Chapter 15 Zaria
ZARIA
Istare at the door after he leaves. The silence in the room is noticeable, like a hand closing over my ears.
I need to stop thinking. Stop replaying the way he just handed me the robe, the disgust in his voice when he said we don't do that here.
My eyes drift to the TV mounted on the wall.
The remote sits on the dresser and I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. My thumb finds the power button and I press it.
The picture is huge.
A woman in a bright yellow dress stands in a kitchen, smiling at the camera while she stirs something in a bowl. Her teeth are impossibly white. Her voice is cheerful, almost musical.
TV was forbidden on the compound. Cormac said it corrupted the mind.
Poisoned it were the words of the Order.
A distraction for weak minds. A portal for the Morrígan's enemies to slip into your subconscious.
Only Cormac and the Brothers were allowed to watch news broadcasts, and even then only for coded messages they swore existed.
We had books, old ones, leather-bound histories and religious texts, but no screens. No connection to the outside world except what Cormac allowed.
I back up slowly, my legs hitting the edge of the bed, and I sink down onto the mattress without taking my eyes off the screen.
The woman disappears and a man in a suit appears, talking about weather patterns and storm warnings. I don't care what he's saying. I just watch the way his mouth moves, the way his hands gesture at the map behind him.
I press another button on the remote and the channel changes.
A cartoon. Bright colors and exaggerated voices.
Another button.
A talk show. People laughing and clapping.
I keep flipping. My thumb presses the button over and over until something makes me stop.
A man with a scruffy beard and a round belly stands in front of a massive fireplace, gesturing animatedly at a table piled high with roasted meats and pastries. The title at the bottom of the screen reads: Feeding the Tudor Court: A Feast Fit for King Henry VIII.
I set the remote down on the bed beside me and lean forward.
The man has an accent I like, his voice enthusiastic as he describes the kinds of foods that would have been served at a royal banquet. Whole pigs roasted on spits. Swans stuffed with herbs. Pies filled with exotic spices brought back from distant lands.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
History. I love history.
I always have. Before everything, before the Order, before fear and blood and rituals shaped me into something unrecognizable, I used to read history books at night with a flashlight.
I'd check out books from the library, thick ones with illustrations of ancient civilizations and timelines of wars and empires. I'd lie in my bed in our tiny apartment and read for hours while Mom worked.
One year, for my birthday, she bought me a biography set. Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth I, and Catherine the Great.
I used to fall asleep pretending I was a professor. That I would stand in front of a chalkboard, wearing glasses too big for my face, and talk about ancient cities and forgotten queens.
In that life, I thought I'd grow up to be a history professor.
My mom even told me I could do it. That I could be anything I wanted.
My poor mother.
It's been so long that sometimes I'm scared I've forgotten the sound of her voice. I would never say that out loud, not to anyone, but the thought sticks in my side like a thorn.
What kind of daughter forgets her mother?
I push the thought away. I don't want to cry.
I force my attention back to the screen. The scruffy man is talking now about King Henry's many wives, about how his tastes in food were as extravagant as his appetites in other areas. He laughs, gesturing at a fake roasted peacock displayed on a platter.
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, my eyes fixed on the TV.
The documentary moves on, showing recreations of royal kitchens, servants rushing back and forth with trays of food, cooks shouting orders over the roar of open fires.
I lose track of time, maybe an hour has passed, maybe more, and then the knock at the door nearly sends me flying backward.
My whole body jolts as though struck, my fingers clutching the robe tight against me.
The door opens before I can say anything.
"For you," a deep voice says.
Tommy. The guard who dragged me out of the basement.
He steps inside, sets a large cardboard box on the dresser, nods once, and leaves without waiting for a response. The door shuts and locks behind him.
I stare at the box.
Slowly, I stand and walk over to it.
The smell hits me first.
Cheese. Tomato sauce.
Pizza.
I open the lid carefully, my hands trembling.
Oh my God.
Hawaiian pizza. He actually got it for me.
Golden cheese, huge thick slices of ham, little cubes of pineapple caramelized at the tips. I inhale and the scent is so familiar, so tied to memories I haven't allowed myself to touch that my knees go weak.
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the tears that are suddenly burning behind my eyes.
How can someone I've been told is an enemy do something like this for me?
I don't understand it and I sure as hell don't deserve any of it after what we've done to his family.
But I take the box anyway, carrying it over to the bed and setting it down on the comforter.
I sit cross-legged in front of it, my hands shaking as I pick up the first slice.
The cheese stretches as I lift it, strands clinging to the rest of the pizza before breaking away.
I take a bite.
The flavors explode on my tongue. It's perfect.
I close my eyes and let out a small, broken sound that's halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Like Saturday nights when my mom would come home with a pizza box and we'd sit on the couch together, watching old movies on her laptop.
I eat another bite. Then another.
The TV plays in the background as I wiggle my toes and devour my pizza.
Once I've had as much as I can, I close the box, setting it on the floor beside the bed.
My eyelids are heavy now, my body full, as I sink deeper into the mattress.
I rest my head on the pillow, keeping my eyes on the TV.
The voices soon become distant and blurred.
I close my eyes and eventually, I drift off.
I hear a noise and my eyes shoot open.
I'm in the woods, running barefoot through pine needles, the bark slicing into my feet. My breath clouds in the air, white and frantic. The branches tear at my arms.
Behind me, I hear it, the chanting.
I feel it vibrating like it's coming from inside my bones.
The Morrígan sees all.
The Morrígan decides all.
The Morrígan chooses the sacrifice.
I run faster, my lungs burning, but it doesn't matter.
The voices are getting louder.
"Zaria!"
I turn to see Cormac behind me.
I trip, my foot catching on a root, and I fall hard, my knees slamming into the dirt.
"Zaria. Come, daughter of the flame. Daughter of the prophecy."
I try to crawl, try to get up, but my body won't move.
I wait for him to take me.
To drag me back to the fire.
But the hands that grab me aren't cold. They're warm.
Strong, large hands wrap around my waist, pulling me away from the darkness. I gasp and twist, expecting Cormac's face, but the man holding me isn't Cormac.
It's Callum.
The woods dissolve. The trees blur, melt, fade like smoke.
The chanting stops and I look around. I'm in a room and I feel safe.
My eyes flutter open and I sit up.
Do I actually feel safe here?
He's my jailer. He's supposed to have been my enemy.
Maybe it's because my brain is desperate, because trauma rewires everything. Because starvation and fear and confusion make you reach for the first warm thing you find, like seeking safety in the man who could kill me with a single word.
It makes me feel weak.
Compromised.
Like I've already lost whatever piece of myself I was trying to hold onto.
Because if I start thinking of Callum Killaney as anything other than my captor, I'll betray the part of me that still insists I deserve nothing good.
Besides, wanting him to save me is the surest way to die.