The Kevlar House.
Erydia.
In the months since her sisters had left, Viera had not stopped locking her bedroom door. It was habit now, a regular part of her nighttime routine. But for the first time since her mother had given the order, Viera did not lock the door. Her father knew the click of the lock and he was a light sleeper. She would not—could not—risk him waking.
So, she lay awake in bed and waited.
After dinner, she had excused herself. She'd left complaining of a headache. She'd told her father that she needed to bathe and decide what to wear for the trip to the temple the next morning. He had been pleased, if not a bit wary of her complacency.
Jude Kevlar had expected a fight—he'd wanted one. But Viera was too clever to argue with him, not when compliance would earn her more freedom, would garner his trust and his ignorance. So, she'd bathed, kissed her mother on the cheek, and excused herself for the evening.
That was her goodbye.
It was still early—not yet midnight. The bedroom adjacent to her's had been silent for some time now. She waited within that silence, curled up, her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes closed tight against the growing heat within her veins.
It knew.
The thing within her, whatever drop of darkness the goddess had melded within Viera's very bones, knew of her coming deceit and it fought against it. Her mouth was sawdust, her tongue like lead against her teeth.
Sometimes, if she sat very still and let herself reach within, to that dark pit in her gut, she could feel the poison coiled there. Waiting for her to give in. To forget about it long enough that it might break free.
It was a living, breathing thing—and it strained and lashed out, like a snake, fangs bared and eyes blazing. Viera could touch it, stroke a mental finger across it, and often she wanted to, but to do so would be to befriend the entity, to allow it space. And something in her balked at the sight of it, at the dark essence that swirled and stretched towards her inner walls. The barricade she held between herself and that thing was too thin.
It would be easy, a voice inside her whispered, to stop fighting it. To let it have its way, to give it an inch—just enough to—
No.
She opened her eyes and gazed out into her moonlit bedroom. Sheer curtains were drawn over her window, and through the fabric she could just make out the glowing city beyond. Leighton was out there waiting for her.
They would make it—they had to. Their future together depended on it. And she wanted that future, she wanted to always be the on the receiving end of his smiles. It had been her dream for so long, she didn't know who she was without it—without him.
Once, when her father was out of town on business, Viera had stayed the night with Leighton in the compact housing. It had been strange, to be surrounded by so many people and yet feel entirely alone with him—more alone with Leighton than she'd ever been before.
She could not remember whose idea it had been for her to stay the night. It had just happened, the way that things often did with him. One minute, he was twirling her through the twinkling lights of a west side music hall, and the next she was tucked under his arm, his jacket slung around her shoulders and her fingers threaded through his.
Then they were rushing up the stairs, stopping on landings to kiss, to touch, to smile, to breathe each other in. After that, it was all shy smiles and forgotten clothes. Goddess, she had been so nervous, so afraid to be with him like that—to let him look and feel and taste. But he had been so sweet.
He had reminded her, time and time again, why she loved him.
Why he was her best friend.
The next morning, she had lay next to him, the thin sheets clutched to her bare chest, his arm a steadying weight across her abdomen. The only sound was that of birds chirping and his steady breathing. Viera had never tasted alcohol, had never wanted to after what it did to her father, but that night Leighton had tasted like strawberry wine and the cigars she'd bought him for his birthday. Bittersweet in so many ways.
Viera had decided, right then and there, that she wanted every single morning to be like that.
She had worn his shirt and his jacket home. He'd let her keep them, said it all looked better on her away. That was lie, and she told him so—but it hadn't kept her from wearing the clothes back to her family's estate. She'd hidden all of it in the top drawer of the dresser; next to the knife her mother had asked her to keep.
She took those things with her now. They were all she would take.
***
The hall outside her bedroom was warm and quiet, the only sound the soft patter of rain on the roof above her head. She held the jacket in one hand, the knife in the other. Her boots were silent as she made her way across the old wooden planks of the estate. She was careful as she pulled her bedroom door shut behind her, her attention on the shut bedroom door down the hall from hers.
