All the Stars and Teeth(13)
I make their deaths quick and as painless as I can; but in order to do so I need several ounces of their blood, which is where the teeth come in. Though I could use anything to get the blood—an arm, a leg, an eye—making someone lose a few teeth is the most humane way I know to get the amount I need.
As I work, I know without a doubt that no one will be able to question my skill. I’m in full control of the beast and its magic that rips through my veins. Aran’s blood flows steadily from his mouth as I offer the fire another tooth, and his eyes bulge with fear.
Confident, I peer sideways at the faces of my people and stand tall, wanting them to see me. To see their heir to the throne; their princess, who has spent the entirety of her life mastering this magic not for herself, but for them.
But as my focus centers on the crowd, they don’t watch me with the pride or awe I expect. Horror plagues their faces.
I catch sight of a man covering his daughter’s eyes, face twisted in shock. The replica of Cato’s knife trembles in her hands.
And then I see Aunt Kalea, her lips curled with disgust for a magic she’s never wanted. In my imagination, I see her eyes flickering colors, and have to still my trembling hands before anyone can notice.
I’m doing everything that I am meant to do to fulfill my duty, and yet there’s no respect or love in the eyes of Visidia. There’s only fear and revulsion.
My hands hesitate over the fire as the confidence I built like armor around me shatters. Everything I’ve done has been for them. And yet … my own people fear me.
I clutch my chest as the realization buries me, breaths tight. I watch each drop of blood splatter from Aran’s lips to the ground. I hear the sharp intakes of breath around me, and feel the weight of my people’s terror pressing down on me, so heavy that I can’t breathe. Panic climbs from my stomach to my throat, rising and building and clawing.
My attention slips from my magic as I take in the reaction of my people, and the magic within me lurches. This is what it’s been waiting for; my control slips, and the beast springs.
The magic sinks its fangs into me deeper than ever. The once comforting warmth now burns up my fingertips and spreads through my body like wildfire, tearing me apart. It’s as though I’m breathing through a reed, hardly able to find enough breath to fill my lungs. I shove my shaking hands against my sides and try to center myself against the hundreds of fearful faces that look back at me.
But I can’t do it. The magic consumes me.
Raw, urgent power thrums through every crevice of my being as I smear my blood-coated thumb across the prisoner’s tooth, feeling the heaviness of his life force pulsate beneath the tips of my fingers. I toss it into the flames, then take a bone from my satchel and do the same. Aran screams as the bone in his finger twists and snaps. But I don’t so much as flinch as I find another bone and a handful of teeth. I toss them into the fire and rip my way into and through the prisoner’s body, tearing it apart inch by inch.
More gasps sound from the audience, along with indiscernible yells of protest as Aran chokes on the teeth that fall from his mouth. But the noise hardly reaches me through the haze. I don’t feel the heat of the fire against my cheeks, or smell the flame charring my hair as I take those teeth, blood and all, to replenish my satchel.
“Your soul is wicked,” I hear myself telling Aran as he digs his nails into the ground and gasps for breath. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”
The beast whispers mercilessly in my head, telling me to rid the island of this tainted man, and then to find others. Wipe his soul from the earth, and destroy the rest of the prisoners, too. And then why stop at the prisoners? Every soul is wicked in some way, so why not take them all?
Breathless, I’m drawn to the pile of bones at my side. Beads of cold sweat trail down my neck as I snatch one, wind it with his hair, and dip it into his blood. The fire lashes before me, fervent and seething with hunger. I offer the bone, and it splits and cracks as the flames gobble it up.
Aran’s scream grates against his worn throat as each unbroken bone in his finger snaps one at a time. Even with the pounding of the waterfall behind us, his sobs carry through the gardens.
“Mercy.” He spits up blood with every garbled word. “Please, by the gods, mercy.”
“The gods do not listen to the pleas of the wicked,” I hear myself say. “And neither do I.”
Somewhere in the distance voices shout, but I don’t care what they say. I let my magic eat its way through him, throwing bone after bone into the fire until Aran is nothing more than a heap of mangled limbs on the stone slab. His contorted body lies broken, limbs impossibly twisted. He’s misshapen clay I’ve molded to my will and painted with blood.
I prepare for another strike when a hand grips my shoulder. I turn, snarling at the molten brown eyes that stare back at me. It takes me a moment before I realize they belong to Father. His eyes are wet, and my skin itches with discomfort.
“Amora.” It’s a desperate plea that settles into my bones and quenches the fiery magic. I sway as my vision flickers, the haze fading. “Please, you have to stop.”
The crowd surrounding us roils, screaming distorted sounds that make my brain feel as though it’s being pinched together. I focus solely on Father instead, using him as an anchor to drag myself back into reality. The magic within hisses its protest, baring fangs as it fights to maintain control. I suffocate within its hold, choking as I rein the magic back.