8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
M y mood has soured considerably by the time the carriage finally begins toward the city. The temporary numbness afforded by the tea has already begun to wear off and a fierce ache has settled into every joint and muscle. My death sidles over my wrists in circles, lashing over my skin like broken glass, and though the pain is enough to make me want to crawl back into my bed, it isn’t enough to keep me from watching Willa covetously.
Her lips part and her eyes glint almost greedily, as she stares up at the looming facade of the Lunaedon. In the short time she’s been here, I’ve noticed her rapture whenever she’s faced with even the faintest amount of beauty—like she’s been parched for an eternity and the sight of it is pure, cool water.
And though my castle is ominous with its sharply pointed turrets and looming black battlements, it is also undeniably beautiful. The towers are lined with stonework so finely detailed that from our position on the ground, they appear to be made of lace rather than rock. Iron fences surround the estate, webbed with intricately sculpted designs that curve and undulate, offering an alluring version of the old stories, from this world and others. The hundreds of inlaid windows gleam in the starlight, the black facade of the palace not a shadow looming over Letum’s natural beauty, but a reflection of its multitude of colors.
The carriage door opens, and decorum I’ve no business adhering to has me offering Willa an arm in assistance. She snarls at me like I’ve brandished a sword rather than a hand, before brushing past to haul herself through the door, tripping over her skirts and swatting at her hair in the process. She plops herself onto the seat with an ungraceful huff, yanking further at the swirl of fabric around her ankles with a mutinous look, like the dress has offended her just as grievously as I have.
I climb in, settling on the seat opposite hers. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all, her attention having shifted from her hapless skirts to the carriage itself. She runs her fingers over the satin seat reverently, her cheeks a delicious pink from the apparent exertion of wearing a dress and hating me entirely.
Willa makes a small sound of pleasure as her hands caress the cushions before tracing up the embellished walls—a sound that has me squeezing my eyes shut as my death shudders, digging into my wrists like ragged claws.
I release a slow breath in a futile attempt to soothe the ribbons into submission, but this proves to be a grave mistake, as on the next inhale, I’m inundated by her scent. Something like lilies on clean, warm skin fills my nostrils and then my lungs, causing my death to reach toward her.
The normally roomy interior of the carriage feels absurdly small, and suddenly, I’m certain this trip was a terrible decision. The journey to Caelum, and the city’s harbor beyond, is very short, as the Lunaedon is strategically positioned for me to be able to protect the city and its surrounding areas at a moment’s notice. But with Willa across from me and my death unable to settle, the trip now feels unbearably long.
She traces the curtains reverently, her bare fingers skimming the fabric as the carriage lurches forward. For an absurd moment, I consider jumping out despite its rapidly increasing pace and taking my chances with the fall, rather than whatever this is. Instead, I twist my lips in disapproval and ask in a gruff voice, “Were the gloves provided not to your liking?”
Willa flicks her eyes from me in dismissal, ignoring the question to tug irritably at her dress again.
“At the very least, it looks like my armory was to your satisfaction.”
Her fingers clench in her skirts, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Do you let all your captives peruse through your weapons?”
“Only the ones who go after the cutlery. Eventually we’ll run out, and then what? You’ll have us all reduced to eating like animals.”
Willa runs her tongue slowly over her teeth, like she’s attempting to temper the snide remark she has at the ready. After a stilted moment, she asks, “Where are you taking me?” Though feminine in tone, her voice contains a husky quality, a rich texture that, for some ridiculous reason, reminds me of the luscious scratch of nails over bare skin.
“To the city,” I reply irritably, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m irritated with. Willa, for being here and looking like the embodiment of all my worst mistakes? Or myself, for being drawn to her despite my disgust? “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I phrase it like she has a choice, though we both know she doesn’t. While I promised Willa the wards to her world would open, I purposely didn’t say when. And though I have my suspicions of who Willa is, they’re worthless until Adira confirms them.
Willa’s eyes flick to mine and my ribbons shiver in pleasure. It takes everything in me not to snarl at her, to punish her for enamoring my death even though she has no idea she’s doing it; no idea of the horror she sits beside.
“There are cities here?”
