Chapter 35
”Any concerns I harbor about becoming obsolete are alleviated by the certainty that I alone possess the requisite knowledge and expertise to carry out this research. It has taken two decades to reach this point.”
-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs
FANTASIA
“Tell me your plan, Tasia,” Archer growls. I’ve never seen the man so terrifyingly angry, not even when he sucked Reed’s soul down.
“Not happening,” I say for like the tenth time.
Godric gets behind the wheel of his SUV and drives away, presumably off to locate Stace and Alisha, to find more dreamdust, if he’s a man of his word.
I can only hope he finds them and that they have access to more.
Without my cell phone, it’s not like I can call them and check on them.
Archer angrily pulls Scathe’s helmet out of his bike’s compartment and puts it on the hound’s head. He pulls mine out next and steps toward me.
“You are absolutely infuriating, Fantasia Foster,” he mutters, his deft fingers working swiftly to place it on my head and adjust it.
I can’t help but smile behind the helmet’s shield, knowing he can’t see me. “We are equals, Archer Acciai.” I throw his full name back at him sassily. “Anything you’re willing to risk, I am too.”
“I’m not willing to risk you.” He turns and pulls on his own helmet, indicating the conversation is over.
As soon as we get on the bike, I eagerly wrap my arms around him.
My teeth chatter during the ride, despite the air being comfortable. Another reason I don’t want to tell Archer my plan is because I’m pretty sure he’ll think it’s stupid. Reckless. And maybe it is, but Arlo has answers about my dad. He clearly wants something from me. I worry that if I let the men do what they intend, Godric might end Arlo’s life before I’m able to get my own closure.
This way, I can control the situation.
I can ensure we all get what we want.
Plus, something tells me Arlo wouldn’t let Godric get close to him anyway.
Unfortunately, my plan is contingent on everything working perfectly. Godric needs to find dreamdust—and fast—and meet us at the warehouse. He needs to put the glass together, with me inside, so it looks like I never left.
However, instead of sealing the glass perfectly, he’ll leave it breakable. I’ll have the dust in my mouth, and I’ll break out of the glass, blowing it into Arlo’s mouth. Just like what the Scout did to me—except in reverse.
If he doesn’t die, well, plan B. Archer and Godric can tie him up. We’ll keep Arlo somewhere without nature, where he can’t recharge his power, and then we’ll question him when he’s at his weakest.
When I get my answers, they can finish him however they see fit.
You’re right, Scathe says. Very stupid plan.
You said you wouldn’t tell Archer, I say.
And I won’t, but it’s better if you let me bite Arlo—I’ll take him down with my venom.
I sigh. We don’t know how powerful he is, Scathe. He’s clearly capable of a lot. The moment he sees you, he’ll disappear. You won’t be able to get close.
And you will be? he asks.
Yes,I say confidently. He let me close at the ball—twice. Whatever he sees in me, it certainly isn’t a threat.
Scathe growls into my mind, and I shut him out, tightening my arms around Archer’s waist. Despite the dangers of the bike, nothing makes me feel safer than being this close to Archer. I know wholeheartedly that he wouldn’t put me in danger. Not purposefully. In fact, he’s worked quite hard to keep me out of trouble.
A short while later, we pull up to the warehouse. Archer hides his bike around back. As we begin to scout the place out, he calls Pixel and puts her on speaker so she can keep us updated about Arlo’s whereabouts in the city.
“Eyes at the Ministry of Trade,” Pixel says. Clicking noises fill the air. I imagine her tapping away at her computer, hacking the various security cameras to keep tabs on Arlo. A minute later, she says, “There are no cameras near your location, boss, so be careful over there.”
“Heard,” Archer says into the phone. “Scathe, stay out here.”
Scathe whines but obliges, sitting back on his haunches while we enter the warehouse. Soon we’re in the room where Arlo was holding me. I shudder at the sight of the broken glass on the floor.
“You sure about this?” Archer mutters, his jaw tensing.
No.“Yes.”
“I trust you.” He reaches out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward him. Without warning, he presses his lips to mine. Heat blazes in my stomach as I kiss him back. I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him as close as possible.
