shut and a wall between them, Cyrus’
ears were keen enough to hear within. After overseeing the physical
and psychic two-week-long torture session, Bernadette encouraged
the girl in whispers and showered her with loving coos. Who was he
kidding? Those weren’t torture sessions. Sessions end . What
happened to Sunday was still going on. Even though she’d been moved
from the sigil-etched bare-bones dungeon to the plush guest bedroom
upstairs in the main house, she was still a captive.
When Bernadette spoke, her voice hummed with
spell-casting. Cyrus had enough experience with witch shit to know what she was doing. He could have smelled the magic from a
mile away.
“It will grow, Incarnate,” Bernadette said.
“It will grow and you will be a beautiful girl once more.”
Under the witch’s hands, Sunday cried into
the soft white pillow on the bed. He could hear her heaving sobs
sucking and vomiting breath and spit. While he’d carried her to the
room last night, her eyes were so heavily bruised that they’d
swollen shut. Her body was covered in long slashes, some that had
started to scab over and others that were freshly made. She’d
shivered. No matter how much heat radiated from his chest as he’d
cradled her against it, she hadn’t stopped. The girl might as well
have been having a seizure for how much she shook.
Any mundane, having gone through what she had
gone through, would have surely died. She, on the other hand,
survived nearly two weeks of torture. She was but an infant,
fourteen years-old, yet she’d displayed incomparable endurance and
strength. As much as he wanted to hate her for the way she ignited
his fury, he couldn’t help but be impressed.
That she survived meant something. It meant
that she was, indeed, the Incarnate, just as Bernadette suspected.
It meant that, in the body of that battered and broken teenager,
was a power so great that it could level a civilization. It meant
that no one was safe. No one magical or mundane. If there had been
any doubt to the threat Sunday posed to the werewolf earlier, there
was none now. In spite of all that potential horror, Cyrus wanted
to protect her. He wanted to wrap her in the tsunami of his
unhinged ferociousness and hide her away from the masses, even
himself.
He wanted none of this dichotomy. Not the
rage, and not the possessiveness. Killing her would end it all, but
he was true to his word. If Bernadette could save him from himself,
then he could one day walk away from the girl unscathed. That was
the only conclusion that mattered.
The way Sunday cried under the old witch’s
hand now, helpless, afraid, and confused, made Cyrus flush with
shame at his cowardice. Cyrus was never afraid. He was
afraid of nothing . Not even, he would convince himself, of
that little girl or the demon-goddess that lived within her.
“I will teach you all the ways of the
Incarnate and you will shine as a star shines, only brighter. Yours
will be the light of the sun and we will all be strong
together.”
Bernadette’s words permeated the barriers
between him and the pair. Those words planted seeds of hope in
Sunday. They wove a spell of song onto her body so that she would
heal quickly and thoroughly. It hummed down the hallway so that
even Cyrus could feel its potency from where he sat.
The witch emerged from the room an hour
later. Cyrus met Bernadette’s beaming enthusiasm in the hallway
with a raised eyebrow and a glower. They were still in uncharted
territory, regardless of Bernadette’s attitude. She slowly walked
to Cyrus and stopped a foot away from his boot that jutted
nervously. It was the only sign of anxiety in his demeanor and, in
truth, it was less anxiety than old habit, but Bernadette hadn’t
known that. He hooked his finger between the pages where he’d
stopped reading, and closed the book over it.
“How’d that go?” Cyrus asked without a hint
of affect. Business. The only thing he cared about the Incarnate
was business.
“I don’t
ears were keen enough to hear within. After overseeing the physical
and psychic two-week-long torture session, Bernadette encouraged
the girl in whispers and showered her with loving coos. Who was he
kidding? Those weren’t torture sessions. Sessions end . What
happened to Sunday was still going on. Even though she’d been moved
from the sigil-etched bare-bones dungeon to the plush guest bedroom
upstairs in the main house, she was still a captive.
When Bernadette spoke, her voice hummed with
spell-casting. Cyrus had enough experience with witch shit to know what she was doing. He could have smelled the magic from a
mile away.
“It will grow, Incarnate,” Bernadette said.
“It will grow and you will be a beautiful girl once more.”
Under the witch’s hands, Sunday cried into
the soft white pillow on the bed. He could hear her heaving sobs
sucking and vomiting breath and spit. While he’d carried her to the
room last night, her eyes were so heavily bruised that they’d
swollen shut. Her body was covered in long slashes, some that had
started to scab over and others that were freshly made. She’d
shivered. No matter how much heat radiated from his chest as he’d
cradled her against it, she hadn’t stopped. The girl might as well
have been having a seizure for how much she shook.
Any mundane, having gone through what she had
gone through, would have surely died. She, on the other hand,
survived nearly two weeks of torture. She was but an infant,
fourteen years-old, yet she’d displayed incomparable endurance and
strength. As much as he wanted to hate her for the way she ignited
his fury, he couldn’t help but be impressed.
That she survived meant something. It meant
that she was, indeed, the Incarnate, just as Bernadette suspected.
It meant that, in the body of that battered and broken teenager,
was a power so great that it could level a civilization. It meant
that no one was safe. No one magical or mundane. If there had been
any doubt to the threat Sunday posed to the werewolf earlier, there
was none now. In spite of all that potential horror, Cyrus wanted
to protect her. He wanted to wrap her in the tsunami of his
unhinged ferociousness and hide her away from the masses, even
himself.
He wanted none of this dichotomy. Not the
rage, and not the possessiveness. Killing her would end it all, but
he was true to his word. If Bernadette could save him from himself,
then he could one day walk away from the girl unscathed. That was
the only conclusion that mattered.
The way Sunday cried under the old witch’s
hand now, helpless, afraid, and confused, made Cyrus flush with
shame at his cowardice. Cyrus was never afraid. He was
afraid of nothing . Not even, he would convince himself, of
that little girl or the demon-goddess that lived within her.
“I will teach you all the ways of the
Incarnate and you will shine as a star shines, only brighter. Yours
will be the light of the sun and we will all be strong
together.”
Bernadette’s words permeated the barriers
between him and the pair. Those words planted seeds of hope in
Sunday. They wove a spell of song onto her body so that she would
heal quickly and thoroughly. It hummed down the hallway so that
even Cyrus could feel its potency from where he sat.
The witch emerged from the room an hour
later. Cyrus met Bernadette’s beaming enthusiasm in the hallway
with a raised eyebrow and a glower. They were still in uncharted
territory, regardless of Bernadette’s attitude. She slowly walked
to Cyrus and stopped a foot away from his boot that jutted
nervously. It was the only sign of anxiety in his demeanor and, in
truth, it was less anxiety than old habit, but Bernadette hadn’t
known that. He hooked his finger between the pages where he’d
stopped reading, and closed the book over it.
“How’d that go?” Cyrus asked without a hint
of affect. Business. The only thing he cared about the Incarnate
was business.
“I don’t
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