Destruction’s Desire (Broken Souls Trilogy #2)

Chapter 8

Rule eight: Hit the books. Don’t throw them.

I sleep in the following day, only feeling a little guilty for not going running. Still, Damien never showed up at my door, so I assume he knows his comment broke our rule.

By the time I make my way down to the dining room, it’s vacant. The others are already off doing whatever tasks they’ve set aside for today. But rather than immediately going to find them, I pour myself a cup of coffee and decide it’s time to do more exploring. I haven’t seen much of the castle since I arrived.

Now that Sin is back, I’ve lost hope that he’d stay away for at least a few months. I can’t afford to bury my head in the sand longer than I already have.

It’s eerily quiet again as I turn down a new hallway. Floating lights like the ones in my bathroom float above ornate sconces, and their golden hues only illuminate when I approach. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but if Morgana’s castle is so well-guarded that only her most trusted friends are allowed in, then maybe she has information stashed away.

Information I am desperate for.

My thoughts immediately flash to a silly cartoon where the evil villain has schematics drawn out of their plans to take over the world. While I don’t think it will be quite that easy, maybe Morgana will have an office. Offices can have important documents.

I pause to open every door, keeping my steps casual, even as my heart races. My rule-breaking anxiety makes me want to weep at my new, reckless lifestyle. But if I want answers, then I need to get clever.

I come across another storeroom, a kitchen that looks completely unused, and a large hall that may be a ballroom. I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll have better luck on the second floor when I open another door and find a large sitting room. It looks a bit like the one next to the dining room, only instead of plush chairs in varying shades of gray, these couches are all a worn, tan leather. There are also two walls covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves that are bursting with books. While my heart jumps at the sight, my attention is drawn to the old wooden desk in front of the far wall to my right.

Bingo.

Closing the door as quietly as possible, I pad over to the desk, scanning everything on the surface. Everything looks neat, and I’m guessing whoever sits here is meticulous in keeping organized. While that description sounds like something that might fit Sin, the desk chair definitely would not. This must be Morgana’s. There are a few folded pieces of paper, a quill, some ink, and an orb that has a black swirling smoke dancing within it.

I don’t hesitate to open the first document. The paper is heavy, like thick cardstock, and the writing inside is in a neat script. Still, I’m disappointed to find it’s some kind of ledger with numbers and locations that are utterly meaningless to me.

The second document is more promising. It’s a letter, and it hasn’t been opened from the undisturbed wax seal. I swallow, steeling myself since I know what I’m about to do will cross a line.

I open it.

It’s dated the day I woke up here.

To Nightingale,

The Otherworld felt as though it shuddered today. While I cannot account for events that transpired outside of my immediate posting, I can attest that the Destroyer’s glow was bright enough to be seen even from my position across the city.

The Council doors have closed, and the courtiers dismissed. Even some Council members have taken to their home realms. No one knows what is happening.

Jester

I read the letter twice before carefully folding it and placing it back on the desk. While the writer used code names, it’s easy enough to figure out who they are. Morgana must be Nightingale, and if I had to guess, Damien is the Jester. He was still on rotation as a guard the day I was kidnapped, so he would have seen Leon’s reaction.

If Morgana didn’t open the letter, does she even know I’m here?

Shaking my head at how ludicrous this entire situation is, I move to the other side of the desk and try to pull open the drawers. They won’t budge, even though I can’t see any sign of a keyhole. I chew on my inner cheek, wondering if I should try and pry one open when the air behind me moves.

I spin, finding Sin leaning against the wall behind me, arms crossed and staring at me disapprovingly.

“I see you haven’t given up on finding creative ways to get yourself killed,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

My spine stiffens. “Why? Are you having another mood swing? Have you decided to kill me after all?”

The memory of him manhandling me yesterday is all too close to the surface. There will be no making peace with Sin.

He rolls his eyes before stepping closer to me and picking up the shadowy orb from the desk. “The desk is protected. The orb will shatter if anyone unauthorized tries to open one of the drawers. The darkness will be unleashed and will fill their lungs, suffocating them.”

The small shadows in the orb dance as if they’re sentient, and I swallow. “Something you devised, I’m sure?”

Death traps sound like something a Destroyer would be proficient in.

Sin bares his teeth at me before answering, “I don’t have the pleasure of taking credit for this. It came from a friend. ”

I scoff at his mention that he has friends. From what I’ve seen, while the others seem to respect Sin, they aren’t close. I suppose having the sense of humor of an asp will do that for you.

