Chapter 30
30
“A RE YOU CERTAIN THIS IS necessary?” I whisper.
Ailith meets my gaze in the mirror, her hands filled with my springing curls, a few already pinned in place against my scalp. Maneuvering my hair into sections, she piles the red tresses so they frame my face. “Quite certain. When I’m through with you, Yakim will look nowhere else.”
I blanch as she feathers the ends of my curls with a comb. Do I regret agreeing to this outlandish scheme? Maybe a little. I’ve tossed myself into the sea without first checking its depth.
Tonight, I am to play the part of Zephyrus’ pet.
Once my hair is properly styled, Ailith bustles to a small table littered with cosmetics. The vanity mirror is so large I’m granted an unencumbered view of Ailith and Soria’s bedroom. Pale pink silk plasters the walls. Aside from the enormous four-poster bed, there is a small sitting area to my right backed by a tall bookshelf.
I’ve no personal touches at Thornbrook. I never wanted them. This bedroom, however, reflects the couple’s nature. It must be nice, I think, to make a space your own.
“You are quiet,” Ailith states, plucking a shade of lip cream from the pile, holding it up for scrutiny, and discarding it amongst the impressive collection with a shake of her head. “Do you not want the West Wind’s attention?”
“His attention?” They are sharp, these words. It is too late to temper them. “Why would I want that?”
Her gaze angles toward my left hand, which claws the arm of my chair. I loosen my grip, sink back into the cushions with a soundless exhalation.
“Why indeed?” she drawls.
I neither want nor need Zephyrus’ attention, or any man’s attention, for that matter. Zephyrus is a distraction. Always has been. If he happens to stir certain yearnings in me, well, I can worry about those later.
I say, “Why did you ask Zephyrus if something had happened to his face?”
Cosmetics in hand, Ailith crosses the room with a sway of her generous hips. Tubes, pots, brushes—all clatter onto the table.
“He did not always appear so unsightly,” she replies, opening a tube and smoothing a pale cream over my cheeks. “I’m not sure what trouble he got himself into. Knowing him, he probably deserved it.”
“What did he used to look like?” Truthfully, I find Zephyrus handsome, despite his awkward features, though I am convinced his nose is straighter than it was when we first met, his skin more luminous.
She spends an absurd amount of time lengthening my eyelashes. Only when they are curled to her satisfaction does she reply, “Too pretty to be real.”
I gaze into the mirror. Dark brown eyes hazed in kohl regard me calmly. This woman appears arrogantly unaffected. Hair teased, freckled skin spritzed with perfume, small pearls shining at her ears. An emerald gown, cut scandalously low, accentuates the length of her neck, softens the shape of her strong shoulders and upper arms.
Her name is Brielle.
“You don’t think this is a little much?” I hedge to Ailith, who applies a gold-tinted cosmetic to the outer corners of my eyes.
“My dear,” she says through her laughter, “I could do so much more. With your hair, your skin, your curves…” She trails off, mouth quirked. “Your gloves, however, clash with the outfit.”
I clench my hands in my lap. The brown leather does not particularly match the green, it is true. “I must keep them on. My faith requires that I do.”
I’m greeted by a look of pure skepticism. Ailith is not the first to respond in such a manner, nor will she be the last. I do not expect others to understand, and I made peace with it long ago.
“Well,” she goes on, substituting one powder for another, “as long as it makes you happy.”
It does make me happy, or it did, rather.
“So, there’s really nothing between you and Zephyrus?” the faun presses.
My eyes cut to hers. Pink colors my neck and climbs into my face.
“He’s a friend,” I croak.
“A friend. How quaint.” She’s smiling as she rubs rouge onto my lips. “The way Zephyrus looks at you, I’m not so sure your relationship is as chaste as you think.”
I vow not to question her further, but it has been a long, arduous road. Today, I am weak. “How does he look at me?”
Wiping an errant smudge from the corner of my mouth, she leans back to study her handiwork, darkly amused. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
From the top of the stairs, the great room spreads below in shades of gray pocked by small islands of candlelight. Countless patrons have since arrived in the time Ailith spent embellishing me. Her words, not mine. The guests crowd around the tables, slurping stew or sipping wine from finger-smudged glassware as the front door opens and closes with increasing frequency.