“Uh, guys?” Pixel’s frantic voice breaks us apart. “Arlo’s gone.”
Archer lifts the phone, his jaw tightening. “As in?”
“He straight up disappeared. Gone. Like in the blink of an eye.”
Leisurely footsteps echo through the cement building behind us, and I whip around to see Arlo striding toward us. With his impassive expression and his impeccably gelled dark hair, he looks every part the manipulative politician he is. His almost blinding beauty makes sense now that I know he’s fae.
“Hello, little brother,” he says in a deceptively warm voice.
“Pixel—I’ll call you back.” Archer hangs up and stuffs the phone away. He steps in front of me, partially blocking me with his muscular frame.
Arlo stops where he is, a few paces away, and raises his hands in what I interpret to be a calming gesture. It does the opposite, stirring up my disgust and fear.
“It’s a shame you refuse to acknowledge your bloodline.” Arlo tsks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Despite the seemingly casual gesture, his posture is rigid, his eyes coy, like a serpent ready to strike. “Reapers can veilwalk. It’d be quite easy, and useful, for you to learn.”
Arlo begins striding in a small arc around us, and Archer rotates, keeping his front toward Arlo at all times, with me behind him.
“No thanks,” Archer growls.
“Shame,” Arlo says. A sharp smile forms on his face. “Perhaps then you’d stand a chance at challenging me.” Before Archer can respond, he continues. “Ah, speaking of challenges. I’ve successfully earned the backing of the twelve Ministries.”
“Earned? Glamouring isn’t earning anything,” Archer spits.
“You say we’re nothing alike,” Arlo says, wagging a finger in Archer’s direction. “But we’re more similar than we are different. You glamoured your way to the head of the Nightcrawlers, no?”
“That’s different.”
“Archer,” I whisper. “Don’t engage. He’s trying to get under your skin.”
“Why would I do such a thing?” Arlo taunts. “You, missy, are highly underestimated. Claude would be quite proud to see how clever you are.”
“Keep my dad’s name out of your mouth.” I step forward, but Archer puts his arm up, blocking me from getting closer.
Arlo’s eyes flash with amusement. “You clip your butterfly’s wings,” he murmurs while staring at Archer.
“You glamoured him,” I say, balling my shaking hands into fists. “My dad. Into making dreamdust so you can gain power.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Arlo says, swiveling around and taking a few small steps away. He sighs, then glances back at us. “Your father was the one obsessed with power. With magic, Tasia. He used you for one of his experiments, without fear of consequence.”
“No,” I snarl.
“Dreamdust was a creation gone wrong,” he says. “It was meant to be a way to give humans magic for a short duration, to let them become fae themselves. Your father does not work for me. I’m only here because he brought me here—to experiment on me.”
“But the glamour,” I say, dumbfounded. “He said he was glamoured.”
“Did he?” Arlo challenges.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“What were his exact words?”
Archer gives me a quick shake of his head, presumably to warn me to stop speaking, to stop giving Arlo information, but I ignore him, desperate for the truth.
“He said his letter was glamoured to be read by my eyes only, and that wasn’t the only thing glamoured.”
Arlo gives me a pitying look. “Pretty little butterfly, your father was not glamoured.”
My vision goes spotty as my head swirls. “What?” I croak out.
“For all his faults, your father is an intelligent man, Fantasia.” He clears his throat, straightening his jacket. “He needed help, and I wanted my freedom back, so we bargained.”
“What was the bargain?” I whisper.
“Power. He wanted power. I traded my power for my freedom.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Archer launches himself at Arlo, only to hit some sort of invisible wall. “I will kill you,” he hisses.
Arlo’s face morphs into a thing of darkness. The whites of his eyes darken until they’re nothing more than black shadows. His jaw cracks and stretches until his mouth is open impossibly wide, and he steps forward, inhaling Archer’s wavering gold soul-shade.
“Stop!” I screech. I lunge for Archer and rip him away from Arlo. We tumble backward. Archer’s head hits the cement with a resounding thwack. “Archer!
I frantically tap his cheek, trying to rouse him. His eyes stay shut, but luckily his breathing is steady.
