38. Can’t Hide Anymore
Chapter thirty-eight
Can't Hide Anymore
Athanasius
Sand — beet red. A sunset slicing the sky open in strokes of dying gold and deepening blood. And here I sit, draped in black, seated upon a throne of bone. My throne. Bleached and jagged and absurdly luminous against the crimson dust.
In front of me, my sniveling servant gestures like he's handing me the elixir of life. “Master,” he says with reverence he hasn’t earned, “she may not be your consort, but she is a salve for now. An eager follower of yours, someone to take the sting off. I promise, every desire she will fulfill.”
He twirls her like a doll, her hair catching in the last rays of sun.
She’s draped in a black mini dress, its silk clinging like it resents her.
Her eyes are glossed with something like trust. Or stupidity.
I can't tell the difference anymore. I sit, one leg draped over the other on bone, watching.
The sand whispers in my ears and my patience is unraveling.
“For my amusement?” I say slowly, every word drawn out like silk soaked in poison.
He nods like an idiot. I sigh. Then I reach with a flick of thought and turn her skin inside out. She hits the ground screaming, a sound that warps the air. Her limbs thrash like some broken marionette, nerves singing, mouth gurgling with red froth. The sand drinks.
The old man gasps — shocked. Good. He’s forgotten who I am.
I rise, and even the sky seems to shrink. “Does it look like I need amusement?” I say, each word a blade as I bring myself to stand in front of the fool, towering over him. “Some cheap thrill? I want my consort. And you… are bothering me.”
Then the light bends — and she steps through. The witch. She walks a dagger in hand, gaze cool, unwavering. She glances at the broken girl without flinching, then back to me. “Fix her,” she commands.
“No.”
“Now,” she says again, like thunder behind lace, “or I will not help you. I will not let you torture someone innocent.”
“She danced with death and got her wish,” I snarl. “Why do you care?”
But before she can answer, another presence slides down a nearby dune. Moireth, ever composed, always the diplomat. Caspian grins behind her, full of jokes he hasn't told yet. “Brother,” Moireth says, soft but firm. “Please.”
I exhale through my nose, flick my wrist. The girl knits back together, quivering, puddling herself on the sand. Alive. Unworthy. Terrified. Good.
The witch opens another beam of light. “Go,” she tells the girl.
She does. As if death is chasing her. Funny, that's me.
Then the witch turns back to us. “Ione is in the Strait of Messina,” she says. “We must enter the maw of Scylla to retrieve her.” She holds up the dagger. "This will help, and I will return it to Chronomir," She sighs and mumbles. "I was supposed to do that a century ago, but good thing I didn't."
I nod. “I don’t care how it’s done. We’re going.”
Caspian stretches, then sighs. “Blood sacrifice,” he says. “Only way in. You know Scylla. She’s dramatic.”
I turn to the old man, who is already backing away. “Your time to shine, buddy.”
He begs. Pleads. It’s pathetic. I already knew he would, but that doesn't mean I'm not vexed by it.
“Do you not serve me? Have you not sacrificed others in my name?” I sneer. “It’s your turn.”
The witch shakes her head. “Unnecessary. Your blood will do.”
She grabs my hand before I can protest, pricks it — annoyingly gentle — then drives the dagger into the sand. It hisses. The ground liquefies.
"Bring her home!" Moireth calls as Caspian waves from somewhere above us.
Water swirls, and the witch and I are swallowed whole.
Inside, we’re nothing. Spinning weightless, voices swallowed in the churning tide.
Around us, images flicker like broken mirrors: places, people, memories.
And then—I can feel her. Ione, a bright light shimmers, dances, and waves from a portal.
Ione. Her eyes are wide, darting left and right, cloudy.
She downs the potion, and a thrum of energy pulses through the whirlpool.
We dive through it and emerge gasping, soaked, in the sea.
I grab the witch, dragging her to shore.
A castle looms above us, not the same one as before, this one is sleeker, more suited for the beach.
From a window, the mage watches us. That smug smile carved into his face.
“I wondered when you’d get here,” he calls. “Too bad she hardly remembers who you are."
The sand shifts under my feet as I stare up at the towering castle, its jagged spires clawing at the violet sky.
Storm clouds churn like bruises overhead, but the wind is still, holding its breath.
I growl low in my throat, fists tightening until my claws bite into my palms. Beside me, the witch—her dark hair whipping in a wind only she can feel—tilts her head and smiles.
"We are in between realms, Athanasius," she says. Her voice is bright, wicked. "So what are you waiting for?"
