9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
I stomp up the stairs of the tavern, my breath coming easier with every step of space I put between myself and the king. As much as I’d been looking forward to the opportunity to see this world beyond the palace, if only to find an escape route, the short carriage ride here had been nearly unbearable. He’d been far too close, and it hadn’t even been the way he’d sprawled his long, lean body lazily over the seat like a man waiting for a woman to crawl to him—like a man used to being crawled to.
Rather, it was the icy scent of him in my lungs, the eerie calm of death against my skin. His very presence seemed to consume every inch of space so fully that no matter how I moved, there was no relief from the feel of him. I was dizzyingly aware of how the air formed around him, the heat of his body, the swaggered slant of his cruel smile. The lilt of his accent, which I now realize is vaguely English. All of it was magnetic, like something about him anchored into my bones and lured me toward him.
It fucking terrifies me. I’ve endured enough pain for a thousand lifetimes, and I’ve learned enough to stay far away from anything that feels like the Carrion King does—like a bottomless chasm to fall headfirst into.
The top level of the tavern is far cozier than the floor below. A fire roars in a hearth set along the far wall, heating the frigid air and casting soft shadows over the small sitting room. The sticky wooden chairs of the main level have been traded for deep armchairs with plush cushions, grouped together in various configurations.
The room is empty but for one woman tucked into the chair nearest the fire, a book spread open in her lap. She doesn’t acknowledge me lingering awkwardly on the top stair, nor does she look up when I inadvertently let out a soft sound of pleasure at the numerous paintings hung in tarnished frames along the walls. Drawing deeper into the room, I drink in the lavish colors, the wide brush strokes and the delicate ones.
Most are of the sea outside this tavern—giant, purple waves crashing against majestic ships, just like the ones anchored in the harbor—but a few depict weaving forests, streaks of sunlight peppering the leaves, delicate pixies with wings like the bartender’s dancing mischievously between the trunks. Immense longing fills me as I examine them: their spills of color, their precise shadows and highlights.
No one paints in my world anymore. Anything beautiful that still exists was created before the plague, and most of those pieces have been moved to storage or lost to time as there’s hardly anyone left to appreciate them. And here, in the Carrion King’s world, despite the seemingly endless night and the brutality, beauty exists everywhere.
And no one seems to notice.
Hot anger spikes through me at the king—at every citizen of this terrible world—for the apathy with which they treat such things. As if they’re commonplace. As if they’ll always be here.
They won’t, I want to scream. They’ll disappear and hope will disappear along with them.
“I don’t think paintings of pixies inspire much hope,” the girl says from behind me, her voice startling me so fully from my thoughts, I jerk in surprise. “Vicious and petty as they are.”
Spinning, I watch warily as the girl closes her book and unfurls from the chair, stretching to her full height, which is hardly taller than my shoulder. She’s dressed in an assortment of silks and wraps, each intricately braided and draped to make an odd, but beautiful, dress. Her dark hair hangs in a shining curtain down her back, and her umber skin is painted with elaborate swirls of electric blues, deep violets and moss greens.
Stormy gray eyes peer out from behind a blue mask, painted with the same curling designs as the rest of her skin. Despite her small size, something about her haunting gaze keeps me from deeming her a child, and I shiver against the deep chill of it.
The girl tilts her head, her frown deepening as she studies me. “Though what would someone who hides in the shadows know about hope?”
I bristle, baring my teeth. “Excuse me?”
The girl—woman—fits me with an unapologetic look. “You lament the loss of beauty and hope like you did not have the chance to stop it.” My heart stumbles over itself, and my breath freezes in my chest. If she notices my sudden horror, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Rather, she wrinkles her nose and says with no small amount of disdain, “You and Niko deserve each other.”
I’m so unsettled by the woman’s pervasive words—by her entire eerie presence—that I only vaguely wonder who the hell Niko is.
“You don’t know anything about me.” I mean it to come out strong, but in the still of the room, the words are a whispered hush.
A small smile quirks the woman’s lower lip, pulling at the small, studded jewel sparkling beneath it. “Ah, but you shouted everything I needed to know as soon as you entered the room.”
“Is everyone here insane? Isn’t there one person in this entire kingdom who speaks like a normal human being instead of in riddles and limericks like we’re all living in a goddamn acid trip?” I demand hotly, frustration chafing at my skin.
The woman laughs, her gray eyes twinkling. “But what is an acid trip if not a dream, Willa? And what is Letum if not the progeny of every sort of dream?” She laughs again, an ethereal, twinkling sound, that heightens the cold rush of blood past my ears.
She knows my name. Which must mean this girl, with her diminutive size and strange presence, is the princess King Ass brought me here to meet. Her laughter stops, and though she cocks her head in a pitying manner, her turbulent gaze is no less ominous.
“There is no need to worry. He has only brought us together so that I may determine something about you.”
“And what is that exactly?”
“Who you truly are,” she replies simply.
