Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins, page 7
“Oh yes,” he mocked in a high, squeaky voice, “just look at me!” He thrust his hands onto his waist and puffed out his chest. “I'm a wooooman now!”
Gracielle, of course, slugged him hard in the arm and told him to go kiss a slarp.
But then, on the night of the Celebration, his eyes were finally opened. Gracielle arrived alone, wearing a flowing, pale blue gown that was the perfect shade to make her soft green eyes sparkle. Her straight, strawberry blonde hair that was normally pulled up in a messy, floppy ponytail was sleek, almost down to her waist and dotted with tiny blue jewels. Jonathan remembered how confident she looked, and how he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. It was that night that he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. It was that night that he realized that he'd been in love with her for longer than he could remember, and it was that night—while they danced and laughed under the silvery summer stars—that he knew he wanted to spend forever with her. Two months later they were engaged. Six months after that, they became entrusted to one another.
Throughout the engagement, Gracielle worriedly anticipated the process referred to as The Exalting, when Jonathan would pledge his devotion to her by repeating an ancient vow. The vow—an ages-old spell—would change her, giving her the characteristics that on Lor Mandela, only Borlocs possess. Gracielle had never pictured herself with the Borloc features, but within hours of the ceremony, her hair turned to a rich, raven black and her eyes changed from green to bright cobalt—and although she was beautiful before, the contrast of her fair, slightly freckled complexion against these new, more dramatic attributes, made her even more stunning.
Jonathan walked over to where she slept, draped a lush white blanket over her, and whispered, “That did take you a bit to get used to.” He kissed her on the cheek and then went to bed himself.
The sun had barely risen when there was a tapping at the door. Gracielle heard it first, and groggily staggered across the room to answer it.
Ultara stood behind the door in the hall. “Good Morning,” she whispered. “I thought I would check in and see how you're doing today.”
Gracielle pulled the door open wide and sleepily motioned for her to come in.
Ultara noticed Jonathan, who was staring at her glassy-eyed from across the room. His hair was wild and matted to his head on one side. “Oh, I'm sorry, Aton. Did I wake you? Should I come back later?” she asked.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Uh hmm . . . of course not, Ultara. How lovely to see you . . . this early.” He shot her a grumpy glare as he walked toward the changing room at the back of their chambers. “Excuse me . . . I'm gonna get dressed,” he groaned.
“So,” Ultara began, “how are you feeling?”
Gracielle, who was still trying to wake up, stifled a yawn. “Oh, I . . . I'm okay.” She smoothed her pajamas and asked, “How are you?”
Ultara shrugged. “As well as can be expected.” She glanced toward the changing room, and then took Gracielle by the arm and whispered anxiously, “I figured something out . . . something from the Advantiere.”
Gracielle’s interest was piqued. “Really, what?” she whispered in reply.
Just then, Jonathan came back into the room—fully dressed and looking quite put together for the short time he had been gone. “You two wanna go eat?” He was still a little grouchy. “You have to have something, Graci. You didn't get dinner last night.” He spoke to Gracielle, but kept his eyes locked suspiciously on Ultara. Ultara and Gracielle both took notice.
“Um . . . actually dear, I think I'll just have something sent up from the kitchens. I'm still a bit drained.” Gracielle made faces at him in an attempt to get him to stop glowering at Ultara, but he didn't blink.
The mood in the room was growing tenser by the minute. Even Ultara—who was not easily intimidated—was feeling uneasy about the mysterious stare-down. “Is there something wrong, Aton?” she finally asked.
“No,” he snipped curtly.
“Um . . . all right then,” she replied, “why don't I go to the kitchens and round something up for the three of us?” She didn't wait for an answer from either of them. She quickly backed out of the room, frowning at the aton as she went.
“What was that all about?” Gracielle demanded, as soon as Ultara was out of earshot.
“What?”
“What?” she blurted. “You were eyeing her like she was some kind of criminal, Jonathan!”
“No, I wasn't,” he insisted, “That’s silly.”
