The Cost of Nine Stars

My entire life revolved around a sacred power that cost me a piece of my soul every time I used it.

Nine star-like birthmarks on my forearm, each fading after I resurrected Ethan, the adoptive brother I believed had saved me.

I had brought him back from the dead nine times, from drug overdoses to twisted car wrecks, each revival leaving me more hollowed out.

But today, standing in a reeking stable, the ultimate degradation struck as Ethan, now a desperate heir, demanded I perform my vanished miracle on a dead racehorse for his crooked deal.

My power was long gone, all nine stars extinguished, yet he sneered, refusing to believe me, calling me selfish and an "ungrateful bitch."

He had Tiff, his social-media-obsessed girlfriend, publicly "cleanse" me as a cruel mockery of my ancient ritual.

Then he tried to drag me towards the dead stallion, ready to force a miracle I couldn't perform, seeing me as nothing but a worthless tool.

The endless humiliation, the years of abuse, and the terrifying emptiness inside me became an unbearable weight.

How could he be so blind to the fact that I had absolutely nothing left to give?

I was a commodity, passed from one gilded cage to another, facing an eternity of exploitation.

In a final, desperate act of defiance, to reclaim myself even if it meant death, I bolted from the stable and sprinted headlong into the path of an oncoming car.

But instead of oblivion, strong hands pulled me back from the brink, and for the first time in forever, I saw the face that would rewrite my entire past: Julian Thorne.

The air in the filthy back room of the underground fight club was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and something metallic I knew was blood.

Ethan' s body lay sprawled on the cracked concrete floor, unnaturally still.

My own body trembled, a deep exhaustion settling into my bones, a cold that had nothing to do with the damp room.

I had just finished.

For the ninth time.

My gaze drifted to my left forearm.

Where the last tiny, star-like birthmark had shimmered faintly, there was now only smooth, pale skin.

Empty.

A shuddering gasp ripped from Ethan' s chest. His eyes flew open.

He sat up slowly, his hand going to his head, then he coughed, a raw, wet sound.

His eyes found me, huddled against the grimy wall.

A sneer twisted his lips, a familiar sight.

"God, Elara," he rasped, his voice already regaining its usual arrogance. "You look like death warmed over."

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Seriously, can't you at least try to, I don't know, not look like a damn corpse when you're doing your little magic trick? It's bad for my image."

My image.

That' s what he worried about, moments after cheating death again.

I had no words, no energy left to form them.

Each revival drained me, took a piece of my life force, extinguished one of the nine stars I was born with.

Now, all nine were gone.

My well was dry.

He always found new ways to test the limits, to dance with death knowing I was his safety net.

I remembered the first time, a blur of flashing lights at some wild music festival, his body limp from a drug overdose. He was barely out of his teens, and I, younger still, had been terrified.

But I did it.

Then there was the street race, his expensive car a twisted sculpture of metal against a highway barrier. I' d pulled him from the wreckage, the smell of gasoline and his blood sharp in my nostrils.

Another star faded.

An extreme sports stunt gone wrong, a fall from a jagged cliff face. Found him broken at the bottom.

Another piece of me vanished.

A violent argument during one of his many illicit affairs, ending with a glint of steel and a spreading crimson stain on his designer shirt.

Each time, I performed the ritual, the ancient words of my people, a legacy passed down through generations of women in my remote West Virginia mountain community.

Each time, the cost was mine to bear, a debilitating weakness that lingered longer with every resurrection.

He never asked how I felt. He never thanked me.

He just took.

And I, bound by a debt I believed I owed, just gave.

Until there was nothing left.

He brushed dust from his expensive, now torn, clothes.

"Well, come on," he snapped, impatient. "Don't just sit there. I need a drink. And a shower. This place stinks."

He strode towards the door, expecting me to follow, as I always had.

My people, the women of my hidden mountain hollow, carried this gift, or curse, of mending life.

It wasn' t a celebrated power, more a quiet burden, often leading to lives tinged with sorrow and exploitation.

My mother, she had a different gift, an intuition, a knowing. She could see the turn of a market, the success of a venture.

It drew him to her, my father.

He was a charmer, a grifter with big dreams. He used her gift, built his empire, then cast her and me aside like yesterday's news when we were no longer useful.

She died young, worn out and heartbroken.

After her death, I was alone, destitute.

The memory was a raw, gaping wound.

The attack. Brutal, senseless. Left for dead in a cold, dark alley, bleeding out.

Then, a face. Young, kind, desperate. Julian Thorne.

He' d found me, a boy himself, and with a frantic urgency, he' d pressed his own wrist to mine, a direct blood transfusion, a desperate act to keep life in me.

I remembered the warmth spreading, then darkness as he slumped beside me, weakened by his own sacrifice.

When I truly regained consciousness, Ethan was there.

He was leaning over me, concern etched on his face – a masterful performance.

"You're safe now," he'd said, his voice smooth. "I found you. I saved you."

I was young, traumatized, grateful. I believed him.

He let me believe it. That was the start of my debt.

A debt built on a lie.

A debt that had now cost me everything.

Ethan' s mansion was all gleaming surfaces and cold, modern art. It never felt like a home.

Now, it felt even less so.

Tiff Hayes, Ethan' s latest girlfriend, had moved in.

She was all blonde hair, fake tan, and a voice that could curdle milk. A social media influencer, always preening for an invisible audience, her phone an extension of her hand.

And she was pregnant. With Ethan' s children, she claimed, twins.

"Elara, darling," Tiff drawled, her eyes flicking over me with open disdain. "Be a dear and fetch me a green juice. And make sure it's organic. My babies need the best."

Ethan, lounging on a white leather sofa, smirked.

"Yeah, Elara. Hop to it. Tiff's eating for three now."

He' d told me I was to be Tiff' s personal servant. My place.

My people-pleasing habits, ingrained from years of trying to survive, made me nod, my voice a choked whisper. "Yes, Tiff."

The humiliation was a constant, bitter taste.

Then came the news about Ethan' s grandfather, the patriarch of the Caldwell oil empire.

He was dying.

The doctors gave him weeks, maybe days.

Ethan became a man possessed. His older, more cunning brother was circling, ready to snatch the lion's share of the inheritance.

Ethan cornered me in the kitchen, his eyes wild.

"You have to do it, Elara," he hissed, grabbing my arm. "You have to save him. My grandfather. It's my only chance."

I stared at him, my heart a cold stone in my chest. "Ethan, I... I can't. The power... it's gone."

All nine stars. Faded. Extinguished.

He didn't believe me. Or didn't want to.

"Don't lie to me!" he snarled. "You're just being selfish!"

Tiff sauntered in, a malicious glint in her eyes.

"Maybe she just needs a little... cleansing, Ethan, honey," Tiff suggested, her voice syrupy sweet. "To purify her gift. I saw it on a wellness blog. Blessed oil, some burning sage. It' ll make her all fresh and powerful again."

She held up a small, ornate bottle and a smudge stick, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

The "cleansing" was a mockery, a public degradation in front of the household staff Ethan had summoned.

Tiff anointed me with the sticky, cloying oil, chanting nonsensical words while wafting the acrid smoke around me.

Ethan watched, impatient, his focus solely on his dying grandfather and the fortune slipping through his fingers.

I stood there, stripped of dignity, an object for their amusement and desperate hope.

My insides felt hollowed out.