Page 147 of A Silence So Divine

So I will.

I’m aware of the ground beneath me as I make my way towards the Sanctuary, but I do not feel it. I don’t feel a thing, other than the energy crackling in my veins, ready to release.

Ready to bring Balance.

So I float—shoulders back, face calm—toward the once-church. A place for salvation. It’s ironic, isn’t it? That they would meet their demise in the place they felt safest.

The wind is nefarious, bending starved trees and whistling through the vast space. But for me, it parts down the middle, welcoming my arrival. Rounding the building, I head straight for those arched double doors. A gust of air slams into them, busting the entryway open on my behalf.

As soon as I step inside, it slams shut behind me.

Bare footed, I leave wet prints along the shining marble floors. With each passing of a sconce, the light within it bursts, the corridor falling further and further into the shadows.

The muffled sound of hurried voices wisps down the hall, coming from the doors Cecil and I entered that night. The same room where they killed that boy.

Emory. His name was Emory.

There’s a moment when the door swings open on its own volition, that I swear I see that boy, holding it open for me. Neck at an unnatural angle, eyes utterly black, and an eerie grin on his face. When I blink, he’s vanished.

But I am not alone. Men, dozens of them, face me. Some appear shocked, others pleased. They’re gathered, standing between pews, gazing at the bloodshed. The old man, their leader, is nowhere to be seen.

At the dais are people I recognize. Some of our own. A few bound, a few dead, and a few pleading for their lives. The vision does nothing to rattle my nerves. If anything, I settle further into this semi-lucid state, heartbeat slow and steady. Absently, I wipe a trail of rainwater that runs down my temple.

“Holy shit.” The snicker comes from the back of the room. I zero in on a bald head, polished and refracting light from the candles lit around the room. “She escaped.”

A mirror hangs on the wall beside me, and I cast a sidelong glance at it. The hair of my braid has unraveled, clinging to my face, neck, and shoulders like soaked serpents. Gone is any color from my already pale face, leaving my pallor cotton white. And my eyes… have gone black. No color to be seen. The corner of my lip quirks, and I turn my attention back to the expectant gazes and bated breaths.

“Yes,” I say, voice brittle as the droughted flora. “She has.”

Sixty Three

Eden

The first attempt of apprehending me results in a bloody mess, every orifice on the man’s skull exploding into a river of blood. He falls limp soon after, an awkward heap on the ground. It only takes a hiss through my teeth.

Pandemonium ensues. There’s a flurry of voices, some speaking to me, demanding that I surrender. Others, yelling at one another, panicked requests of what to do, where Curran is, if they should shoot while their weapons point in my direction.

The bald man takes matters into his own hands. Raising his gun, I zero in on the twitch of his finger over the trigger. Eyes narrowing, he aims at my forehead.

A hum sounds in the back of my throat, and though he’s across the room, his expression morphs into one of fear. And then, wrist bending back so far it threatens to break, the gun goes off in a blast of sound, taking the center of his face with it.

Screams come from all angles, bouncing off walls and resulting in a warp of sound. There’s a pressure to my chest, to my mind, and I loosen the reins on that thread of power. Like ahell hound, teeth gnashing and begging for blood, I release the energy in a guttural howl.

The stained glass shatters, glittering down in a rainbow of color, and then disappearing altogether as each light extinguishes. The symphony of scrambling dwindles, hurried feet and panicked shouts growing more quiet with each body that slinks to the floor. Shoulders bang into mine, yet I remain still as stone.

As Death escapes me, it burns like vitriol through my veins. Sorrow is an acid, and as I funnel it back into those that instilled so much of it, remorse spares me.

The Balance lives in the nest of my ribcage, and after twenty three years, it spreads its wings and takes flight.

Silence falls, bodies still. My jaw relaxes into a closed mouth.

A flutter, a brush of a wing, resides in the back of my mind. Not a voice, not a thought, just a sense. I know where to go, and I follow it.

Magnetized, I march back to the corridor. Even in the dark, I step over each corpse, my toes squelching in bloodshed. All is quiet, but I know better than to assume I’m alone.

I don’t know my destination until I reach it. Mid-step, I freeze, head angling to the right. There’s a wooden door with a crucifix nailed to the center of it. My lip quirks as I approach it. I knock three times.

Rushed murmurings, bordering on sobs, are muffled.