Fourth Debt
Page 48
Elisa slowly changed in each one.
I gasped as I stumbled onto the First Debt. An ochre image where blood wasn’t red but burnt bronze, trickling from lash marks on Elisa’s creamy back.
It was as if time played a horrible joke, slapping me with the knowledge that my life was on repeat—my very existence following in the footsteps of another, no matter how unique I felt.
Just like when Jethro came to collect me.
That night in Milan when I’d found out my life was never mine. That Jethro was just as indebted as me. That we were both prisoners of a tangled predetermined fate.
My limbs quaked as I moved to the next.
The tarnished image showed Owen, standing with the First Debt whip in his hand, a tortured expression on his face. He was more than just Jethro's ancestor—he could’ve been his identical twin. Seeing another man look so conflicted brought tears to my eyes. He tried to hide it, but regret and connection blazed through the grainy picture.
We weren’t the only ones to fall in love.
Owen and Elisa had defied the Weaver-Hawk boundary and fallen hard.
Photo after photo.
Trial after trial.
Their love deepened and blossomed, only to be slowly hacked away as time went on.
The Second Debt and the ducking stool. Elisa dangled on the same chair I’d been strapped to, the black lake glittering below her.
The Third Debt in the gaming den. Owen fisted crumpled playing cards, his mouth tight and unyielding, eyes begging for a reprieve.
Amongst the extracted debts were personal images. Photos of Elisa sewing, sitting in the gardens, trailing her fingers in the fountain, looking up at the cloud congested sky as if she could fly away. There were also secret images taken of Owen watching her, his fists in his pockets, his face transmitting apology, sorrow, anguish.
We’re living their history.
An exact replica of two people’s lifetimes that’d taken place decades ago.
Yet another example that I was no different from my ancestors. That I had no hope of changing my fate.
I jumped as Bonnie brushed aside my hair, her swollen knuckles hot against my throat. “See, child. You think you’re different. You think you’d won by claiming the heart of my grandson, but I had forewarning.” She waved at the timeline boldly placed on her walls like jewels. “I saw what happened with my ancestors before you even arrived. The day I saw the resemblance between Jethro and Owen, I studied the records. I armed myself years before you came to us. I knew you wouldn’t behave. I knew this generation wouldn’t be straightforward and I planned accordingly.” Her smile was priggish. “There is no winning, Nila. Both of our families are cursed to bear such a trial, and only the worthy are permitted to inherit.”
I couldn’t reply.
Taking my wrist, she guided me toward the last seven images all framed in one intricate gilded frame. “Study this well, child. This is what happened to Elisa once Owen was dealt with for his infractions. And this is what will happen to you.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Owen was dealt with? He was killed, too?
My eyes burned as the sepia photos engraved themselves on my brain.
Torture after torture.
Misery after misery.
Methods I never knew existed.
Barbarous items I couldn’t even name.
Elisa faded in each image from a fierce, heartbroken woman into a ghost already departing the world.
She suffered horrendously, subjected to methods of persecution no one could endure for long.
My soul wept for her. My temper broiled for her.
Poor woman. Poor girl.
Was this my fate? Would I become her?
Will I break eventually?
Bonnie stabbed the bottom picture where the only visible part of Elisa was her head. A large barrel with spikes driven through the sides encased her body. “Each of those is…what shall we call it…an extra toll you must pay. Disobedience is never tolerated—from a Weaver or a Hawk. Elisa watched Owen die and tried to return the favour by killing his father.” She tapped my nose. “Just like I suspect you think you’ll do, too.”
I choked.
No…how could they…
“Are you planning on killing my remaining family, Nila?” Bonnie’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Because let me tell you, you’ll never achieve that. Not over my dead body.”
My pulse exploded into supersonic beats, gushing blood, preparing to bolt.
Run!
I needed to be far away. Far, far away where they could never touch me again.
Slapping my cheek, her strike brought heat and clarity. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, child.” Standing to her full height, she glared into my eyes. “I have news for you. Whatever plans you think you have, whatever backbone you think you’ve grown, and whatever revenge you think you’ll deliver—forget all of it. You’re done, you hear me? Jethro is dead. Kestrel is dead. There is no one here who will save you—including yourself. Starting tomorrow, you will pay for your sins. You will repent so your soul is pure enough to pay the Final Debt. You will lose, Ms. Weaver. Just like Elisa lost all those years ago.
“You’re already a corpse, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do about it.”
FOUR DAYS.
A full ninety-six hours since I’d awoken from surgery.
An eternity of staring at the powder blue ceiling with a cheerful puppy poster going out of my fucking mind with worry for Nila.