I am a blade.
I do not see Zephyrus. He left me in Ailith’s capable hands, claiming he would nurse a drink in the meantime. I force myself down the stairs, one hand fused to the railing, the other lifting the heavy skirt of my gown. The stairs creak with my descent. My attention flits from darkened corner to shaded nook, drapes partitioning off smaller sections in the larger space. I smell him—nectar and sunlight. The perfume of his skin.
Down and down and down I go, nearer to this evening’s purpose. There on the bottom step, my world goes still.
Across the room, the West Wind lounges in an armchair near the fireplace, body arranged in artful repose. Lifting a tumbler of amber liquid to his mouth, he watches me lazily over the rim. In the time we were apart, he has clearly shaved, the scruffy beard now gone. His green-eyed gaze holds candlelight, and darkens subtly in the passing moments.
Zephyrus’ mouth shapes a faint upward curve. The arrogance in that smile stirs things in me despite my attempts to defend myself against it. The West Wind: devious, clever, undying. A god.
Tipping back his head, he drains his drink to the dregs. A rush of heat tightens my skin as he unfurls from his sprawl with grace. He circles the tables, slipping through space with complete mastery, no evidence of the numbness likely eating at his legs. Then again, I am not the only one playing a part tonight.
A bead of sweat slithers down my spine as Zephyrus halts at the bottom stair, drinking me in. “You,” he murmurs, “are a wonder.”
“It was Ailith,” I stutter. “She did all the work.”
The West Wind leans forward, and I suddenly forget to breathe. “Darling,” he murmurs into my ear, “I have always thought you beautiful. I did not think that was a secret.”
My nipples pebble beneath my corset, pained and chafing, and I quickly cross my arms to conceal the evidence. “You never mentioned it,” I manage with breathless nerves. “You never once made it known.”
“Didn’t I?” His eyebrows hike upward, and the mossy rings encircling his pupils sparkle. “Think carefully. What is it you remember?”
He is too close, but I do not demand space, even when his sigh brushes my mouth. “You teased me,” I murmur. “You toyed with my emotions, always seeking a laugh, with me at the center of it all.”
Head canted, his attention slides across my waist, up to my chest, where it lingers, before returning to my face a heartbeat later. “I spoke truth in those times. You decided my words were false, having thought yourself unworthy of a man’s attention.”
“How could I believe you,” I quaver, “when every other word from your mouth was made in jest?”
He falls into contemplative disquiet. Beyond his shoulder, one of the patrons, an old, bent crone, returns to the bar with an empty glass.
Zephyrus steps closer then, his sternum pressing into my upper arm. “I apologize if I made you feel unwanted or undesired. That could not be further from the truth.”
I swallow so hard I’m certain he hears my throat click. I’m absolutely going to Hell for this, but I must know. “Then what is the truth?”
His eyes shine like fresh lacquer. If I were not staring so intently at his face, I would have missed the flare of heat there. “Do you remember your first visit to Under?” With hypnotic sensation, the tips of his fingers skim the flowing silk of my skirt. “The couple beneath the willow tree?”
Naked limbs and sweat-slickened skin. The forked end of a man’s tongue. My insides curl from the recollection, and I bite the flesh of my cheek, give a fitful nod.
“Do you remember what I said?”
“You told me closing my eyes would make no difference,” I whisper as his fingers sink deeper into the folds of fabric. “That I have already seen.”
“Indeed. And once I tell you, the truth will be known. Are you sure you want that?”
I used to regard truth as a burden. I chose blindness. I accepted what I had always been told, what I had read, what I had heard.
We are attracted to things that lie outside of our lived experience. We crave something deeper.
“Tell me,” I demand.
I startle as his fingertips alight on my outer thigh and begin to trace tentative circles there. “Shall I inform you of the nights when camp was quiet,” he says, voice resonating like the lowest church bells, “and I watched you, asleep in your bedroll?” The touch skims upward, across my hip bone, where it rests, a scalding permanence.
My hands tremble. I clamp them together at my front. His allure unfolds with dizzying calculation. Bringer of Spring.
“Hours I spent in your company each day, watching the sway of your body as we hiked.” His lips brush the side of my neck. “What a temptation you were.”