Heaving an annoyed sigh, I scan the room, considering whether I’ll be able to fight my way past the princess. The thought listlessly fades into oblivion, as I notice the spear leaning against the arm of the chair she was reading in. The gladius I chose is far better suited for close combat than a spear, but I doubt I could make it down the stairs without alerting the king’s infernal ribbons. And if I somehow managed it, where would I go? The city appeared large enough, but in my short time here, I already know I’d be hard pressed to find someone whose fear of the King of Corpses hasn’t sealed their allegiance.
“I have no allegiance to him,” the woman says gently as if I’ve somehow cast my thoughts aloud. “In fact, there is no one in the world I despise more than the King of Carrion.”
She speaks so boldly, adrenaline courses to the surface of my skin and I glance nervously to the stairs to make sure the bastard hasn’t somehow overheard. If he’s murdered a child for stepping on his beach and cut out his own servants’ tongues, there’s no telling what he’ll do to someone openly declaring their hatred of him.
The woman laughs again, the bright sound so discordant with the weight of her eyes. “Ah, but Niko is well aware of my hatred. It serves as his penance and his reminder.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the King of Rot has a name—a perfectly normal name—when the man himself appears at the top of the stairs like a specter of night, holding two tumblers of liquor in his hands. My body goes taut, a survival instinct honed by years of detecting danger before it could find me first, but the princess’s gaze doesn’t stray from mine, even as the king—Niko—prowls up behind her.
My breath ratchets tighter in my chest as I wait for his wrath; for those deadly ribbons to spear from him and drain the life from her as they had Jamie. Instead, Niko leans down and lightly kisses the air beside the princess's cheek. “You do know how to flatter me, Adira. No one you despise more? What an honor to have made the top of such a substantial list.”
Adira rolls her eyes up to him, and though her gaze is warm, she doesn’t return his smile. “You know I’ll always save the spot just for you,” she replies, her light words bearing a savage edge.
The king flashes a cheeky smile and hands her one of the glasses. Adira accepts, curling back into her chair, and watching with that pervasive gaze as Niko sinks into the one beside her. He stretches out in his usual arrogant manner, propping his black leather boots on the low table in front of him. He takes a delicate sip of the amber liquid from the remaining glass, sweeping his tongue over his lips in measured satisfaction, before he bothers to acknowledge me standing awkwardly in front of them both.
“Do sit, Willa Darling. No need to make everyone uncomfortable with your inelegant hovering.”
Bastard. Rather than replying—or clawing his eyes out, which is my first instinct—I take two large steps toward him. His eyes flare and he leans back in his chair gleefully, like he’s anticipating my attempt to stab him again and is excited by the prospect. But I only lean close enough to pluck the glass from his fingers.
Tipping my head back, I swallow the liquor in one gulp and stuff the glass back into his hand. “Next time, I’d prefer whiskey to rum.”
Niko remains perfectly still, but his eyes burn as they track my tongue darting out to lick the last bit of alcohol from my lips. And when I bow dramatically into the chair across from him with a sardonic smirk, his ribbons give an unmistakable shudder in the air around him.
Adira’s lip curls in distaste as the king winds his death tightly around his forearms. “Ugh! Star above, Niko! Do at least try and keep those thoughts to yourself while I’m near,” she admonishes with a shake of her head.
His black gaze flicks to her in warning, but rather than cowering beneath it, she fits him with her own. “If you wish me to keep your thoughts to myself, you could try not shouting them at me like an overzealous schoolboy.”
Suspicion and dread wash over me. “You…you can read minds?” Under normal circumstances, I’d feel ridiculous for even asking the question. But considering how the last day has unfolded, the insanity of it hardly registers.
Adira’s silky black hair ripples as she nods. “Among other things,” she replies airily.
I round on the king. “Is that why you brought me here? So she could read my mind, and see if I actually mean to help you?”
Niko’s answering smile is terrifying. “Do give me some credit, Darling. I don’t need a mind-reader to know you have no intention of helping anyone but yourself. That is your way, is it not? To look out for Willa, and Willa alone?”
The blood drains from my face, and it takes everything in me to stay frozen in my seat. To not leap at him and carve that snide smile from his perfectly shaped face. The stories always said the devil was the most beautiful of the angels, and now, staring at Niko as he strips me down to the worst parts of myself, I finally understand how that could be. The beauty in the temptation of darkness, the gorgeous mask that hides the toiling depths of depravity beneath.
And now those depths have found a weakness. I see it in the way his head tilts, the way his dark gaze sharpens in on me like he can see beneath my skin. “Am I wrong?” he challenges in a low voice that curls at the base of my spine. “Have you not spent the entirety of your life cowering in the shadows?”
I refuse to rise to his taunt, even as it cuts through my chest and winds around my lungs. As it gives rise to visions of Jamie, of Zenni—of my sister, Celie, so many years before.
Shoving the thoughts aside with ruthless vigor, I clamp my lips together and give the king a blank stare. He may have found a point of weakness, but I’ll be damned if I give him even a morsel more. I’ve bled to keep my secrets, sacrificed every bit of softness left in order to survive. Some piece of shit royal with an attitude problem won’t be the reason I give them up now.
My skin still burns with the memory of what happens when I do.