What were they doing to her?
How was she coping?
I gasped as I stumbled onto the First Debt. An ochre image where blood wasn’t red but burnt bronze, trickling from lash marks on Elisa’s creamy back.
It was as if time played a horrible joke, slapping me with the knowledge that my life was on repeat—my very existence following in the footsteps of another, no matter how unique I felt.
Just like when Jethro came to collect me.
That night in Milan when I’d found out my life was never mine. That Jethro was just as indebted as me. That we were both prisoners of a tangled predetermined fate.
My limbs quaked as I moved to the next.
The tarnished image showed Owen, standing with the First Debt whip in his hand, a tortured expression on his face. He was more than just Jethro's ancestor—he could’ve been his identical twin. Seeing another man look so conflicted brought tears to my eyes. He tried to hide it, but regret and connection blazed through the grainy picture.
We weren’t the only ones to fall in love.
Owen and Elisa had defied the Weaver-Hawk boundary and fallen hard.
Photo after photo.
Trial after trial.
Their love deepened and blossomed, only to be slowly hacked away as time went on.
The Second Debt and the ducking stool. Elisa dangled on the same chair I’d been strapped to, the black lake glittering below her.
The Third Debt in the gaming den. Owen fisted crumpled playing cards, his mouth tight and unyielding, eyes begging for a reprieve.
Amongst the extracted debts were personal images. Photos of Elisa sewing, sitting in the gardens, trailing her fingers in the fountain, looking up at the cloud congested sky as if she could fly away. There were also secret images taken of Owen watching her, his fists in his pockets, his face transmitting apology, sorrow, anguish.
We’re living their history.
An exact replica of two people’s lifetimes that’d taken place decades ago.
Yet another example that I was no different from my ancestors. That I had no hope of changing my fate.
I jumped as Bonnie brushed aside my hair, her swollen knuckles hot against my throat. “See, child. You think you’re different. You think you’d won by claiming the heart of my grandson, but I had forewarning.” She waved at the timeline boldly placed on her walls like jewels. “I saw what happened with my ancestors before you even arrived. The day I saw the resemblance between Jethro and Owen, I studied the records. I armed myself years before you came to us. I knew you wouldn’t behave. I knew this generation wouldn’t be straightforward and I planned accordingly.” Her smile was priggish. “There is no winning, Nila. Both of our families are cursed to bear such a trial, and only the worthy are permitted to inherit.”
I couldn’t reply.
Taking my wrist, she guided me toward the last seven images all framed in one intricate gilded frame. “Study this well, child. This is what happened to Elisa once Owen was dealt with for his infractions. And this is what will happen to you.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Owen was dealt with? He was killed, too?
My eyes burned as the sepia photos engraved themselves on my brain.
Torture after torture.
Misery after misery.
Methods I never knew existed.
Barbarous items I couldn’t even name.
Elisa faded in each image from a fierce, heartbroken woman into a ghost already departing the world.
She suffered horrendously, subjected to methods of persecution no one could endure for long.
My soul wept for her. My temper broiled for her.
Poor woman. Poor girl.
Was this my fate? Would I become her?
Will I break eventually?
Bonnie stabbed the bottom picture where the only visible part of Elisa was her head. A large barrel with spikes driven through the sides encased her body. “Each of those is…what shall we call it…an extra toll you must pay. Disobedience is never tolerated—from a Weaver or a Hawk. Elisa watched Owen die and tried to return the favour by killing his father.” She tapped my nose. “Just like I suspect you think you’ll do, too.”
I choked.
No…how could they…
“Are you planning on killing my remaining family, Nila?” Bonnie’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Because let me tell you, you’ll never achieve that. Not over my dead body.”
My pulse exploded into supersonic beats, gushing blood, preparing to bolt.
Run!
I needed to be far away. Far, far away where they could never touch me again.
Slapping my cheek, her strike brought heat and clarity. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, child.” Standing to her full height, she glared into my eyes. “I have news for you. Whatever plans you think you have, whatever backbone you think you’ve grown, and whatever revenge you think you’ll deliver—forget all of it. You’re done, you hear me? Jethro is dead. Kestrel is dead. There is no one here who will save you—including yourself. Starting tomorrow, you will pay for your sins. You will repent so your soul is pure enough to pay the Final Debt. You will lose, Ms. Weaver. Just like Elisa lost all those years ago.
“You’re already a corpse, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do about it.”
FOUR DAYS.
A full ninety-six hours since I’d awoken from surgery.
An eternity of staring at the powder blue ceiling with a cheerful puppy poster going out of my fucking mind with worry for Nila.
What were they doing to her?
How was she coping?
