Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Steel clad boots drum against the stone as Royal Guards storm the ward, the ground vibrating under their step.
Their fingers dance as they slip through the ward, into the growing pit of thrashing vines.
Fire, ice, and blinding streaks of lightning shoot through the air, sending a painful buzzing sensation down the back of my neck.
The once placid courtyard transforms into a nest of writhing vines and screams rise. Blue-silver runes ripple like the surface of water as vines slam into the ward. They swing wildly, shearing veilflowers from other vines—waking them.
Screams become gargled as thrashing vines grow coated in crimson.
There’s no euphoric rush, no tensioned release, not with these deaths. Not like it had been with my shadows.
I feel nothing… but cold.
My body grows heavy and the urge to shrug off my mortal coil consumes me. Desperate to fill my lungs, I listen.
And plummet into the comforting call of darkness.
The cold… it tugs at me.
Demands my attention.
Beckons to meet.
Eve shouts—her voice echoing as if she’s realms away.
But her panic, her fear—it rings clear.
Strong arms stop my free fall and warmth rushes into my chest. The ice around my heart subsides, melting away, and a bright white light forces back the darkness.
The thrashing, the screaming—it all stops as my chest heaves.
“That’s it,” Ryc urges in a whisper. “Breathe, little love.”
Glimpses of Ryc hovering over me, his hand pressed to the center of my chest, slip through my lashes.
“Eve, find Drunina,” Ryc orders. “Quickly.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. You must,” Ryc interjects.
Hellish heat bursts on my left as crimson light flashes over Ryc’s features. For the shortest moment in time, I become weightless as Ryc stands. Warm lips press a kiss to my brow.
“You’re here, with me,” he says, cradling me against him.
The warmth of his body against mine feels like sunlight upon my skin—it carries the promise of the living realm, of life—and needing to chase away the lingering chill, I grasp his shirt with trembling fingers.
“Death can no longer have you,” he says softly.
It’s a promise.
And as much as I want to, I don’t argue. He should know better than to make promises impossible to keep.
?????????????
The sound of the roaring fire fills my quarters as Eve pulls yet another piece of wood from the crate and stacks it upon the fueling mound. With a sigh, she dusts her hands on her pants as she steps backwards, reclaiming her seat on the couch beside me.
Staring through the dancing flames, I tighten the comforter about my shoulders as my mind continues to spiral. I had already burned through the night recounting every moment of what happened in the courtyard—trying to understand, to gain some semblance of sense and understanding.
I couldn’t sleep.
And the little sleep I did find wasn’t restful.
It was plagued with dreams—of me standing in a clearing of a cold, dark forest with veilflower vines creeping out of the shadows. I awoke cold and struggling to breathe, tearing at my throat to free myself from vines.
Ryc was reluctant to leave this morning.
But with the deaths of four researchers and six guards to address, he couldn’t stay.
The courtyard is a mess.
The vines have become a tangled, near impassible web of silver thorns and massive stalks pressing against the ward. I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s triggered the sudden wrath or growth. The only semi-logical conclusion I’ve come to is it has to do with her.
The other half of my soul.
While Cyran has been arguably less prickly as of late, even at his dourest, death by thorns isn’t the kind of death he deserves. Somehow, whether by Nektos’ doing, or the whole of the universe itself, he escaped the twisting mess relatively unscathed.
But those who did die—those guards and researchers…
I neither saw nor felt them. And while I may not be particularly invested in their lives, the remorse I battle despite that is unrelenting and sharp.
I am not unfamiliar with being the reason for death, but it is unfamiliar for it to sit so heavily on my chest.
My fingers tighten, crushing the soft comforter.
I… I tried to warn them.
No one will be going near the center courtyard any time soon.
The ward has since been reinforced, Cyran leading the charge in ensuring the vines remain contained.
And I do not envy the Captain of the Royal Guard.
In addition to keeping Ollora secure, he’ll be informing six families of their losses today.
“How are you feeling?” Eve asks, her voice so soft and quiet, I could have imagined it.
