Chapter 33
33
“ A re you sure you’re okay with this?” Thorne asked for the thirtieth time.
We’d fled the castle in a flurry, all four of us cramming into a carriage to race home after the news of the missing king. The second we were far enough away from the Cimmerians, I began searching for the little old king who’d been so kind to me. I’d never gone for that visit and I regretted it now more than ever. I could have asked him. I could be home by now. And I wasn’t willing to think about how much that thought hollowed me. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t care for these people. It was that simple.
With him gone, Farris would rule in his stead. Make the laws, do whatever he wanted, and that was dangerous for everyone. Including me.
Harlow grabbed my hand. “Well?”
I fought against the muffled tones of my power, digging deep to lock onto anything that would connect me to the missing king, but nothing sat at the other end of my power. Only a void. And it took me far too long to realize why. “It’s not going to work. He wore gloves. And a mask at Lithe. I’ve never touched him, and I haven’t seen his face.”
“Dammit. So we have no way to track him?” Thorne asked.
“Not like this.”
Archer shifted, his shoulders pushing into Harlow in the cramped space. “The king never leaves the palace without a full retinue. Hell, he never leaves the palace at all anymore. For him to just vanish…” He trailed off, the unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air.
Harlow leaned against the carriage wall, hands nestled in her lap. “We know who’s got him. We probably even know where he’s being held. I mean, come on, it’s so obvious.”
I nodded. “The prince held the party to keep everyone distracted and give himself an alibi. He’s got motive, means, and opportunity.”
“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Thorne said grimly. “But speculating won’t get us anywhere. And right now, the king isn’t our first priority. We’ve got to lock down the Fray. The second Farris is in control, everything changes.” He knocked three times on the carriage roof, giving Tuck, our coachman, the signal to head toward home.
Moments later, when Thorne rested his hand on the metal knob, his back straightened. I’m not sure if the others noticed such a small thing. And I’m not sure what it meant to be so acutely aware of his movements.
The ticking was subtle at first, a quiet backdrop to the creak of the door’s hinges as Thorne swung it open. But as we stepped across the threshold, the sound swelled, growing louder with each passing second until it was a deafening cacophony.
Cuckoo clocks. Hundreds of them, covering every available surface of Thorne’s once pristine home. They hung from the walls, perched on shelves, even dangling from the ceiling on thin chains. A sea of intricate wooden cases, gleaming brass pendulums, and delicate, painted faces.
And, as if on cue, they all burst to life, cuckoo birds springing from their hidden nests with mechanical precision. The inharmonious chorus of chirps, whistles and chimes crashed over us like a tidal wave, drowning out all other sound. It was maddening. Disorienting. As if we’d stumbled into some bizarre, nightmarish wonderland.
I pressed my hands over my ears, trying in vain to block out the relentless noise. Beside me, Harlow’s eyes were wide with shock, her lips moving soundlessly as she stared at the chaos.
“This is what you get for mouthing off to the Goddess of Time,” I yelled.
Thorne’s face turned red as he strode forward, grabbing the nearest clock and wrenching it from the wall. The delicate wood splintered in his grip, gears and springs spilling from the shattered casing like mechanical entrails. He hurled it to the ground, the impact sending shards of painted wood skittering across the polished floor.
Harlow and I covered our ears, hardly muffling the sound as Archer joined him. The men moved through the room like a whirlwind of destruction, smashing and shattering every timepiece they could reach. But for each one they destroyed, two more appeared in its place, materializing out of thin air.
Chiming.
Calling.
Ticking.
Ticking.
Chiming.
On and on they went, reverberating through my bones and rattling my teeth. I sank to the floor, pressing my hands tighter against my ears to block out the maddening noise. Squeezing my eyes shut, I began to rock back and forth, humming tunelessly under my breath, fighting the urge to walk out.
Harlow was not so tolerant. “Fuck this. Stop pissing off the gods, Thorne.” She shook her head and walked outside, cheeks flushed.
How could he have been so foolish, so arrogant, to think he could speak to the gods as equals? To believe that his words held any sway over beings as ancient and powerful as them? He’d been rash. Unfiltered. Perhaps I’d thought he was more. Different, simply because he seemed so mysterious. But this was a lesson well learned. Thorne was just a man. Arrogant and absolutely paying for it.
I stared at him until I was sure he could feel my eyes burning into him. His were wild. The ongoing barrage of chiming birds drove him to madness in minutes. The ticking grew louder still, more frenzied, until it was an off-key roar that shook the walls.
Thorne spun in a circle, his jaw clenched tight. He stalked forward, closing the distance between us until he sank to the floor in front of me. Archer said something and ran out of the house after his sister, but the noise was too much.
