Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (9 page)

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replied. “I
understand.”

W
hen Jonathan finally returned to his room, he found Gracielle
fast asleep in the big green chair. She looked so peaceful and
beautiful lying there in her soft peach pajamas with her silky hair
sweeping over one of her cheeks. He watched her sleeping and
thought about the first time he saw her—
truly
saw her.

Actually, he had known
Gracielle most of his life. They had played together as children.
But it wasn't until two summers ago that he had
really
noticed her. At the time, she
was seventeen and he was nineteen—and it was the first year she was
old enough to attend the Celebration of Light. Gracielle was very
excited about being able to go. She and her girl friends talked of
nothing else when they were together. One time Jonathan happened to
overhear her going on and on about it, and seized the
opportunity—as he often did—to tease her.

“Oh yes,” he mocked in a high, squeaky
voice, “just look at me!” He thrust his hands onto his waist and
puffed out his chest. “I'm a wooooman now!”

Gracielle, of course, slugged him hard in
the arm and told him to go kiss a slarp.

But then, on the night of the Celebration,
his eyes were finally opened. Gracielle arrived alone, wearing a
flowing, pale blue gown that was the perfect shade to make her soft
green eyes sparkle. Her straight, strawberry blonde hair that was
normally pulled up in a messy, floppy ponytail was sleek, almost
down to her waist and dotted with tiny blue jewels. Jonathan
remembered how confident she looked, and how he was drawn to her
like a moth to a flame. It was that night that he couldn't keep his
eyes off of her. It was that night that he realized that he'd been
in love with her for longer than he could remember, and it was that
night—while they danced and laughed under the silvery summer
stars—that he knew he wanted to spend forever with her. Two months
later they were engaged. Six months after that, they became
entrusted to one another.

Throughout the engagement, Gracielle
worriedly anticipated the process referred to as The Exalting, when
Jonathan would pledge his devotion to her by repeating an ancient
vow. The vow—an ages-old spell—would change her, giving her the
characteristics that on Lor Mandela, only Borlocs possess.
Gracielle had never pictured herself with the Borloc features, but
within hours of the ceremony, her hair turned to a rich, raven
black and her eyes changed from green to bright cobalt—and although
she was beautiful before, the contrast of her fair, slightly
freckled complexion against these new, more dramatic attributes,
made her even more stunning.

Jonathan walked over to where she slept,
draped a lush white blanket over her, and whispered, “That did take
you a bit to get used to.” He kissed her on the cheek and then went
to bed himself.

The sun had barely risen when there was a
tapping at the door. Gracielle heard it first, and groggily
staggered across the room to answer it.

Ultara stood behind the door in the hall.
“Good Morning,” she whispered. “I thought I would check in and see
how you're doing today.”

Gracielle pulled the door open wide and
sleepily motioned for her to come in.

Ultara noticed Jonathan, who was staring at
her glassy-eyed from across the room. His hair was wild and matted
to his head on one side. “Oh, I'm sorry, Aton. Did I wake you?
Should I come back later?” she asked.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Uh hmm . . .
of course not, Ultara. How lovely to see you . . . this early.” He
shot her a grumpy glare as he walked toward the changing room at
the back of their chambers. “Excuse me . . . I'm gonna get
dressed,” he groaned.

“So,” Ultara began, “how are you
feeling?”

Gracielle, who was still trying to wake up,
stifled a yawn. “Oh, I . . . I'm okay.” She smoothed her pajamas
and asked, “How are you?”

Ultara shrugged. “As well as can be
expected.” She glanced toward the changing room, and then took
Gracielle by the arm and whispered anxiously, “I figured something
out . . . something from the Advantiere.”

Gracielle’s interest was piqued. “Really,
what?” she whispered in reply.

Just then, Jonathan came back into the
room—fully dressed and looking quite put together for the short
time he had been gone. “You two wanna go eat?” He was still a
little grouchy. “You have to have something, Graci. You didn't get
dinner last night.” He spoke to Gracielle, but kept his eyes locked
suspiciously on Ultara. Ultara and Gracielle both took notice.

