Pandora's Box

Chapter 11: Part II

A portion of the wall shifted, freeing a puff of dusty silt. Malachai pushed in the makeshift door and hurriedly took to the stairs within. He took the steps two at a time, reaching the top before the wall ground silently back into place.

Standing in total darkness, Malachai pressed his ear to the false wall blocking his way. His father had warned him long along ago to never reveal the hidden door to anyone. Not even the hand servants are to be trusted, his father had said. A knife with a thin blade flashed in Malachai's mind. In a forgotten memory, blood dripped from a younger Malachai's palm. He remembered the frightened child who had sobbed through a mouth that felt like sand had been poured down his throat, quivering before his towering father as the secret had been sworn in a blood oath.

Malachai flinched and let memory fade. He didn't realize he'd been clenching his fist. He opened the trembling hand and ran a finger across the scar fading in his palm. A voice, calm and deep, strong like the heartbeat of the very world surrounded him in its usual familiar tone.

Stay the path, my apprentice. Your time of suffering is nearly over. The next calling awaits you.

The Fallen's voice flooded Malachai's veins with ice water, chilling his core and steeling his nerve. Only one minor task remained. Only one more obstacle stood between him and serving directly at his master's side. Malachai withdrew the lock of Pandora's scarlet hair from the pouch at his belt. It would be more than enough evidence to frame her with. He pushed the false wall panel open.

And drew the jagged dagger from the hidden sheath at the small of his back.

The hidden passage emptied into a hallway off the keep's main receiving hall. A quartet of pillars propped up the second floor and twin staircases climbed the rooms opposite sides. Small bracers provided a dancing backdrop of firelight, throwing strange, distorted shadows from the collections of mounted armors and coats of arms. Malachai could have navigated the blackened space in total darkness even without the torches' aid: he'd spent more than a few nights evading the malice of his older brothers or the bitter, drunken backhand of his mother.

Malachai made his way up the stairs, carefully avoiding the culprits he knew would creak and complain. Thin vases with blooming jasmine sat on petite tables outside each bed chamber door, filling the upper floors with summer scent. He clutched the dagger, keeping the blade low and by his side as he stalked the corridor toward Lord and Lady Killian's bed chamber. Outside his parents' door, he paused for a breath.

Tightened his grip on the dagger. Felt the familiar contours.

Knew the blade wouldn't fail him.

Focused, he worked through the movements of the bloody symphony to come.

Every furious slash.

The death strikes...

Malachai's heart throbbed in his throat. He reigned his breathing back into something resembling steady, lifted the door's latch and crossed the threshold. He reached back and twisted the skeleton key. It clicked with a sharp finality, then Malachai stashed the key in a pocket.

The Killian's bed rested beneath a wide unshuttered window in a rippling pool of silver moonlight. Beneath a loose pile of twisted linens slept a man with a woman curled closely up to his back. Malachai's knuckles blanched beyond porcelain. The dagger swung slowly overhead, its obsidian tip poised for Lord Killian's throat.

"Mother, father... your time is over," Malachai through a clenched jaw.

A hollow, distorted boom filled the room. A flash of sapphire erupted a split second later. Malachai threw his wrist up to his eyes and gasped at the stinging burn. A translucent film of the same blue covered the room and its occupants. Even the hearth's fire was limned in sapphire. Lord and Lady Killian remained motionless in their marriage bed, frozen in time by the spell's magic.

"No. Your time is over."

Malachai spun to the words. His eyes tightened back into focus, then narrowed into a glare.

"What are you doing here, orphan?"

"Delivering the queen's justice."

Donovan opened his palm, revealing the empty vial. Luminescent green residue flecked the glass even in the darkness. Donovan produced a pair of steel-laced tonfa from his waistband and assumed a balanced stance. "Your treachery goes no farther."