Viera held her breath as the slight click of the door meshed and blended with the sounds of the night around her. She paused, waiting, her breath caught in her lungs, to see if the sound had been enough to rouse her father. When nothing changed, she exhaled and took a step, just one, towards the top of the staircase.
"Where are you going?"
Every muscle in her body tensed, pulled tight. She looked straight ahead, towards the bottom of the stairs and the doorway beyond. Viera could not move, could not turn to look at him. Not once during all the beatings, when he'd hit her or called her a mistake, told her she was a disappointment, had she ever begged him to stop.
The words had never come, even when she wanted them to, even when it would have perhaps appeased him. She had sewn her mouth closed with hatred and quiet deceit. Let the knowledge of her future with Leighton placate her tongue.
Viera knew this man, had listened and seen. She knew that the beating was not what sated his temper, the begging was. He wanted power—power over Viera, power over her sisters, power over her sick and dying mother.
She looked at that door—her ticket to freedom.
"Please," no one word had ever been harder to say. But she made herself repeat it, louder, "Please, just let me go."
She felt her father step forward, saw a light turn on in her parent's bedroom. His silhouette loomed over hers. Sweat slickened the knife in her hand.
Again, she said, "Please."
"Where do you think you're going?"
She swallowed and slowly turned to face him, using the jacket in her arms to shield the knife from view. She could lie, but he wouldn't believe her. And it would only anger him further if she lied. And what could she say when she was dressed like she was, obviously prepared to leave the house.
All excuses died from her lips as she whispered, "Leighton and I are—"
He cut her off, his laugh a humorless sound. "I'm so damn tired of hearing about that boy."
Viera stiffened as he took another step towards her. She forced herself to stay still, to look up at him and meet his gaze. He was larger than she was, nearly twice her size with muscles born from hauling sacks of grain and hoisting heavy metal trays of goods.
She knew what it felt like to have those fists hit her.
He took another step and this time she conceded, inching back toward the stairs. The familiar groan of her mother's metal wheelchair echoed off the tall ceilings of the landing. Another step and the backs of her boots were against the edge of the top step.
She would run.
She would turn and run.
But she could hear the sound of her mother hoisting herself from the bed. Viera winced at the groan of the chair, the clink of the brank being released, the soft sequel of the wheels. And she was lost to those noises. Afraid of what would happen if she left.
He would hurt her mother. He would hurt her and this time there would be no one to tend to her mother's wounds. No one to curl into bed next to her mother and stroke her hair, no one to lie and say it would all be alright. This time—this time Viera would be gone and Lorna would be truly alone with her father.
No. No. No. That darkness inside her lurched, flaring and twisting in her gut—as if it too remembered, as if it knew what would happen to her if she allowed this man too close. Viera needed to run. She needed to run, but she loved her mother too much to make her feet move.
The squeal of the metal wheels stopped as her mother appeared in the doorway of her parent's room. Lorna Kevlar was pale, her face all angles and shadows in the dim lighting of the hall. She was breathing heavily, all her rationed energy drained to get herself there—to make it to her youngest living child.
It had been months since she had found the strength to hoist herself into the chair.
"Viera." Her eyes darted to the knife now clutched openly in her daughter's hand. "Viera." It was a quiet, broken plea. To run, to stay, to use the knife—Viera didn't know.
She looked to her mother, to the terror written all over her exhausted features. Viera's eyes darted back to her father. He was watching her, that sizzling rage making his eyes turn molten. She could see him deciding how to lash out—what tactic would get him what he wanted?
Viera kept her voice steady as she said, "Please just let me leave. I can't—I won't join the Culling. I don't want to be queen."
Her father's face was flushed with anger. The fists at his sides shook. "You have a responsibility to your country—to your family to—"
"I will not," she whispered.
His lips pulled back from his teeth in a livid snarl, "It is not a choice."
Viera nearly lost her balance on the steps as he moved towards her. Her sweaty palms caught the banister and she managed to steady herself. She dropped down a few steps. Then froze as he loomed over her.
Her mother's eyes were wide, a plea.
