Chapter Twenty-One
Nearly a fortnight later, I’ve summoned enough courage to stand in front of the manticore’s enclosure, staring at the new reinforced magical doors that house the cursed form of the Everlean king. I swallow past the knot in my throat and tug on the collar of my tunic.
I don’t know what I’m doing here, or what kind of answers I’m seeking.
According to Ani, this is the longest—over a month—that the king has gone without shifting back to human form.
Not many people know of the curse, only her, Nuadar, a handful of trusted guards, and now me.
She’d also confided that the manticore had never uttered a single word before, so his speaking had shocked them.
I hadn’t told her that in addition to that, Razulek and Indira had also called me his mate.
I’m sure that would have gone over well.
“Oryndhrian,” Nuadar growls rudely from behind me, “you’re looking for trouble. You don’t belong here. You should not be going in there!”
I bristle at his antagonistic tone and derisive address. “Open the door.”
Scowling, he waves a hand toward the door and the locks disengage. I’ve since learned that Nuadar is a dominant corpus magi with a near sovran numen for toxins, which explains the tranquilizing serum he made to weaken the manticore.
“Thank you,” I tell him, but he only grunts with a curse.
Breathing calm into my body, I walk inside and hear the locks reengage behind me.
I try not to let the fact that I’m locked in with a bloodthirsty, inhuman monster affect me, but there’s no hiding the uptick of my pulse.
The space is shadowy, and there’s no sound except for the slight scuff of my feet as I head deeper into the darkness.
With each step, my heart races more, but I won’t allow my fear to stop me.
Lamps ignite on the walls—more magic, I realize—and I see a huge, shadowy form held in place by thick golden chains.
They’re connected to massive rings in the walls and the ground.
Slitted amber eyes track my progress, but the manticore doesn’t raise itself from its prone position.
About six feet away, I crouch, studying it. When it doesn’t move, I hesitate only for a moment before sitting down. I have no idea what the reach of those chains is and whether I’m playing with fire, but I make myself comfortable.
“Darrius?” I whisper.
There’s no reaction, not even a blink, but those sharp predator’s eyes don’t waver from my person.
Other than the rise and fall of his chest, he doesn’t move, just stares.
I sit there for an hour before my leg starts to cramp, and when I eventually stand to leave, the only sign that he notices is a barely audible sigh.
Does it sound like disappointment, or is that just what I imagine it to be?
He could be relieved I’m leaving for all I know.
Despite that, I return the next day and settle myself a foot away from the manticore.
This time he moves, but only to settle his head closer to my knee.
His eyes close with a sound like a contented purr.
I must let out a noise of surprise, because he glances up, his tongue emerging to place the smallest lick—of reassurance?
—on my bare elbow before he settles back down.
My adrenaline spikes, my magic surging in my veins, though not with alarm .
. . but with an odd kind of exhilaration, as though my simurgh enjoys the company of the monster.
She hadn’t been worried in the forest weeks ago, and now, all I can sense is intrigue.
I wonder if it’s because like recognizes like—my simurgh, though not a corporeal incarnation like the manticore, is a similar mythical being.
A creature that gives life thoroughly fascinated by one that takes it.
I don’t miss the incongruity of such a pairing.
“Hello, Darrius.” I wrinkle my nose when it sounds strange to my ears. “Though is that even your name? Are you him? Or are you your own furry, feline self? Shall I call you Dare, then, like your sister does?”
Feeling a bit ridiculous with my one-sided conversation, I proceed to recount all the facts that I remember about myself—from my birthday to my childhood in Coban to what I can recall of my lost memories—all the while with his nose pressed into my knee, his warm breaths feathering out over my skin.
It’s shocking how natural it all feels.
And that he might even understand what I’m telling him. But he’s intelligent—he’d communicated with Razulek—so I believe he does.
The following afternoon, though a little later than I usually visit, I approach the enclosure. By now, Nuadar’s face is a permanent scowl, but I ignore him. He’s convinced that one day he’ll have to drag out my remnants piece by piece because of my own folly.
“You’re playing with death, Oryndhrian,” he snaps. “That thing is not human.”
I pause, bristling at his rudeness. “I know he’s not, but that doesn’t mean he’s undeserving of care. And he’s your king, in case you’ve forgotten.”
