It had been a very long time since Julien had angered Antha quite this much. It had been years, as a matter of fact, since she had been so angry that the chairs, the tables, the books, the panes of glass in the windows of the library and even the hallway trembled and shook with the fine rage that ran through her, spreading to the umbra around her. Even the umbra who gave their loyalty to her cousins first and foremost flocked to her, connecting to her, making a shell around her and lashing out with that rage to make the very boards of the house groan under the pressure.
Finally, after it had built inside her mind, Antha screamed with that rage, lashing out at the bookshelves so that the hundreds and hundreds of books lining the walls were flung down to the floors in a nearly deafening wave that masked the screams the girl gave as she slid to the floor, thrashing around and striking everything she could get her hands on. There was a small part of her---only a wisp in the back of her mind---that remembered who she was and what she was capable of. That small piece of sanity controlled what she did, curving the books and shattering light fixtures around her cousins and Kain, protecting them from herself, and containing the damage in the single room. She even thought to put some of the pressure against the door, keeping anyone else she might harm outside.
It was herself she didn't protect, that she let the glass cut and scrape until fine little lines of trembling blood painted her skin when the room went still and quiet, the door creaking open to let the draft running through the house inside as if it would calm her when she finally sat still, still shaking with the pent up rage that she hadn't been able to contain.
And she knew, in those moments of calm after the storm, where it had all come from. It was because no matter how much she tried to convince herself or anyone else around her that it wasn't true, Julien had power over her. The family as a whole had power over her. It was because Sleet had power over her, and no matter how the depth of her hatred for him grew, she could never kill him, never truly hurt him. It was because those near her were always at risk, whether it be from Sleet's attacks or the rage that consumed her. It was even because she had known her fate since she had been but a small child, and now that the day was almost upon her, she wanted nothing more than to change it but didn't have the power to. That fate would consume her and every Mayfair that still breathed and she couldn't stand it.
Her eyes turned slowly, letting her gaze fall upon Vittorio, who was braced between the bookshelves not a foot from her, and her eyes were wide, blank, as if she were in shock, still trying to figure out what had just taken place. That gaze met his own and he knew in that split second that it was safe again. It sent him to her, scooping her delicately up in his arms and letting her rest against his chest like a child that had thoroughly exhausted herself and couldn't find the strength to move.
Eleanor had curled up in her chair, her arms over her head, but now she dared to peak out from the curtain of her hair and watch Antha with a strange relief. Dolly Jean had darted under a table nearby, holding tightly to it so that it wouldn't fall over and leave her unprotected, but she eased out again now, looking at the library door cautiously. When she was certain it was over, she merely sighed, leaning against the wall, and closed her eyes. "I've been dreading this for months," she said softly, "It was not as bad as I expected."
Finally, after it had built inside her mind, Antha screamed with that rage, lashing out at the bookshelves so that the hundreds and hundreds of books lining the walls were flung down to the floors in a nearly deafening wave that masked the screams the girl gave as she slid to the floor, thrashing around and striking everything she could get her hands on. There was a small part of her---only a wisp in the back of her mind---that remembered who she was and what she was capable of. That small piece of sanity controlled what she did, curving the books and shattering light fixtures around her cousins and Kain, protecting them from herself, and containing the damage in the single room. She even thought to put some of the pressure against the door, keeping anyone else she might harm outside.
It was herself she didn't protect, that she let the glass cut and scrape until fine little lines of trembling blood painted her skin when the room went still and quiet, the door creaking open to let the draft running through the house inside as if it would calm her when she finally sat still, still shaking with the pent up rage that she hadn't been able to contain.
And she knew, in those moments of calm after the storm, where it had all come from. It was because no matter how much she tried to convince herself or anyone else around her that it wasn't true, Julien had power over her. The family as a whole had power over her. It was because Sleet had power over her, and no matter how the depth of her hatred for him grew, she could never kill him, never truly hurt him. It was because those near her were always at risk, whether it be from Sleet's attacks or the rage that consumed her. It was even because she had known her fate since she had been but a small child, and now that the day was almost upon her, she wanted nothing more than to change it but didn't have the power to. That fate would consume her and every Mayfair that still breathed and she couldn't stand it.
Her eyes turned slowly, letting her gaze fall upon Vittorio, who was braced between the bookshelves not a foot from her, and her eyes were wide, blank, as if she were in shock, still trying to figure out what had just taken place. That gaze met his own and he knew in that split second that it was safe again. It sent him to her, scooping her delicately up in his arms and letting her rest against his chest like a child that had thoroughly exhausted herself and couldn't find the strength to move.
Eleanor had curled up in her chair, her arms over her head, but now she dared to peak out from the curtain of her hair and watch Antha with a strange relief. Dolly Jean had darted under a table nearby, holding tightly to it so that it wouldn't fall over and leave her unprotected, but she eased out again now, looking at the library door cautiously. When she was certain it was over, she merely sighed, leaning against the wall, and closed her eyes. "I've been dreading this for months," she said softly, "It was not as bad as I expected."