Carefully, Viera began sliding her foot backward, searching for the edge of the next step. Her gaze remained on her father as he retreated toward her mother. She did not know if she could leave—not now, not looking at her mother's frail body next to her father's angry hulking form.
Viera held out the knife angling the blade towards him, terrified she might use it and terrified she might not get the chance. Something flashed in his eyes, a malicious sort of recognition, as if the thought of her fighting back gave him pleasure. Like he wanted her to try it.
His voice was low, a growl of anger and forced pity as he spat, "You're a waste of space."
And although she had heard it before—had always let the words fall short of her heart—that day they struck true. His hatred spun a web of earth-shattering hurt she could not escape from, could no longer dismiss. In her chest, something seemed to cleave in half, a breaking that was soul deep. Her mother was shaking her head, her trembling fingers outstretched to Viera, as if she could soothe that hurt, could make it stop.
She tasted the tears before she felt them on her face.
He was still talking. "You would let your mother die? Your own selfishness, your own stupidity—" He was pointing at her mama, his finger jabbing towards her face as he said, "A palace healer could save her. They could fix her. But instead, she'll die it will be all your fault."
The wheels of the chair groaned again as her mother pushed forward, towards her. "Darling, that isn't true—"
The sound as the back of his hand colliding with Lorna's jaw shook Viera to her very bones. Her mother did not make a sound, only pulled away from him, curling her frail body towards the wall to shield her face from another blow. Viera was back at the top of the stairs in an instant, reaching for her mother.
Her father did not hesitate.
Before she could react, he was yanking her sideways. She cried out as her head hit the wall with enough force to make her eyesight flicker. She tried to twist from his hold but he held her still. She tried to kick, to rotate the blade so she could stab him, but he was stronger, larger. He twisted her wrist until she released the knife, letting it clatter to the floor next to them.
His face loomed over hers, his breath hot against her ear as he said, "You have a destiny, a fate the goddess has given to you and you would do what—huh? Choose some boy over that greater plan? Over a crown?"
The tether that held her goddess-given power, that kept it pulled tight against her spine and away from the light, began to fray. For the first time in her life, she did not fight it as the darkness sprang forward, straining ice-cold fingers towards her father, searching—for what was already there, what she had been putting in his ale for weeks.
Viera allowed that emergent darkness, that essence within her, to stroke the poison, to ease it forward.
"Did he pay you?" Her father snarled.
The question made her pause, confused her just enough that the power withdrew.
It was a mistake.
His rough hand found the top of her throat, pressing her tighter against the wall. Pain swelled in her lungs. She sputtered and tried to fight back. Brilliant stars speckled her vision. Her lungs strained; her throat burned. Distantly, she could hear her mother screaming, screaming, screaming—
But he was there. Her father was there, towering over her. His hand tightening as if he would kill her—snuff her out like a candle. She turned inward. It was a natural thing to do, to reach back for the thing that was always reaching out for her.
The poison was always there, waiting.
His other hand found her wrist, pulled it away from where she'd been pushing and clawing at him. He held her hand up, letting the sleeve of her shirt—of Leighton's shirt—fall back to reveal the mark there. He dug his thumb into the mark, as if it were a button he could press to make her accept this and obey.
Instead, it only spurred on her power, made it lash out, attach itself to the poison in his veins. That darkness shoved forward, towards his heart. Years of disuse had forced Viera to forget what it was like to give in to it. Her blood warmed as her body physically responded to the power and the pleasure having this control gave her.
It warred with her fear, with her inability to breathe.
His grip on her throat tightened as he slid her body up the wall, until she almost hung there, the toes of her boots just barely scraping the floor. She sputtered, eyes watering and pulse racing, as the air disappeared and there was nothing—only him, eyes raging, and the sound of his heavy breathing. He watched, smiling, as her face flushed and began to turn a sickly shade of purple.
"You're nothing but a whore to him. He doesn't love you. You aren't lovable." His face was next to hers, the alcohol on his breath biting at her senses as he whispered, "Did he pay you to spread your legs, you filthy little whore—"
The world froze—her father froze.