“Don’t kill him, please,” I say desperately, glancing up at Arlo, whose face has returned to its regular, ethereal beauty. He stays rooted in place. I turn back to Archer, jostling his shoulder. “Please, Archer, wake up.”
“Reapers do not kill for the harvest; they can only harvest when souls are finished with their current body,” Arlo says. “He’s not dead.”
“You—”
“You’d be wise to remember the power you’re dealing with. We might not kill, but there are many other ways we can cause pain.”
“I will fucking end you, you bastard.” I jump to my feet.
“Your little hero over there—” Arlo jerks his chin toward Archer’s unconscious frame. “Have you ever stopped to consider his intentions? Perhaps he’s the most selfish of them all.”
I spit at him, but it’s a pathetic spittle that doesn’t even make it to his boots. Arlo gives me a mischievous grin.
“You fucking narcissist,” I spit. “You’re the selfish one, you—”
“I beg to differ.” He steps forward, leaning in until our faces are a mere hair’s-distance away. His warm breath caresses my face, and I grit my teeth. “You will not spit at me again.” At his words, an icy tingle courses through my veins. I jerk backward, almost tripping over my feet.
He’s trying to glamour me.
“You see me as a villain and Archer as a hero.” He pauses, staring deeply into my eyes. When I don’t reply, he chuckles.
“That is a dangerous, dangerous thing, little butterfly.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth.
“A hero is someone who is unwavering in their beliefs. Someone who will stop at nothing to do what they believe is the right thing.”
I continue to glare, unsettled by the way Arlo’s deep black eyes bore into my soul. “Exactly. The right thing.”
“What they believe is the right thing,” he says. He lifts his brows, as if he’s trying to make a point. “Selfish.”
“And what’s your excuse? What you’re doing is no different. At least Archer has a good fucking heart and good intentions!” I yell.
“Good intentions for whom, exactly? Himself? By seeking vengeance for his junkie sister? His whore mother? To absolve his own guilt?”
I snarl, wanting to punch Arlo in his deceptively pretty face. Violence isn’t my go-to, but suddenly I’d love nothing more than to mark his face with bruises—so it matches the ugly inside of him.
“Nothing is more dangerous than a man seeking vengeance,” Arlo warns, his playful expression slipping into something more sinister.
“And what is it exactly that you’re doing? Filling the streets with a deadly drug so you can kill humans and feast on their souls?!” I scream. Arlo takes a step back. “For power? For control? You say a man seeking vengeance is the most dangerous, but a man craving power is the deadliest of all. At least vengeance is birthed from love, from passion. What’s power birthed from? Ego. The need to control. The desire to be better than others. You narcissistic asshole!”
Arlo’s eyes flash to Archer, then back to me. A line forms in the middle of his forehead. “That’s what he told you? I feast on human souls for power?”
“You’re despicable.”
He tuts at me, then resumes pacing slowly, like a predator circling its prey. “Little butterfly, let me ask you: when a human dies, where does a soul go?”
I blink, frowning at him as I ponder the trick behind his question. It’s Arlo. There’s obviously more to his words than it seems.
“Before you say I consume it, let it be known that I eat food for sustenance. The same as you. I enjoy the PD’s street tacos and a greasy hamburger as much as any two-legged being in this city does.” He pauses, offering me a coy smile. “Or four-legged, if we’re bringing that crafty little dog into it.”
After a beat of silence, he leans in and whispers, “I am the scythe not to destroy but to sow the new harvest.”
I squint. Before I can ask what that means, the air shimmers besides me and a dark shadow of fur appears in my periphery.
“He can veilwalk?” Arlo whispers, his face morphing into something akin to shock.
Take it. Scathe says urgently. Now, Tasia!
Without hesitation, I open my hand. Scathe drops a small bag into my waiting palm.
The dreamdust.
I don’t know where Godric is, but they got the dust.
This plan might work after all.
“I’ll tell you where your soul is going,” I say. Moving deftly while Arlo is still close—distracted by Scathe—I dump the dust into my hand and blow it straight into Arlo’s face before darting away from it. “Straight to hell.”
