Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I did the only thing I found natural in the face of an attractive man—became defensive. My posture retracted, my clueless expression hardening into the fuck around and find out mask I’d worn in the Great Hall.
However, I couldn’t kid myself. As much as my mind screamed for me to leave before more words could be shared, I didn’t move a muscle. I’d wanted to see the man before me, desperately. And now, with the single word ringing around the library with its hint of accusation, I could look at nothing else.
Seeing him proved he was real. Romy hadn’t seen him, and Salem had also believed I’d killed the witch. But standing before this stranger proved I wasn’t going mad.
You .
He was tall. Even with the distance between us, I knew I was inches shorter. He stepped in close, taking the slightly open door and swung it wide. I could’ve stopped him, but I didn’t.
Beside the bright blue eyes, I also found that he had shorn black hair, buzzed almost to his scalp. His tanned skin didn’t just reflect the fire’s light, but absorbed it, revealing warm undertones of amber and brass. No wonder he had an air of cockiness when his jawline was as sharp and square as that. High cheekbones cast shadows in his cheeks. He was straight backed, slim waisted, and thick thighed—all evident details thanks to the almost too tight, long sleeved black t-shirt he wore. His cargo trousers were looser, but still did little to hide the muscle in his long legs. Even clothed, he was a masterpiece. It made me feel weak by comparison.
I quickly realised he was drinking me in too. I felt those haunting eyes brushing over me, like fingers across braille, reading my details like the words in the book he was holding. I longed to shrink away, to remove myself from his line of focus. Instead, I found myself stepping further into the room.
He broke the devouring silence with words brimming with confidence. ‘Have you come to thank me for saving you or…’
That broke the spell. The man’s confidence pissed me off. ‘It didn’t even cross my mind.’
‘Well then, if that’s the case.’ He pouted, clicking his tongue against his teeth. ‘If you don’t mind closing the door on the way out.’
Knowing I should leave was one thing, but being dismissed was a completely different ballgame.
I wished to have more control over myself, but I blamed my infatuation with this stranger on the need to study a potential enemy. To search the details of his stature for any hint of weakness.
Or at least, that was what I convinced myself as I stepped into the room, not out of it.
‘Why did you do it?’ I asked.
‘You’re going to need to be more specific,’ he replied, feigning nonchalance.
I fought the feral urge to snatch the book from his hands. ‘You killed the witch who tried to?—’
‘Squash you with a chandelier?’
I stiffened. ‘Exactly.’
‘Would you be offended if I said I didn’t do it for you?’
‘No,’ I barked, almost too quickly.
That reaction entertained the man, who finally focused his entire attention on me again. My breath hitched in my throat. He didn’t look at my body this time, but at me. Right into my eyes. For a second something pulled taut between us, locking us in place. His expression hardened into a mask of unreadable emotion, much like the one I wore.
‘The first trial has yet to begin,’ he said, the fireplace crackling at his back. ‘I thought his attempt was lacking. It was cowardly.’
‘Somehow, I think I need a little more convincing. Considering everyone in this castle has it out for me, for some reason or other.’
‘Because they see you as a threat, obviously.’
‘ Obviously ,’ I mocked.
He smiled at that, fine lines creasing the skin beside his eyes. ‘It’s best to face the person you’re trying to murder, look them deep in the eyes, and then act. He was a coward. He didn’t deserve to live.’
I swallowed the lump in my throat, noticing just how dry my mouth had become. Another glass of wine would’ve been perfect in a moment like this. ‘Who are you to decide who should live or not?’
‘Arwyn,’ he replied. ‘Arwyn Morgan.’
My mind went back to the chalkboard, wondering if I’d noticed the name.
‘That wasn’t what I meant.’
Arwyn carefully wedged the book under his arm, all without taking his eyes off me. Then he stepped closer, further into the light, likely aware of the way his bright eyes reflected it.
He was otherworldly. It wasn’t helping prove he was, in fact, real.
‘I know what you meant, but I still refuse to entertain the fact that you’re saying anything except thank you.’
‘Then I’m going to disappoint you, Arwyn.’
‘Oh.’ He stopped inches before me, his boots brushing mine. I hated to do it, but my neck tilted upwards just so I could continue holding his gaze. ‘I hardly doubt that, Hector.’
His use of my name was disarming.
‘My reputation proceeds me,’ I said, highly aware that I had not given my name to him. ‘Clearly.’
‘I know who you are, just as well as everyone else in this castle does. You just made that clear.’
I found myself wanting to ask him what he knew. Turned out, I didn’t need to. Arwyn listed off everything he knew about me all without asking. ‘You are the lost son of Heather Briar. Your parents were… brutally murdered by Witch Hunters. The Coven has speculated your whereabouts since they didn’t find your body alongside your parents. The search continued for years, until resources and leads ran out. You, Hector, are an anomaly. An interest. Not only have you kept the Coven on their toes for eighteen years, but you’ve been the centre of the most… indulgent theories.’
Did he really just use that word to describe me? ‘
‘Some believed your body was so small it burned, leaving no traces of you. Others believed you have been kept hostage by the Witch Hunters, or perhaps you stayed with them by choice. Now you see why the witches here don’t trust you.’