The dancing flames regain focus.
“Fine,” I answer and I can feel the intensity of her disbelieving stare on the right side of my face. “I’m fine,” I repeat, meeting her eyes.
It’s a statement I’ve said a lot this last week.
If the words I’m fine brand my skin in Malbolge by the day’s end, I won’t be surprised.
“I’m going to assume you’re not going with Ryc to meet the council,” she says, shifting in her seat to perch an elbow against the back of the couch. She props her cheek against the heel of her hand.
A couple details, one more obvious than the other, catch my attention.
When did Eve start addressing Ryc by name?
“I didn’t know he was meeting with them,” I reply, brows furrowing. “I’m not upset by not being invited.”
I’m in no hurry to meet Ganus again.
And Ryc likely feels the same.
Eve’s dark brows lift. “He has to appeal for permission to approach Illa Ysari,” she says. “Apparently a Sovereign King setting foot upon it without council consent is viewed as aggression.”
My face pinches. “Why?”
Eve huffs a dry laugh. “Why do fae kings do anything?”
Power.
Fair enough.
“You did the right thing,” she says. “Getting mixed up with a vampire who takes holiday in the hells isn’t something you need.”
I laugh, nodding.
“You’re right,” I say with a smile and she grins. “But I hope these archives have what I’m looking for. I don’t know how else to reach Ylara if not.”
“Do you think she’s in league with Vaelyn?”
I pause.
And heave a sigh as I shrug.
“I want to say no,” I answer, mulling the question in my head. “But if she isn’t, that leaves her Unhoused. And this is a less than ideal time to be Unhoused.”
“Because of the Dark Hunt?” Eve asks.
I nod. “She and Vaelyn rarely agree upon anything and she made it clear in the days before my escape, she wanted the same.”
“Another demon in the living realm?” she laughs, surprised. “Not sure we could handle that.”
A soft smile curls my lips as I turn back to the fire. “Ylara’s more suited for the living realm than I am. She wouldn’t need lessons—she already knows all about the histories, practices, psychology. She’s always had interest in mortals—people.” I correct myself.
No, were Ylara ever to escape the hells, her transition into this realm would be seamless—as long as she can keep her demonic urges under control. She’d make a home in the shadows, watching, learning, vanishing before anyone knew she was ever there.
“Eve…” I trail off, my eyes narrowing as I stare blankly at the fire, recalling yesterday. Again. “I realize things were chaotic, but did I see you ferry?”
A small string of stammers stem from the fae beside me.
“Cyran teach you?” I ask, interpreting the noise as her answer.
She silences herself, forcing me to turn and meet her stare once again.
“No,” she answers. “Your fae did.”
“Ryc?” The surprise in my voice is abundant.
She nods. “He taught me how to ferry, I taught him m—” she stops herself, shaking her head, “Told him about my time with Tiarsus.”
My eyes narrow once again as I hold her gaze. Even I don’t know much about her time with the Guild of Night. It’s not something I’ve ever asked her to share. I figured she would when she wanted to.
“Should I be worried?” I ask, choosing to ignore the sinking feeling she’s not being honest. “First compliments. Then Ryc—you’re calling him by his name. Now bartering? Are you spending too much time with a demon?”
A gentle knock upon the door causes Eve’s jaw to clamp shut. Her witty retort at the ready, silenced.
Cyran enters as Eve peers over her shoulder.
“Morn, Lady Ves,” he says with a small dip of his head, closing the door. “Lady Eve.”
“Despite yesterday’s tragedy, I’m still upset with you Captain Stargarden,” Eve replies, turning back to me.
Cyran cracks a tiny smile as he approaches. “If this is about your hair, may I propose cutting the rest of it to match?”
I reel back as Eve’s head whips around, narrowly avoiding her swinging braids.
“There is a personality under all that armor,” she shoots back, laughing. “I’ll be damned.”
“You being damned has nothing to do with my personality. Perceived or otherwise.”
