘She said she’d kill Greg next, that werewolves are a sin …’
‘Well, she can’t. She’s not going anywhere. But you have to get up.’ I check her over, recoiling slightly at the gash on her temple where Fion must have hit her. What a monster. But a dead one, now. ‘Put your weight on me. We’ll do this slowly.’
She grunts, leaning into me as I manoeuvre her up. Even though I bleed in every place a thorn dug into me, or where it cut and sliced. The stinging pain gives way to a slow throb, but I ignore it. Ignore everything but Tessa, and the way her breath comes a little too shallow and fast. ‘Did she hurt you anywhere else?’
‘Just my head. The candlestick.’ Tessa gasps. ‘But I think …’ She swallows. ‘I think I’m all right. I can stand. She told me to follow her, she was going to lead me out of the maze, and I was so sure she was part of my final Ordeal—’