“Um . . . actually dear, I think I'll just
have something sent up from the kitchens. I'm still a bit drained.”
Gracielle made faces at him in an attempt to get him to stop
glowering at Ultara, but he didn't blink.

The mood in the room was growing tenser by
the minute. Even Ultara—who was not easily intimidated—was feeling
uneasy about the mysterious stare-down. “Is there something wrong,
Aton?” she finally asked.

“No,” he snipped curtly.

“Um . . . all right then,”
she replied, “why don't
I
go to the kitchens and round something up for the
three of us?” She didn't wait for an answer from either of them.
She quickly backed out of the room, frowning at the aton as she
went.

“What was that all about?” Gracielle
demanded, as soon as Ultara was out of earshot.

“What?”

“What?
” she blurted. “You were eyeing her like she was some kind of
criminal, Jonathan!”

“No, I wasn't,” he insisted, “That’s
silly.”

Gracielle gaped at him in disbelief. “What
is wrong with you?” She threw her hands up in exasperation and
stomped to the other side of the room.

“Okay,” Jonathan sighed, “maybe I was giving
her a look; but you have to understand, Graci.”

“Understand what?” She turned to face him,
folded her arms, and tilted her head to one side.

He explained, “Last night, I was meeting
with father, when Darian . . . .”

“Darian?” Gracielle interrupted. She knew
that if this had to do with both Darian and Ultara, it could not be
good.

Jonathan continued, “Yes, Darian. He came to
see us.”

He told Gracielle all about Darian's visit,
and how he'd warned that Ultara was planning an attack.

“Impossible!” Gracielle retorted. “He's just
trying to stir things up! He can't stand the fact that she's more
powerful than him now!” She couldn't believe that her entrusted
would listen to a word Darian of Brashnell had to say.

Jonathan ran over to the door and peeked out
into the hall. Ultara was nowhere in sight. “Graci, after Darian
left Father confided that even your mother warned him about
Ultara—told him that she needed to be watched.”

“Oh, I see. So that's what you were doing,
huh? Watching her?” Gracielle glared at him angrily and shook her
head. “Honestly, Jonathan. You'd better check our food when she
brings it back . . . make sure it's not poisoned!”

“Gracielle!” Jonathan snapped. “I'm just
trying to protect you . . . and the baby!”

Gracielle, who was pacing irately, stopped
in her tracks. She realized that her emotions were being stirred by
events of which Jonathan wasn't even aware, and that he was only
acting out of concern for her and their unborn child.

“You're right. I’m sorry,” she sighed as she
walked over to hug him. “You know, I saw Ultara do some pretty
amazing things yesterday. She actually saved me and the baby from
Anika.” She embraced him tightly. “I don't think she would do
anything to harm us.”

“I know,” Jonathan resigned. “I don't really
think so either. It's just . . . I have to be careful.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek
as there was a faint rap on the door and it slowly creaked open.
Ultara strolled through the door pulling a cart full of food and
holding a folded piece of paper in her hand. She smiled slyly at
Jonathan. “I didn't know what you wanted, so I had them give me
three of everything.”

“Hey, Ultara, I'm sorry I was such a grump
before,” Jonathan apologized. “I guess I'm not very pleasant when I
first wake up.”

Ultara nodded as she unfolded the paper in
her hand and started reading it. “Don’t worry about it, Aton. We
all have our . . .” Suddenly, she became quite engrossed in the
letter. “Um . . . uh . . . forgive me,” she stammered. “I . . . I
have to . . . uh . . . I have to get back to the palace, this
instant!”

“Is everything all right?” Gracielle
asked.

Ultara shook her head and fumbled with the
handle on the door. “I can’t . . . I'll . . . I’ll talk to you
after the council meeting. I have to go!” She raced out of the
room, slamming the door behind her.

“That was strange,” Jonathan said.

“Yeah . . . I hope every thing's all right.
I’ve never seen Ultara get ruffled like that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jonathan assured.
“Whatever it is, she can handle it. I don’t think there's much she
can't.”

