“So basically you want us to throw each other’s manuscripts into the fire?” I asked.
“That’s one way.” Roza shrugged. “You can do whatever you want. Rip it to shreds. Eat it. Just get rid of it. There’s no other copy.”
The words pulled unexpectedly at my chest. So much time, so much energy… for it all to be destroyed.
“And”—Roza pulled out her phone—“to make sure you actually play, I’ll be timing you both. Two hours. It’s fast, but you can both make that time. If, at the end of it, no manuscript has been destroyed, then you will both die.” She shrugged. “Either way works for me, really. But I do hope to continue working with one of you. You’re both very talented.”
Taylor’s smile faltered. And I knew exactly what had happened in this strange, unhappy family. Yana had been first. Roza had seduced her young assistant, then groomed her, and eventually she’d taken her book. They’d been lovers: I knew that as surely as if I’d been told. When had it changed? When had Yana been demoted to housekeeper? Was it before or after Taylor had appeared, so excited, so anxious to please?
Chitra had been a part of it, too, but not in the same way. Chitra was a different game. Roza had pulled her in not with sex or validation but with her love for her daughter. Roza had seen her weak spot and had known how to exploit it.
But Yana and Taylor: that had been the first competition. Yana had lost. Chitra’s usefulness had faltered, and she’d been sacrificed to show us our real competitor.
Taylor.
Did Taylor realize what was happening? That Wren or I, whoever “won,” was being called in to take her place?
It wouldn’t be easy for her. Roza would make her suffer. It was all part of the game.
Wren was now shaking and crying weakly.
“Get her a blanket,” Roza commanded. Taylor tossed a wool blanket on Wren’s lap.
“And let’s uncuff them,” Roza said. “Wren? Keep it together, dear. It’s time for you to write.”
Stuffing her gun into her waistband, Taylor unlocked the handcuffs and tossed them onto the floor. I rubbed my raw wrists, opened and closed my numb, dead fingers.
As Taylor backed away, Wren glanced at me. Her eyes looked unfocused.
“Concentrate,” I told her out loud.
She looked confused. And I understood. What for? What was the plan?
Something glinted in the dim room beyond Wren. The wine decanter on the buffet table.
Use it, Daphne said.
“Wait.” I turned to Roza and motioned to the wine. “Is that for us? Can I have some?” I stood.
“Hey!” Taylor jumped up and trained the gun on me. “Sit the fuck down.”
“It’s okay, dear.” Roza patted Taylor’s hip. “Get her a glass.”
“I can do it.” I shook my hands and wiggled my fingers. “I need to do something before writing. Nervous energy, I guess.”
“Understandable.” Roza looked up at Taylor. “I’ll allow it.”
Taylor stayed standing as I went to the buffet table. I tried to ignore both her and the gun, which somehow felt more solid and real than any of us. If Taylor saw what I was doing, she’d use it to stop me, with or without Roza’s approval.
I turned my back to her, grasping the decanter with my right hand and dipping my left hand down the loose neck of my sweater to pull out the glass vial from my bra. I poured a glass as I popped open the vial close to my chest. The top and the dried sprig fell to the table. I plucked the flowers, still palming the vial, and released them into the decanter as I set it down. I brushed the small top away and it fell between the buffet’s surface and the wall.
I studied the decanter as I slipped the vial back into my bra. The wine was dark enough that you couldn’t see the wolfsbane. That or it had already dissolved.
Well done, Daphne whispered, pleased.
“Hurry up, bitch,” Taylor called.
I went back to the desk and took a sip of the wine. It was thick and bitter. There was nothing left to do now but hope they’d pour themselves a glass. I touched a key and flinched at the bright screen lighting up in the dim room.
“All right, ladies.” Roza tapped at her phone. “Two hours starts now.”
Chapter 40
Lamia hovered in the air, fixing Daphne in place with that blood-encrusted grin.
“Yes.” Daphne stood, holding out her hands. “To become the Great Commission would be a magnificent honor. You said there was a ceremony? What materials do we need? Where should we do it?”
Lamia floated down a few inches. “We need fire.”
“The parlor,” Daphne said quickly. “Let us go to the parlor.”
Abigail’s face was beginning to slacken and slip like a wax mask. Behind it, Lamia’s true visage was beginning to shine through. Daphne knew she didn’t have much time.
“I know you are not yet convinced,” Lamia said. “But you shall be. I know how much control others have wielded over you. How you have suffered. When you arise anew, you will have ultimate power.”
And what did that mean? The power to kill? To serve Lamia? Daphne kept her thoughts pushed low, like seedlings in the dirt. Lamia could read her thoughts, if she wanted, but it seemed she was beyond caring about Daphne’s reactions.
Hubris. Lamia thought she was invincible. That was her weakness.
Lamia was correct that Daphne had suffered.
But she had also survived. That meant that she, Daphne, had her own type of power.
My hands stilled over the keys and I stared into the fire. The word “power” filled my mind. It had never felt more alien, more unreachable, than this moment: writing at gunpoint. I thought of Chitra, her body crumpled on the dining room floor. Of Zoe, Yana, and Keira, frozen and stacked in the garage like logs.
I glanced at Wren, who was hunched over and typing furiously. She was scared, injured, pathetic. And yet, before, she’d held so much power over me. Even in her absence, she’d been an omnipotent phantom, haunting my every thought. I remembered how terrified I’d been on the subway ride to Ursula’s book party, wondering if I would see her.
I thought of Wren as a child, locked in the closet, bruises peppering her arms and back.
I looked at Roza and Taylor—neither of whom had even glanced at the wine, unfortunately. Roza was now reading something on her phone, Taylor examining something on her gun—and a similar veil fell away. I saw both of them as younger versions of themselves, fresh girls slowly realizing that the world they’d been born into hadn’t saved a place for them. Young Roza just missing the extreme horrors of the war, only to come upon them in the closet of her best friend’s home. Adolescent Taylor existing in a space that hated girls so much that they decided to stop living. She’d had to shove her rage so far down for so long that it had festered in the dark.
And me. A young girl meeting a monster in the woods and knowing deep down that it heralded the end of something. That the hushed arguments and sharp looks and ominous energy at home meant it was all swiftly coming to an end.
Where did one’s power lie in a world that stripped it from you, over and over again? How could we reclaim it when the dominant forces dangled it above our heads, shouting: Only the strong survive? Was harming others the only way? Or was that a trick too?