Chapter 5 Dungeons and Delicacies
Wynn
I enter the dungeons the next day to deliver Marlow’s lunch. Get in, get out, don’t listen to any nonsense. That’s the plan.
The gargoyle lies on the floor beneath the prisoner, curled near the stone slab that passes for a bed.
The creature resembles a statue perfectly, so still like carved stone.
He’s about six inches tall with one chipped horn and a bent wing.
His wings snap open when he notices my stare, swiftly launching himself into the air and looping back to land on the other side of Marlow, cowering from me.
Right. Back to the plan.
“Don't mind me. Just the meal delivery.”
“I always imagined my mate would be taller,” Marlow drawls, sprawled on his back, eyes locked on the ceiling.
My jaw tightens. “Taller than you, asshole.” At a respectable six feet even, I’ve easily got four inches on him, maybe five. But his presence is large enough to compensate for whatever he lacks in height.
At the edge of his cell, I open the food slot and slide the plate in.
Why didn’t I let someone else handle prisoner duty? Adelaide even urged me to take a vacation. It’s tempting, finding a faraway beach and sipping fruity drinks, flirting with other bored tourists, and forgetting all about charming demons who spout the most outrageous lies.
But running away with my tail between my legs means he wins. He can’t rattle me that easily.
Okay, he totally can, but Marlow doesn’t need to know that.
“All sorts of characters in the underworld,” he prattles on. “Behemoth creatures, ten feet tall with tentacles. Personally, I could go either way on the tentacles. What about you? Would a mate with tentacles be fun?”
“You're still sticking to this ridiculous story?” I ask, deliberately ignoring the tentacle question that sends my mind places it has no business going.
“What's the matter, beloved? You seem upset. Tell your mate all about it.” He slowly sits up and twists toward me with a smirk.
It’s almost offensive how lazy this lie is, he's not even trying to sell me on this bullshit.
I plant my hands on my hips and stare him down. He wants to keep up this mates charade? Fine. I’ll call him on it and expose his lies.
“When did you Recognize me?” I demand.
Marlow hesitates. “Well, it's complicated.”
I disagree. “Either you Recognized me or you didn't.”
“You saw my gargoyle,” he retorts as if that explains everything.
“That's not what I asked.”
“But it's the answer to your question.”
“No, it's not. An answer is ‘Yes, I Recognized you’ or ‘No, I didn't because I'm a big lying liar who lies all the time.’”
Marlow sighs like I'm the unreasonable one for doubting the desperate prisoner.
“You might not have seen past my devastatingly stunning exterior and glimpsed my soft, gooey center, but you did the next best thing.” Holding out his arm, the gargoyle jumps onto it and perches there.
“Iggy's been hidden since the law caught up to us.
We didn't want the authorities getting any bright ideas and trying to separate us. Nobody except me should be able to see him.”
“I've seen him the whole time.”
“Iggy's connected to me, to my soul.” His piercing blue eyes hold my gaze steadily. “Whether we Recognize each other or not, it doesn't matter. Seeing him is as good as confirmation.”
“There's no reason I should trust you,” I say. “You already lied to me.”
“See, I prefer to think of that as not mentioning certain details that might have wrongly clouded your judgment.”
“Like being a fugitive and murder suspect?”
“Exactly!”
“Your gargoyle doesn’t prove anything.” I shake my head vehemently. “For all I know, you're letting me see him. This is a trick.”
“Honestly, it took us all by surprise,” the gargoyle pipes in, his tiny voice squeaking.
The expression on my face is anything but friendly as I deal with the smug demon, and when my angry gaze swings to Iggy, he makes a little wounded noise.
He climbs up Marlow's arm and hides his face against his chest, curling up as small as possible.
Marlow strokes the creature's back, soothing him and surprisingly gentle.
Is the gargoyle a world class liar like his buddy? …Doubtful. Every response and emotion is so reactive and genuine. The gargoyle may have terrible taste in companions but nothing has indicated he's a liar.
Marlow’s reasoning for why I can see the gargoyle, see what should be hidden, plus the gargoyle's own reactions… well, I can't find fault with them.
That doesn't mean we’re mates. I still don't buy this. Not for a second. I just can't disprove the theory, not yet.
I lean against the wall, totally ruining this shirt as it presses against the grimy stone near the cell. The dungeon is devoid of comfort, and I resign myself to a conversation that feels as unpleasant as the rough surface at my side.