Gracielle gaped at him in disbelief. “What is wrong with you?” She threw her hands up in exasperation and stomped to the other side of the room.
“Okay,” Jonathan sighed, “maybe I was giving her a look; but you have to understand, Graci.”
“Understand what?” She turned to face him, folded her arms, and tilted her head to one side.
He explained, “Last night, I was meeting with father, when Darian . . . .”
“Darian?” Gracielle interrupted. She knew that if this had to do with both Darian and Ultara, it could not be good.
Jonathan continued, “Yes, Darian. He came to see us.”
He told Gracielle all about Darian's visit, and how he'd warned that Ultara was planning an attack.
“Impossible!” Gracielle retorted. “He's just trying to stir things up! He can't stand the fact that she's more powerful than him now!” She couldn't believe that her entrusted would listen to a word Darian of Brashnell had to say.
Jonathan ran over to the door and peeked out into the hall. Ultara was nowhere in sight. “Graci, after Darian left Father confided that even your mother warned him about Ultara—told him that she needed to be watched.”
“Oh, I see. So that's what you were doing, huh? Watching her?” Gracielle glared at him angrily and shook her head. “Honestly, Jonathan. You'd better check our food when she brings it back . . . make sure it's not poisoned!”
“Gracielle!” Jonathan snapped. “I'm just trying to protect you . . . and the baby!”
Gracielle, who was pacing irately, stopped in her tracks. She realized that her emotions were being stirred by events of which Jonathan wasn't even aware, and that he was only acting out of concern for her and their unborn child.
“You're right. I’m sorry,” she sighed as she walked over to hug him. “You know, I saw Ultara do some pretty amazing things yesterday. She actually saved me and the baby from Anika.” She embraced him tightly. “I don't think she would do anything to harm us.”
“I know,” Jonathan resigned. “I don't really think so either. It's just . . . I have to be careful.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek as there was a faint rap on the door and it slowly creaked open. Ultara strolled through the door pulling a cart full of food and holding a folded piece of paper in her hand. She smiled slyly at Jonathan. “I didn't know what you wanted, so I had them give me three of everything.”
“Hey, Ultara, I'm sorry I was such a grump before,” Jonathan apologized. “I guess I'm not very pleasant when I first wake up.”
Ultara nodded as she unfolded the paper in her hand and started reading it. “Don’t worry about it, Aton. We all have our . . .” Suddenly, she became quite engrossed in the letter. “Um . . . uh . . . forgive me,” she stammered. “I . . . I have to . . . uh . . . I have to get back to the palace, this instant!”
“Is everything all right?” Gracielle asked.
Ultara shook her head and fumbled with the handle on the door. “I can’t . . . I'll . . . I’ll talk to you after the council meeting. I have to go!” She raced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“That was strange,” Jonathan said.
“Yeah . . . I hope every thing's all right. I’ve never seen Ultara get ruffled like that.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Jonathan assured. “Whatever it is, she can handle it. I don’t think there's much she can't.”
Jonathan pushed the cart over to a small sitting area on one side of the room and patted the seat of the chair next to him, indicating to Gracielle that she should come and sit down. He lifted a silver dome from a tray full of fresh fruit and waved his hand over it like he was presenting it to her. “C’mon. Let's eat.”
Gracielle smiled and joined him. “Still . . . I hope she’s okay,” she sighed, as they proceeded with breakfast.
Meanwhile, in one of the dining halls, Cristoph and Jocelynne were also sitting down to eat. The food had just been brought in to them by two female servants, when the same young man who had announced Darian's visit the night before, entered the room.
Cristoph stood and walked over to him. “Good morning, Phillip,” he greeted warmly. Phillip smiled and bowed, then handed the Atoc a letter.
“Oh, thank you,” Cristoph said.
Phillip bowed again. “Enjoy your breakfast Atoc . . . Ator.”
“What is it, dear?” Jocelynne asked.
Cristoph turned the letter over and noticed a gold seal on the back. “Ah, it's a note from Ultara,” he replied, as he strolled back toward the table to rejoin Jocelynne.
