HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) (7 page)

Ophelia knew she shouldn’t judge them for their appearance alone, though surely it was their carelessness that led them to their current state. Just the same, the sight of them had terrified her. And how did they acquire the Strigoi blood? Fearing the answer might make her sick, she couldn’t even bring herself to ask.

“I should not have discouraged you earlier.” Ethan took hold of her delicate hands. “There are consequences should you deny your calling. I showed you those men so that you would understand what I mean. I let my heart get in the way earlier, and for that I nearly failed as your guardian.”

“Ye ‘aven’t failed me.”

He lowered his watery gaze. “I will rob you of your life, or of your destiny. I fail you either way.”

“Ethan—”

He cleared his throat. “Enough of that, now.”

Ethan entered the cabin, but Ophelia remained outside for a few minutes trying to think of a way in which they would be free to explore their feelings for one another, but no amount of staring at the horizon provided answers. After she calmed her nerves, she followed him in and sat at the far corner of the room. Lenore raised an eyebrow, and Ophelia told her to stay away.

Lenore sneered. “Don’t worry, princess, I’ve already eaten.”

“That man,” Ophelia said. “Perhaps ‘e was somebody’s son, somebody’s ‘usband or—”

 “Or someone’s rapist or murderer,” Lenore interrupted, a tired note to her voice.

Ophelia glared at her and stepped closer to Ethan. He was so completely absorbed in his dishes and herbs that he didn’t seem to hear a word.

“Let’s get this over with,” Lenore said, breezing past Ophelia to peer over his shoulder.

Now if Ophelia wanted to get away from the Cruor-girl, she would have to step away from Ethan as well. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the cot.

 “What is it?” Lenore asked, nudging his shoulder.

“Hmm?” He fidgeted with a few herbs and then glanced up. “Oh. Sun magic requires balance.” 

He pushed forward a dish filled with green, stringy leaves that smelled so strongly of dried apple Ophelia could taste it on the air. “Chamomile prepares the body for the magic and purifies your system.”

The next dish he revealed held three cinnamon sticks. “Protection.”

Two final dishes contained Acacia—also for protection—and patchouli for healthy growth. Ethan explained each was an herb of the sun that represented one of the elements.

“Healthy growth?” Lenore asked.

Ethan started emptying the herbs into a small pot. “Will help with your pallor. You’ll appear more human. Though the herb may also encourage passionate love.”

She huffed. “I’d have preferred to be taller.”

Ophelia watched the two with growing fascination. “Where did ye learn all this?”

“My father,” Ethan said. He scraped his hand over the shading of his jaw. “He owned several ancient ritual books. I’d read them with great interest as a child, but it wasn’t until I joined the Ankou that I was able to utilize the information. The Ankou all carry a unique magic, but that is also only as good as their knowledge.”

“And ye are sure it will work?” Ophelia asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I think.”

Lenore scowled. “What do you mean, you think?”

“It should. However, I’ve never done this before.”

She sat on the floor in front of the pot. Ophelia kept her place on the edge of the cot by the window, warily eyeing Ethan as he produced an English trade knife, not much unlike her father’s knife—the one with the sturdy wood handle and the strong steel blade.

Ethan closed his eyes and dragged the blade across the inside of his palm. He squeezed his hand over the pot, dripping blood on the herbs. 

“Do vita donum cruoris voluntas,” he chanted. The blood kept coming, and Ophelia’s stomach turned, her heart thundering in her chest. “Do vita donum cruoris voluntas.”

Ophelia’s mother had spoken Latin; Ethan was chanting that he was giving his blood willingly. The red liquid continued to run down his fingers and into the bowl. So much blood. Why wasn’t he stopping? His hand shook and his skin paled. As the blood flowed, Ethan stumbled forward where he kneeled, and had to catch himself on an arm that seemed to quiver under his own weight.

