CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I could not move still and my vision came, but only in slight. She dragged Crawford's deceased body and my torpid. Though I recognized her appearance, I had no bearing on how she had discovered our location and how she had wiped out the hag and her horde of humans-turned-ghouls. She hid the secret—perhaps from her master too—of her true being.

Our bodies produced scraping sounds as they dragged on the gravel, shoes scuffing the loose rock in a feeble protest, skin bumping every so often into the fragments of rock that lay strewn and inundate in the path.

It was clear that she had the advantage over me, for I was lifeless and senseless, and she…she had killed the hag, a being that so simply subdued my faculties, almost driving me to madness—almost! into a vegetable. Any attempts at escape would be futile so I did not attempt, I had always known when to give up.

We ceased our being tethered when we were dropped among the rubble in front of the house, and Edythe moseyed inside the . It looked almost malevolent now: the bays' grey tint the same as the skin of those gaunt monsters of the crone; the roofs arched into blades of burnt sienna that punctured the vast space of black that permeated the sky above, broken only be the moon which had turned into a crook of white. The tower loomed the same as the spires of my father's manor. I had not been allowed to live there but a feeling of nostalgia spiked and reared itself every time my mind wandered to before—before I arrived here.

Edythe returned from her brief stay in the manor. Her face was blank of any expression and faintly I smelt smoke and I saw it. Slowly, the gloomy edifice was devoured by the flames, singing wood and paintings and the pitched roofs were also swallowed.

Edythe meandered to our bodies, and she hoisted Crawford's body and heaved him inside, the flames growing larger, as if the body were a sacrifice and it a god. She looked at me then, hazel eyes I had once thought a dancing merry were now steely and metallic. Her bronze skin moved swift, hoisting me too and hurling me inside the house. A cross sat on her neck but I could not grasp what that meant. I could not even breathe. Her figure faded into obscurity as she vacated the combusting manor, not once ceasing her footsteps.

My fingers entwined the leather coat, gripping it as if it were more substantial than my life, as if it could keep me from my descent into the abyss. The flames scorched garishly against my skin, the flesh melting off as Icarus' wings had, billowing into ashy black that washed tears in my eyes. I coughed and coughed and coughed but could endeavor nothing else.

Crawford had already been swallowed; his descent into the afterlife was complete. My skin had all but been burnt off but my consciousness remained. It is painful, too painful that even as I write this, I cannot halt the tears from falling on the parchment. The house reduced to nothing but ashes and charcoal, and I, to the Nether.

***

I lay on the floorboards of the Sanctuary, the ambient light of the chandelier scintillating overhead. The same sofas lay in view, the same rug of labyrinthian meanders beneath it. I heard the crackle of the hearth, snapping and popping skybound, as the great fire I had just died from.

I have returned, I should have said triumphantly. But what triumph is there in dying? A failure once more. You still have not changed, I could hear my father say, the same reproaching tone once more. I cannot bear it. I hit my head on the floorboard.

Once. Light at first. Twice. Blood spilt. More. I cannot bear to live anymore. I cannot bear to see more lives lost, more flashes of memories just before I die. I cannot bear to cheat Death once more, and return to the Sanctuary scarred and degraded, unhuman and invalid. I cannot save Yarim; I cannot even save myself.

Unawares tears ran streams down my face and I was made cognizant only by the pang of salt.

A hand caressed my cheeks

"Yarim has not been kind to you, Anima." That beautiful voice—as if every melody belonged only to her.

I looked up at her, eyes sparkling like rubies, as beauteous and big as they were. Her pale skin unblemished, no flaws taking even a breadth of space. Cheeks coated with a faint red wine that was every bit as addicting and pleasing. I drank it all in. "Alice."

Her hands sidled on both my cheeks. Warmth rose from where our skins touched but the tears did not stop, the throbbing pain did not wither or dwindle—they even swelled, bubbling and bubbling until it burst. I embraced Alice and the saltwater cascaded down. I am weak. How many times must I lean on Alice for help, for guidance? How many times must I die, a wretch and a failure still? How many more lives till I save myself?

The woman kissed my forehead, and whispered something. Her breath felt warm on my ears but I did not hear the words. Only I faded into Death's brother once more, falling and falling and falling and falling. I am still useless, I could not help thinking. I am still in need of a woman's help, a woman who is always at my beck and call, but how long till I change?

I cannot remain this for much longer. I will be trapped in this grim sprawling city that brimmed with death and agony and vileness that one should not have to be subject to bear witness to.

I will change.