She smiled and began to eat.
Cristoph slid his finger beneath the seal. “Let’s see what our new vritesse has to say.” Gently, he pried the note open.
“I hope there's not a problem. You know, with the meeting this after . . . .” Jocelynne stopped abruptly.
As Cristoph unfolded the letter, a pair of black, smoky hands oozed slowly from the paper. He watched in awe for a moment, but then realized what was happening. “NO! JOCE! IT’S A GRASPING CURSE!”
He immediately hurled the paper onto the floor, grabbed a linen napkin from the table and threw it down on the note. He fell to his knees and tried to spread the napkin over the paper.
“What?” Jocelynne exclaimed, seeing Cristoph's state of panic. “Cristoph! What is it?” She pushed her chair out and moved to stand.
“NO! Jocelynne! FREEZE!” Cristoph commanded, frantically jumping onto, and then across the long banquet table. He hurled himself through the air toward his entrusted.
“CRISTOPH! LOOK OUT!” she shrieked, as several more pairs of dripping black hands found their way out from underneath the napkin and sped toward Cristoph.
“NO! CRISTOPH!” Before she could say another word, the hands had a grip on him. Again, she started from her chair to try to help him.
“JOCELYNNE! DON’T MOVE!” He bellowed.
Slowly, she lowered back to sitting and held completely still, watching in horror as gnarled black hands started to rip and tear at him.
Two of them slid up and wrapped themselves firmly around his neck.
He tried to pry them off, but had no sooner reached up, when several heavy claws grabbed him around his hands and arms. He kicked and wrestled ferociously but was defenseless. A few seconds later, he let out a mournful moan, and then stopped moving.
“Cristoph?” Jocelynne sobbed. “Please . . . no!”
Another pair of fatal hands was now hypnotically weaving its way toward her. Still two more were heading toward Phillip who had just come in with more food.
Upon seeing Cristoph—bloodied and presumably dead on the floor—Phillip dropped his tray of food, and ran toward Jocelynne in a valiant effort to save her.
The hands responded though, and within a fraction of a second, he too was being ripped at and strangled by the oozing black hands.
Jocelynne was terrified. The claws moving toward her were now just inches away. She panted heavily, tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t think. She knew that if she moved she was dead, but she didn’t see how holding still would save her either. In a desperate attempt to get help, she sat perfectly still and began to scream.
The hands that had mutilated Cristoph and Phillip now were twisting toward her slowly and ominously.
She screamed even louder, but didn’t move anything but her mouth.
Two female servants burst into the room in reaction to the ator’s screams.
“GET OUT! GET HELP!” she shrieked.
The servant closest to the door barely escaped back through it as two of the inky claws slammed against it, scratching wildly at the wooden surface in an effort to get her back.
The other girl panicked and tried to lunge out of the way as a set of hands viciously grabbed at her. Her death came quickly. The force of the hands hitting her as she dove, jerked her so violently that her neck snapped instantly.
The servant who had escaped was now wildly searching for someone to help. She ran down the corridor toward Jonathan and Gracielle's chambers screaming hysterically. Several guards appeared in the halls, responding to the commotion.
“HELP! The dining . . . Atoc . . . Ator . . . HELP!” She was panic-stricken and not making sense.
Jonathan and Gracielle heard the commotion and came to see what was going on.
“BLACK HANDS!” she screeched, “THEY’RE KILLING . . . THEY LOOKED DEAD!”
“A grasping curse!” Jonathan gasped.
He didn’t wait for details. He sped down the hall towards the dining room, and Gracielle followed.
In the meantime, the first set of smoky hands had reached Jocelynne and had begun to wrap steadily around her throat. It squeezed just enough to squelch her sobs. She gasped for air, but the hands continued to tighten their deadly grip.
She knew that Cristoph was dead, and likely, that she was about to be.
In a final, hopeless effort, she tried to pull away. As soon as she moved though, the hands ensnared her and dragged her forcibly to the floor. She struggled and thrashed wildly, trying to get away—but there was nothing to be done. The curse was impossible to break free from once it had been unleashed.