When Ophelia was about to intervene, Ethan finally stopped, clutching his other hand over the bleeding wound. She hurried over to the fireplace and grabbed the bowl of Cruor blood he’d used to help her earlier. She grabbed his hand and was about to try to heal the wound, but Ethan pulled free.

“It won’t work,” he said. 

Using his knife, he cut a strip of fabric from one of the sheets and wrapped it three times around his palm. Ophelia tied the ends in a tight knot at the back of his hand. Why was Lenore just sitting there? Didn’t she care? Ethan was doing this for her, too, and she just sat there wide-eyed and staring.

“I’m okay, Ophelia,” Ethan said, touching her forearm.

Instead of returning to the bed, Ophelia sat at his side, glaring at the dark-haired woman on the other side of the pot. Ethan stirred the mixture with a ladle and continued with the second chant.

“Feras praesidium ab sol.” At his side lay a small disk with the mark of the Sun goddess riding on her chariot. He grasped the chain and lowered the charm into the mixture as he continued his chant—the chant to infuse the herbs and Ankou blood with protection from the sun.

Outside, the wind pressed against the cabin, creaking the wooden walls and rattling the windows. The sky flashed, and the weight of a storm permeated the air inside the cabin—moist, heavy, cold. Ophelia’s skin prickled, and she opened her mouth to speak, but she could find no words. Ethan and Lenore’s attention stayed on the ritual, as though nothing unusual were happening, and unease tingled in Ophelia’s lungs.

The door blew open, and a dead raven thudded on the doorstep. Ophelia jumped up and stepped back, the ominous feeling rushing into her stomach like dry sand. 

“Stop,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”

Ethan continued, a golden-white glow emanating from his skin.

“Ethan!” Ophelia grabbed his shoulder. The heat of his flesh burned her fingers, and she snapped her hand away. “Stop it. Stop,
please
.”

He ladled the mixture into a cup and handed it to Lenore, who immediately began to drink as his chanting carried on. The ground trembled and everything around them rattled—the plates and cups in the cabinets, the cot against the floor, the pot between them.

When Lenore finished, she put the necklace around her neck and closed her eyes. A grimace overtook her features, and she grabbed her stomach.

“What ‘ave ye done?”

Ethan shook his head, his gaze focused on nothing in particular. Finally, with another shake of his head, his gaze settled on Ophelia’s with renewed clarity. “It’s all right. She’s changing, that is all. You will still need to undergo your own transformation, but Lenore cannot feed from you in her current state. She won’t be able to control her urges.”

Unable to control her urges? She keeled over and clutched her stomach, gasping for air, her face contorted in agony.

“What’s going on?” Ophelia demanded.

He shook his head. “Not now.”

She curled her fists at her side. Her heart pounded in her chest and anger churned her stomach. Something had overcome her, some outside pressure that seemed to tear every hidden emotion and doubt from her gut and force it to the surface. Her mind swam beneath the sudden confusion.

“What’s in it for ye?” she demanded. “Tell me! Tell me why ye need me to do this so badly.”

“Ophelia . . . I’ve told you this already. It is not for me. For me, I would never ask this of you. It is my duty to guide you toward your destiny, and it is your destiny to join the Maltorim. If either of us fails, the world as we know it will someday end, and everyone will suffer for it.”

Lenore sputtered a cough, and Ophelia realized she was trying to laugh. The young Cruor wheezed, holding her hand tighter to her gut.

“If we don’t obey our callings, the human race will one day become extinct. I will lose everyone I’ve ever loved, including—” His jaw clenched. “You have to—”

She wanted to push away her unreasonable emotions but her words betrayed her.

“That’s what this is about?” She glared at him. “About ye? About who
ye
will lose? What about me? Who is it ye are so afraid of losing?”

“Now?” he asked wearily. “You, Ophelia. This is not just about me. The mark of the serpent will kill you if you don’t do as you are called. Maybe, somehow, the Universe might find someone to replace you on your journey if you don’ survive. But, to me, you cannot be replaced.”