“She’s reduced us to cowering wrecks, driven to the brink of madness by something as simple as sound. This is meant to be a lesson in piety.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not acutely aware of how much control they covet? I won’t cower before them, Paesha. I won’t let them dictate every damn move.”
“You should have controlled your anger as well as you like to control everything else.”
He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the dark strands standing on end. A mirthless chuckle escaped his lips, his smile perfectly cruel. “Let’s not pretend you’re innocent in all this. You’re the one they’re really interested in. The ?Huntress’. Whatever game they’re playing, you’re a key piece on the board. Tell me why. Use your fucking words and tell me your secrets. You have to trust me by now.”
How could I look him in the face and tell him the only thing I wanted to do was leave him? But maybe he needed that. Maybe he needed to hear a small piece of the truth. But no matter what I wanted, the words wouldn’t come. Couldn’t.
None can know of this bargain or where you come from. Only me.
The only thing I could do was fight back. Poke the beast Thorne kept hidden away. Maybe then he’d stop trying so damn hard. Or maybe he’d finally be the one to open up. I lowered my chin. “Don’t sit there and pretend like you’re not hiding something, too. You don’t talk about your past. And don’t think I haven’t looked. Other than some old books and a few worn pages, there’s not a single thing, no old letters, no keepsakes, nothing that tells me who you really are. You’re a mystery in your own home. And do you know why I haven’t asked?”
He didn’t answer, only clenched his jaw, as he so loved to do.
“Because I don’t want your secrets. I don’t want to know the truth. Whatever you’re hiding, you can keep hidden. I have my own shit to worry about.”
His eyes narrowed as he pushed, ever the studious man, seeking answers. “And what might that be? You can tell me. Let me in.”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to ask questions you aren’t willing to answer. In fact, you can sit right here and stew on it.”
Anger flared hot and bright in my chest, temporarily drowning out the maddening chimes. I pushed myself to my feet, the fury simmering beneath my skin propelling me forward. I stomped up the stairs, down the hallway, and into my borrowed bedroom without looking back at Thorne. I didn’t acknowledge the weight of his glare because what I'd said was true. I needed no more reasons to care about the man when I was gone. He could keep his fucking secrets and I could keep mine.
I shut the door firmly behind me. For a moment, I simply stood there, my back pressed against the solid wood, eyes closed as I drew in a breath. Searching beyond the chaos of sound for a semblance of peace. Slowly, I opened my eyes. With purposeful strides, I crossed to the dresser, my fingers closing around the delicate handle of the chipped teacup perched atop one of the infernal clocks.
“You first,” I whispered, tucking it into the pocket of my coat.
I gathered my belongings with swift, angry movements. Even the little golden book that had been my lifeline to Thorne these past weeks. A few dresses, a spare cloak, a pair of sturdy boots. I bundled them haphazardly into my arms, not caring about wrinkles or creases. I wasn’t too proud to take these things with me, knowing I’d need them to survive. I’d played the beggar in the past. I knew how this worked.
Yanking on the door, I marched down the hallway. The incessant ticking and chiming of the clocks pursued me, a mocking reminder that I’d never hear a clock the same way again. Stomping down the stairs, my eyes fixed straight ahead, I refused to look at the chaos of shattered wood and twisted metal that littered the floor. Thorne stood amidst the destruction, his broad shoulders heaving, hands clenched into fists at his sides. As I reached the bottom step, Thorne’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, we simply stared at each other.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The audacity of that tone grated every one of my nerves. Prick .
“Anywhere but here.”
“You can’t just leave.”
“I think you’ll find I’m really fucking good at leaving.” With that, I strode out the door, never looking back.
There was really only one place I could go. One place I felt safe enough. And though the night wasn’t as cold as this terrible world had been when I arrived, with a heavy mist in the air, it still didn’t take long before I was soaked through and shivering.
I wove through the shadowed streets, my senses on high alert as I clung to the edges of buildings and darted through narrow alleys. My teeth chattered, fingers numb where they clutched my meager bundle of belongings.
But I couldn’t let the chill slow me down. Not with the threat of Cimmerians prowling the city and the news of King Aldus so fresh. I kept my head down, using the curtain of my damp hair to obscure my face from any prying eyes. When I was certain no one was nearby, I reached out with my power, letting it unfurl like gossamer threads seeking the familiar signature of the Hollow. My magic brushed against the worn stone of the Hollow’s foundation, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Picking up my pace, I hurried along, guided by the gentle tug of power.
But as I turned a corner, my skin prickled with sudden awareness. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a shiver raced down my spine that had nothing to do with the bone-chilling rain. I wasn’t alone. I quickened my pace, my heels splashing through puddles as I darted down a narrow side street. I strained my ears, trying to hear past the steady patter of raindrops and the frantic pounding of my own heart.
