FULL NOVELXO Nightbane: Chapter 39
Power was metal in her mouth, in her nostrils, down her throat, in her stomach. It lit every inch of her up and through; she was a shining beacon, a blade of power carving the world to her desired shape and measurements.
In her memories, Grim had taught her something no one else had bothered to. To win, she needed more power.
Grim claimed pain was the strongest emotion.
Pain could be useful.
Trees rose from the soil in bursts of dirt. Ground broke and built until it formed the beginnings of mountains. Flowers blanketed in front of her, so many, so quickly, they fell right off the side of the island.
More. She needed more.
Barbed plants, the same ones that had stabbed her everywhere during the Centennial, rose up in thick brambles. Plants with poisoned leaves sprouted. She painted the Mainland in them both, all the parts they needed to block off.
Isla sank her hands into the dirt, fingers in wild shapes, and bellowed, until the ground broke open and more plants formed all around her. Thorn-covered, monstrous plants that would fight back and defend themselves.
It might have been minutes or hours later, but she felt him, a ray of sunlight landing behind her. “Isla?” he said. Her name was a question.
“I finished it,” she said. It had seemed almost impossible to create so much nature in nine days, but she had done it in a single night. “Look, I made walls to block their paths. I covered all the open spaces. Grim can only portal them where you and Zed decided.” She was beaming.
He did not look proud.
He looked . . . horrified. She didn’t think she would ever forget the way he now looked at her. Like she was something wrong.
Like she was a monster.
“What have you done?” he asked.
She tracked the direction of his gaze and saw it. Blood dripped down the front of her dress. Her hands reached up and touched it, coming from her eyes, her nose, the sides of her mouth, her ears.
Power . . . tasted like blood.
It tasted like blood.
She was saying it over and over, or maybe it was just in her head, or maybe she lived in her head, maybe she never had to leave, maybe she should open herself completely up to the world and let everything in her finally pour out—
“Isla.” His hands were rough against her shoulders. He was shaking her. He looked angry. Upset.
Disappointed.
She ripped her power back into herself, and the world steadied before her.
The voices stopped.
It was only her and Oro. And still . . . he looked displeased.
“What did you do?” he said again. His voice was harsh. It was the voice of the king, not of the man who slept beside her, who swept his hands along her back to help her sleep.
“I found a shortcut,” she said. “And tested it.”
Oro studied her hand, and she winced at what she had done. She had carved a thick line through its center. That was the shortcut. Doing what Oro had warned against, months before.
Pain can be useful.
Pain makes you powerful.
“It’s fine,” she said, fishing her healing elixir from her pocket. She put a drop on her injury and watched the skin grow back. “Look. Like nothing happened.”
“Isla,” Oro said carefully. “I told you. Wielding power through emotion is dangerous. The power might be immediate, and strong, but it comes at a cost.” His hands were in fists; he was practically shaking. “I told you that this could kill you! It is a shortcut,” he said, spitting the words out. “A shortcut to death.”
Heat blanketed the air. It was suddenly sweltering. Then, it was all ripped away.
Realization made him predatorially calm. “He taught you this. In your memories.”
Isla did not deny it.
Oro looked at her . . . and shook his head. He studied her face, covered in blood, then her now healed hand, and said, “I don’t recognize you, love.”
Her hands trembled. She didn’t recognize herself either. She didn’t recognize the girl in her mind, the one who had made decisions she didn’t understand . . .
“I know you want to get into the vault. I know you want to defeat Grim. I know you want to save yourself and everyone,” he said. “But this isn’t the way.” He looked at her. “Promise me you won’t try this again. Please, promise me.”
“I promise,” she said, because he looked so concerned. Because he was just trying to protect her.
She didn’t want to tell him that though she was bleeding, she felt stronger than she had in a long time. She felt in control. Transcendent.
The blood tasted like power, she wanted to say. Power—
. . .
Over the next few days, Isla did not sleep. She began portaling all the civilians to the newlands. She recognized some of them.
None of them sneered at her or called her names. Not when she was their only quick way off the island before the attack.
She was about to leave the Starling newland for the tenth time that day, when she did something she had been avoiding for far too long.
She stepped into the room almost as familiar as her own. She almost expected Celeste—Aurora—to be waiting there, braiding her silver hair, just to do something with her hands.
The room was empty.
