7. Chapter 7
Chapter seven
S am shepherds me back upstairs like he’s been saddled with babysitting an unruly child. No matter how I change my pace, he walks perfectly in step beside me, never allowing me to pull ahead or fall behind. And though he keeps his eyes trained forward, I feel his curious gaze more than once. In each instance, I bristle beneath it, my blood still boiling in my veins after having to suffer through the rest of breakfast with the bastard of death.
It had been a mistake to get so close to the Carrion King, even to kill him, as his proximity had been like dipping into an icy winter’s night. Fresh. Wild. Cruel. And entirely inescapable. Though I’ve put three floors between us, the biting cold of his presence still lingers. It dances over my skin, warring with the heat of fury pulsing through me, the combination dizzying in its intensity.
The sight of his blood dripping over his snow-white skin like specks of ink—a shade of black as enduring as his lightless gaze—should have sent me sprawling backward. Instead, it had latched beneath my ribs and drawn me toward him, a dark call that reverberated through me.
As I walk with Sam through the labyrinthine hallways of the palace, my stomach flutters uneasily. Grimacing, I pull my shoulders straighter and take a leveling breath. Pushing thoughts of the king and the unnatural pull of his presence aside, I focus on the task at hand. Pretending to be willing to help long enough to learn more about the wards he’d spoken of.
Sam stops at the end of a long corridor and presses his hand to the towering door. The etched plane disappears beneath his palm, and he ushers me in with a smile. My breath catches as I take in the room before me. The same inlaid windows as the rest of the palace stretch from floor to ceiling, but rather than art or tapestries adorning the walls, here, a wide variety of weapons are hung in neat rows. Each black blade is polished to perfection, the soft flame of the lanterns trickling over the immaculate metal. All various sizes and makes, and all crafted with the same detail as the rest of the palace.
I whip my head to Sam, narrowing my eyes. “Why did you bring me here?”
Sam shrugs. “His Majesty’s orders,” he replies simply, before gesturing to the wall of weapons behind me. “Pick whichever you’d like.”
I don’t move, wariness spiking through me. “I tried to stab him through the throat at morning tea. Why would he give me a weapon?”
Sam shrugs again, waving his hand irreverently. “It isn’t in my job description to decipher the inner workings of His Majesty’s mind, and I’d loathe to try. Though if I were to hazard a guess, perhaps it’s because he doesn’t wish to lose any more of his cutlery to combat.”
He lets out a deep laugh at my scowl, moving to pluck a small gladius with a smooth pommel and an intricately jeweled hilt from where it hangs on the wall behind me. Light and practical with a subtle beauty.
“Or…” he says slowly, twirling the blade with practiced ease. “Perhaps His Majesty doesn’t wish you to be in danger during your stay in Letum.”
A mangled sound of fury echoes in the back of my throat. “Unless I step on the wrong beach,” I mutter, meeting Sam’s gaze in challenge.
He only chuckles lightly with another irreverent shrug and hands me the sword. I take it, my brow knitting together as I examine Sam and realize I don’t understand the man at all. Despite his clear strength, his demeanor is calm—almost gentle. Unlike the king whose presence spikes beneath my skin like volts of electricity, Sam’s is steady. Like a deep breath.
How can such a benevolent man serve such a violent leader? How can someone who won’t raise a hand in violence, even to defend himself, bow before a king who slaughters innocent children and cuts out the tongues of his servants?
“You aren’t even going to try and defend your king?”
Sam laughs openly, a warm, loud sound. “Defending the king is also not in my job description.” He hands me a sheath for the sword. “Try that on and make sure it’s comfortable. Perhaps if we have time later, I can teach you a few of the basics. Suffice to say, you should stab with the pointy end. Which shouldn’t be a problem, as you seem to possess a natural inclination for sharp things.”
I buckle the scabbard to my hip with an indignant huff, biting my lip hard enough to keep from blurting out how familiar I am with swordsmanship. Years alone on the run afforded me a lot of time to practice with an assortment of weapons and fighting techniques, and I used the time well. Well enough that if the military ever came looking to trap me in one of their camps again, I’d be able to fight my way out.
Perhaps the king means to grant me a false sense of security by providing me a weapon. Or perhaps he’s as sick as he appears and enjoys his prey putting up a bit of a fight. It was in his eyes both times I held his life in my hands—no matter my bluster, he doesn’t truly think I’m capable of killing him. People always see a pretty face and assume a pretty soul lives beneath it. Most are dead before they can realize their mistake; before they understand that beauty is often far deadlier than overt ugliness.
Sam gives me a cheeky grin, stepping back to admire the fit of the belt. “The forks may yet survive to see another meal.”