Jonathan pushed the cart over to a small
sitting area on one side of the room and patted the seat of the
chair next to him, indicating to Gracielle that she should come and
sit down. He lifted a silver dome from a tray full of fresh fruit
and waved his hand over it like he was presenting it to her.
“C’mon. Let's eat.”

Gracielle smiled and joined him. “Still . .
. I hope she’s okay,” she sighed, as they proceeded with
breakfast.

Meanwhile, in one of the dining halls,
Cristoph and Jocelynne were also sitting down to eat. The food had
just been brought in to them by two female servants, when the same
young man who had announced Darian's visit the night before,
entered the room.

Cristoph stood and walked over to him. “Good
morning, Phillip,” he greeted warmly. Phillip smiled and bowed,
then handed the Atoc a letter.

“Oh, thank you,” Cristoph said.

Phillip bowed again. “Enjoy your breakfast
Atoc . . . Ator.”

“What is it, dear?” Jocelynne asked.

Cristoph turned the letter over and noticed
a gold seal on the back. “Ah, it's a note from Ultara,” he replied,
as he strolled back toward the table to rejoin Jocelynne.

She smiled and began to eat.

Cristoph slid his finger beneath the seal.
“Let’s see what our new vritesse has to say.” Gently, he pried the
note open.

“I hope there's not a problem. You know,
with the meeting this after . . . .” Jocelynne stopped
abruptly.

As Cristoph unfolded the letter, a pair of
black, smoky hands oozed slowly from the paper. He watched in awe
for a moment, but then realized what was happening. “NO! JOCE! IT’S
A GRASPING CURSE!”

He immediately hurled the paper onto the
floor, grabbed a linen napkin from the table and threw it down on
the note. He fell to his knees and tried to spread the napkin over
the paper.

“What
?” Jocelynne exclaimed, seeing Cristoph's state of panic.
“Cristoph! What is it?” She pushed her chair out and moved to
stand.

“NO! Jocelynne! FREEZE!” Cristoph commanded,
frantically jumping onto, and then across the long banquet table.
He hurled himself through the air toward his entrusted.

“CRISTOPH! LOOK OUT!” she shrieked, as
several more pairs of dripping black hands found their way out from
underneath the napkin and sped toward Cristoph.

“NO! CRISTOPH!” Before she could say another
word, the hands had a grip on him. Again, she started from her
chair to try to help him.

“JOCELYNNE! DON’T MOVE!” He bellowed.

Slowly, she lowered back to sitting and held
completely still, watching in horror as gnarled black hands started
to rip and tear at him.

Two of them slid up and wrapped themselves
firmly around his neck.

He tried to pry them off, but had no sooner
reached up, when several heavy claws grabbed him around his hands
and arms. He kicked and wrestled ferociously but was defenseless. A
few seconds later, he let out a mournful moan, and then stopped
moving.

“Cristoph?” Jocelynne
sobbed. “
Please
.
. . no!”

Another pair of fatal hands was now
hypnotically weaving its way toward her. Still two more were
heading toward Phillip who had just come in with more food.

Upon seeing Cristoph—bloodied and presumably
dead on the floor—Phillip dropped his tray of food, and ran toward
Jocelynne in a valiant effort to save her.

The hands responded though, and within a
fraction of a second, he too was being ripped at and strangled by
the oozing black hands.

Jocelynne was terrified. The claws moving
toward her were now just inches away. She panted heavily, tears
streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t think. She knew that if she
moved she was dead, but she didn’t see how holding still would save
her either. In a desperate attempt to get help, she sat perfectly
still and began to scream.

The hands that had mutilated Cristoph and
Phillip now were twisting toward her slowly and ominously.

She screamed even louder, but didn’t move
anything but her mouth.

Two female servants burst into the room in
reaction to the ator’s screams.

“GET OUT! GET HELP!” she shrieked.

The servant closest to the door barely
escaped back through it as two of the inky claws slammed against
it, scratching wildly at the wooden surface in an effort to get her
back.

The other girl panicked and tried to lunge
out of the way as a set of hands viciously grabbed at her. Her
death came quickly. The force of the hands hitting her as she dove,
jerked her so violently that her neck snapped instantly.