Memories were everywhere. The pile of silver blankets in the corner that they always used to bundle themselves in. The peeling paint that revealed another color beneath, left over from a previous era. The stone floor in front of the fireplace that had been worn over time, soft enough to lie across. They used to joke that the Starlings before Celeste had loved that spot just as much as they did. Now, Isla supposed, it had always been Aurora, sitting in front of that fireplace. Changing the room color. Alone, until Isla came along.
The flames were gone now. Only cinders remained.
A collection of orbs sat on a shelf. They were some of Celeste’s most prized possessions. Each held something mysterious. Celeste had claimed they had been passed down through generations and she didn’t know what each contained.
Liar.
Isla grabbed the largest and threw it to the floor. It shattered, glass going everywhere. Angry tears prickled the corners of her eyes. “You must have thought I was such a fool,” she said.
She hurled another against the wall. “Did you laugh when I left your room? When I told you my greatest secrets, and all you gave me were lies?”
Another orb hit the door. “Was any of it real?” She threw another. She thought of the little Starling girl who was killed by the creatures. All the people who had died in the last five centuries. Her voice shook as she said, “I killed you, and it wasn’t enough. The curses didn’t die with you. They are still felt.” She clenched her hands in fists. “Did you know you were going to kill thousands of people? Did you even care?”
Shadows exploded out of her, tipped in claws. Gashes ran down the walls, cutting through the paint. There was a halo of black around her feet.
Isla panted, the anger and sadness stuck in her chest. She closed her eyes tightly as tears swept down her cheeks. She flung her arm to the side, and shadows destroyed the rest of the orbs.
All were empty, except for one. When it shattered against the wall, something slowly floated down to the floor.
A single silver feather.
Isla stepped forward. She leaned down to take it between her fingers. It had a sharpened tip, almost like a quill for writing.
Why would Aurora put a quill in an orb?
There wasn’t any ink on its bottom, but Isla tried to write on a piece of parchment anyway. Nothing.
The room was in ruins. It looked like a giant beast had broken in and tried to claw its way out. It pleased some part of her to see it destroyed.
“I hate you,” Isla said to what was left of the bedroom.
She took the feather with her.
It was late afternoon, when shadows were the longest. The ones the trees cast were uniform, and pliable under her command. Remlar sat on a high branch as Isla turned in a circle, roping them all together. Once they were tied, she flicked her wrist and snapped them like a whip. Their sharp edge cut a row of trees down.
“Learn that in one of your memories?” Remlar called from above.
Isla ignored him. She replaced the trees that she had destroyed with new ones. That was her rule. Replace everything she ruined.
“Now that war is almost here, I feel the need to remind you that not all life can be restored,” Remlar said. “At least, not on Lightlark.”
Her teeth came together. She was aware of that fact, and it ate at her.
If Oro was right, and Grim really was declaring war over her . . . that would mean every death would be on her hands. She couldn’t take it—couldn’t live with it.
She still didn’t understand. In her memories . . . they didn’t love each other at all.
Darkness pooled out of her as she flung her hand out. It shot through the forest, destroying everything in its path. Something about using her Nightshade abilities was therapeutic. It was like letting the worst part of herself out.
Remlar floated down from the tree, landing firmly in front of her. He looked pleased. “Your darkness is blooming,” he told her, eyes trailing over the path her shadows had made. She had obliterated part of the forest.
“It is,” Isla agreed. She had felt it, inside. Uncurling. Awakening. She was remembering more and more. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid,” Remlar said. “You should use it.”
“Use it how?”
“War is days away. Me and my people”—he nodded at the hive—“plan to fight. There are other creatures on Lightlark touched by night that would join you, if you asked.”
She shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t. I have asked.” She thought of the serpent-woman on Star Isle.
“Have you asked all of them?”
No. She hadn’t.
“How would I convince them?” she asked. “What would I offer them?”
“You,” he said simply. “You would offer you.”
Remlar nodded. “It has been thousands of years since a single person wielded both Nightshade and Wildling power. You cannot begin to understand what that means.” It reminded her of the reverence with which the Vinderland had treated her.
“Tell me what it means,” she almost begged.
“You don’t need me to tell you,” he said. “You will see yourself.” He motioned around him. “The creatures as old as me on the island will join you. They will immediately understand what you are.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
He looked at her, and she saw a gleam in his eye. “Hope.”
“Hope?” she asked, before turning toward a sudden trickling sound. A column of water was impossibly falling from the sky.
She blinked, and the rest of the forest fell away.