“Did you think I ruled a kingdom of only Sam?” I reply wryly.
Her lush mouth twists in annoyance, and I almost smile. In our short time together, I’ve come to realize that despite my dislike of the woman, I do like infuriating her. I like the colors she turns and the flare of her eyes, the twist of her mouth, and the vibration of her body.
While some say a woman’s sweetness is heaven’s nectar, I’d argue that Willa’s fury is a thousand times more intoxicating. And my death consumes it like sustenance.
“I was beginning to think you ruled no one and are actually just an insane asshole who believes he’s a king. And Sam is kind enough to play along with your delusions.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me. “You don’t know Sam very well if you think he’d allow me even one delusion of grandeur.”
She studies me, and for an absurd moment, I feel uncomfortable; like I want to shift beneath her penetrating gaze. “Sam isn’t your servant, then?” she asks carefully.
“Sam is whatever I need him to be,” I reply. “But foremost, he’s my friend.”
I don’t know why I admit this to her, other than I don’t like when Sam is reduced to something so provincial as a servant; a relationship that can be defined in payments and debts feels obscene when the man is the entire reason I haven’t given up on Letum completely. His grounding presence has kept me from begging one of those blasted sirens to drag me to my watery grave and put an end to the daily agony.
Willa looks somewhat surprised by my admission, and I decide I like that, too. In her time here, she hasn’t appeared surprised by much—not even my otherworldly ribbons of decay. I should probably be offended that in a land of whimsy and nightmares what has startled her most is my ability to have a friend, but instead, I take comfort in the fact she’s able to be surprised at all. Despite her best intentions to appear deadened and numb, something in Willa still thrives.
“Well, I suppose even the devil has friends in his demons,” she snipes, brushing the thick curtain aside to gaze out the window. Her dress rides up her calves, revealing delicate ankles and smoothly tanned skin, and I nearly cry out as I wrap my death more tightly around my wrists.
Sudden dread spirals through me as it fights against my hold. The ribbons are a volatile force on their best days, but they’ve never felt so…insatiable. And after so many years of living with the pain, I don’t know that I’ve enough energy left to keep them subdued—to stop them from escaping my control entirely and consuming every bit of life Willa offers. How am I to survive the next few weeks in the woman’s presence without destroying us both?
“The devil only tempts people to sin, Darling,” I reply bitterly. “I am the sin itself.”
She narrows her eyes as if I mock her. If only she knew, it’s one of the first truly honest things I’ve said. The blood in my veins is proof enough—colored a sludge black, filled with the rot and horror and selfishness of the life I’ve lived.
Willa cocks her head, reading something on my face I don’t mean to give as my ribbons writhe over my skin. My muscles go taut at the raw sensation, and she reads that, too.
“Death isn’t a sin. It’s a promise,” she says with equal bitterness, eyes full of a challenge I don’t understand. And beneath it, something else flickers, something I do understand. A shadow of pain so deep only another who has felt it would ever recognize it.
My annoyance gives way to curiosity—is that what Willa fears more than death? Pain ?
A sharp hunger pierces through me as my ribbons lurch toward her. What would it feel like to drink in someone else’s pain? To feel the depths of her agony, rather than my own?
An iron wall slams down over her face as she watches my ribbons slither. As she notices my ravening hunger reflected in the frenetic twisting of my death and misreads it as simple want of her body. As if anything about my want could ever be simple.
Her hand goes to the sword I gifted her, her fingers wrapping around the hilt. “Dream on, Corpse King. If you touch me, I swear to god, I’ll cut your heart right out of your chest.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
Feeling entirely unmoored and despising it, I place both hands on my knees and lean forward. Into her space, close enough to breath in her expelled air—to shift the scales and be the one to unbalance her.
I drink in the widening of her eyes, the only sign of shock she allows to show. “Rest assured, Darling, I won’t touch you. But I’ll do exactly as you say…” I dig my teeth into my lower lip and set her with a searing gaze. “I’ll dream of it.”
The docks are quiet when we step out of the carriage and onto the cobblestone street, slick with the heavy mist pouring in off the sea and shining in the starlight. Willa stares out at the multitude of ships rocking gently in the harbor, while I turn my back to them as quickly as I can manage. I don’t need to look to know the shape of the proud masts carved into the skyline, sails long rotted away by the years of disuse, nor to know the sea-rusted bows of the quaint fishing boats anchored beside them.
