Terror. There's no other word for it, no bravado or clever turn of phrase that can mask the truth. I am terrified. The air is thick with the feeling of dread, as real as the blood still dripping from the leaves above our heads. The forest is silent except for the ragged, hitched breathing of the survivors and the muffled sobs of those too shell-shocked to do anything but crumple in on themselves. My own heart hammers so loud I can barely hear anything else.
Elijah is gone, vanished with a shimmer as soon as the first scream tore through the air hiding himself in pure invisibility. I wonder if he plans on bolting. It would be the smart thing to do, and I hesitate to admit that i would not be tempted to run as well.
Around me is carnage, guts of children everywhere, the sickly sweet stench of death. The others are scattered, some pressed together back to back, others on their knees clutching their heads in sheer terror. I scan the survivors, counting, cataloguing: Lucian, pale and focused, lips moving in silent calculation; Zaria, eyes narrowed, expression cold and unreadable; Arya, her hair wild her face covered in blood the roots below her curl at her fingers; Vihaan, jaw clenched, knuckles bone-white on the hilt of his sword; Imara, lips pressed to a silent prayer, muscles tensed and ready. Rye had fire on her palms near Niko. Joon- Ha was crouched near Bragg.
Bragg, the big fool, the one with the mark that could turn the tide of any fight, if only he could use it. He's covered in blood, face and hair streaked red, his hands trembling so violently they might as well be broken. His eyes are wide, unseeing, his breath coming in short, frantic gasps that sound more like a dying animal than a person. He's paralyzed a mountain turned into a pile of rubble by fear.
I want to feel pity, but all I can summon is a scalding, bitter anger. The gods, if they even exist, must be laughing at the sight of him. Why would fate or divinity, or whatever rotten force runs this world bless a fucking incompetent fool with a mark as powerful as telekinesis? How many people have to die before the strong are allowed to be strong? I seethe at him in silence, words like poison behind my teeth. Worthless. Weak. The kind of person who gets others killed. All the detriment in this world stems from a lack of individual ability.
The abomination's voice slides through the trees, oily and cold, its words slithering into my ears from every angle and none at all.
"Unus ex vobis odorem praebet singularem. Quam divinum est sanguinem, quam fortiter in venis vestris currit, quam inebrians est."
[One of you smells interesting. Such strong divine blood, how thickly it runs in your veins, how intoxicating.]
Eww so fucking disgusting the sound of its hunger was evident. Who is it even talking about. Me? I suppose having three marks of power. But what does it mean blood of the divine?
What do you want?" I call out, trying to sound braver than I am. My words ring hollow in the dead air.
The thing laughs, the sound like bones grinding together. "Omnia volo, sed nunc cena diu merita contenta ero. Fatum nostrum fuit congressus!"
[I want everything, but now I'll be content with a long-deserved dinner. Our meeting was fate.]
A sob escapes someone behind me. Bragg's hands are in his hair, yanking at the blood-soaked braids, his whole body shuddering. I catch Zaria's gaze and she nods at me.
I force myself to focus. There has to be a way out. I refuse to die here. I scan the trees, searching for movement, for a trick, for anything. The monster is ancient, but it's not omnipotent. It has rules. Everything does.
"Who has the divine blood?" I demand, making my voice as cold as steel. "Who are you talking about?"
"Sensus tui sunt obtusi, puer," the voice croons. "Sanguis tuus ipse clamat. Audisne? Sentisne?"
[Your senses are dull, boy. Your own blood cries out. Do you hear it? Do you feel it?]
My skin crawls. So its me?
Quot beneficia tibi dederunt? Quattuor? [How many blessings did they give you? Four?]
The others now realize that its talking to me. There's a subtle shift in the group, a tightening of the circle. Lucian's eyes flick over to me, appraising and excited. Zaria's lips curl into a smile cold, knowing. With my hearing, I catch her whisper to Lucian, so soft it's almost lost in the tension.
"He is the three mark bearer. I thought so."
I seethe, how annoying. But the monster's question echoes in my mind, another puzzle piece out of place. Four? Why would it say four? No one has four. I'm the only one to ever have three. Four is impossible but then again they said three was also impossible but I am living proof its not.
And then there's something else, something even stranger. It calls them blessings, not marks. Why? Is it mocking us? Or does it know something I don't?
I don't have time to dwell on it. The monster's presence presses closer, a suffocating weight. Its voice slices through the silence.
"Responde, puer. Quam multae benedictiones habes?"
[Answer, boy. How many blessings do you have?]
My mouth is dry as dust. My tongue feels thick, useless. I force myself to swallow, to speak, to not let my terror crack my voice.
"Three," I manage. "I have three marks of power."
The thing laughs a hollow, echoing sound that rattles the branches and makes the air vibrate with wrongness.
"Tres benedictiones? Numerare non potes, puer? Nihil refert. Morieris tamen. Sed, ut electus eorum, primus et diutius patieris."
[Three blessings? Not able to count, boy? It matters not. You will die anyway. But as their chosen, you will suffer.]
No time to breathe. No time to think. In a heartbeat, Bragg is dead. He doesn't scream there's no time. One moment, he's there, shaking and bloody, his eyes clearing with the beginnings of resolve due to Joon- Ha using his power on him. The next, something pale and monstrous is standing where he was, one clawed hand sunk deep into Joon-ha's hair, pinning him in place.
