Chapter 16 Croía
What does he want from me? If this big bull-looking fucker thinks he can scare me, he’s sorely mistaken. I’m not some trembling lamb he can herd into obedience. The sooner he learns that the better. Whatever this kidnapping is for, I won’t make it easy on him.
Under false pretense I’ll let him think he’s broken me, that I’ve stopped fighting. I step back from the cold metal bars and sink slowly to the floor, folding my arms tight across my chest. Lifting my chin just enough to show I’m not bowing my head for him.
As the silence stretches, I let my eyes roam.
The room is small, carved from rough dark stone that breathes cold into the air.
Dampness clings to the walls, and a faint echo hums with every drip of water somewhere unseen.
There’s almost nothing here, an old red chair abandoned in the corner, a dark wooden sideboard sits beside it, sagging beneath its own weight, its legs bowed like it’s ready to give up.
My mind drifts, not to this horned brute, but back to hours ago. To him; my stalker. His eyes, watching me in the dark. The feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of him still clinging to my lips. Ba é Bach rud nach raibh a fhios agam bhí ag teastáil uaim. (It was everything I didn’t know I needed.)
A sigh slips out, unbidden. I close my eyes and let myself slip under the memory, safe in its danger. Wishing I could pull it over me like a blanket. I wish he were here instead of this monster.
A sharp throat-clear jolts me back to this miserable hole. I open my eyes to see the big bull standing, glaring down at me with a face so confused he might as well be trying to read his own name for the first time. I stare right back, my eyebrows up, all challenge.
“What do you want, you red-faced ugly fucker?” I spit, every word dripping with contempt.
His nostrils flare, his eyes narrowing into black slits around those flaming pupils. “Who are you to talk to me like that?” he snarls, his voice trembling with a barely checked rage.
“Who are you to kidnap me?” I shoot back, heat rising in my chest.
He puffs his chest so wide it looks like it might crack open. “Your worst nightmare!” he bellows, like it’s some grand title I should tremble at.
“Oh, please,” I scoff, rolling my eyes so hard it almost hurts.
“You?” I can’t help it and laughter bursts out of me, raw, loud enough to bounce off the stone walls.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes at how ridiculous he looks, standing like a bull who just realized the gate’s locked from the inside.
Red face doesn’t share the joke. He glares at me as if he just sucked a lemon dry.
“You should be!” he shouts, his voice cracking with fury, the flame in his eyes burning hotter.
I’m frozen, but not from fear, from calculation. Slowly and deliberately, I push myself up off the floor. Stepping forward I press my hands through the bars, and rest my elbows so I’m eye-level with his monstrous snout. I let him see every ounce of my disdain as I tilt my head.
“Why?” I ask, all mock-innocence. I shrug, my lips curling into a dare. “Why should I be afraid, huh? What are you going to do to me?”
He staggers back as though I shoved him. Confusion flits across his red face, and he sputters, actually sputters. “Because… because,” he shakes his head, fury twisting his features so tight.
Then he plants his hooves, or whatever the fuck they are, and roars, his voice rattling the iron bars and my bones right down to the marrow. “Because I AM DEATH and I could end you with a click of my fingers!”
The floor hums with his rage, but all I feel is the rush of my own pulse. Good, let him roar.
Undeterred, I stand my ground. My fingers curl tighter around the cold iron bars.
“I’m not afraid of death,” I say, calmly.
My tone low and even. I won’t match his thunder.
“So, if you dragged me here to kill me, get on with it. Otherwise, let me go. I’ve got better things to do with my day than rot behind these bars staring at your ugly, sunburnt face. ”
Stunned, he stares at me, as if no one’s ever dared speak to him this way before. Good, let it sink in. His hulking form goes stiff, with shadows flickering in the hollows of his scales. For a heartbeat I think he’ll lunge, or spit fire, or snap these bars apart with his bare hands. He doesn’t.
Instead, the great red bastard lifts one clawed finger, clicks it, snap. Then vanishes in a whisper of black smoke.
“Faitíosach. (Coward.)” The word leaves my mouth like venom. I shout it louder, so it echoes through the stone walls, hoping it’ll find him wherever he’s cowering now. “COWARD!”
Let him hear me. Let him remember it when he tries to roar at me next time.