The sight has been burned eternally into my mind for over two centuries, a floating monument to my hubris.
A light breeze skitters over the calm water and the sharp smell of brine, combined with the sound of the waves lapping against their hulls brings an acute wave of nausea barreling up my throat. In this, my death and I are in agreement—no good comes from looking at the sea. Not anymore.
The ribbons don’t fight as I pull them around my waist, and stomp toward the tavern without bothering to be sure Willa follows.
The Pixie’s Hollow is nothing special from the outside, similar to many of the salt-crusted establishments lining Caelum’s once-bustling harbor. A few, crooked stories tall, its paint chipped away by years of battering by the bitter ocean wind. Despite the apparent disrepair of most of the exterior, the Pixie’s door still shines a vibrant purple in the starlight, the delicately painted sign swinging softly above it meticulously polished. An innocent-looking faerie dressed in large swathes of green leaves and donning a flower crown that brings me a small measure of amusement every time I see it.
Every pixie I’ve ever met is far more likely to steal everything you have and leave you for dead than dance around a field of flowers, but Chrys, the owner of the establishment, has always used the stereotypes of frivolity to her advantage.
When I push through the door, no one bats an eye but Chrys herself, who raises a suspicious brow in greeting, her soft pink hair gleaming in the dim lantern light. It’s exactly this reason I enjoy the Pixie—no one gives a shit I’m the king, nor that I could kill them with hardly a thought. Most of the patrons are so deep in their cups, they couldn’t care less who walks through the door, and the rest are so accustomed to my presence, it’s lost its novelty.
“Your Majesty,” Chrys greets, her voice high and delicate. Her clever gaze, the same shade of purple as the door to the Pixie, skims past me and narrows in suspicion.
Irritation chafes at the back of my neck as I hear Willa’s small exhale of shock. Turning, I see that she has indeed followed me inside, whether out of obedience or curiosity, I’m not entirely sure. Her eyes have gone round, transfixed on the small, sheer wings that flutter at Chrys’ back.
“Go upstairs and wait for me there,” I bark at Willa before she can ask one of the thousand questions brewing on her face. Or worse, bless us with one of her savage little quips and start a brawl. Pixies like Chrysanthemum appear deceivingly sweet, but they’re notoriously short-tempered, and vicious when provoked.
Willa opens her mouth to argue, but for once, my glare is enough to stifle her tongue. With an equally hateful glower right back, she crosses her arms and charges up the narrow staircase, her curtain of caramel hair swinging behind her.
“And do refrain from pilfering the cutlery, Darling,” I call after her. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Willa halts for a few long seconds, her entire body vibrating with rage as her fingers graze the hilt of the sword at her hip. Something like disappointment threads through me as she masters herself, and stomps up the remaining stairs, disappearing from sight.
My death unravels from my wrists, and I exhale a relieved sigh as it settles sulkily in the air behind me. It still hurts—it always hurts—but the pain is less when the ribbons aren't bound around my skin like a vise.
No one spares me a glance as I head to the bar, where Chrys already has a generous measure of rum waiting. I tip it back wordlessly, some of the tension in my muscles ebbing as the liquor pools in my belly. Chrys fills it up again with a cheeky grin, her lips pulled back just enough to reveal small, razor-sharp incisors.
“Rough morning, Niko?”
I consider a biting reply, but instead, tip the glass back once more. I need information, and pissing Chrys off isn’t the quickest way to get it. “Rough seas bring the calmest mornings,” I reply, something my mother used to tell me as a child. I don’t remember much of her, as time and distance have blurred even the features of her face, but for some reason, those words have always been stuck beneath my ribs. “Heard anything of interest lately?”
Chrys taps her long, pink fingernails on the bar top expectantly, and I roll my eyes. “You know the Pixie is always well compensated, my dearest Chrysanthemum.”
“Yeah, well, with the way things are going lately, I’m going to need double my usual price to get involved. The Strayed have ears everywhere, and I’ve no interest in bringing trouble to my establishment.”