His eyes slit at the reminder. “In that skin, it is a monstrosity.”
The laugh that emerges from my lips is cold. “We’re all monsters in some shape or form. Open the door, Nuadar, please.”
He does, though his expression is openly hostile as he stares at me. I don’t know how we got off on the wrong foot, but it’s clear he doesn’t care for me very much. However, if I remember one lesson from my childhood, it’s that I can’t take responsibility for his bad feelings.
Entering the enclosure, I let the coolness of the dark interior and the rich hearth scent of the manticore that has penetrated the space flow over me. Sighing, I shut my eyes and inhale deeply, everything inside of me settling in a peculiar way that astonishes me every time.
“Good afternoon, Dare,” I say, closing the distance to find him lying in the same place as yesterday and the day before.
I have a feeling he situates himself in exactly the same position on purpose, as if he’s conscious of my sense of safety and comfort.
While he may be a monstrosity according to Nuadar, the small act leaves me reeling with a peculiar feeling of gratitude.
I plop down right next to him and breathe in his warm, earthen scent as I reach out a hand to stroke the very edges of his mane.
He doesn’t react, those golden eyes remaining ever vigilant.
I’m under no illusion that this beast has been tamed by my peaceful visits, but I trust my magic, and my simurgh maintains that he won’t hurt me.
Raz had said to trust her, and I do. Implicitly.
I stroke through the strands of his mane again and, as I grow braver, lean over to run my fingers down his muscled side.
The shorter fur there feels like the sleekest velvet.
The ground-shaking rumble of his purr makes me even bolder, and I venture to run the tip of my finger over the leathery curve of his folded wing.
He quivers with pleasure, his purr growing louder.
Intrigued, I let out a small laugh and continue my gentle ministrations, exploring the delicate bones that run the length of the wingspan, then return to his fluffy mane.
“I like you like this, my king. Quiet and unable to annoy me.” For a second, I think humor glints in those bright, golden eyes, but then they shut on a lazy blink as he sets his huge head upon his paws.
“How long will you stay this way?” I muse. “And why now?”
As the minutes pass, I keep talking, unsure about what’s compelling me to do so.
But being here brings me a sense of peace I haven’t had in what feels like a lifetime.
I tell him more about Coban and my childhood, about my family, about Laleh and our adventures.
And when I’m done with those, I confide things that I’ve never told anyone: that I’m afraid I’ll never get all of my memories back, that I’m scared of what awaits me back home.
That deep down, I might not want to leave.
The manticore doesn’t respond, but I know he’s listening to the sound of my voice because his soothing, rhythmic purr never stops. The more I talk, the more relaxed I feel, until my eyelids start to droop and then slowly flutter closed.
***
I WAKE TO intense agony.
Groaning at the sharp, excruciating ache in my bones—the obvious consequence of falling asleep on a very hard floor—I stare up at the cavernous ceiling with the first touches of dawn creeping through a large skylight. My brow wrinkles.
Where am I?
The answer hits like a jolt, and my entire body goes stiff when I realize that my head is lying cradled on a very warm chest that is rising and falling with deep, even breaths from underneath me. Dear heavens, did I truly fall asleep? I blame the somnolent purring, though I’m not going to complain.
One, I’m alive, and two, despite my unhappy joints, that was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a while. I sigh as my simurgh stirs, magic rippling through me in a restorative wave.
My makeshift pillow is still asleep, thank the stars. Gingerly, I inch my head up and peer to the side, catching sight of skeins of silvery hair and tawny skin. Then I blink. Wait, that’s not right. The manticore is reddish gold . . . and furry. Not brown and mouthwateringly lustrous.
I scramble off him and turn, only to feel my face light on fire.
The king is naked. Very, very, very naked.
And human.
And naked.
Swallowing past my dry throat, I stumble backward, feeling like every nerve in my body is in a state of acute awareness, but I can’t stop gaping.
I’d seen Darrius shirtless in the ring and know he’s nauseatingly fit, but this is beyond any of my wildest imaginings.
From his well-shaped bare feet and the bulging calves dusted in dark hair, to his even heavier, ropier thighs and the thick half-hard manhood, the man is sculpted like a scarred, battle-hardened warrior god.