Revival Of Stars

6 | Cursed Canned Fruit

CHAPTER 6
•••

The sound of cloth and skin dragging across the floor echoed throughout the Bishop Mansion.

Etta struggled as she pulled the unconscious descendent across the wooden floor, her forearms under his armpits. Murmurs of expletives flung from her mouth, for she hadn't expected the descendent to faint so suddenly.
A look of hesitance and worry had passed over her face as she held his body, for he was still shirtless—all tan, warm, and smooth skin—which was why she made sure to use her arms and not her hands when touching his body.

She quickly scoured for a place to situate the boy; if she continued to support his weight under her arms, they'd snap. Along with curses, grunts rolled off her tongue as she dragged him. It didn't help that the place was so huge.

Then, through a marble archway, Etta found the living room.

Velvet couches were planted in the expansive room. A crystal chandelier hung above, casting a deep shadow as Etta walked through. White satin curtains covered the long windows, but the floor-to-ceiling high windows showcasing the backyard was left uncovered. Etta could see the pool, the chaise lounge, and the long stretch of grass.

With a final grunt, Etta sat his body on a long couch. His limp arms hung by his side awkwardly and crookedly; lolling to the side was his head; and his brows were furrowed deeply, as if, even when unconscious, he was in deep distress.

I've haven't seen a Necromancer this close in a long time, Etta guiltily thought as she examined him.

Looking around some more, she found that the entire mansion was silent—no sign of another person, no sign of hidden mice scurrying across the floor. It smelled of sweet citrus and whispered home-sweet-homes. And although it was quiet, it didn't seem cold or desolate; it looked lively. Unlike the luxurious houses she saw in pictures, the mansion she stood in was warm and exuded a sense of generosity. It was obvious through the abundance of family pictures on the walls and shelves. Little sketches and paintings—some extremely bad, and some decent—were also hung on the wall, meticulously framed. Swimming trophies, too, sat on some of the shelves sticking out of the wall.

He must have a nice family. She could tell by the wide smiles in the photos. But before she could fully analyze the images, she looked away.

She was already trespassing into a stranger's home; staring at their family photos would surely tip the creepy scale.

With a sigh, Etta sat down on the other couch, burying her face in her hands. This night is getting crazier and crazier. Flashes of the descendent's black eyes, the frenzied wind, and the shaking ground bombarded her mind. The great pain etched on his features were engraved behind her lids as she closed her eyes. His wrist. When she had laid her fingers over it, all the chaos had stopped, and peace settled in. Just like the woman in her dream when she graced her fingers on Etta's wrist.

Slowly, she pulled out from her hands and examined the burn.

Her eyes widened.

The words...they were gone.

It was just a red mark; only scabs and blisters peppered across. Instead of the letters that formed the descendent's address, it was only skin and burn marks.

Carefully, she touched it.

No sting, no pain.

Maybe since she had actually gone to the place that it had directed her towards, the marking had no meaning anymore, therefore the words were gone.