Heat feeds into my bloodstream. I fight for air, or sanity, or both. I am Brielle. I have not forgotten. What manner of enchantment has taken hold?
“It was the most delicious torture,” he goes on, grasping my thigh with a firm hand. “In the evenings, I retreated to a quiet place to attend to my needs. I worked myself over slowly, wishing it was your hand around my cock.”
My stomach plunges straight through the floor.
Zephyrus turns his head, and his breath coasts across my naked collarbone, bare skin prickling in the wash of heat. “It was your face in my mind’s eye.”
“You—” My voice cracks. All that I might say turns to dust.
Up his hand drifts, across my abdomen, skirting the soft swell of my chest. For a moment, I’m overcome by the urge to angle my breast into his open palm. I question what he might do next. Squeeze the nipple, perhaps, or circle the nub until it aches.
“Someone will see you,” I whisper.
“No one is paying any attention to us.”
My cheeks burn, but I peek beneath my eyelashes, searching the room. He’s right. Everyone is too focused on gambling and drinking to notice.
“Shall I go on?” Zephyrus asks, a knowing gleam in his eye.
He must sense my yearning. He must smell it on my skin, taste it on my breath, feel the shuddering waves of longing running through me, down to the pit of my stomach, the soles of my feet.
“Shall I describe to you what it felt like,” he goes on, “imagining the expression on your face, the sounds you’d make, how sweet your touch would be—”
I slap a hand over his mouth, breathing hard. Our eyes lock and hold: green to brown, god to mortal, captive to the free.
I don’t know what to say. How does one properly respond to indecency of the mind? I’m afraid to admit to my cravings, to learn of those things, too.
Slowly, he lifts a hand, curls his fingers around my wrist, and pulls my palm away from his mouth. “You asked me why I run,” he says, “but perhaps the better question, darling, is why you run from something that cannot be denied? Do you not feel this?” He presses his hand against my thundering heart. “Do you not wish to see where it might lead?”
My mouth open, then clamps shut. I do, and I don’t. How to explain these complicated emotions?
Suddenly, his eyes widen, and I move before I’m aware of it, catching him around the waist as his knees buckle. My legs engage as the full weight of his body sinks against mine.
Panting, he stares at the threadbare rug, shock having frozen his features.
“The venom?” I ask.
He nods, just once, and gasps out, “Help me to a chair.”
With his arm tossed over my shoulder, we shuffle toward the armchair he vacated earlier. The fireplace roars behind the metal grate.
I deposit him onto the cushions, and he emits a low oath as he runs his hands up and down his legs, massaging the stiff muscles. Perching on an adjacent chair, I consider how best to manage the kink in our plan. “How bad is it?”
“It’s already passing.” He lifts his head, manages a small smile. A worthy attempt, to be certain, but bleakness stamps shadows over his expression.
It was the same during our trek to the Estate. Every few hours, numbness claimed his legs, dragging him to the earth. He told me the waves would hit with increasing frequency over time. Eventually, the numbness would remain, a paralysis of unfeeling permanence.
“Let us not think of this,” he says. “Yakim should be arriving any moment. Until then, let us enjoy ourselves.”
Nodding in agreement, I settle back, fully assuming Zephyrus will do the same. Instead, he perches on the arm of my chair, body angled toward me.
“Don’t you want your own chair?” I suggest with a strained smile. “It would probably be more comfortable.”
His mouth curves fiendishly. “Am I making you nervous?” The shadows from a moment ago have vanished, as though he has beaten them into submission.
I will not give him the satisfaction of affirmation. “Isn’t this inappropriate?”
“To you, maybe. To the fair folk, this is positively chaste.” His hand slips beneath my hair to curl around my nape. The touch is a shock. “Imagine we are meeting for the first time.”
His knee bumps my outer thigh, and I startle, clambering for my bearings. Imagine. What a treacherous word. He asks me to experience, for however long, a life that is not mine, but that perhaps I yearn for in some darkened corner of my heart.
“I arrive here on business and spot a woman I’ve never seen before.” Against my nape, his thumb skims upward, tracing the sensitive tendon. “I wonder who she is and where she comes from. I ask myself why she is here.”