The calm quip has my jaw falling and brows raising. Eve bursts into laughter as Cyran stops beside me, along the backside of the couch, and offers me a small obsidian box.
A ring box.
Eve’s eyes race from the box to me, her laughter fading.
“Gladir would like to know your thoughts when you have the time,” he says, his voice quiet.
I reach for the box, my fingers curling around cool, smooth obsidian. “Is he still here?” I ask.
Cyran shakes his head. “No, my lady,” he replies. “He’s returned to his shop.”
“I’ll have to thank him another time then,” I say, mostly to myself.
“Let me know when you’d like to return, I’ll be happy to escort you,” Cyran says as he heads toward the door. “Eve, when you’re able, find me. There are a few things I think we should discuss.”
“Of course,” Eve says with a small sigh and a nod.
I offer the stoic Captain a meager smile as the door closes behind him.
“Anything I should be worried about?” I ask.
Eve shakes her head. “No. I’m sure it’s updated protocols following yesterday’s incident.”
Incident.
Is that what we’re calling it?
“While you’re with Lilith I’ll go see what he wants,” she adds with a shrug.
I groan.
Lilith… Of course lessons would be expected to continue as per usual. I’ve no desire to leave my quarters. Though I suppose sitting here tormenting myself with yesterday’s sequence of events is proving useless. I’m no closer to understanding what happened than I was when it happened.
Eve gives me a rather wry smile. “This is it,” she says and I lift my gaze to hers. She juts a chin toward the box in my hands. “You escaped the hells, bested a god, returned to the land of the living, and your reward… the freedom to choose him.”
My fingers tighten around the obsidian, polished and smoothed corners dig into my palms.
Is it a choice?
Or is it simply the scheming of a god building upon an eons old web?
I heave a sigh, giving Eve a small smile.
“I do choose him,” I say softly. “For as long as he’ll have me.”
Loosening my grip, I turn the box over. Flashes of deep crimson and burning oranges streak across the glassy surface. My brows furrow.
“What is it?” Eve asks, dragging her gaze from my face to the box in my hands.
I shift the box again, lifting it between us, pinched between my forefinger and thumb. The colors sear through the darkness and a dry scoff escapes me.
“Hellfire obsidian,” I whisper with a small toss of my head.
Eve leans forward, studying the box with narrowed eyes.
“Is that different from obsidian?” she asks with an arched brow.
“Yes,” I laugh, lowering the box. Holding it flat in the palm of my hand, I tilt it toward the light cast by the fire.
Again the colors emerge in a flash.
Eve’s spine straightens as she sits up.
“Never seen obsidian do that,” she says. “That’s beautiful.”
“I didn’t think it existed outside the hells,” I reply.
I doubt Gladir understands the weight of his choice—or perhaps he does—either way, it’s a touch I appreciate. He’s unknowingly incorporated a rather significant piece of me into what is a rather momentous thing for fae.
“Are you going to give it to him today?”
The question slices through my tired mind and lodges itself in my bones.
“I… I don’t know,” I answer. “If he’s standing before the council—”
“Ves, all due respect, fuck the council.”
Brows high, I meet an intense ice blue stare.
“You’re not marrying the council,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “Fuck all of those pompous asses who pretend to care about their people or faekind.”
I remain silent, unsure how to respond.
The cracking and popping of the fire consumes the silent space between us. Smoothing a thumb over the surface of the obsidian, the weight of the box in my hands grows tenfold.
Finally I ask, “Is that what you think about Ryc? What you’ll think about me?”
She heaves a long sigh as she leans against the back of the couch.
“I used to feel that way about your fae.” She purses her lips.
“But these last few months, seeing who he is, everything he’s doing—he’s proving me wrong.
” She turns her face to the fire, her eyes taking on a sunset-like hue.
“It makes me wonder if that’s your influence—if he’s becoming who he needs to deserve you. ”
She laughs a dry, bitter sound, shaking her head.
“Want my advice?” She doesn’t meet my stare. “Don’t do what I did. If it’s what you want and it feels right, don’t wait. Time is finite and Fate is a bitch.”