Daughters of Creation

Chapter Fourteen: Lacuna (Part One)

"A blank space, a missing part"
—Lacuna

October 16

Weak early morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, halfway blinding Emrie Michele as she struggled to not look at Rosalyn. The green eyed witch was doing a perfect job of not looking at her unless she had to, but Emrie Michele was beginning to feel the claws of desperation sink into her skin the longer she couldn't maintain Rosalyn's eye. She knew she'd said the wrong thing back in Rosalyn's room, but she hadn't been able to stop the words from tumbling from her mouth, it had been like the dam had been unlocked and all of her fears and irritation had come pouring out—directly at Rosalyn, aiming to hurt. And hurt it did, but once she's said those words she had wanted to take them back immediately. She'd said those things out of fear, that didn't excuse her actions though.

Emrie Michele closed her eyes for a moment, trying to squeeze the memory of the fear that had nearly knocked her over when she hadn't been able to sense either Rosalyn or Emerson out of her system; it had burrowed so far into her skin that she had felt it lach onto her bones and poison her veins until all she could feel was fear. When you weren't able to sense someone's soul it normally meant that person was dead—and she couldn't think that, couldn't entertain the idea that Rosalyn was dead, or Emerson, because the notion of Rosalyn, her Lys, being dead would shatter her—and if they were dead it meant she had failed her coven.

She glanced at Rosalyn again, having reopened her eyes at the sound of Rosalyn's voice. She watched as Rosalyn's earthy eyes scanned the scroll over again for the millionth time before she continued talking, "I won't say his name, but it's safe to assume our murderer is hunting down the bloodlines of the Eight, killing them to destroy the Veil, and plans to accomplish this—or end it all—on All Hallows Eve. The only thing missing, this blank space mocking us, is who are the Eight? Who are their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and so forth?"

Rena drummed her fingers against the table, eyes narrowed in thought. "If our murderer wants to play copycat let's name him 'Cas'. It's tiring to keep using the term 'murderer' in every sentence and I'm tired of us only having a shadow figure to go off of."

Rena's suggestion hung in the air and Emrie Michele saw the slight tilt of Rosalyn's head and the quick scowl that broke across her face before it was gone. Emrie Michele's eyebrows drew closer. What was that look? Why did it look like Lys was listening to someone? Her eyes flickered to Hari but the towering Guard didn't have the look in his eyes that he got when mentally communicating with Rosalyn, so she ruled him out. Her eyes widened at the jump her mind made: the murderer, Cas? Was the man from her visions talking to Rosalyn? Fucking hell. Rosalyn was in more trouble than Emrie Michele had thought. What had Rosalyn opened herself up to? Emrie Michele drummed her nails against the table, concentrating on the sound alone as her tapping got quicker and quicker the faster her mind raced.

Something went wrong when Lys and Emerson did whatever it was they'd done, she thought, barely containing a snarl. What could have gone wrong? Rosalyn said nothing had happened while they were there ... Unless ... No? It couldn't be possible, could it? Emrie Michele stared at Rosalyn again. Unaware she was doing it, Rosalyn rubbed her ruined hand, thumb stressing over the mark over and over again as Rosalyn gained that same look like she was listening to someone—someone who wasn't physically in the room. Emrie Michele glanced around the room, hyper aware of everyone's movement. No one. She saw no one but the eleven of them. She hadn't known. Mother Goddess. And I told her she wasn't good enough. Emrie Michele silently groaned.

"We're giving a murder a freaking nickname?" Emerson grumbled, pale face full of irritation. Unlike the rest of them, Emerson and Rosalyn had seen what their murderer looked like.