Hello lovely readers! I'm so sorry updates are taking a little longer than usual. It's the end of the school year and I have a shit ton of projects which doesn't leave much room for me to write. Which sucks because I do really enjoy writing this story. Thanks for the reviews!
CHAPTER TEN
The fire began to cool down as Isabel settled in the chair with the new book. Still in her chemise, she began to grow a little chilly. She looked to the flames and tried encouraging them to grow, but they wouldn't listen to her. Pyrokinesis was something she never quite mastered. Well, she had all the time in the world to practice now.
Curling up, Isabel opened the book. She turned the pages very gently, feeling like they would disintegrate between her fingers if she just breathed wrong. Everything about the book was so delicate, from the pages that were worn away to no more than butterfly wings, to the faded ink creating looping handwritten words. This book was well loved.
Isabel frowned as she attempted to read the words. Whoever wrote this was an awful speller; she couldn't understand it at all. It wasn't until she reached the bottom of the first page that she realized it wasn't poor penmanship, but that the book was written in Latin and that was why she couldn't understand it.
Latin was very popular for spells. In fact, all of the spells Isabel had learned were in Latin. But it was a language she never quite picked up. She couldn't translate any of the words and had no idea what was written in this book. For all she knew, this could be a book of terrible puns and she would be none the wiser. When she turned the page though, she knew for sure that it wasn't a book of terrible puns.
On the next page, a sigil stared back at her. She didn't recognize that exact sigil, but she recognized some of the symbols used. It was witchcraft.
Isabel briefly thought back to her dream, the one where she had come upon a crying babe with the legs of a goat. She didn't know why the sigil reminded her of the dream. Perhaps because it gave her the same feeling: the vague sense of knowing without truly being aware of what was going on.
She closed the book, allowing herself a moment to collect herself. She opened the book again to make sure that she didn't just imagine it.
Nope, it was still there. She honestly didn't know whether she ought to be relieved to see something familiar, or horrified. She knew that Outpost 3 was weird, but what kind of fucking place was this where there were books with sigils? Her finger traced the design, wondering what it meant.
She turned the page, and didn't recognize anything. Just more senseless Latin; spells she couldn't cast because she didn't know what they did. Though she supposed she couldn't do anything worse than the apocalypse.
A few more page flips and still nothing she knew. Perhaps the sigil wasn't real. Perhaps none of this was magic, and she only thought the sigil was magical because it was such a stereotype. And then she came upon a familiar word: Descensum.
Isabel slammed the book shut. There was no doubt about it: this was a book about witchcraft.
Tucking the book under her arm, Isabel stood up and left the library as quickly as she could manage, careful to avoid any Grays roaming and carrying out tasks.
She made it back to her room without having to explain herself. Isabel practically threw herself on her bed and opened the book back up to the page that caused this little freak out.
Sure enough, it was the spell to perform Descensum. She knew it well; there was literally no way for her to deny it.
What was this book doing in the outpost? As far as Isabel had observed, no one here was like her; no one else was a witch.
But what about before the apocalypse? Before this place was converted to Outpost 3? Ms. Venable said this used to be a school. It seemed there was more to that story.
A knock at the door startled Isabel. "Fuck!" she exclaimed involuntarily, slamming the book shut and shoving it under her pillow. Not trusting her legs to be anything but wobbly, Isabel stayed on the bed and called out, "Come in!"
The door opened, and much to her relief it was Mallory, not Ms. Venable. "Dinner's finally ready," Mallory told Isabel, her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah fine," Isabel said quickly. "I was just… Yeah, I'm all good. Thanks."
Isabel stood from her bed with every intention to leave with Mallory, but Mallory didn't move from the threshold. "You should probably put on like, actual clothes," Mallory said, staring at the chemise that Isabel still wore. "Venable will kill you otherwise."
"Yeah, well, wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Isabel muttered, changing direction and heading to her closet to grab a more appropriate dinner dress. "I'll be down in a sec."
Mallory left her to get dressed.
In a hurry, Isabel threw on a dress, choosing a more intricate one than the tea dresses she normally grabbed before briskly walking towards the dining room so as not to be tardy.
"Wait, your laces!" Mallory hissed as Isabel was about to pass through the dining room threshold. Isabel halted, allowing Mallory to properly do up the laces in the back of the dress, making Isabel wish she had chosen a simpler dinner gown. "Alright, good to go." Mallory stepped away from Isabel once the laces were tight and there was no risk of them coming undone. Who could say what would happen if Ms. Venable caught someone's dress coming undone?
Everyone was already in their places by the time Isabel got to the table, Ms. Venable standing by her chair. "Sorry, sorry," Isabel muttered halfheartedly, sliding into her chair.
Mallory was right about how everyone was taking Stu's murder. André stared miserably at the table, but other than that it seemed as if no one had been killed. Did no one else realize that this was the same table Stu was dragged away from before he was shot? Just sitting at it made Isabel feel ill.
She tapped her foot nervously, daring to glance at Ms. Venable and catching a glimpse of an approving and intrigued smile. Isabel made a point to keep her eyes trained on the table.