Sin replaces the orb before taking a seat on one of the leather chairs.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I consider whether I should leave the room. Sin has no proof that I was going to go through Morgana’s desk, and if I leave now, that might only make him more suspicious.

Instead, I pace to one of the bookshelves and scan the titles. Most appear to be old historical accounts, and I pull one off the shelf, thoroughly intrigued.

“You make a terrible spy,” Sin drawls, sounding bored. He’s spinning a dagger between his fingers, and I immediately look away, reminding myself he isn’t going to kill me.

“I’m not a spy,” I answer, not bothering to add any venom to the statement, as I take my book to the couch the furthest away from Sin.

He’s welcome to think I’m a whore, but a spy is just ludicrous.

Sin tsks. “Spoken like a truly terrible spy. Of course, that’s exactly what they want. They want you desperate, meek.”

I grit my teeth, staring at the book but not seeing the words. I contemplate throwing it at his head instead.

As if sensing he’s struck a nerve, Sin continues, “It’s so easy to spot a Council whore. It’s always the pretty ones. The ones who are utterly useless, except for what you can offer between your legs. And offer it you do, for any scrap of power or information. ”

Sin lounges in the chair, his posture completely at odds with the abhorrence in his words.

I have spent my life swallowing my anger and avoiding conflict. But I’m already neck-deep in conflict, and it’s not even from my own realm. I don’t bother biting my tongue.

“Are you for real with all of this?” I ask, incredulous. “You. Kidnapped. Me. I am not a spy. I’m trying to figure out why the hell I’ve been indeterminately detained by a glowstick with anger issues. So, unless you’re ready to use your big boy words and tell me why I’m here, go fuck yourself.”

Sin crosses his arms and eyes me up and down before answering, “Why would I bother fucking myself when I’m staring at an eager little whore?”

I throw the book at him.

Hitting him would have been all too satisfying, but of course, Sin catches it easily, grinning maliciously. “You’re playing a dangerous game, mortal.”

I give him the finger. I already knew there would be no reasoning with this man, and now I’m annoyed with myself for even trying.

Sin stands, dropping the book on my lap.

“Bat those eyelashes at the others all you want, but no one is going to share classified information with you,” he says before apparating out of the room.

I sit there, fuming for longer than I’d like.

Sin is an asshole and a bully. But I have years of experience dealing with bullies. I shouldn’t have engaged. I know better .

I make a mental note to ignore Sin at all possible costs the next time I see him, before turning my attention back to the book.

‘ A historically accurate description of the realms and their people’ is an old leatherbound tome. It’s so cracked along the spine that it’s difficult to read the title. It was the ancient appearance that caught my attention.

I’ve already been to three realms, and Magnus told me a bit about the Fae Realm. How many more can there be?

The preface answers my question.

Long ago, the universe was divided into seven distinct realms. The Fae Realm was made for creatures with an affinity for the natural world. The Beast Realm was made for those with a feral nature who craved wildness and blood. The Angelic Realm was created for the ones who lived and ruled by light, the Shadow Realm for the broken, twisted souls that were too dangerous to carry on, the Mortal Realm for the pitifully weak mortals, and the Otherworld Realm for the powerful creatures who fit in no boxes. While it is unclear why the Underworld Realm was created, one can presume it was for creatures of darkness. All the realms were made separate, and they were unified by a ruling body composed of representatives from each space. These elected officiants were made into the first Council, and within them was one elected to rule.

While there are detailed historical records to support the founding of each realm, there are less reputable documents that whisper of an eighth. However, upon rigorous further research, this historian has concluded that the eighth realm is nothing but legend and will not dive into the world of myths. I leave such accountings to writers of fiction.

The book pulls me in, and I spend the remainder of the afternoon getting lost in the pages, reading fantastical accounts that now make up my reality. I forget to eat, and at some point, a plate appears on a table next to me, heaping with sliced fruit, vegetables, crusty bread and cheese. I have no idea how it got there, but I snack away, thankful.

Hours later I look over only to notice a steaming cup of tea on the side table.

Now strongly suspicious that the house is somehow enchanted, I whisper a quick ‘thank you’ to the silent, empty room. An enchanted house would explain the unused kitchen and the laundry that magically appears clean and folded in my room.

I like that explanation better than the alternative that someone is sneaking up on me.

By the time dinner approaches, my body unconsciously tenses, knowing I might run into Sin again. But seeing as he never joined us for dinner last night, maybe I’ll be lucky again.

A girl can dream.