“Fine, say you're my mate.” The words taste bitter. “Who are you?”
“Uh, Marlow? Marlow Maddox. Do you suffer from some sort of brain injury or memory loss?” he considers that, nodding. ”That could actually work in my favor.”
“I don't know anything about you,” I say. “Who is my supposed mate?” Besides a suspected murderer.
“You want to get to know me?” Marlow's voice is tinged with surprise. He recovers quickly, grinning and throwing his arms out wide. ”Sure, of course you do. I'm an open book.”
I snort. Yeah right. Let’s start with an easy one. “Where are you from?”
“The underworld.”
“Wait, really?” Not expecting that. Some species like fae or demons do come from other planes of existence. I’m not entirely sure how it works. It’s far more common to be born here and have ancestors from another plane.
“I'm the real deal,” he assures. “People never believe that I wasn’t born here. Apparently, my complexion is too flawless and my hands are too soft.” From his tone, that sounds like his idea of a humblebrag, except it’s mostly just…
regular bragging. “The underworld I’m from is more shadows and secrets and less lava pits and sulfur.
Demons can be as fussy about their appearances as anyone. ”
Well, at least we’re getting somewhere. I press forward. “Okay, you're from the underworld. What do you do?”
He mirrors my position, settling in against the wall on the other side of the bars. Almost like we're two guys chatting over drinks instead of divided by old iron and suspicion.
“I solve mysteries and help people out of tricky situations,” he replies with a flourish as if he’s unveiling some grand, noble purpose.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Does it?” He tilts his head curiously. “Thought it would sound dashing and heroic. I'm a private investigator.”
“Really?”
“You doubt my deductive powers? I have a very large... brain,” he says with a damn twinkle in his eye.
“I can't imagine you staking out hotels for cheating spouses, hunting down leads no matter how long it takes, or making nice with actual law enforcement to get insider info.”
“Is that what other private eyes do?” He makes a horrified face. “Sounds boring.”
“What do you do, then?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “People come to me seeking answers to questions. I summon some little helpers from the underworld, find those answers, and make sure the information ends up in the right hands, for the right price.”
There are so many red flags there I don't know where to start.
“It sounds like you're a thug who digs up dirt on people and then exploits them.”
“That's why saying it my way is better,” he advises sagely. “Sounds much more noble.”
I scoff loudly and shake my head, pushing off the wall to pace the tiny length in front of the cell. The urge to run out of here is overwhelming and it isn’t the gloom or mildew smell that’s getting to me. It’s the prisoner. How is this really happening? How can the universe be this twisted?
“There’s no way you’re my mate.”
Marlow raises his hands innocently. “Hey, take it up with fate, sweetheart.”
The way he keeps insisting on this nonsense so matter-of-factly, not even trying to convince me, like it’s just some undeniable certainty. Oh god, does he think he’s telling the truth? I wish he was trying to con me again. How do I talk him out of a lie he believes?
I try to put all the pieces together. “Okay, so you extort, blackmail, con people, and do all manner of shady things?”
“Full-service business over here,” he agrees proudly. “You call it shady, I call it excellent customer service.”
“Then it's not really a big jump, is it?” I reason. ”You're a shady person in a shady business. Things go sideways, you piss off the wrong people, a confrontation ensues and suddenly you're in over your head fighting for your life, and you become a murderer.”
He pushes off the wall with easy grace and steps forward, closing some of the distance between us. “Look, I may not be the most upstanding guy, and I'm the first to admit that. If we had more time, I could tell you all my sins and watch you make adorably offended expressions—”
“Hey!”
“Let's cut to the chase.” Marlow’s unwavering gaze locks onto mine with sudden intensity. “I didn't kill anyone.”
“It’s true,” Iggy pipes up. “He never even met the victim.”
“Why should I believe you?” I whisper. “Don't say it's because we're mates.”
“Because it's true.”
Then why didn't he mention being innocent before? Awfully convenient to add that detail now that he’s trying to convince me we’re meant to be. Then again, why divulge his shady business practices and lack of ethics when he could have kept quiet about everything that makes him look guilty?
Every instinct is warring with itself. My gut screams at me to trust him despite everything.
Is this why I believed his ruse when we first talked, some innate sense of our connection?
Or is that wishful thinking, a convenient excuse to soothe my ego after being such an idiot?
My brain begs me not to be so stupidly naive. Don’t make the same mistake twice.
This time… this time my brain wins.
I don’t say anything else. I spin on my heel and walk away.