He staggers back, blinking a few times as he coughs. Glittering grey dust speckles on his shirt and floats like ash onto the ground around him.
“What did you do?” he asks, alarm pinching his handsome features. His eyes dart from me to Scathe.
His breathing increases, and he shakes his head in panic.
Scathe flickers out of sight, reappearing at Arlo’s side. He snarls, his white teeth gleaming with saliva as he clamps down on Arlo’s hand.
“Scathe—!” I yell. That isn’t part of the plan!
I can’t risk you and Archer, Scathe says frantically. Sorry, Tasia.
Arlo flinches, although he’s staying much more composed than I’d expect after being blasted with a deadly drug and bitten by a hellhound.
Clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, Arlo glances at Archer’s body, then back at Scathe. “You’ll regret that, Fantasia. Let me die, and you’ll regret it.” His voice warbles. Then his body flickers, fading into a shadow. “I’m the only connection to your father…” His voice fades as his body disappears from sight.
Scathe sneezes. He stands there, frozen, for a moment, watching the spot where Arlo disappeared.
Dropping to my knees, I wrap my arms around Scathe’s neck and sob. I bury my face into his thick midnight fur, inhaling his canine scent.
“Sirius save me,” I say, my body shaking from the adrenaline. “I can’t believe that worked.”
There is no remedy to the dreamdust. It works fast, and Arlo’s body was already showing signs of the drug working its way through his system. Which means my plan worked. Arlo disappeared to lick his wounds and die in private.
For a brief second, guilt squeezes my chest, but I turn my attention back to Archer and push the thought aside.
“We need to get Archer up,” I say, letting go of Scathe. I drop down beside Archer and pull his head into my lap. I check his pulse. It’s still strong and steady. “Where’s Godric?”
When no response comes, I glance up. “Scathe, can you wake Archer? Maybe you can mindspeak to him and get him to wake up?”
The hellhound is curled into a ball on the floor, his breath coming in quick pants.
“Scathe?”
Sliding out from beneath Archer’s head and gently placing it down on the ground, I dart back toward the mutt as quickly as I can.
“What’s going on?” I run my hands over him, looking for any signs of a wound. “Where are you hurt?”
A rumble shakes his body, like a growl he’s trying to suppress. When I peer into his blue eyes, I notice his irises are almost concealed entirely by his pupils.
“No…” A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “Absolutely not, Scathe. Not you. Not today.” The sure signs of a dreamdust high in my furry companion bring bile up my throat. Did he somehow inhale some?
Clenching Scathe’s fur beneath my fists, I turn to Archer.
“Archer!” I scream. “Wake up! Archer, please.” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.” Wrapping my arms around Scathe and holding him to my chest, I mumble into his fur again and again, “I don’t know what to do.”
On the other side of Scathe’s body, I glimpse the now empty baggie on the ground.
There’s a puncture in it.
Likely from Scathe’s canine tooth.
“Oh Gods, no.”
No no no no no.
This is my fault.
“I can’t lose you!” I cry out into Scathe’s fur. “I love you, Scathe. I can’t lose you.”
Everything is silent, save for my sobs, as I wait for that familiar sarcastic voice to fill my head.
His panting becomes dangerously rapid. Everything in me shouts to back away from him, to get away before the dust takes hold. I’ve seen what it does to people—what it did to Reed.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say like the Gods-damned idiot I am. “Sirius save us both, but I am not leaving you.”
Scathe’s breathing slows, and my breath hitches. A blossom of hope opens its petals inside of me. Is he fighting the dust somehow? Is he okay?
I lean back to look at Scathe’s eyes, and my heart drops when he immediately looses a predatory growl, snapping his sharp fangs at me.
“No—” My voice goes hoarse, silent, as he lunges at me.
I barely have time to lift my hands up and block my face before his teeth sink into the fleshy part of my forearm. White-hot fire shoots through me.
I scream in desperation.
While facing the end of my road, the tiny, locked box in my heart opens, and words bubble out of my mouth without my consent.
“I love you, Archer,” I whisper before blinding pain consumes my consciousness.