He pauses deliberately, allowing me space to respond.
“I am here to visit my sister,” I say quietly, though I have no siblings.
He nods in encouragement. “Go on.”
I swallow with difficulty. Thornbrook is all I know, all I’ve ever wanted to know, but the West Wind is a force, and helplessly, I’m swept downstream.
“While I wait, I decide to eat dinner. During my meal, I notice a man staring at me from across the room. Our eyes meet, and I feel…”
What I’d feel then is what I feel now. Namely this: overcome.
“Tell me,” he coaxes in a tone I know well. It is deep-rooted, old. It demands I listen.
“Seen,” I relent. “I feel seen.”
Catching my chin, he angles my head so I’m forced to meet his eyes. They brighten the gloom with emerald warmth. Though it is a story, it’s too similar to reality for me to pretend otherwise.
“You are,” he whispers. “Seen.”
My tongue slips out to wet my lips, and Zephyrus eases forward a fraction.
A bell chimes, and he drops his hand, turning toward the front door. “Right on time.”
I follow his gaze to a tall, lanky man wearing a maroon vest tucked into the waistband of his trousers. In one hand, he carries a leather briefcase. In the other, a scarf, despite the balmy temperature.
“Don’t let his manicured appearance fool you,” Zephyrus whispers. “Yakim is ruthless. Remember that.”
Admittedly, I was expecting someone a bit more bloodthirsty. He possesses a full head of long, sable hair tied in a low tail, only a few shades darker than his stippled skin. Yakim could be forty or seventy. It is difficult to say.
As he crosses the room, my attention falls to the long, thin tail trailing his heels. Once Yakim reaches the bar, he folds himself onto one of the three vacant stools.
“Yakim is a demon,” Zephyrus murmurs into my ear. “Blood is necessary for his survival.” He watches the newest arrival carefully, as does every other patron in the room. “Normally, he would acquire blood through a pet, but when he is unable to procure one, he must purchase it.”
Yakim does not ask for a drink. One simply appears. Wrapping his fingers around the glass, he lifts it to his mouth as Zephyrus says, “He must drink every four hours to keep the madness at bay.”
The tumbler hits the countertop with a dull thunk . Eventually, patrons return to their conversations, their dinner, their gambling, though the tension in the room lingers. “What do you mean madness ?”
As Yakim’s gaze passes over Zephyrus, he does a double-take, frowning.
“Switch places with me,” whispers the West Wind.
“What?”
He’s already drawing me upright. “Here. Sit on my lap.”
I’m standing without knowing how it happened. He tugs me onto his lap, and my legs sprawl across his thighs, the emerald fabric tumbling like falling water, his face unnervingly close. I shove against his chest to put space between us when Yakim rises from the bar, eyes locked on the West Wind.
“He’s coming over,” I hiss.
“Calm, darling.” He squeezes my hip to comfort me, though he continues to survey the approaching demon. “Keep your eyes on me.”
I try, I really do, but my apprehension morphs into an ugly, deep-seeded fear. Why did I agree to this? Why did I leave Miles Cross, abandon my peers, sacrifice the certain for the uncertain?
As I shift into a more comfortable position, Zephyrus lets out a strained moan. Firm thighs, the cradle of a man’s hips, a solid chest at my back, and this: a long, hard ridge pressing into my backside.
My muscles lock. I may be a virgin, but I know what happens when a woman lies with a man.
“Give me a moment,” he says.
“Sh-should I move?”
“No.” His hand spasms around my hip. “That will only exacerbate the issue.”
“Right.” The word squeaks out.
He blows out a breath, then laughs, his forehead resting between my shoulder blades. “This is not going to plan.”
We had a plan? I’m wound too tightly to remember. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper. Those loitering in the demon’s path scuttle out of range. “What if I say the wrong thing? What if he kills you?”
Hooking his thumb at the edge of my jaw, Zephyrus turns my head to face him.
My breath catches. Our surroundings fade, and I imagine fabric enveloping our private corner, muting sight and sound but for the West Wind, a vision of bright clarity. The bones of his face appear more defined, whetted by shadow and light.