"I know this is a difficult time for all of us," Ms. Venable said, peering down at the Purples. It was a lie. No one was facing any difficulty, not even the grieving boyfriend. These vultures were probably thankful to have one less mouth to feed, not that they even realized food supply was limited. The only "limited" they knew was "limited edition." "So to help ease the pain, a special treat has been prepared."
On cue, Ms. Meade came forth with a trolley. Aboard the trolley was a large pot with steam slithering out from the top. The smell of cooked meat made Isabel's mouth water. Before, she was able to push off her hunger and fed herself with survivor's guilt. It was easy when the only other option was a flavorless cube of boiled then solidified animal cartilage. Now presented with real food, it was much harder to deny herself.
Ms. Venable could feel the excitement radiating off of the group as real food was put before them. "Enjoy the bonne bouche," she said.
Everyone was eager to dig in when a bowl was placed in front of them. Isabel was too, but she stopped herself as an eerie feeling settled on the back of her neck. Spoons scraped against bowls, but Isabel didn't touch hers. The stew smelled delicious, and the meat looked tender. But that was the thing: the meat. Was no one going to question how the fuck there was suddenly meat?
Isabel allowed herself to look at Ms. Venable, who was now seated at the head of the table. Ms. Venable smiled, and it was almost sweet. This made Isabel even more wary.
Coco moaned in ecstasy, as if the food was better than sex. It probably was. After no real food for two weeks, anything edible that wasn't gelatin was better than sex.
Still, Isabel did not allow herself to feast. It was as if someone was whispering in her ear, warning her to keep her hands in her lap.
"You really ought to eat something," Ms. Venable remarked as she dipped her own spoon into the hearty stew. "Wasting away is a slow, uncomfortable process."
"I'm not hungry."
As soon as Isabel spoke, there was a crunch as André bit down on something unexpectedly hard. He eased it out of his mouth and held it up: something small and white. His eyes widened in horror. "Please tell me this isn't a finger bone." He looked down at his bowl, suddenly feeling incredibly sick to his stomach. Leaping up from his chair, he exclaimed, "Oh my god… oh my god, the stew is Stu!"
The reaction was immediate: everyone recoiled in disgust. Gallant spit out what was in his mouth, Coco ran away from the table, screaming, "Mallory, put your finger down my throat!" and Dinah shoved her bowl away from her so fast that it flipped over and spilled. Evie and Venable were the only two who were unfazed.
"Relax," Ms. Venable drawled in annoyance. "It's only chicken. Our job is to keep everyone alive. We'd hardly be doing that if we fed you all radiated meat."
"My thoughts exactly," Evie said as she took another greedy bite. "Calm down, André. It's just chicken."
André's lower lip quivered, not assured by this in the least bit. "You're all cannibals!" he screamed, disgusted and infuriated.
Evie rolled her eyes. "For goodness sake," she muttered, finishing the last bites of her meal.
"What the hell is wrong with you!"
"You heard her: it's just chicken! Feeding us Stu would be incredibly stupid."
"You're a monster!"
As the back and forth went on, Isabel and Ms. Venable held each other's gazes, Ms. Venable smirking in triumph as she saw Isabel receive the warning: behave or be eaten.
Isabel left the table without excusing herself, going back to her room.
She would probably throw up if it wasn't for the fact that there was nothing in her stomach to throw up. The sickest part of it all: she wished there was something in her stomach. She wished that she had taken at least a bite so she wouldn't be so empty.
Isabel flopped onto her bed, head hitting her pillow. She made a small noise of pain as her head hit something hard and for a horrifying second, she imagined bones hidden under her pillow. Then she remembered that she hid the book there, and pulled it out.
Her fingertip skated over the cover, her heart thudding. It was Stu in the stew. Punishment with a sick pun. A punishment. For an absurd moment, Isabel laughed and then she started crying.
How did she get into such a mess? She should have stayed home and died when the nukes went off. It was Armageddon; she shouldn't be alive. It wasn't fair. She was the only person in her family still breathing. What had she done to deserve that? Nothing that she could think of. She wasn't a good person. She killed, she practiced magic; she abandoned the Murder House.
She wiped at her eyes, only somewhat brushing away the tears. Isabel caught sight of her reflection in the full length mirror that rested in the corner of the room. A melancholy girl with a tear stained face and gorgeous purple gown; a princess needing to be rescued from a tower. It was more luxurious than she deserved. All of it was. Surviving was more luxurious than she deserved.
In a sudden fit of rage, Isabel began tearing her dress off of her. It proved to be difficult, which frustrated her even more. She couldn't even throw a fit properly! This was bullshit!
All of this was utter bullshit. She felt like she had stumbled through the looking glass and now existed in a topsy-turvy world that didn't make sense. Buy a ticket and survive the apocalypse. Survive the apocalypse and live under a dictatorship. Live under a dictatorship and get eaten when rules are broken. Literally eat the rich.
Tumblr would be proud.
Isabel knew how to save herself. She wish she didn't. She wish she could come up with another way. But at the moment, there was only one option. It became very apparent to her that no matter what magical abilities she mastered, Ms. Venable would always be more powerful.
She forced herself off of her bed, not bothering to straighten out her now askew dress. She needed to speak with Ms. Venable.