CHAPTER 44: CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

"Last... last lives?" Lorena whispered, her voice a dry, cracked rasp. She stared at the cloaked, shadowed figure of Ashlyn. "What are you talking about? You’re... you’re insane."

Ashlyn let out a low, soft laugh. It was a sound of private amusement, a sound that made the hairs on Lorena’s arms stand on end. Still crouched down, bringing her face level with Lorena’s. In the dim, pale moonlight, her eyes seemed to glitter with a cold, unfeeling light.

"Am I?" she whispered, her voice a sweet, poisonous secret. "In my last life, Lorena, I was the one who married the Grand Duke. A life you have no memory of." Her smile widened, but it held no warmth, only a terrifying, alien joy. "And in that life, you were the Dowager’s favorite pet. You made my life a living hell. You bullied me, you set the servants against me, you humiliated me every single day, with a smile on your face, until I was thrown out like trash. Now, in this new life, it’s my turn. I’m just repaying the favor."

The words were madness. They were the ramblings of a lunatic. But as Lorena stared into those cold, joyful eyes, a different, more terrible feeling slammed into her.

A final, desperate surge of energy, fueled by the last remains of her will to live, flooded her body. She had to get out. She had to tell the Dowager. She had to expose the real murderer.

Ignoring the explosion of agony in her back, Lorena pushed herself up the rough stone wall, her feet scrambling for purchase. "I... I will find the Dowager," she gasped, her voice hoarse and weak. "I will tell her it was you..."

She stumbled, half-running, half-crawling, in a desperate, lurching bid for the door, for the chance to scream, to be heard.

She never made it.

Ashlyn moved with a speed that was sleek, silent, and predatory. She had expected this. She had been waiting for it. She grabbed Lorena by her matted, filthy hair, yanking her head back with a force that sent a fresh wave of agony through her body, and a choked cry from her lips.

Lorena, weak and off-balance, was helpless. Ashlyn held her up by the hair with one hand. With her other hand, she reached into the folds of her dark cloak and pulled out a long, thin, wickedly sharp knife coated in poison.

With a grunt of effort, she plunged the poisonous knife deep into Lorena’s back, just below the ribs, driving it upwards with a terrible, focused strength.

The sound was a thick, wet, thud, a sound of tearing fabric, of skin parting, of muscle and organs being pierced.

Lorena’s body went completely, instantly rigid. A choked, gurgling sound rattled in her throat as her lungs seized. Her eyes, which had been wide with desperation, now bulged with a final shock. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t scream. There was only a sudden, wet, all-encompassing pressure.

She slowly as if her body were no longer her own, tried to turn her head, to look back at the woman who was holding her. She saw Ashlyn’s face, inches from her own. And Ashlyn was smiling. A calm, serene, almost loving smile.

Ashlyn kept her smile in place, her eyes locked on Lorena’s, and she pulled the knife out.

The sound was a sickening, wet sound, a sound of release that made Lorena’s stomach clench. The moment the blade was free, the wound, which had been plugged by the steel, erupted. A hot, dark, gushing flood of blood poured from her back, soaking her clothes, her skin.

Her body, which had been held up by Ashlyn’s grip and the blade itself, collapsed. She fell forward, landing hard on the cold, unforgiving stone floor, her body folding in on itself.

Ashlyn let out a small, satisfied sigh. The game was over. She calmly reached into her pocket and produced a fine, linen handkerchief. She began to meticulously, almost lovingly, wipe the thick, dark blood from the blade.

Lorena was on the floor, on her side, the life draining out of her in hot, rhythmic pulses. She was trying to breathe, but her lungs were filling with her own blood. A thick, dark stream of it began to bubble from the corner of her mouth, mixing with the dust and grime on the floor. Her eyes, still open, were fixed on Ashlyn, on the calm, terrible sight of the woman polishing the knife. She tried to say something, to ask "Why?", but only a bloody gurgle escaped her lips.

Ashlyn finished her task. The blade was clean. "Now we’re even," she said, her voice a pleasant whisper. "I told you, in my own way. Those who cross me always meet a bad end. You should have been nicer, Lorena."

Lorena’s body gave a final, shuddering spasm. A last, rattling breath escaped her. Her eyes, still fixed on Ashlyn, went dull, glassy, and unseeing. The life was extinguished.

She was still.

Outside the cell, in the dark, cold corridor, a young maid named Nora had just arrived. She had approached the dark room, her heart pounding. The guard was gone. She heard voices inside. A low, pained sobbing. And then, a clear, familiar voice. Lady Ashlyn’s.

She had crept closer, her curiosity warring with her terror. She peeked through the small, iron-barred slit in the door, a peephole for the guards.

She had seen it. She had seen it all.

She had seen Lady Ashlyn, the "kind" sister, her face twisted into a mask of cold hatred. She had seen the glint of the knife. She had seen the stab, the blood. She had seen Lorena fall. And she had watched, her entire body shaking, as Lady Ashlyn calmly cleaned the murder weapon, her expression one of perfect, serene satisfaction.

Nora ’s hand, holding the basket, trembled so violently that the small jar of water slipped, landing on the stone floor with a soft, muffled thud.

Inside the cell, Ashlyn’s head snapped up.

Nora stifled a scream with her other hand, pressing it so hard against her mouth she bit her own fingers. Her blood ran cold. She heard me. She heard me.

Ashlyn slipped the clean knife back into its hidden sheath inside her cloak. She took one last, satisfied look at Lorena’s body. Then she picked up her lantern, walked to the door, and unlatched the heavy iron bar.