“Whatever happens, remember this: it is not real. Understand?” The pads of his fingers slip beneath the neckline of my dress with frightening ease. “These are the parts we must play until the deal is done.”
We discussed this, Zephyrus, Ailith, and I. The West Wind is my master, and I am his pet.
He studies me a moment longer. “Try to stay in character. If you feel yourself becoming overwhelmed, settle back and I’ll take over. All right?” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.
A wave of longing sweeps through me so fiercely I do not even consider how many times he’s touched me without barriers in the last hour. Sitting sideways on his lap, I watch the demon close the remaining distance, the curled end of his tail wrapped around his left leg. Zephyrus’ hand slides to my thigh and settles there. My mouth goes dry.
Yakim halts a few paces away, peering down his nose at the West Wind. Flecks of silver glitter within his black eyes. “Zephyrus.” The coarseness of his voice reminds me of crushed rock.
Zephyrus inclines his head in response. “Yakim.” The demon’s gaze skips to me and draws a leisurely path from my bared ankles to my chest.
A pet signals status, Ailith had told me. It is an object representing ownership and power. A pet, she added, eyes alight, is the ultimate form of possession.
When Yakim’s gaze lifts to my face, a small, sated smile curls his mouth. “Is this your pet? She is lovely.”
“She is.” Tightening his hand around my thigh, Zephyrus drags it higher so his fingers catch the fabric, displaying his most recent acquisition. “Poor thing was being traumatized by a horde of nymphs before I found her. Not sure how she got here.” He grins, his teeth growing points before my eyes. “Lucky me.”
“Indeed.” Yakim settles into a vacant armchair and places his briefcase at his feet. “Have you claimed her?”
“I have.” If I’m not mistaken, his canines elongate further. “It was almost too easy.”
“You always did love a pretty face.” He runs his skeletal fingers over the polished surface of the side table. “It has been some time. I almost didn’t recognize you across the room. The look suits you.” He gestures to Zephyrus’ nose, though it is smaller than it was weeks ago. “A better reflection of your personality, to be certain.”
Zephyrus inclines his head. “I appreciate that.” He flags the bartender, who delivers him a glass of wine, as well as a glass of blood for Yakim. The demon smacks his lips heartily and sets the drink on the table.
With my hands folded over my lap, I do my best to remain unobtrusive, but every so often I lift my hand to the West Wind’s chest, presenting the image of one enamored by her captor. His arousal still pokes at my rear. My mind never strays from it for long.
Swirling the wine, Zephyrus takes a swallow, then deposits his glass on the table. “Thank you for not killing me at the first opportunity.”
“Well.” The demon smiles briefly, and to my surprise, his teeth are white, like small, dazzling pearls tucked among pink gums. “I’d like to believe I’ve mellowed over the last century or so. What’s done is done. After all,” he adds, a bit of malice hardening his tone, “it’s just business, right?”
Slowly, Zephyrus tugs me nearer, his chest warming my spine, almost like a shield against the obvious threat Yakim poses. “No hard feelings I hope,” he purrs. “You of all people understand the stakes of a gamble.”
“It was no gamble,” Yakim snarls, blood outlining his shining white teeth. “You double-crossed me.”
“And you’re saying you weren’t planning on doing the same?” He snorts. “Face it. You’re just angry I fooled you first.”
Before Yakim can respond, the West Wind plants both hands on my legs and pulls, spreading them wide. My instinct is to stiffen, wrench myself free, but beneath his touch, I soften, my head falling back against his shoulder. Yakim’s attention drops to where the fabric hangs between my thighs.
“As much as I appreciate tedious small talk,” the demon drawls, eventually shifting his attention to Zephyrus, “it is no coincidence you’re here. Let’s not pretend this meeting wasn’t premeditated.”
“Now that you mention it,” Zephyrus says, “I am here to make a deal.” Gently, he nudges my legs closed. The pose apparently served its purpose.
The demon laughs, and the conversation at the adjacent table cuts out, for it is a chilling sound, thin and cruel. “How utterly unsurprising you are.” He steeples his fingers together, peering over the point. “Very well. Seeing as you went to all this trouble, I will hear your case.”
“I’m in the market for a powerful antidote, something able to reverse the effects of nightshade.” Yakim’s dark eyebrows quirk. “Do you have something in your collection?”