The king watches me for another moment, and then tosses his head back with wild laughter. Adira makes another noise of disgust, even as the husky melody of Niko’s laugh settles low in my stomach. “You can keep quiet all you want, but there is nothing you can keep hidden from Adira.” His black eyes are fathomless, raking over my skin like phantom nails. “Or from me.”
I blanche, furiously trying to clear my mind of anything consequential. “Then I’m leaving,” I snarl, which only causes Niko to laugh again, his eyes glinting maniacally.
“Of course you are,” he purrs. “Star forbid, you sacrifice anything for the sake of anyone else. Even something as unimportant as your privacy.”
His words snap something inside me, and hot rage washes over my vision. “What would you know about sacrifice?!”
I forget to keep quiet—forget he holds the power of death, forget he’s my only way home. All I remember is the price the world has carved from me; all I see is his mocking amusement, his pure dismissal of the agony of my survival. I charge toward him with reckless abandon, indignant anger coloring everything in shades of crimson.
“What would a spoiled, selfish, monster know about—”
“ Everything.” Niko surges to his feet with a hiss so fierce, my words die in my throat. He leans in close enough, I can smell the rum on his breath. See the glacial rage icing over his features, fracturing to reveal the inhumanity lurking beneath his polished exterior.
His ribbons shoot from him like arrows, stopping only a hairsbreadth from my throat. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, and his eyes are wild and dark against his pale skin. His lips peel back from his teeth in a snarl as the air pulls taut between us.
I should be terrified. Of his otherworldly rage, of his malevolent power.
But as I stare up at him, it isn’t fear that winds through me. It’s something more like velvet; like the beckoning call of the wind over a night sea. Something that speaks of darkness and pain, of selfish want and horrible regret. A sharp, painful tug somewhere near my heart pulls a breathy sound from my lips, as I study him and realize with certain horror there is something in the Carrion King my soul recognizes.
And if I’ve found a mirror in a monster of death, it can only mean one thing: I’m a monster as well.
Niko blinks wildly like he’s waking from a trance. He sucks in a sharp breath, stepping away and pulling his power with him. He turns his back to me, as the ribbons lash around his wrists and slither up his biceps. The muscles in his neck tense and his jaw tightens, like he’s holding back a snarl. For the first time, I don’t wonder what his power feels like to others—but what it feels like to him.
When he finally turns back around, the rage has given way to a deadened grimace. Avoiding my gaze, he nods to Adira, who’s watched the entire exchange with only a glint of mild curiosity. “Is it her?” he grits out, his voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel.
An unbidden shiver slides down my arms. What does he mean ‘is it her’?
Adira frowns. Perhaps her condition causes heightened empathy, because she may hate Niko, but she also appears to understand something of him. It isn’t quite pity in her eyes, but something near to it. “It isn’t entirely clear yet, Niko. There are too many paths and too many colors to decipher. I’ll need more time, but there’s a good chance it is.”
Niko grits his teeth and nods wordlessly. The ribbons slither around his tapered waist, his body so rigid, I don’t think he’s breathing. For an absurd moment, I have the urge to touch my skin to his—to calm whatever is raging through him. The urge wars with every other instinct in my body telling me to run; telling me he's dangerous. A wounded animal that will lash out the moment I get too close.
Before I can untangle the thoughts, the pink-haired bartender flits up the stairs. The delicate features of her face are pinched in terror, her translucent wings fluttering wildly at her back as her eyes frantically search for Niko’s.
“They’re in the harbor, Your Majesty! At least twenty of them! They’re burning the ships!”
The pixie’s fear radiates through the room in cold, sweeping waves, even as she hurtles back down the stairs.
The air of the room stills, the only movement the exaggerated rise and fall of the king’s shoulders. When he finally looks back, I nearly lurch backward at the sight. His ribbons slither and crawl up his throat, wreathing his face in pestilent swathes. The pits of his eyes are somehow deeper, the fathomless black iced over with fury. If I thought Niko was terrifying before, it is nothing to the sharp viciousness of him now.
“Take the carriage and get her back to the Lunaedon,” he says in a low voice. There is no edge of panic, only the cold command of a king. “Now.”
I expect Adira’s resistance to being ordered around, with her hatred of Niko and her own royal status, but she only nods solemnly, a wary glint to her eyes the king doesn’t see. He’s already begun down the stairs, his black cloak billowing behind him.
I stare at the place Niko vacated, his looming presence leaving an echo of him in the air.
“What’s happening?” I demand, unease prickling down my spine. “Who’s in the harbor?”
Adira nods to the gladius at my hip, and I unsheathe it without hesitation. The pommel is warm and some of my residual panic ebbs away at the feel of a weapon in my hand. I’ve spent years learning to clear my mind of distractions; to focus on survival and worry about everything else later.
The princess dips her head in approval and grabs her spear. “Stay close,” she tells me. “They’ll mostly be after the children, so long as they don’t realize who you are. And let’s hope to the star above they don’t.”
“The children?!” I repeat in horror.
Adira doesn’t answer, only meets my gaze with her own. “If you’re going to survive Letum, you must understand one thing and understand it well.” She sucks in a rattling breath. “It is better to be dead than taken prisoner by a Strayed.”