Heat flushed across my cheeks, veins burning as though hellfire raced through them instead of blood. ‘Wrong.’
‘About which part?’
My jaw ached as my teeth ground together. Why did I feel the need to prove his theories wrong? His opinion meant nothing. No one’s did. And yet here I stood, power thrumming beneath my skin, facing this unbearable man. Steadying my emotions, not enjoying my inner turmoil, I forced a smile and stepped back.
Arguing with him was pointless. He was my rival. Whether or not he saved me, Arwyn would try and kill me eventually. It was the name of the game.
‘Thank you, Arwyn, for saving me the task of killing that witch. But I can assure you, I won’t need your help again.’
‘We’ll see.’
I turned my back on him, eyes rolling in my skull. ‘Yes, we will.’
Fingers grasped my wrist, holding me in place. His touch was warm, his palm smooth. I looked down at my wrist, dumfounded. His long fingers wrapped easily around me, making me feel inadequate. And yet my stomach practically summersaulted just feeling his evident strength. I could have pulled away, could have used my power and blasted the fucker into one of the bookcases. Instead I stood there, my heart hammering in my chest just at the knowledge he still held me in place.
‘I got the impression you wanted me to go,’ I said, knowing I should’ve demanded he take his hand off me.
‘Hector,’ Arwyn exhaled, saying my name as though he held unspoken regrets. Using his grasp on my wrist, he lifted my arm up and then dropped it. His touch tingled across my skin, so much so it distracted me. Then he rearranged the book he had propped under his arm and placed it in my hand.
‘Are you starting a book club now?’ I asked.
His chuckle was as smooth as silk, yet his voice rasped slightly as though he needed to clear his throat. ‘Not that I should be fraternising with fellow contestants, but I think you’ll find the topic of the book rather insightful .’
There were places on the red cover that were warm, and spots which were cold. Arwyn’s hand had left his imprint on the book, just as he had on my skin. ‘No offence, but my type of novels are riddled with smut. I hardly imagine our tastes would be aligned.’
‘You’d be surprised.’
Hell, help me.
Arwyn cleared his throat as my eyes settled on the book. There were no words on the cover, nor on the spine. It was clearly well loved as the edges were frayed and the pages yellowed with time.
When he spoke again, it was as though he leaned into my ear. His cool breath worked across my skin, the scent of rosewood and pine following. ‘You heard Jonathan’s speech about the previous Grand High leaving clues to each of the trials. If you know where to look, it can help you prepare for what is to come.’
My mother. Arwyn was speaking about my mother. Somehow, him mentioning the Grand High made the atmosphere buzz with her presence. I took my eyes off the book, scanning the room, wondering if she had stood here as I did. Grief struck at me, silent as a viper striking from within a basket. It hurt, but not until after the fact.
Hiding my sudden shift in emotion, I cracked the book open, turning to the first page to find gold-leafed lettering imprinted upon it.
‘Open it,’ Arwyn said, so quietly I was certain the shadows spoke. ‘Tell me what you see.’
I did as he asked, tracing my eyes over the two words.
‘The Culling,’ I read aloud, drinking in the beauty of the calligraphy. Something made me trace a finger over the handwriting, as though I could imprint it in my skin. I knew I’d seen it before, on letters left on the sideboard when I was a child, or written onto my back as mother depicted stories of the great Eleanor Letcombe to help me get to sleep.
This was my mother’s handwriting.
‘Next time, try and find it before I do,’ Arwyn said, stepping back away as I lost myself to my mother’s writing. It wasn’t until he said the next words that I bothered to look up. ‘Good luck, Hector.’
‘How do you know this is a—’ I stopped speaking, aware that I stood alone in the library. Only the phantom warmth of a body at my side proved that Arwyn had stood beside me. Scanning the room, I searched every reachable place for him. But there was nothing. And yet I still felt the pressure of his gaze on me, filtering across my face, directly to the dried cut mark left from the fallen chandelier. My fingers touched the wound, covering it a second before the sensation dissipated.
By the time I looked back down at the open book, the writing had faded. The page was empty. I flipped through the following, knowing I would find nothing of importance.
Next time, try and find it before I do.
I dropped the useless book, stepping over it, annoyed at just how easily I was disarmed. Arwyn could’ve been fulfilling some need to help me, only to turn on me when I least expected. Clever—it was certainly something I would’ve done.
I understood why Arwyn had stayed away from the feast for a reason. He had the foresight to look for the first clue, and had found it. Which meant there was only one reason he could possibly be so prepared.
Suspicion reared its ugly head, just as I moved towards the door. I dared contemplate that I had just stood in the room with Jonathan’s champion. A Witch Hunter. How else would he have had access to such information?
But before I could dwell on it, a deafening sound rung out across the castle. The chime of a bell. A signal to the start of the first trial. The Culling. I’d heard it before, but the sudden shift in danger made thinking about anything but survival, impossible.
My answer came before the ringing ceased, in the form of blood curdling screams. It was the song of pain and fear.
It was the symphony of death.