Page 120 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
And yet, if it does, that’s a problem solved—a prophecy avoided.
If it doesn’t, and she survives this, then I may never know what the kapha wants from her.
The garden blurs into a watercolor mess. I think I understand why. Despite my attempts at murder, I know if Desdemona dies out there, I will be guilty.
I will be complicit.
It’s the answer I asked of the boy not that long ago. It shouldn’t matter, but it means the entire world to me.
If my actions lead to a death, does that make me the killer?
Yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
It would.
It does.
I want to know what the kapha wants.
I want to hold onto some idea of innocence, I think.
Running again, my shoes skid on the marble floor when I reach the academy. As I enter the combat room, Leiholan sits in the corner drinking, and my eyes land on the display of weapons in the back.
His eyes meet mine—confused, but not overly so.
“Kapha.” I heave a breath. “We need help.”
Leiholan nods like it’s a secret language only he understands. He runs to the back of the room, immediately alert, as if he has been waiting for someone to tell him they need him.
He searches the armory in seconds, the movements a blur of superspeed.
“Where?” he asks, grabbing a rusted blade—old. It must have the type of metal needed to kill a kapha. Every monster can be killed only one way, lest their magic bring them back to life.
“Zola’s circle.”
Leiholan sheathes the blade, grabs me around the back, and races toward the fountain. We’re there in seconds, and what I see is not what I expected.
Desdemona istouchingthe kapha. I look to Leiholan, searching for a companion in my suspicion. He, like everyone else, is oddly protective of this girl.
My stomach churns with power as I pull another tree from the ground, its roots growing into legs. The tree moves like a sentient being toward the monster. Its roots shift and creak with a life of their own. It takes every ounce of my strength to keep it upright, alive, and moving.
My heart races. The trees pulse beating inside of me.
Blood drips down my arm, passing over my glove and to the floor, as thorns break through my skin.
My knees wobble, my core gives in. Fatigue feels like dying.
As best as I can, I listen to the kapha. My hands stretch before me, aiming for something I can’t reach. I don’t understand what I reach for or why I do it.
I know only that there is no other option.
This feeling—one that isn’t mine—distracts me from my magic, the life of the tree. The kapha longs for something, but the longing does not belong to it. This is artificially placed, as if this monster is doing a greater monster’s dirty work.
For just a moment, I think of Desdemona. Speaking to it. Touching it.
A greater monster.