I roll my eyes, just as the door disappears once more and Marina bustles in, arms laden with a pile of fabric and what appears to be a hairbrush. Without preamble, she shoves the bundle into my arms and then begins gesturing furiously to Sam.
The fabric turns out to be a beautiful black cloak and another pair of gloves similar to the ones I’d left in the bathroom. The inside of the cloak is lined with lush velvet, the hem intricately stitched with shining gold thread in patterns reflecting the constellations of the Letum sky.
Sam shifts awkwardly as Marina finishes her tirade with a hand at her hip. “Marina says…well, she, uh—would like to brush your hair before you meet the princess.”
By the incensed look on Marina’s face, I get the distinct impression this isn’t at all what she said and that perhaps she’d rather light my hair on fire than brush it, but my thoughts snare on the word princess. “Princess?” I repeat doubtfully.
There is no royalty in my world anymore, and the only thing I know of it is what I’ve read in the old fairy tales and history books I managed to pilfer before they were lost to the plague. Is Letum in some undiscovered part of the world, isolated and protected from the plague that’s been systematically crumbling the rest of civilization? A place of odd stars and evil kings? Of princesses and mermaids?
Or have I dreamed the world of Letum up, the sad coping mechanism of a desperate soul locked in the bowels of an Amelioration camp?
I clear my throat, pushing the thought from my mind. “If she’s the princess, why doesn’t she live in the castle with the king?” His black gaze flashes through my thoughts, depthless and as unfathomable as the sky itself. “Is it because her father is a death-wielding lunatic?”
Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat that could be a laugh, but he doesn’t rise to my rancor. “Adira is not His Majesty’s daughter, but a princess in her own right, of her own people.”
“Does she also murder children and cut out her servants’ tongues?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Sam replies with a wink that has me questioning whether or not he’s serious. He tilts his head, examining me. Not in the madness-edged way of the king, but in soft assessment. After a moment, he grunts in amusement. “His Majesty is a far braver man than me to endeavor to face the two of you at once. I’ll be sorry to miss it.”
“You aren’t coming?” I ask, the unease that’s been pooled in my stomach spreading to my limbs at the idea of being alone with the Carrion King. Unbidden, images of him press into my mind: the cruel slant of his lips, the dark curve of his brow. Those ribbons of midnight that shudder and writhe over his pale skin in a way that feels both unbearably decadent and horribly dangerous.
Death close enough to touch. What would it feel like for one of those silky tendrils to ensnare me? To give myself over to them completely?
Sam clears his throat, drawing me pointedly from the spiral of self-destructive thoughts by answering my question. “It’s better for all involved if the princess and I keep at least half a kingdom of space between us.”
Marina gives Sam a heartfelt look that only heightens my curiosity, but Sam doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he motions to the cloak in my arms. “If you would, miss.”
“Willa. Just Willa.”
“Willa,” Sam obliges with a tip of his head.
Shoving the gloves into a pocket, I wrap the cloak around my shoulders. The fabric is impossibly supple, and reflexively, I burrow deeper into it with a near-purr of pleasure. At Marina’s stern look, I run my fingers haphazardly through my hair before following Sam out into the corridor.
We walk in companiable silence, Sam seemingly lost in thought, perhaps about the mysterious princess, and me, focused on memorizing the maze of palace hallways. Despite the lack of color, the palace holds an irresistible gothic charm that has a part of me wishing to slow our pace in order to devour every beautiful detail.
Each wall is paneled and etched with delicate precision. The floor gleams, black marble streaked with deep shades of blue and purple reminiscent of the transcendent night sky beyond the geometric patterns of the inlaid windows. Everything glitters beneath the soft light of gilded lanterns and ornate candelabras, like stars have sprawled through every corridor.
“It’s called the Lunaedon,” Sam says, taking note of my wonder, though I’d rather him notice nothing about me at all. “The palace, that is.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. “And were you born here? In the Lunaedon?”
Something like amusement dances over Sam’s face, like he knows I’m prying but doesn’t mind entertaining it. “I was born in London.”
My heart lurches in my chest at the mention of the city. The city where my mother was born; the place my father fled after her death in an attempt to escape the memories haunting him on every corner.
“London,” I repeat faintly. “As in, London, England?”
“The very same,” Sam replies, turning sharply and beginning the descent down the grand staircase.
“And Marina? Is she from London, too?” Is that why I can’t understand her sign—it’s British? And is that why everyone here all plays along with the same insanity? They were once living like normal people and then woke up to this plague-induced nightmare just as I have?
My ribs constrict and blood rushes past my ears. “Did you all fall through stars?” I demand hotly, my earlier panic resurging with a vengeance. Like a wave crashing down on top of me, drowning me in mud and debris. “Or was that a pleasure saved only for me?”