The sentiment slammed into Ophelia, but she couldn’t talk to him about this with Lenore writhing on the ground and all the ruckus in the room that he seemed to so easily ignore.

Ophelia looked again to the open door, to the dead bird, then up to the horizon. The sun was just about to break day. Ethan should have moved to shut the door, or cover the windows, but his silence thrummed at the back of her head. 

In the distance, her mother was standing in the tall grass.

Damascus, 1808

Ophelia stepped outside, squinting into the distance. Images of her childhood flashed through her mind: her mother tending to her skinned knees, her mother’s lips on her hairline as she burned with fever, her mother telling stories while they sat knitting by the fire, and those gentle, wordless corrections each time Ophelia’s needles faltered.

The whole world seemed to be still at that moment, weightless, drenched in the early-morning haze. Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Her mother
was
still alive. Ophelia’s heart thundered.

Ethan walked up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not your mother.”

She turned. There were sheets now on the window. Lenore’s hair, damp with sweat, coiled against the cot’s pillow like dead river-snakes. Ophelia forced her gaze to Ethan, unwilling to allow any sympathies for the Cruor-girl to play over her heart.

“I’d know my mother if I saw ‘er,” she said. “And that is ‘er.”

“It’s a shifter, Ophelia.”

“Shifters cannot take the form of a ‘uman.” Wasn’t that how the stories had gone?

“Times are changing.”

“It is my mother,” Ophelia persisted.

It
was
her, wasn’t it? It had to be. Ophelia needed, more than anything, to believe this. This was the hope she’d held on to, the hope that kept her alive. Ethan could be right . . . but he could also be wrong. She couldn’t risk not finding out for sure.

The sun was rising fast on the horizon. Its rays stretched across the field, illuminating Ethan’s translucent Ankou wings. The black veins shimmered out past his shoulders and nearly all the way down to his ankles. He stepped back into the shadows. 

“Please, Ophelia. Come inside.”

As Ophelia started to pull the door closed, she kept her eyes to the floor, unable to settle her gaze on Ethan’s furrowed brow and pleading eyes. “I must go to her.”

The door clicked shut.

Though she feared Ethan was right, she would never forgive herself if she didn’t take the chance. She could follow cautiously, get close enough to at least find out for sure. She
needed
to do this. Her mother—if it was her—might have answers. For starters, how had her mother gotten here? How could she have known where Ophelia was? Why come to her now?

Older questions—ones that had driven Ophelia’s very existence in recent years—overwhelmed the newer ones. Where had her mother been all this time? Who killed Ophelia’s father? Would her mother know a way to stop the burn of the serpent’s mark without joining the darkness of the Cruor?

That was the idea that carried her forward, moving her through the field of tall grass. She could not have stayed back even if she’d wanted to. 

The skirt of her mother’s dress brushed the blades of the meadow in the breeze. She smiled softly and gave a gentle wave. Ophelia lifted her skirts and set off, at first walking. But as she got closer, as her certainty grew that it was her mother, she picked up her pace. She walked faster and faster until she was running across the field, until she neared the forest, neared the small grove along the edges that sprouted olive and lemon trees from the ground.

Her mother turned and started to walk away.

Why would she come all this way to leave me now
? What stopped her from coming to the cabin?

Somewhere deep in Ophelia’s gut came the urge to dart back to the cabin. But a voice, too much like her own, prodded at her mind.
Don’t let fear stand in your way.
As much as she wanted to, she could not defy that voice. Ophelia could not turn back now.

“Wait!” she called.

Her mother walked into the grove and didn’t turn back. The trees obstructed Ophelia’s view. 

Didn’t she see Ophelia trying to catch up? Was she trying to show her something? Had the time away somehow . . . 
changed
 . . . her mother? If her mother needed help and Ophelia gave up now, she would never forgive herself. She ran harder until she breached the woods. Her mother’s silhouette glided between the trees.