“An antidote for nightshade.” He speaks deliberately, a jagged fingernail scraping the arm of his chair. “Interesting.”
“Yes, yes, it’s all quite interesting.” Zephyrus waves a hand. “What is the cost of the antidote? Assuming you have one at your disposal.”
“To start, twenty thousand gold coins. Ten thousand for the antidote itself, ten thousand for the trouble of an unscheduled meeting.”
My heart begins to thunder, because I have never seen a single coin on Zephyrus’ person. Debts and unfulfilled promises are the West Wind’s currency of choice.
“Twenty thousand seems a steep price to pay.”
“The antidote contains the grounds of a bezoar stone from a goat born in the seventh hour on the seventh day of the seventh month,” Yakim says. “You will find nothing more potent, no other guarantee to stop the venom. Granted, it can only be taken at sunrise.”
My attention snaps to the window as the fingers at my hip flex. It’s still dark. But we don’t have long before Under’s enchanted sun rises, if it decides to rise at all.
“I see,” Zephyrus mutters.
A cold smile blooms, lips thinning beneath Yakim’s sharp nose. “If you do not have the payment, well, that is a shame.”
The demon cannot know how near to paralysis Zephyrus is. Even now, another wave of numbness recedes beneath his skin, a faint trembling the only indication.
“I only have twelve thousand at the moment,” he says to Yakim. “Will you accept a trade instead?”
Yakim leans back in his armchair, viciously pleased. “Throw in your pet, and you’ve got a deal.”
That slaps me awake. “Excuse me?”
Pets can be bought, Ailith told me. They can be sold. They can be traded and set free. Only one’s master has the power to decide.
Yakim considers me. “So, you do have a voice. I must say it is as lovely as the rest of you.”
It takes two attempts before I’m able to speak without retching. “Zephyrus will pay you whatever amount for the antidote, but I am not part of the deal.”
“You are, my dear.” How calmly Yakim responds. “I determined it.”
It is then I realize Zephyrus no longer touches me in reassurance. “There must be another way.”
“While I appreciate a woman who speaks her mind”—the demon’s low, silken cadence makes my stomach turn with dread—“the decision is not yours to make.” There is a pause. “We will have to break you of that habit.”
Panic swells beyond my control. It bears a mouth ringed by jagged teeth.
“How desperate are you for this antidote,” Yakim murmurs, “old friend?”
Zephyrus wouldn’t turn me over. He would not handle my life so carelessly.
“That is your price?” Zephyrus demands. When I reach for his hand, he nudges me away.
“It is.” The demon glances between us. “The only question is whether you are willing to pay it.”
Was this the plan all along? Use me, trade me, dispose of me when I no longer served his purpose? To think I’ve abandoned my peers back in Miles Cross for him—and now this.
“And if I am?” Zephyrus holds the demon’s gaze.
Picking up his briefcase, Yakim props it on his lap, opening it toward himself so we are unable to view the contents. He selects a vial with a cork stopper, holding it out. Small particles rest at the bottom of the glass.
I dig my fingernails into Zephyrus’ arm. “Not this,” I whisper.
He won’t meet my eye. “It’s the only way.”
“It’s not .” There must be another solution we have yet to think of.
Yakim offers the vial between his long fingers. “It can be yours,” he murmurs. “All I need is your pet’s name.”
“Give me the antidote, and you will have it.”
The vial disappears into the demon’s grip. “You are the last person I would ever trust. Who’s to say you will not flee once the antidote is in your possession?” He clucks his tongue in disappointment. “We do the exchange my way, or not at all.”
“My way,” Zephyrus counters, “or you can forget about my pet.”
Yakim laughs his cold, brittle caw. “I have no great need for a human companion. Yours is lovely, but there are others I can obtain by easier means.”
He wouldn’t. He can’t. But I have forgotten who Zephyrus is: a once-beloved god. He is used to catching others under his thumb, going to whatever lengths is necessary to obtain what he desires most.
Nudging me into a standing position, he directs me toward the demon. Panic spikes again as he removes his hand from my back. The trap, I finally understand, was never for Yakim. It was for me.
“Brielle,” the West Wind states. “Her name is Brielle.”