None of us saw her move. None of us even saw her arrive.
She is… wrong. Vaguely human, but only in the way a reflection in broken glass is human. Female-shaped, maybe, but naked and impossibly pale, her skin so white it's almost blue, crisscrossed with pulsing, luminous veins that writhe just beneath the surface. Her hair is the same ghostly shade, floating around her head like a halo of fog, moving as if underwater, as if it has a life of its own. Her hands are long, fingers tipped with nails no, there like daggers so sharp and curved they could slice bone with a caress. Her face is a study in nightmare beauty: high cheekbones, lips too red, fangs protruding from a mouth twisted in a smile that is both inviting and utterly evil. Her eyes are pitch black, deeper than the night sky, swallowing light, swallowing hope swallowing any will to live.
She fixes those eyes on me, and I feel myself unravel. I know, without question, that I am looking at a mistake a thing that should not exist, that some higher order tried to erase and failed. My soul recoils, every instinct wailing in protest, and for a moment I think I might simply cease to be, erased out of horror.
She smiles wider, her fangs glistening. Her grip on Joon-ha tightens. The others are frozen, some in awe, most in terror, all of us caught in her gravity.
"Nunc, conamini me delectare, formicae miserae."
[Now, try and entertain me, you pathetic ants.]
Joon-ha struggles, his feet scrabbling at the moss, hands clawing uselessly at her wrist. Her skin doesn't so much as dent. She leans down, her face inches from his, and inhales deeply, eyes fluttering as if savoring a perfume. Then, with a single, languid motion, she crushes his head. There's a sickening crunch, a splash of blood, and then she lets the body drop, already bored.
Dominic, hands shaking, channels a desperate bolt of lightning—brilliant, crackling, forked through the air with all the hopeless fury of a cornered animal. The bolt strikes the monster dead center. For a heartbeat, the smell of ozone and burning hair fills the glade. But the creature only smiles, the blue veins in her skin flaring brighter, and the lightning skitters harmlessly off her chest, grounding to nothing in the dirt. She doesn't even flinch.
"Nihil estis. Ludus estis. Spectaculum estis."
[You are nothing. You are a game. You are a spectacle.]
Zaria, never one to freeze, raises her hands and calls her mark molten summoning. She hurls twin streams of white-hot, liquefied stone at the abomination, a wave of death that should incinerate anything living. The monster's lip curls in disdain. She flicks a wrist just a flick, like brushing away a cobweb and the molten rock veers off course, smashing into the trees behind her. The trunks explode in flame, a wave of fire roaring up into the canopy, sparks and embers raining down on the survivors.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. The monster is untouched, unbothered, her hair floating, her eyes locked on us in the way I would look at a pig. I stare at the thing this mockery of a woman, this walking nightmare and something inside me snaps. I want to scream. I want to rip her apart with my bare hands. I want her to suffer. My anger is a living thing, burning brighter than the trees, hotter than Zaria's molten stone. Hatred claws at my throat, thick and choking. The voices in my head are back, swirling and shrieking with a power that makes my vision blur and my teeth ache.
Make her beg, they hiss. Make her crawl. Make her fear you. Everything has fears, Ayato. Even gods, even monsters. Show her. Show her what it means to be afraid. She dares disrespect us? US? US?
I want to push them away, to keep myself whole, but I can't not with the blood, not with the screams, not with the laughter echoing through the burning woods. The monster glides forward, her shadow twisting across the ground. Arya tries to step between her and one of the other students one whos mark had to do with water or something, her hands whipping through the air with a whip of roots and thorns. The monster barely glances her way. She moves with such unnatural speed and agility and in a heartbreak Arya's neck snaps audibly. She drops, eyes wide and sightless, her plants wilting next to her
Lysa bolts, running for the trees she's so fast, always so fast, her mark a blur of speed. The monster laughs, and seemingly teleports in front of her kicking her legs with such force the breaking is audible. She crashes face-first into the ground, skids across the moss, and the monster is there waiting. A single swipe of those dagger-fingers, and Lysa's head is severed from her body. Blood pours out in a wide spray, painting the roots red.
Screams all around. Panic, chaos. More die—two, three, maybe four, I lose count. The original thirty is now barely ten, the rest reduced to nothing but stains on the earth. My friends, my housemates, children slaughtered like animals by something we didn't even know could still exist.
The monster laughs, hair swirling, blood splattering her pale skin. She's exultant, radiant, terrible.
"Enough, the voices snarl You are no victim. You are death, Ayato. You are the end of monsters"
My anger is a living thing now, a storm inside my skull. I can't hold it back, don't want to hold it back. The voices rise, a tide of fury, and I let them in let them fill me, let them become me. My fear twists into something cold and sharp, my hate into a weapon.
I feel them take over, my mind fracturing and reforming around their will. The world narrows into a point, colors bleeding into shadow, every sound muffled.
The monster turns toward me as it could sense my bloodlust, teeth bared, eyes wide with delight. "Quid facies, puer?" she croons. [What will you do, boy?]
"We'll show you," I whisper