Page 3 of The Lost Reliquary
I don’t need to see it clearly to know something is truly wrong.
Especially not when Emmaus’s eyes open again. All humanity there is gone. In its place is blackness, oily and fetid. A darkness that spreads, bubbling over Emmaus’s face, pouring from his nose and mouth in a hideous gush. One that starts to consume him. Tochangehim. Emmaus raises his arms, flesh disintegrating as spears of the grim effluvia burst from what used to be his hands, sharpening to a point as they plunge into Tempestra-Innara’s shoulder, stomach, thigh.
The Goddess screams, a sound that grates across my soul.
The world upends, turns fragmented. For a moment, I think I amimpaled too. But when my vision clears, I am uninjured, and have moved without realizing it, hands now gripping the stone balustrade of the gallery. I cannot look away from the horror below, blood pounding in my ears even as it seems to drain out of me.
What I am seeing shouldn’t be possible.Cannotnot be possible.
And yet, the blackness continues to grow. Faster even than my stunned disbelief as I watch Emmaus about to succeed in doing what I have secretly dreamed of since the first time I knelt on that worn Cathedral floor:
Killing Tempestra-Innara.
Two
Into the light, we are reborn. Within the flame, we are reforged.
—SHARED MOTTO OF THE DAWN AND DUSK CLOISTERS
TWO THINGSILEARNEDearly and keep close: Everyone has secrets, and every secret has consequences.
Some of those consequences are merely embarrassing, like how peaches make Morgan fart like a draft horse. Others would mean punishment if discovered—Jeziah’s trysts with the Cloister attendants springs to mind—but are still forgivable.
My secret would be an instant ticket to an exceedingly-painful-and-probably-not-quick execution.
I’ve forgotten the particulars of the first time I truly imagined killing Tempestra-Innara, only that I conceived the fantasy not long after arriving at the Dawn Cloister. And since then, my repertoire of daydreams has grown like a well-tended garden. The swift, brutal efficiency of decapitation. The slow sensuality of exsanguination. Defenestration (through the Cathedral’s stained glass windows, of course). Evisceration. Immolation. Stuff there isn’t a fancy word for. I’ve even dreamed of blanketing their bound and helpless form with angry scorpions—indulgent and impractical, but what fantasy isn’t?
Especially as none of those things would kill a goddess.
But that sensibility never limited my imaginings, the treachery I keep deeply interred in the soil of my thoughts. A secret, with consequences, that I always knew to be impossible.
Until now.
I remember thinking at my communion, as Tempestra-Innara readied to bless me with the gift of their divinity, that it made no sense that a goddess could bleed. But they can, and they do—in great dark torrents, crimson sheeting from their wounds to the Cathedral floor.
I want to smile. Tolaugh. But… consequences.
Screaming, on the other hand, is just fine.Idon’t scream, but others certainly do, chaos spreading as quickly as the dark pool at the Goddess’s feet. Yet, none of the devoted run. Whether it’s loyalty or simply shock winning over fear in their meaty little minds, I don’t know, but the crowd is nearly frozen in place as Emmaus continues his assault. I count the Cathedral Guard among them, not exactly surprising, their ranks being almost as ceremonial as our armor.
“Protect the Goddess!”
Prior Petronilla’s desperate command is the blade, honed by years, that finally cuts through everything else. Instinctively, I draw my sickles from their scabbards on my back. Unlike my armor, they are most definitelynotfor show, curved silver with ebony hilts, not even a hint of flashiness. I tear off my ridiculous, vision-limiting helm and toss it away as Morgan appears beside me, spear raised and ready. But it’s the Demon of the Dusk Cloister who attacks first, absolutely heedless as they launch themselves over the balustrade. Morgan does the same, with me in her wake. For a heartbeat, there is only the plunge to the Cathedral floor, and the horrific creature that waits below.
Emmaus is gone. His body is blacked, completely enveloped by the greasy darkness he released. Too late I realize it’s sprouted more grisly appendages, barely missing one as my feet strike stone. I roll out of its reach; a cry tells me Morgan isn’t so lucky. Oh well. In the Cloisters, there is no room for weakness, and I wouldn’t have wasted the time to check on her if I had it.
Which I don’t. Another black tentacle slices in my direction. I leap aside and collide with a stone pillar as I make my own cut, blades plunging into the darkness. Foul fluid sprays, coating me. The rational part ofmy mind tries to make sense of the creature—looks like sludge, cuts like flesh, and smells like death in a trash pile at the height of summer. I choke, unable to breathe through the reek of it, twisting around the pillar in a desperate attempt at reprieve.
I’m going to puke.
Then I’m going todie,loosing my guts onto the floor of the Cathedral. A ridiculous way to go. But even that embarrassing coherence slips away as I frantically wipe at the nasty ichor with the backs of my hands. Every second carries the tight expectation of a blow, or straight up death, but when I finally clear enough of the fluid away to take an almost-clean breath, I’m still alive. I breathe through my mouth, suppressing the indescribably foul taste of it on my tongue as I peek around the pillar. On the dais, the horrific darkness has coiled itself around Tempestra-Innara’s neck, but the Goddess is fighting back now, fingers clawing, skin pale as old snow.
They live. They still fight.
Which—fuck—means I have to too.
My hands tighten around my sickles as I step out from behind the pillar. Slaughter spreads before me, bodies strewn across the floor—devotees, Cathedral Guard, two Priors, a Dusk Potentiate. More that I can’t see. The rest of my blood brethren stand to fight, though the crowd has snapped out of their shock, screaming in terror as they rush the doors. But the Cathedral exit is locked, trapping them.
“Protect the Goddess!” Prior Petronilla’s cry comes again, a reminder that the crowd is not my concern. Still, I lunge as a dark appendage wraps around a nearby devotee. I am too far away to reach him before it contracts, rending the man in two, releasing a wet slop of viscera. I slash at the tentacle. It retracts briefly before attacking again. Not me, though. One of the Dusk Potentiates—the Demon. They evade it easily, dismembering the unctuous blackness almost casually before pressing closer to the apse, and the Goddess.