There. The faint scuff of a boot on cobblestones, the whisper of fabric brushing against a wall. Someone was following me, matching me step for step, keeping to the shadows. I scanned the alleyway for any means of escape or defense. But there was nothing. No convenient pile of crates to topple in my pursuer’s path, no rusted pipe to wield as a makeshift weapon.
But those would not be needed, not as a large, familiar frame finally stepped into the light. Thorne said nothing at all, striding up to me with a stoic face. He simply took the clothing and offered me an arm.
I hesitated for a moment, my pride warring with the undeniable pull I felt towards him. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light, but I could sense the tension thrumming just beneath the surface. With a sigh, I placed my hand on his arm. Because no matter what had happened, he would not see me suffer. It didn’t matter what his past was. He was still the man that found me in the rain. The man that would do what he thought was right, no matter the consequences. Kill a man to save a stranger. Risk his name to save a city. Stand up to a god to hold onto his pride.
I kept my gaze fixed ahead, not daring to look at him, afraid of what I might see in his face. As we navigated the twisting streets, I couldn’t help but notice the way he sidestepped puddles and ducked beneath low-hanging eaves with barely a thought. Something about his silence felt strange, but nothing more than the fact that he didn’t follow me inside, choosing instead to brood and let me have my space. As I crossed the threshold into the Hollow, warmth enveloped me like a comforting embrace, chasing away the bone-deep chill from the rain.
I made my way through the quiet hall. Lianna raised her head from her spot on the floor, and I pressed a finger to my lips to keep her quiet. She shared a sleepy smile and laid right back down. As I climbed the stairs to the upper floor, my mind stayed on Thorne. Distance between us was better in the long run. Safer. It would make my leaving easier.
Reaching the room that had become my sanctuary within these walls, I pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly. Inside, the space was just as we’d left it, the narrow bed neatly made, the small desk cluttered with papers and ink-stained quills from when he’d tried to work here.
I pulled the little teacup free and set it on the desk, turning the handle so it was perfectly placed. I opened the book, eyes falling over the two etched into the top of the first page before snapping it shut and tossing it.
Curling into the bed, I pulled the blankets up and hoped like hell, with Thorne gone, the nightmares wouldn’t linger long enough to wake the children. Hours later, I lay in that familiar spot, cursing every god I could name and even the ones I couldn’t. Being afraid to sleep without someone close by was ridiculous. I knew it. My brain didn’t.
The door creaked open. I held my breath, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as Thorne strode in. The bed dipped beneath his weight. Still, he said nothing, kicking off his boots and sliding in beside me. Moments later, with the heavy scent of his whiskey swirling through the air, his breaths slowed and he fell asleep. Something in that peace was enough for me to follow suit.
When I woke, he was gone. But he’d moved the teacup to the table on my side of the bed and propped his golden pocket book up beside it, clasp open, pages fanned. My heart was not ready for what I’d read within the pages.
Dearest Paesha,
As a man, a simple man really, that cherishes the written word, and history and knowledge, I cannot explain how deeply a mystery calls to me. At first, I thought that was the pull. I thought this charge between us was nothing more than unanswered questions. And I’ll admit for a time, there was comfort in that space. Where neither of us answered to the other and we were fine. Guarded. Careful.
But as the days have passed and you’ve continued to stroke the curiosity swirling through my life, I can’t pretend I haven’t begun to wonder. I find it quite fitting that you’ve been curious about me. And while there are parts that will always remain mine, locked away in my heart, this truth is for you. A parting gift, if you wish it, but please know that I do not.
A lifetime ago, or so it seems, I fell in love with a woman who wrote my name across her heart and kept it. She was daring, like you. She pushed. Like you. She was everything. The sun. The stars. The space between realms. Whatever the ether was made of, it was her.
And I knew the day she died in my arms, the blade buried into her was also the evisceration of my heart. I knew I’d never recover. For years, I wandered through life as a ghost, a pale imitation of the man I once was. I sought solace in the pages of ancient tomes, losing myself in the tales of heroes and legends, becoming one to those that needed it most, anything to escape the gaping void that consumed me.
But then you arrived, a whirlwind of fire and steel, shattering the carefully constructed walls I had built around myself. And I did that to myself the day I asked the prince to write your name beside mine. That fact isn’t lost on me. I know the role I forced you into blindly. And I’m sorry for it. You could have never known you were committing to pretend with a broken man. But now you do, and I hope you’ll take this for what it is. A peace offering. I’m not asking you to like me. I’m only asking you to tolerate me.
But if you wake and your heart is heavy, if the walls are too high and you cannot go on with this charade, then so be it. I will handle the consequences and you can walk away freely. I offer my protection for as long as you need it.
Yours,
Thorne