The realization slams into me like a tide. Here, I am not bound. Here, I can become myself—without the delicate restraint of mortal skin.
And here, if I let my true nature loose, it will not shatter her—it will save her.
I whisper a single word, ancient and raw.
The earth trembles at my feet, a jagged trench tearing open before me, splitting the beach like a gaping wound.
From its depths, wraiths rise—black as sorrow, their hollow eyes turn upward to the castle.
Above, Ambrose straightens, his grin faltering just slightly. “Well, well," he drawls. "Was it something I said?”
He flourishes his hands, spinning lazy circles in the air, and a golden barrier blooms around the castle—a shimmering dome of protection. Fool. I step forward—and let the mask fall.
A lion’s tail lashes behind me, thick and powerful, every movement a testament of wrath hold tight.
The tattoos that brand my body—runes older than the moons, older than time—flare silver, as if the stars themselves bleed into my flesh.
My eyes, once black as the space between worlds, shimmered now—tiny stars burning within the abyss, watching, waiting.
I am not a man. I am not a god. I am Athanasius Necrothys, The Veil between Worlds, The Withering, Harbinger of the Final Silence—and nothing will keep me from her.
The sky convulses, darkness flooding the world like spilled ink. I slip into the shadow and reform inside the castle. My wraiths swirl and shriek, looking for Ione. We will take care of the mage later. A sharp shrill call announces the dissolution of one, then two of my wraiths.
I tear through the halls, ripping doors from hinges, shredding tapestries by my passing. Nothing matters—nothing but her heartbeat calling to me like a beacon.
A softer call, moaning, as a wraith beckons me forward.
It's found them. In a garden room of marble and night-blooming flowers, the ceiling opens to the bruised sky.
Ione lays sprawled across the ground, her twists are a halo around her head, her eyes are moving rapidly behind the lids.
Rage cracks through me, raw and primal. The ground is not worthy to touch her. She is sacred.
Ambrose kneels beside her, brushing a hand along her jaw with mock tenderness. "Wake up, cutie," he says brightly. "Time to do our thing."
Her eyes flutter open—beautiful, vacant, lost.
"Rabbit," I rasp, stepping forward. "Can you hear me?"
She blinks, confusion swirling in her glassy gaze. "Who are you?"
The words cut deeper than any blade. "Rabbit, please," I whisper, my voice breaking under the weight of it. "Come here, my love."
Instead, she turns into Ambrose’s arms, clinging to him like a drowning soul clutches driftwood. "Who is he?" she murmurs.
Ambrose smiles over her shoulder, all teeth and malice.
"No one, my darling," he replies, smoothing her hair like a lover.
"Just some creature who thinks he knows you.
" He toys with the ring on her finger—the one that binds her to me across time and death—and laughs softly.
"Do me a favor, cutie," Ambrose says, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Take this off. Tell him you release him. You’re free. You’re mine now. "
My breathing quickens, heart pounding like war drums against my ribs. "Woman, don't," I plead. "Remember me, Ione."
She hesitates, her fingers trembling at the ring.
"Don't listen to him, Ione," Ambrose urges, turning her face toward his, stealing another kiss from her mouth. "You are mine. Remember. Now do it."
"Ione," I rumble, stepping closer, my voice a low, aching pull. "Look at me. Just look at me."
Slowly—so slowly—she turned her head. Our eyes meet. And something flickers.
I fall to my knees before her, the words pouring out of me, soaking in every ounce of yearning I have ever carried: "Remember that night in your backyard, rabbit?
" I say, voice shaking. "You were furious with me because I wouldn’t say I loved you in front of Moireth. You wouldn't let me see your tears."
Her fingers shake as she touches the ring.
I press on, the words spilling from the broken dam of my heart.
"Your eyes, my love—they are the night sky made flesh.
Infinite. Wild. And your lips—" I choke on it, swallowing the ache.
"I miss the taste of them. Your lips are death’s embrace itself.
I know the taste well, for I am death, and it has never been so sweet as it is on you. "
Her hand falters at the ring.
"Ione," I whisper, voice hoarse, desperate. "Come to me. I will help you remember—every kiss, every touch. Every place my body knew yours so well, it could never be unwound, not by gods, not by monsters, not by time itself. We are sewn into the same skin, you and I. You only have to remember."
The air quivers between us. The ring trembles on her finger. "Come home, rabbit," I say, voice full of everything I am, everything I have ever been. "Come back to me."