His eyes found hers and his lips fell open in surprise, in terror. A little gasp came from him as something akin to shock flashed across his face. Then it was gone and replaced by stunned horror as the poison latched on to him and fed.
His grip on her throat fell away. His palms moved to press against the wallpaper on either side of her head, bracing himself as he fought against this—as he fought against her. Sweat coated his face, his neck.
Silence.
A cough rattled from his chest, a ragged dry sound. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead, and blood dribbled out. A second cough sent crimson splattering across Viera's neck and face—she did not recoil. She did not care.
Fury, unlike anything else she'd ever felt in her life, filled her. It turned her bones to steel. She ushered the power forward, more than willing to give it complete control.
Her mother was watching, eyes wide with awe or fear—it no longer mattered. The thing inside of her swirled and stretched, pulled back like a cobra, poised and ready to take the final strike.
It would end him.
She wanted it to.
"Viera!" His voice was a wet rasp. "Viera," he said again. As if her name were a prayer, as if she were the goddess herself.
Maybe she was.
That darkness, the poison that always sat heavy in the depths of her very soul, thrilled at the thought. She brought her fingers up to her throat, touched the places his hands had touched. Oh, she wanted him dead.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He said her name again, just once more. She could hear his heartbeat in her mind—knew those beats were numbered. She could do it. He deserved it.
"Viera." It was her mother who spoke. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes wide with fear. Lorna was reaching, not for her daughter, but for her husband. "Viera, don't." She shook her head, her mouth trembling as she whispered, "Don't." Lorna spoke again, tearing through the red-tinged haze of Viera's mind. "This you cannot come back from."
Fear, genuine fear, filled her mother's face. It woke something in Viera—a shred of humanity that the darkness had pushed down, had smothered and hidden, in its efforts to lash out and overtake. It would smother her, wear her skin as its own, if she let it.
The air left Viera in a shuttering sigh.
What was she doing?
Her father was wheezing, his body sliding lower down the wall with each shallow breath. Viera swallowed and tried to speak around the power still coursing through her veins. It filled her, leaving not room for doubt or thought.
She grabbed the frayed edges of that power, the tether that had bound it for so many years, and pulled it back. Shoved it down, down, down again. Until she could breathe.
Until she felt like herself again.
Her father fell to his knees in front of her, sputtering and gasping for air, one hand clutched to his chest. Viera shoved the power back, coiled it into herself. It fought her—tried to turn and keep her there, locked in that pit of darkness. She would not yield, would not give it power over her—over her choices.
She wasn't a killer.
Her mother was still watching her, her face pulled together with anxiety.
Slowly, Viera stooped and grabbed the knife from where it had fallen. She held it in her palm, letting the weight of it ground her. At eight-years-old, she had been handed this thing and told to use it in an emergency. Even then, she had known what the cost of doing so would be—she had thought she could do it, if it came to it. All that time, it had remained hidden in the dresser; neither of her sisters had ever touched it. They had not wanted to hold it or even acknowledge its presence.
But Viera had. She had held it in her hands hundreds of times. Held it as she listened to her mother scream and beg for her father to stop. Held it as her eldest sister had paced their bedroom. Looked at it as Colette had wept.
It was the constant when nothing else was. When her sisters had left, she had still had the knife. But she could not use it. Her mother knew it too, had perhaps always known. If used, that knife, her only protection, wouldn't ruin her father—it would ruin Viera.
Viera looked at the blade in her hand and then looked to her father's crumpled body at her feet.
Little mouse, her mother had said, do not get underfoot. Your father wants to break things, don't let him set his eyes on you.
For nearly ten years Viera had listened to that advice. She had understood that her father could break her in so many ways, but to kill him—to kill anyone—would be to unleash herself. To become the thing he wanted her to be.
What the goddess had chosen her to be.
And she would not.
So, she let the knife fall back to the floor.
Viera met her mother's eyes just once more. Let the love she found there wash over her, bolster the quivering shred of herself that still pushed and fought the poison—that tried to chain it once more. Then, when looking for one second longer would cause her to stay, Viera turned from her mother and ran.