A few seconds later, Jonathan burst through the door with Gracielle right behind him, but they were too late.
The scene was gruesome; blood, plates, linens, food and bodies were flung everywhere. Jonathan's parents and two of their servants were dead.
Though neither Jonathan nor Gracielle noticed, the fatal invitation was pulsating eerily underneath the napkin on the floor—the last traces of the deadly vapor disintegrating back into it.
Gracielle slapped her hand over her mouth; tears streamed down her cheeks.
Jonathan stood in the doorway in a state of shock.
“Mother . . . .”
It was all he could manage to utter. He sunk slowly to his knees and crawled over to where his mother’s body lay.
“No . . . no . . . mother . . . NOOOOO!”
He lifted her gently into his arms and wailed uncontrollably.
Gracielle walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Wha . . . how . . . who did this?” She mumbled through her tears.
Jonathan cradled his mother for some time, then laid her back down softly and stood and embraced Gracielle. They held each other tightly and cried.
By this time, a group of Palace Guards had arrived at the room and were already examining the scene.
The one who seemed to be in charge whispered to another, “Get news of this to General Statlen on the council.”
The other guard nodded and hurried away.
Soon, the room was packed with guards—some who were busily cleaning up, and others who were investigating the scene.
Jonathan and Gracielle stood in the doorway, watching in despair as the bodies of the atoc and ator were loaded onto stretchers and covered with white sheets. As the sheet was laid over Jocelynne's face, Jonathan's breath caught sharply in his throat and he turned away.
“Aton?” The head guard walked up behind Jonathan and touched him on the shoulder.
“Yes, Falken,” he muttered as he turned to face the guard.
“Sir . . . we found this.” Falken held a piece of paper in his hand. It was the letter that had contained the curse.
Jonathan took it and examined it. It appeared slightly burnt on the edges, and smelled of sulfur. There were no words written on it at all. He turned it over to the back side. There, a slightly torn, bright gold seal gleamed about half-way down the page. “Ultara,” he breathed.
“What?” Gracielle couldn't believe it. Jonathan shoved the paper at her.
“No,” she gasped, “I . . . I . . . .” She couldn't say anything else. She stared at the paper and shook her head over and over again.
Jonathan looked at Falken. “Bring me Ultara,” he seethed.
Falken bowed. He seemed very worried. Ultara was not someone he wanted to anger—but then again—neither was Aton Jonathan. He rose from the bow and walked out the door, feeling that the mission which had been thrust upon him was akin to suicide.
Gracielle's eyes were glassy. “What're you going to do, Jonathan?” she asked.
He didn't answer, but instead pointed to one of the guards and commanded. “When Captain Falken returns with Ultara, have him bring her to Court Four.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replied.
Jonathan turned to walk away.
“Jonathan?” Gracielle called behind him.
He stopped and looked back at her. “I will take care of this, Graci. You go back to our chambers and don't leave them! I'm having Dr. Michelan come stay with you.”
“What? Why?” she asked.
Jonathan approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It's for your own safety . . . and the baby's,” he explained. “I don't know what's going on here, but for now, I have to assume that we're not safe. We can't take any chances.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “Promise me you'll do as I say. Please. Don't leave the chambers until I get back!”
“But Jonathan,” she pleaded, “I . . . .”
“Please, Gracielle!” He was adamant.
She studied his teary eyes for a second, and then reluctantly nodded. She turned and slowly headed toward the chambers, while Jonathan went to Court Four to wait for Falken and Ultara.
In the meantime at Trysta Palace, the members of the council were arriving for the meeting. News of the vritesse's death spread quickly, and everyone knew that they were gathering to witness the calling of Ultara, but when the time arrived for the meeting to commence, none of the Nobles were present. Jonathan, Gracielle and Nenia should have all been in their seats by now. With a loud thunk, the three doors at the far end of the room swung open. The delegates rose to their feet . . . and waited for Cristoph, Jocelynne and Ultara to enter.
