The Necromancer Trilogy - Black Magic

Chapter Fourteen - The First Kiss

Chrysanthemum woke in the middle of the night, upright and ready for battle in a second. The banging on the door below continued. Slowly, not wanting to hurry, Chrysanthemum dressed and slipped her feet into soundless shoes.

 Still tying her hair, she walked calmly down the stairs and drew symbols on the palms of her hand with marker pen. Carefully, opening the door the barest fraction, she peeped out into the night.

“Yes?” she drawled, in her best doorkeeper impression.

“Chrysanthemum,” Celia’s shoulders drooped in relief. “Let me in!”

“What’s the password?” Chrysanthemum asked, unmoved.

Celia half-sobbed. “Meritolo.”

Chrysanthemum grinned. “Come in.”

She unlatched the door and Celia fell through, dropping to her knees on the mat. For the first time, Chrysanthemum got a good look at her.

“Oh god, Celia,” her eyes widened in horror. “What happened?”

Celia was a mess, from torn clothes to bloodstains to wild hair. But it wasn’t that which made Chrysanthemum shiver inside. Celia often came in looking like this, with a swagger in her walk and a gleam in her eye. Not today. This was worse than Chrysanthemum had seen her in a long time.

Chrysanthemum hadn’t seen Celia after Maria’s tortures some months before but if she had, she would have recognised the similarities. There was hopelessness in her stance, limpness in her walk. She had no structure, no strength left.

 Her face was ghostly, her eyes bloodshot and red against ashen skin. The tears had long dried but their taint remained. Her gaze was hollow, without conviction, distant. Her great pride, dented so many times, was shattered.

“Oh Celia!” Chrysanthemum pulled the young woman to her feet. “Come through this instant.”

Beneath the squabbling and sarcastic comments, the two of them really were friends. Chrysanthemum was afraid that this time Celia had been broken beyond repair. She had seen her after her parents had died, and after her first kill, and after a million deaths since, each one hurting her a little more than the last. This one outran them all.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” she said, quietly, settling Celia onto the sofa and tucking a blanket round her shoulders.

Celia nodded once. Chrysanthemum slipped into the kitchen, glancing back every now and then to see how Celia stared at the wall. She didn’t expect her to talk, and Celia remained silent. The story could come later, once it hurt less.

“Here,” Chrysanthemum nearly handed Celia the coffee mug, but changed her mind when she saw how much the girl’s hands were shaking. “Drink.”

Celia drank, and Chrysanthemum placed the cup aside. Gently, she began to clean the blood from Celia’s face and hands, tugging the knots from the wild hair clumped about her face.

“You came back on the plane looking like this?” Chrysanthemum shook her head. “I wonder they let you aboard.”

Celia didn’t respond, just kept staring, her eyes sometimes twisting into a heart-wrenching reality before drifting back into the distance, unreachable.

“What is it you want?” Chrysanthemum asked, softly.

Celia was silent for a long time before speaking in a voice so quietly it was nearly inaudible.

“I want Daddy back.”

Chrysanthemum blinked, taken aback. She had never heard Celia lament for her parents before. She had never heard her wish for anything, if it came to that. Celia had never been vulnerable in her presence before. It frightened her.