HER SWEETEST DOWNFALL (Paranormal Romance / Fantasy Novella) (Forever Girl Series - a Journal) by rebecca hamilton Page A
Authors: rebecca hamilton
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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 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
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