“You’re asking me to kill her.” My voice is hollow.
He doesn’t answer, simply squeezes my shoulder.
I’ve made lots of things disappear over the years. I’m a Destroyer, after all. But in all this time, it’s never occurred to me to erase a living being. I don’t know if I can, let alone want to.
And then I remember Oliver Crocus, an Elvin Storyteller on the Council, telling me a couple years back that, once upon a time, an Elder who was a Creator asked another Creator, one of his own making, to will him out of existence. What was his name? Oh. Rudshivar—the son of the same being now bleeding out in a box in front of me, the Creator who stood up to the rest of the Elders. The one who created all of the races that exist today. The one who made Magicals who they are. He was an Elder, and he no longer exists.
He had another Creator will him out of existence.
“If you do this,” she spats, like she can read my mind, “the others will never stop hunting you. They will destroy everyone you value.”
So, she knows. She knows what I’m capable of.
“How many of my kind have you killed?” I squat down next to the box. I’m impossibly sad all of a sudden. This creature, this thing—this woman, the first woman of our kind—she a killer. She’s hunted Magicals and sucked their lives right out of them. Nons as collateral damage have been killed, too.
She’s nothing more than a monster. No reason she can give, no excuse, can ever explain why she’s been privy to the serial killings going on.
Instead of answering me, she smiles that terrifying sneer instead.
I really have no right to serve as judge and jury, let alone executioner, but Will is right. Nobody else is going to come in and clean up this mess. It’s just me. I count to ten, just like Caleb taught me. And then I say in clear, crisp words, “I can’t let you hurt anybody else. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Cailleache stops moving. “If you think this is the end, think again, little Creator. This is only the beginning.”
Images flash through my mind, reminding me of the damage the Elders have done to those I love. Even if it takes my dying breath, I refuse to let that happen again. You’ve caused too much pain over the years, I think in my mind. It’s time to rest. You are no more.
And yet, here she still is. I lean back on my heels, stunned. Maybe I can’t do this after all.
As if she knows I’ve failed, Cailleache laughs. Billows of twisting smoke pour from her mouth as she cackles at my incompetence.
Why didn’t it work? If another Creator could do this to Rudshivar, why can’t I?
I lean forward against the box; the moment my palms flatten against the plastic, Cailleache’s laughter ceases. Thrashing replaces it, alongside threats even more frenzied than before.
I slowly rock back on my heels, my palms dropping to my lap. The thrashing slows considerably.
Could she . . . is she scared of my hands?
I stare down at my bloody mittens. Prior to today, I’ve only ever had to think about destroying something for it to happen. But then, I’ve never stolen life from a sentient being before. Maybe . . . maybe Fate wants something more than my thoughts when it comes to physical life. Maybe Fate requires a risk from me.
I strip off a tattered glove and make a small hole in the box, just large enough for my hand to reach in and press against her shifting shape. She flinches sharply when my skin touches whatever it is that makes her her, but then she calms once more, like she knows what’s coming.
I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and then I do the unthinkable.
I will her out of existence.
And I’m left leaning against an empty box surrounding a sword.
“You’re shaking,” the master of the obvious says to me as we limp back to the truck.
I erased both boxes, the sword (much to Will’s displeasure), and my bow and arrows just as easily as I erased an Elder before we left the clearing. Truth is, I feel a bit numb. “Just cold.”
“Liar.” He peers up into the sky. It’s no longer snowing now that the first Elemental is dead. “We need to get going. The temperature is dropping.”
I simply make us warmer clothes.
When we get to the truck, Will digs out his cell phone and calls Cameron. He tells his father we’ve been in a car accident and that we need to go to the hospital because we’ve both lost a fair amount of blood. While I’m rearranging the car’s appearance to match Will’s claims, I hear him say, “What? Dad—we both need stitches. I need to get Chloe—”
I switch his phone to speaker function without even touching it. “Son, trust me,” Cameron’s saying. “Just come to my work and I’ll make sure the two of you are taken care of. Hurry. I’m worried about you both losing more blood than you already have.”
Will and I exchange uneasy glances after his father hangs up.“D’ya think Dad has lost his mind?”