I raise an eyebrow, doing a quick scan of the patrons in the room. “Hmm…it seems as if you've already invited trouble in through the front door.” I point to two figures in the corner—one woman missing an ear, the other, a boy hardly older than thirteen who’s short three fingers. “Are those not two escaped Strayed sitting over there? Their kin will burn down your tavern for allowing any of the poor souls lucky enough to escape inside.”
Chrys’ round cheeks flame the same color pink as her cotton-candy hair, evidence of that quick temper, and she glares at me indignantly. Before she can retort, I raise a hand in peace. “Relax, little pixie. You have always been a friend to me, and to Adira. I’ll compensate your loyalty however you wish.” I grin. “It’s just so much fun to piss you off.”
Her wings flap more furiously at her back, the soft whirring audible even over the din of the tavern. “Pissing everyone off is your one true talent, Niko,” she replies, but my compliment assuages her enough to return her cheeks to their usual shade.
She leans her elbows over the bar and tucks her chin on top of her hands. “The sirens have been singing all night that someone fell through the wards, and the winter wind has carried the melody all over the island. Is it true?” Her violet eyes flash to where Willa disappeared up the stairs. “Is that who came in with you?”
Dread curls low in my belly, mingling with the heat of the rum. Sam was right in assuming half the kingdom already knows of Willa’s arrival, if not the entirety. “And the Strayed?” I ask in a dangerously tight voice, ignoring her question. “Have they heard the rumors?”
Chrys’ wings flutter rapidly, a sign of agitation. And I understand it—there is no group more affected by the Strayed’s reign of terror than the pixies. Systematically captured, enslaved, tortured. Drained of every bit of their dust and exiled from their Hollows on the south side of the island, unable to produce any more. Forced to live in a refugee camp on the outskirts of Caelum, isolated from the source of their magic.
The blight plaguing Willa’s world has only made the pixies’ struggle more dire. Borne of a child’s laughter, nurtured by innocence and dreams, they’ve been living on the edge of extinction for more than a century.
“They’ve grown restless this past night, Niko,” Chrys squeaks with a shiver. “They’ve been spotted outside of the Hollows, traveling in larger groups. Just last night a tree nymph was attacked in the mountains with her bark peeled off and burned in a pile beside her body. Something has bolstered their confidence if they’re tempting your borders so flagrantly. And I’d be willing to bet it’s the possibility of finding his heir.”
Anger spikes through me like a glowing dagger as I imagine that piece of shit Dawson, de facto leader of the Strayed, getting his hands on Willa. I may very well be a monster of the night, but the Strayed—they’re something entirely different. Spawned in the pits of depravity, raised in blood and chaos.
Fear shines on Chrys’ face, but her words are confident as she says, “I’ve already assured everyone you won’t let that happen.” She refills my glass and gives me a small smile. “We all know no one can defeat our king, not even the Strayed.”
Her confidence should bolster me, but all it does is send an icy dread careening through my veins. It’s true, I’ve kept the balance of the island for over two centuries, but with every passing day, it becomes harder—harder to work through the pain, to remember why it’s worth it at all. I pluck the full glass into my hands, and rather than replying, down the contents in one gulp.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I wind my ribbons back around my wrists and meet Chrys’ eyes gravely. “Put your pixies to work containing the gossip. Remind the sirens and the blasted winter wind who their true king is. Pan is dead and any talk of an heir is treason. I’ll have Marina meet you with payment.”
“Long live the Carrion King,” she intones with a respectful dip of her head.
Chrys pours two full glasses and hands them to me, before nodding to the rickety staircase leading to the small rooms upstairs. “Adira is already waiting for you.” She cedes a sly smile at the look on my face, and simpers with a wink, “I’m sure you can handle it.”
I’m struck with the absurd urge to laugh which is preferable to what I should probably be feeling—fear. Adira is not one to be ‘handled’. Ever. She is a storm to weather on your best days, and one that drowns you on your worst.
Her and Willa in the same room will be a tempest that probably isn’t survivable. But what made me a good captain, and an even better king, is that surviving has never been one of my goals.
“Keep the drinks coming,” I tell Chrys with a mad grin, and head upstairs to face my fate.