The Last Certainty

Everything she knew about herself—her willpower—was strewn all over her feet like broken glass, and she felt shattered. In a sense that had nothing to do with heaven or forgiveness, she was cold, lonely, and alone. She didn't remember much of the night, and when dawn came, the next thing she really noticed was standing on the outside of town.

The lingering, reassuring shroud of darkness protected her from prying eyes as she made her way through the streets she had long since learned by heart, arriving at her grandmother's Ravenwood Manor at the end of her trek. She longed to cry and to be comforted by someone's hug, but she resisted giving in to such weakness. Furthermore, to whom could she turn? The elderly lady? The witch-girl? That creature, half-dead?

She secretly prayed that the hefty door wasn't bolted as her fingers fumbled with the latch. Her key was in the partially completed fox's den, where she had left it. Surprisingly, her luck held, and she entered without anybody noticing—not even her grandma, apparently, since the door thudded shut behind her, leaving no sound in the darkness.

She groped for the small oil lamp in the hall, her hands shaking, and she felt a glimmer of relief only when its flames projected their warm, comforting glow. Her eyes ached and her stomach roiled at the unexpected light, yet it was a comforting familiarity—something positive in the midst of so little.

The logical course of action would be to withdraw to her room, act as though she had spent the entire night there, locate clean clothes, and erase the memory of the night, as she had done numerous times in the past. Rather, she hovered around the bulb, reluctant to go.

It felt like a deception now, this human life she had always reverted to so easily. After seeing so much of her real self—and how long everybody around her had been lying to her—it felt disgusting to go back to that fictional life.

As she left the fleeting appearance of normalcy and entered the sitting area, her movements slowed. She was detached, and it wasn't until she was halfway to her room that she realized how odd the dark shape hanging over a rarely used chair was.

She moved cautiously and unsurely closer till she recognized the elderly woman. Her grandmother's presence was strange because she seldom ever left her study these days, but it was clear from the wine-reeking cup she was holding why she had fallen asleep. A little boon, Elyra assumed. But the old woman's drinking had left her smelling bad.

The imp shade was probably still hiding in the corner, out of sight, but her chamber was exactly as she had left it. With a wince, she shed her modesty and changed out of her blood-stained rags for something drier and cleaner. Allow him to gaze. She was no longer the property of shame.

She started to feel as if the night before had been a horrible dream once the blood was cleaned off her hands and clothing. Maybe it had all been. She wished she could believe it, and for a second she did. The night appeared safely shut behind the big wooden doors, and the cold seemed to vanish inside the thick woolen nightclothes. It seemed like a new beginning. She deserved that, didn't she?

Elyra thought about sleeping for a time, but her mind was racing too much. More nightmares were a real possibility. No, it was preferable to be awake, here, where she knew how the world operated, where she may get a little break from existence.

She tried not to think about Dorian, the angel, or the almost vampire. She was unable to avoid Amara's revelations, though, as they concerned her mother more than Gramor. Her mother had voluntarily gone to Elyra's father because she genuinely loved him. Her parents had loved one another, even if she had left their daughter behind. That love gave birth to Elyra. That must have meant something, even with a demon for a father. She wasn't completely doomed.

Her parents were still together, somehow. Perhaps she ought to look for them. In this universe, how difficult might it be to discover a demon? They would greet her and respond to all of the inquiries that had been bothering her for as long as she could remember.

But no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to maintain the delusion. She sighed deeply and shrugged, thinking that a drink, a real drink, like the ones her grandmother kept hidden in the cellar, may help her think clearly. Her lips curled into a twisted smile as she thought that it wouldn't hurt and that the elderly woman would probably think she had consumed it herself. She would never need to come clean.

She glanced at her door to see if her grandmother was still sagging in the chair. Since she did, Elyra slipped by as stealthily as she could, though it was unlikely that anything would wake the elderly woman at this point. Just past the shattered clock was the cellar. She winced and froze when the doors moaned loudly as they opened, but no sound betrayed her.

She took a slow, deep breath. Bottles glinted down, deep reds and faint ambers. Despite their diminutive size, she selected the strongest of the latter.

She stopped right in front of her door, opened the bottle, and raised it in a toast to the elderly woman who had been silent, feeling emboldened by her little victory. With gleeful irony, she thought, "This is probably the only drink we share." I salute you, old bat.

She choked on the first gulp since the liquid burned in a way she hadn't expected. The third nearly went smoothly, and the second went down more easily. As a half-demon, she could probably withstand a small amount, but she wasn't sure how much.

She turned and screwed the top back on, intending to finish it in her room, but then she smelled something foul. She waved it away with a grimace, almost ignoring it—until she was able to identify it a moment later. It wasn't alcohol or illness. Death was the cause.

She was the only object that could move, yet she was unable to do so as the world appeared to stop. The bottle broke on the wooden floor after slipping out of her slack fingers. Her grandma should have been awakened by the noise, yet there was no sound behind them.

Elyra turned slowly, pausing just long enough to make sure what her mind was screaming was real. Her grandma was too obstinate to pass away, especially in such a calm manner, so it couldn't be. "Grandmother?" She was disturbed by her shaky, foreign voice. She moved to the chair and paused just short of touching her, unwilling to speak again.

"Grandmother?" Her voice was raspy this time, no more than a whisper, too quiet to wake anyone who was just asleep. She reached out and softly pushed her fingers to the arm of the last surviving family member, her hand shaking as she did so.

She would always remember how cold its flesh felt on her own. In that moment, it seemed as though her grandmother had never existed at all—not human, but a lifeless, hollow doll devoid of the strength she had previously possessed. It wasn't just that life had departed. Elyra could see the blackened tips of her fingers, blood accumulating in dead limbs even in the darkness.

And with that, the final certainty in her life was gone. It didn't matter that she didn't like her or feel wanted. For as long as she could remember, Annelore had been her grandmother, raising her and constantly taking on her granddaughter's responsibilities as if they were her own. And Elyra hadn't even been here when she'd sat here, dying, knowing it.

Before Elyra could realize the truth, the glass in her grandmother's fingers spilled on her expensive clothing as her gentle touch caused her hand to slowly collapse. The half-demon gazed in disbelief at the encroaching stain. Her favorite dress was that one. What should she—should she?

What ought she to do?