Bereft: Demise

46 | Of Death's Hungry Embrace

Every inhalation was like a mouthful of icepicks I was forced to swallow. My side ached. The laceration inflicted above my brow by a piece of splintered wood stung mercilessly. I had already ran up so many sets of stairs and yet there were so many left to go. My foot missed a step I almost dropped the Sin of Lust.

"Christ, you're heavy!" I panted as I redoubled my grip around her middle as her manicured nails dug into my shoulder. The woman took a labored breath and forced her legs beneath herself. Somewhere behind us, Berour's caterwauling was enough to raise the dead.

"Left," Amoroth grated through clenched teeth, jerking her head toward the next corridor on the landing. "Go left."

I did as she said, though my knees buckled and we had to stop once we'd cleared the landing. The noise of Berour's pursuit followed. 

Once the light had dimmed and the stars blinding my eyes had quieted, I'd grabbed Amoroth by the arm and had dragged the woman from the wreckage of Peroth's office in hopes of escaping the deranged Sin—but he hadn't given up. Not yet.

My right hand was cradled near my chest, rendered bloody and broken by the construct. My will and my intent had given my spell substance and my blood had bypassed the flaws inherent to my design—and the strictures normally used to prevent a backfire. I hadn't taken the time to inspect what damage I'd managed to inflict on Berour, but I knew it must have been extensive if the blood covering my front was anything to go by.

However, my hand was also broken and numbed by adrenaline. Useless.

Despite the months I'd spent wandering Crow's End's many halls, Amoroth knew them far better than I did. She was directing us away from the residential areas of the manor while trying to put as much distance between ourselves and Berour. She had been the first to recognize the futility of involving others in a fight against an enraged Sin. They would only be fodder, deaths to be laid at the threshold of my conscience. 

"We're not going to escape him," Amoroth said as she leaned off me and used the wall for support. There was blood on her borrowed shirt, but I didn't know if it was from me or from Berour or from her own wounds.

"He didn't—didn't hit you th—that hard," I managed to sputter between stolen breaths. Indeed, I hadn't thought Berour had gotten that good of a blow in, and yet Amoroth was worse off than I was. The wound her back was healed, but she continued to clutch a hand to her chest just below the hollow of her throat.

The woman snarled and tore her collar from her neck, revealing her chest and a portion of a lacy bra. Where the skin should have been unmarred and flat there were five weeping punctures and a strange protrusion. When I realized Berour must have fractured her sternum with a single blow, I swallowed convulsively to keep myself from getting sick.

"He knew to hit me where Sethan's magic yet lingers," she said as she covered the injury and surveyed the hall. "Balthier has a hand in this. We need to move."

Amoroth and I hurried down the hall and descended a set of stairs that had appeared from nowhere. Berour's screams followed, growing louder when they should have been fading in the distance. They seemed to come from everywhere, from every direction and every hall. I didn't know which way to turn or where to run, and the confusion was almost overwhelming.

The Sin of Lust dragged us through a false wall into a dark, unused ballroom I hadn't known existed. Tables were lined against the walls and flipped on their sides, crowded by stacked Victorian chairs. The chandeliers above were cloaked in dusty sheets that rippled at the slightest disturbance. Our heavy breath and pounding stride resounded in the vacant space.