Chapter 8
Carver stirred sometime in the dead of night, surprised he’d slept at all. He scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned. What had he been thinking?
He’d easily admit to being attached to Bel in a visceral way that usually felt like an open wound. She’d dragged him out of one of the darkest times of his life sheerly by aggravating him until he felt something again and had somehow started to prefer her infuriating presence over the oblivion of wine. She’d kept him company, risen to every challenge, and more than challenged him back. She’d shielded him in battle and even taken a killing blow that had been meant for him. She would’ve died right then and there if his sister hadn’t had a one-time healing gift from Persephone up her sleeve. Carver owed Bel his life, figuratively and factually, and he was here because there was no way in the Underworld he would ever have watched her walk off to face the unknown alone.
And now he’d gone and messed it all up. He blamed sacrificial virgins and Bel admitting to not knowing what she was missing. Two birds, one stone. He blamed himself more. As soon as he’d thought maybe he could show her intimacy—he sure as Hades didn’t want someone else doing it—as well as take her off this new potentially-to-be-sacrificed list, he couldn’t shake the idea. Sitting there on the beach, her skin warm with a peachy glow and her wild red hair sparking free, it had seemed like a decent plan—until she exploded into flames to get rid of him.
Of course she didn’t want to kiss him. Theirs was definitely a love-hate relationship, but it wasn’t that kind of love. It never had been.
A shot of tight, tense heat whipped through him. Or, it hadn’t been.
With a low curse, Carver threw back the sheet and stood. He might be confused, but Bel obviously wasn’t. The soreness of his reddened skin reminded him of just how clear she’d been.
He splashed water over his face, trying to cool down. It didn’t work. Too much of the fire was on the inside, along with an unease that took hold of his gut and grew. The whole episode on the beach reminded him now of one of those strange and baffling dreams he couldn’t quite recall in detail. Part good, part bad, part blurred and unnerving. Unfortunately, unlike dreams, there was no way he was forgetting this by morning.
A low, humorless laugh scraped his throat. Everyone in Atlantis thought they were married. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, just until Bel took the throne and could make the rules she wanted. But now months had gone by, and maybe he’d gotten a little too used to the idea of being her husband.
Something in his chest shifted, a sudden contraction that made it hard to breathe. He remembered that feeling from when Konstantina used to cross paths with him unexpectedly in the village. He’d loved her. A part of him always would. She was home and youth and dreams of the future and first passion all wrapped into one. And she’d loved him, too—just not enough to choose him over the lure of greater comforts. He’d always believed she was as beautiful inside as out, but it was her beauty that tore them apart. A rich Magoi saw her and set his sights on her without understanding who she was or where she was from. A village girl? Hoi Polloi? It didn’t matter. Konstantina was a trophy for any arm. She weighed her options and left him in a matter of days. They’d been all but engaged. He’d thought she might be pregnant with his child. She’d left without even saying goodbye, and he’d spiraled into his first drunken haze.
Carver gripped the basin he stood over, his knuckles turning white and water dripping off his chin. All his hopes, all their plans…washed away by pretty promises he couldn’t make at the time. A few years later, his family ruled all of Thalyria, he was a prince, and he had more riches than anyone could ever need or want. But Konstantina was dead, and she’d already made her choice. He hadn’t been enough.
And he grew up. He faced enemy armies. He faced death. He faced curses. He faced monsters. And he found his best friend. His heart jerked painfully again. He didn’t want the kind of love that came with a tally of how many feather pillows, jeweled necklaces, and fancy garden fountains he could provide. He wanted the kind of love where a woman flung herself in front of the Minotaur rather than let him get gored. Where he could leave everything behind without regret because it meant staying in her world.
“Gods damn it.” Carver scoffed at his own stupidity, his face screwing up as he swiped the remaining drops of water off his jaw. He’d thought he was done lying to himself. Apparently not. Love was one thing. Attraction was another, one he hadn’t thought much about until he and Bel were sitting on that secluded beach, alone against an island, talking strategy, a little spark of jealousy souring her tone when Konstantina came up. He’d suddenly thought she was the most beautiful and captivating thing he’d ever seen.
Frustration rumbled in his chest as he reached for a drying cloth. Somewhere along the line, Bel had replaced all those jugs of wine as his fascination of choice, and now he was addicted. Any day without her in it bored him to tears.
He glanced out his window at the now-familiar view. Darkness shrouded the harbor and the windswept hills on the peninsula beyond. Bellanca Tarva . Who’d have thought? Not him in a million moons.
And not her in any lifetime. She’d made that clear.
His nostrils flared. As he let out a slow, measured breath, somewhere close by, metal scraped on stone. Carver swiveled his head toward his closed door. Eyes narrowing, he listened. Was that sound coming from inside ? Or was it just outside on the wall?
He set down his drying cloth, his senses tingling as he turned. A few silent steps brought him across the room. He’d learned from a lifetime of experience that every strange noise merited investigation. Some led to nothing. Some saved a life.
Or took one.
