A sickening heat blossomed behind Clara’s ribs, a slow-burning venom that leaked down her thighs and locked her joints in place. She tried to cry out, but her throat felt choked with dry sand. Her knees slammed onto the stone floor, her silk dress crumpling beneath her, but in the chaotic celebration surrounding Helena, no one paid her the slightest attention.
The crowd had surged forward, a sea of gasping socialites and clicking camera phones encircling Helena, who was still kneeling, clutching the strange boy in a fierce embrace.
«It’s a miracle!» a woman in a pastel fascinator wept, clapping her gloved hands. «A true divine intervention!»
Victor didn’t join the celebration. His hand rested on the concealed holster beneath his charcoal jacket, his eyes darting frantically from the child to the crowd, and finally to Clara, who was writhing silently in the shade of the grand pavilion’s iron pillars. He took two cautious steps toward her, his instincts honed by years of threat assessment.
«Miss Clara?» Victor’s deep voice cut through the ambient noise of the crowd. «You’re pale. What’s wrong?»
Clara looked up, her vision blurring at the edges as dark, violet veins began to thread visible paths across the skin of her exposed neck. «Get… get him away from her,» she choked out, her breath ragged. «He didn’t fix her… he took…»
Before Victor could process her words, the boy gently disengaged from Helena’s tear-stained embrace. He stood, his small frame throwing an impossibly long shadow across the sunlit stone floor. He turned his deep, ancient eyes toward Clara.
The moment the boy’s gaze locked onto her, the wind in the pine canopy died completely. The rustling leaves fell silent. The air grew thick, heavy with the metallic scent of ozone and freshly turned earth.
«The blood price cannot be dissolved, Clara Vance,» the boy said, his voice carrying an unearthly pitch that seemed to vibrate directly inside the skulls of everyone present. «It can only be redirected to its rightful owner.»
A collective murmur ripple through the guests, their joy dissolving into confused apprehension. Helena, still standing tall on her newly restored legs, turned slowly. She looked at her trembling half-sister, then down at the blue velvet coat dress she herself wore—the very dress Clara had gifted her on the morning of the accident seven years ago.
«Clara?» Helena whispered, the warmth in her voice evaporating into sheer horror. «What does he mean?»
Clara reached out a trembling, pale hand, her fingers clawing at the stone toward Helena. «Helena… please… I was young… I didn’t know the spell would…»
«You did this to me?» Helena took a step back, her voice barely louder than the breeze, yet it echoed under the glass roof like a thunderclap.
The black Andalusian horse at the edge of the clearing suddenly let out a frantic, high-pitched scream. It reared back once more, but this time, it wasn’t thrashing against its harness—it was staring at the glass canopy above them.
CRACK.
A hairline fracture spider-webbed across the massive center pane of the pavilion’s glass roof.
The guests screamed, scattering in all directions as small shards of glass began to rain down like frozen tears. Victor lunged forward, throwing his large frame over Helena to shield her from the debris, while the boy remained motionless in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
«Run,» the boy said quietly, though his voice cut through the panicking crowd with absolute authority. «The original collector has arrived.»
Beneath Clara’s skin, the violet veins pulsated wildly, glowing with a sickly, bruised light. She screamed—a sharp, horrifying sound of pure agony—as her spine buckled backward at an impossible angle, mirroring the exact posture Helena had endured for seven long years.
Helena pulled away from Victor’s grip, staring at her sister in a mix of grief and betrayal. «Clara!»
«Don’t touch her!» Victor roared, grabbing Helena’s arm. «Look at her hands!»
«Don’t touch her!» Victor roared, grabbing Helena’s arm. «Look at her hands!»
Clara’s fingertips were turning black, decaying into fine ash before their very eyes. But the curse wasn’t just consuming Clara—it was seeping into the ground. Where her tears hit the stone floor, the polished marble dissolved into black, bubbling tar.
Suddenly, the heavy iron pavilion doors slammed shut with a deafening boom, locking fifty terrified guests inside with the dying traitor and the mysterious healer.
The boy turned back to Helena, his small face completely devoid of emotion. «You are free of the pain, Helena Vance. But to survive the night, you must make a choice.» He pointed a slender finger toward the heavy wooden altar at the back of the pavilion. «The contract Clara signed is hidden in the stone beneath your feet. Break it, and she dies instantly. Leave it, and the thing coming through that roof will take both of your souls.»
Above them, the glass canopy shattered entirely, showering the room in a deadly hail of crystal, while a towering, pitch-black silhouette descended from the canopy, blocking out the sun.