Sam’s answering smile is somewhat pitying. “Didn’t enjoy the trip?”
Unbidden, my body shudders as it remembers the feeling of falling. Plague-induced nightmare or not, that felt real. The rush of air, the rapid blur of the buildings around me. The breathless pressure, the approaching concrete. “Does anyone enjoy being trapped in a nightmare?” I murmur, halting in place before my panic pushes me headfirst down the stairs.
Sam stops too, giving me a curious look. “Is that what you think Letum is? A nightmare you can’t wake from?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as an overwhelming sense of despair crests above me, threatening to sweep me away. As I admit aloud what I’ve feared since I woke up in the middle of the fall. “I think—” I lick my lips and try again. “I think after all this time, I’ve finally been infected. I think I’ve finally gone as mad as the rest of the unsound.”
I open my eyes and gesture helplessly around me. Nothing else makes sense but insanity. This wild world with its cruel king and glowing flowers and unimaginable sky—all of it has to be a figment of my mind. And if I were to somehow wake up, I’d find myself right back on those doctors’ tables, being torn apart day after day.
All my fighting, all my running. All the sacrifices I made in order to survive—it was all worthless.
A large finger fixes under my chin, gently pulling my gaze upward. My vision blurs as I meet Sam’s gaze, but something in the warm brown of his eyes immediately soothes me. My muscles relax and my heartbeat slows, and for a wonderful moment, I can’t remember ever being upset.
His deep voice rumbles through my chest, and the last of my panic evaporates. “I assure you, Willa, you are entirely sane. Letum is as real as your world. The rules are just a bit different.”
I let out a slow breath as his words flow through me, sweeping away my fear and replacing it with a sense of peace. And perhaps it’s the very same peace that gives me leave to be vulnerable for just a moment, in this odd hallway with Sam, without calculating how much it will cost. “Are you sure?”
Sam smiles and it lights up his handsome face. “I promise. There have always been parts of the universe too far and wide to be wholly understood. Letum is one of those places. You are just as sane as you were before the fall.”
I give Sam a grateful smile, and though he returns it with one of his own, the relief of knowing I haven’t lost my mind dissipates as quickly as it arrived.
Because at that moment, a darkness-edged voice says, “I wouldn’t be so quick to declare the woman’s sanity, Sammy. Two murder attempts before breakfast hardly speak to a sound mind.”
I spin so quickly on my heel I nearly lose my balance and tumble down the remaining stairs. My hair, now fully dried, snares in front of my face and I hastily sweep it away, only to find the Carrion King smirking up at me from the entrance hall.
He’s changed into what I can only assume are his traveling clothes, though they’re highly impractical for the occasion. A black ruffled shirt tucked into a tight pair of leather pants, knee high boots, and a black leather cloak that’s buttoned around his throat and sweeps around him so fully, it gives him the impression of wings.
The tiny diamond stud gleams in his nose, the other nostril now adorned with a small gold hoop that matches the embroidery of his eccentric shirt. His tattooed fingers, hidden again inside black leather gloves that stretch up to his elbows, stretch in a flourishing bow, the movement somehow both captivating and mocking.
Truly, the Carrion King’s entire outfit is outlandish. Utterly ridiculous.
But as he peels himself off the banister and takes a challenging step toward me, his ribbons of death wrapped around his wrists like macabre bangles, for some reason, I don’t find it at all funny. The cut of the clothes, the shape of his body, the smudge of makeup around his hateful eyes—all of it screams death. Pain.
And goddammit, if something about it all isn’t twistedly alluring. In the same way watching the beauty of a flame makes you want to touch it, even knowing how it would burn. Something about him calls the same madness to the surface of my skin.
“I hardly think a grown man who throws temper tantrums about sand is qualified to make judgments on sanity,” I grit out, pointedly ignoring the fluttering heat at the base of my spine. Hatred, maybe. Or something far worse.
The Carrion King only smirks dismissively, before turning his attention to Sam. “Will you be accompanying us today?”
His tone isn’t sharply edged or cruelly mocking as it is when he addresses me. It’s unfittingly gentle, laced with surprising concern.
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve plenty to keep me busy elsewhere, sir.”
The Carrion King watches Sam for a long moment with a look I can’t quite place, before he dips his head to his servant in deferent acceptance. The small gesture is so at odds with his usual arrogance that I can’t help my stare as I try to determine how, exactly, it has upended the power dynamic I’d been so certain of only a moment ago. Before I can grasp the thought fully, his black gaze flicks back to me and a wave of ice sluices down my spine.
His mouth twists in clear disdain at what he finds—tangled hair, wild eyes, anger that radiates over my skin—but he makes no comment. He only barks, “Let’s go.”