He reached for his sword, the grip cool and reassuring in his hand, the blade an extension of his arm. As quietly as possible, he unlocked and opened the door. The hinges creaked, and he winced, taking a moment to listen and look around before moving like a shadow into the living room. Pale moonbeams slanted through the open window. Bel hadn’t left any lamps burning from when she’d come out of her room earlier. He’d staunchly ignored her rummaging around and licked his wounds in private, dinner be damned. Her bedroom door was closed now, no evidence of light sneaking under the wooden planks that didn’t quite reach the floor.
Why, then, was a faint scratching sound coming from her room?
A chill skittered down his spine. Was she awake? Could she be sharpening blades? That seemed unlikely in the dark unless losing fingers was her goal.
On edge, his muscles coiled and ready to spring, he crept forward. Another lightly ringing scrape whispered through the air, and the back of his neck tingled. Those fine hairs always warned him of danger, and from one breath to the next, he stopped hesitating, lifted the latch, and threw open Bel’s door. It took only a split second for his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness and for his mind to process what he saw. Talons and wings. Grasping hands and sharp claws. A huge harpy finished sneaking into Bel’s room through the open window. The one already inside reached for her sleeping form.
“Bel!” He shouted the warning just as she snapped awake with a gasp.
Carver lunged and brought his sword down hard on the creature’s outstretched arm. Metal rang on metal, almost shocking him into dropping his sword. He hissed as the blade bounced off the harpy’s solid limb and the painful impact echoed up his arm.
Unaffected by his hit, the creature dragged Bel off her bed and swung her toward the second harpy. They each grabbed an arm and stretched her between them, lifting her clear off the floor. They stood there, Bel struggling between them. Taller than him by two heads, these monsters resembled harpies, but they weren’t alive. They weren’t flesh and blood. They were made of metal from head to claws.
Automatons. His heart slammed up his throat. These creatures were the work of gods.
The metal harpies turned to the window. Bel twisted and kicked out at both, not slowing them down. She raised her head, and her panicked eyes met his through the tangle of her hair the instant before she went up in flames.
“No!” Fear lurched inside him. “They won’t burn!” Hephaestus crafted automatons in his volcanic forges. Nothing but the smith god himself could melt them back down.
Not seeming to hear him, Bel writhed and fought, her whole upper body flaming hotter as the metal harpies dragged her toward the edge of the room. Carver leaped for the window, putting himself between them and the open night. Did they want to fly away with her? Or were they going to drop her, just like Eryx with his sacrifices?
Their top-floor lodgings abruptly lost their appeal. Desperation drove him to try shooting forward for a sharp jab. His blade barely dented the harpy’s chest, useless against the metal beast. He felt more than saw the counterattack and ducked, weaving under a wing that scraped a dent into the wall above his head. He scrambled back, frantically searching for a weakness to exploit. He saw none. Animate but without emotion, conscience, or pain, the automatons were perfectly designed to swoop in, snatch their prize, and swoop out. Suddenly, he knew without a doubt. These were what had been stealing ancestral Magoi children from their beds. Not just harpies, but mechanical ones.
Bel gasped, her flames snuffing out. Her own fire never burned her, but it had heated her captors’ metal hands into searing-hot manacles. The loss of her blazing light left his eyes struggling to adjust, but Carver could smell her scorched wrists. Sick with dread, he strained to bring the shadows back into focus. Two hulking forms. A smaller one between them. Bel cried out in pain as they yanked her almost into the open window frame.
Terror spiked, and he lowered his shoulder and charged at the automaton closest to him. He smashed into it, and they both crashed to the floor. His shoulder throbbed, the unforgiving shock thudding in the bone. He pushed through the pain and twisted, getting behind the creature and partway under it. He gripped the head by the empty eye sockets, planted his feet on the metal wing bones, and pulled. His sword might’ve betrayed him for the first time in his life, but murderous rage drove him now.
“Carver!” Bel kicked the wall next to the window, pushing back at the creature. The second harpy wrestled her into a punishing hold and aimed her at the window. She swung her legs up and braced her feet on either side of the frame, holding herself there and fighting as it tried to shove her out.
Shaking with effort, Carver pushed against the wings with his legs and hauled on the harpy’s head with his hands. The metal eye sockets cut into his skin. His aching fingers burned and then slicked with blood. If he lost his grip, this was over. Gritting his teeth, he pulled, the pressure against his bare feet almost as painful as he shoved with all his might against the wing bones. The automaton wasn’t one solid piece of metal. It was put together. He would godsdamned pull it apart, and then he’d do the same to the other.
Metal suddenly ripped, the head tore free, and he skidded halfway across the room on the bare skin of his back and shoulders. Pain and shock only immobilized him for a second. He flung the head aside, sprang up, and raced for the second automaton, charging at it from the side and toppling them all over inside the room.
Bel rolled away with a groan. He maneuvered into the position he’d found before, pushing with his legs and hauling with his arms. His fingers throbbed, and he channeled the hot, aching pain into ending this as fast as possible. Feet braced against the metal wing bones, he pulled so hard he half feared his veins would pop and his brain would explode. His hands slipped, and the automaton almost got away. He slammed the thing’s head back down against his abdomen. Bel staggered over, grabbed its ankles, and pulled. It wasn’t enough. Sweat stung his eyes, his body shook, and he sensed he was a hairsbreadth from muscle cramps that would end this in a way he refused to contemplate.
