Sort of Dead

77 - Rainbow Rest

From behind the pillar, I dare to take a peek. I feel like Bond. James Cool-As-Ice Bond.

Rasthrum is there, alright. Raven-branded hands bound-wrapped in something like cellophane behind his back, head lolled down, lips pressed so tightly together they’ve nearly disappeared, yet blood flows freely from his mouth.

A couple feet ahead of him, that gaudy, evil woman, the Grahi Witch, dressed in her garish red outfit. I feel a sharp surge of resentment marathon in the form of a bead of sweat down the center of my back to the very base of my spine. Pooling there, and dotting my forehead, as my hate grows and grows with every second I spend staring at her.

This woman is going to die for all that she’s done. I’ll make sure of that.

No matter what.

‘Son,' she is saying – her voice . . . ugh, it’s like it fills your head with an intensity that is uncanny. Like, a speaker whispering inside your ear. ‘The time has come. I birth’d you by magic, and I shall slay you by my hand. You will set an example for the rest of Lakoswanion to never dare have the audacity of rebellion.’

As she says this, she balls her left hand into a fist, and I see even from this distance that her long nails dig into the skin of her palm – but instead of blood, a dark blue gust of flame seeps out. Then it’s gone as quickly and uninvitingly as it arrived.

Behind me, Aar stifles a gasp. Uncle's expression suggest he’s seen this particular trick before, and he does not like it.

I look at the witch and my stupid brain goes: Join a circus, woman. Or better yet, get on your broom and fly to Hotel Hell.

All fear seems to have left me. I feel . . . liberated. I suppose that must be the right word, for I cannot think of a better one.

‘You are no mother of any kind,' Rasthrum spits (blood).

I’m glad to see the survivor man hasn’t lost his temper. I mean, his ability to lose his temper. I don’t know, you know?

‘Oh, dear,' the Grahi Witch sings. ‘Aren’t you a soul to not be salvaged?’

Rasthrum grins his crooked, bloody smile. This time, I actually find his grin sort of charming. This time, the blood doesn’t (really) make me thirsty. Valor, in the face of death – rare, surprisingly invigorating. ‘You’re the one,' Rasthrum grits, 'whose soul will beg for salvation. Not me, not anyone. Someone, someday, will get you, and they’ll get you bad. And then . . . we’ll see what becomes of you, mother.’

The 'mother' comes out as mutterrrr, much the same way 'girl' comes out as gurrrl when Rasthrum is in rage.

Her Wickedness kneels with an articulate grace that I presume only she can rally – and find myself wondering how old the woman actually is (then quickly discard the question, because who cares?) – and whispers something in Rasthrum's ear. Immediately, the man goes limp as a plant that hasn’t been watered enough. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t create a resounding thud as he falls sideways onto the stone floor.

‘Someone like who?’ inquiries the Grahi Witch, and I sense the indignity in her voice. ‘Like your little carriage guests?’

And then she laughs.

And that’s when my mind goes: Yup, a witch she is.

Because her laugh is a cackle and the cackle is a screech and the screech is . . . I don’t know, I’m glad you aren’t here to hear it. We clap our hands over our ears, all of us – except Goof and Es, of course.

Her Wickedness continues: 'Your friends who are foolish enough to believe they can escape, abscond me. Your friends who think I am unaware of them listening to this conversation. Those friends? Are you talking about those friends?’