Page 1 of Realm of the Wicked

1

STELLA

I’d always wondered how the universe decided our fates. Did it flip a coin? Draw straws?

One thing was for certain: my younger sister definitely won the losing prize.

Grace clutched at my hands, her pulse jackhammering into my cool palm. The doctor was speaking to us, but static filled my ears, drowning out any sounds she was making. I could make out the shape of the words, but even then, I didn’t need to.

I knew what she was saying. It’s what we’d been dancing around for the last eighteen months, not letting our brains focus on it for fear it would stain.

Progressive.

Advanced.

No cure.

Terminal.

Grace squeezed my hand, hard enough I was certain my bones cracked under her grip. The temptation to drift away at this moment was intoxicating. How easy it would be to fade away until nothing remained in this uncomfortable chair except the outline of my soul. The static grew louder, but somewhere beneath the fuzz, I could just about make out the edges of my name.

Stella…

Stella…

‘Stella.’

Thundering back into my body, I found the doctor and Grace staring at me expectantly. Just because something was intoxicating didn’t mean I could give in. I had too many responsibilities.

I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sorry. I missed that.’

Meeting my sister’s eyes would’ve broken my heart if I hadn’t so carefully surrounded it with armor. Grace looked up to me for everything. I couldn’t abandon her now. She was perfect, her hair pulled up into a messy bun on her head, the make-up she shouldn’t have had the energy for, but still somehow made time for, carefully masking a too-pale face. She should be at college, meeting friends, laughing with boys. Not at a hospital, the spark slowly draining from her soul.

It was the doctor’s turn to clear her throat, and I tore my gaze away from Grace. Dr Murphy was one of the newer ones we had been referred to, hoping they’d be able to tell us something. I’d scraped the last of the money from the insurance payout to afford it, hoping it would be worthwhile.

Apparently not.

She offered me a sad smile, one I wanted her to take back. I didn’t want her sadness, or her sympathy, or her pity. I wanted her to fix Grace.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Whittier. I wish I had better news. The disease is quite progressive, and there’s nothing more we can do. We’ve tried every treatment we could think of.’

I didn’t like that word. Nothing. It felt hollow on my tongue, a useless combination of letters. There was always something. There had to be.

I shook my head, refusing to look in Grace’s direction until we had a definite answer. ‘There has to be something we’ve missed. Some combination of radiation we haven’t tried before. A new drug. Something still in testing, even.’

‘Miss Whittier… Stella.’ Dr Murphy’s eyes were distant, already pulling away from me. I knew what that meant. She was already looking to the future, toward the patients she had a better chance of saving. But if they’d give Grace five more minutes, I knew there was something we could do to fix it. She turned in her stool, rummaging around on the sickly green countertop behind her.

Every exam room looked the same, no matter which hospital we were in. Same green counters. Same faded brown exam tables, the cushioning long gone. Same doctor, giving us the same useless answers. Eighteen months of this. Eighteen months since Grace had fainted at her waitressing job, and I’d rushed her to the emergency room, only to hear the words everyone dreads.

Cancer.

Of course, since then, it had been one useless doctor after the next. No one could agree on what kind of cancer Grace had, which made treating it difficult. One said it began in her blood. Another, in her bones. The contradictory test results left doctors flustered, and us, frustrated. I hadn’t always been this jaded. I didn’t remember when I had changed, either. I tried to hide it the best I could, for Grace’s sake. I stuffed down the dark thoughts, the rapidly dissolving hope, and hid them behind a semi-believable smile. My strength remained for her, no matter how false it felt on my tongue.

Dr Murphy turned back toward us, a thin brochure in her hand. ‘Here,’ she offered. ‘This might be of some help to you.’

Dropping Grace’s hand, I grabbed the brochure, hopeful to see an experimental study laid out in front of me. Instead, a nurse’s smiling face stared back at me.

‘What is this?’ I asked, flipping open the flimsy brochure to a page of what looked to be fancy hotel rooms.