He tapped into the last of his strength, groaning from between clenched teeth. The head wrenched free with a grinding rip of metal, and Carver gasped, his entire body seeming to liquify and sink into the floorboards as he held on to the harpy head like a prize. He didn’t think he was injured apart from his cut fingers and scraped back, but he hurt everywhere, especially deep inside his soul where fear of losing Bel lived.
But not today, thank the gods. Not ever , he vowed.
Sprawled on his back, breathing hard, Carver finally turned his head. Bel sat on the floor, staring at him, her eyes huge and vivid-hot. As if she didn’t know what to do with her hands, they hovered, palms up, above her lap. Burns ringed her delicate wrists, and he wished he could tear the metal harpies apart with his bare hands all over again.
Releasing a heavy breath, he uncurled his fingers and tossed the now inanimate automaton’s head aside. It thumped against the wall, and as if the noise woke her from a trance, Bel suddenly pitched forward and crawled to his side.
“Are you all right?” She leaned over him, her frown fierce. Concern dimmed her eyes, and the little notch between her brows deepened as her gaze swept over his bloodstained hands. “Your fingers…”
“Are fine. Just some cuts.”
“Cuts?” She rolled her lips in, pressing all the color from them. “You sound half dead.”
A weak smile slipped out. “Just taking a minute.”
She sat back on her heels, not looking convinced. The air around her smelled of baked cherries and almond cream enough to slip into his lungs and start calming his thrashing pulse.
“How about you?” he asked. “All right?” His gaze searched hers.
“I don’t know.” Her chin trembled, and Carver nearly cracked in two. Bel didn’t show fear. She didn’t show weakness. She didn’t ask for help. “I’m a little the worse for wear.”
His eyes locked on to her scorched wrists. “I’m sorry I let them get you.”
She pulled her hands deeper into her lap. “You got here before I even woke up.”
“I…heard something.” He exhaled his lingering fear, his heartbeat and breathing finally evening out again. “I wasn’t asleep.”
She made a noise, faint and unsure. He waited, watching. He didn’t like her silence. It wasn’t Bel .
“I should’ve heard them.” Her mouth flattening, she shook her head. “I don’t know how I didn’t.”
“They were quiet. I barely heard them, and that was only because they must’ve scraped against the window frame on their way in.”
She made that same sound again. Subdued, hesitant. Bel—who was never at a loss for words. Gods, usually he couldn’t get a moment’s peace around her, and now, all he wanted her to do was talk .
The man he’d been just days ago mocked him, and a grim smile pulled at his mouth.
Bel glanced around the moonlit room, taking in the headless bodies with their taloned feet and metal-feathered wings. Carver looked at her. He couldn’t stop.
She eventually turned back to him, her face curiously blank. Shock, he realized. Fear. Doubt. Everything she didn’t want to show was so much more obvious to him when she tried to hide it. She should never have to hide anything from him.
“We’ll never not find a way to win,” he told her. “I swear it.”
Her eyes widened, enlivening her features again. “Promises are a dangerous thing.”
He nodded. They were. Magoi couldn’t make a binding vow and not keep it. Horrible pain made it physically impossible. He didn’t have that limitation, but he still believed his words. “I swear it,” he repeated firmly.
Bel inhaled sharply. Carver couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out. Their hands brushed, two hot shocks of skin on the night-cool floor. Bel’s finger twitched, but she didn’t pull away, and the contact centered him, just like when he gripped his sword.
He drank in the sight of her. Luminous blue-green eyes that matched the water off their island shores to perfection. Skin like the inside of an oyster shell. Hair the colors of the brightest, boldest sunsets over the ocean basin. Some locks rippled with inner fire, illuminating the hollow of her throat, the curve of her lips, the near-translucent shell of her ear…
Carver didn’t do anything more than leave his hand beside hers, but as he lay there on the floor, his insides grew taut with a pressure he never imagined feeling again. He wanted to be surprised by the force of it, the clarity, but couldn’t muster the strength to lie to himself anymore.
“I couldn’t burn them,” she murmured. He saw her swallow as she paused, then her eyes found his. “Thank you.”
Her thank-you seemed heavy with more than just tonight. His heart squeezed, and for the first time, he was sure she was glad he’d followed her through the portal to Atlantis.
“You never have to thank me for helping you.” Whatever came for her, he would stop it. Whoever tried to hurt her, he’d hurt them ten times worse. He would kill anything that threatened her—man, monster, or god.
Carver drew his hand back from hers. Gathering his strength, he heaved himself off the floor. Every muscle protested, but now wasn’t the time for rest. He was a half-decent Hoi Polloi healer, thanks to listening to his mother and sister talk about treatments and herbs.
He quickly cut off the thought of never seeing his family again, but it was too late to stop that shock in his chest that always struck like a battering ram. Nodding toward their living room, he gruffly said, “Let’s go take care of those wrists.” Bel was his family now, and that was real enough for him.