Chapter 8
THERE COMES A point when words for pain run out.
Agony, anguish, torment . . .
As Lavana’s goblin pressed a brand of cold iron against her skin, on her arms, her chest, her legs, the pain-words exhausted themselves until she was laughing hysterically through her tears.
“Torture madness,” the floppy-eared, rust-skinned goblin reported, pushing up his spectacles on his mushed-in nub of a nose. “Happens to your kind now and again.”
“You’re useless.” Lavana shoved him aside, causing him to drop the iron rod with a clang onto the stone.
She slapped Magda’s face, again and again, until Magda’s laughter was choked off by blood springing up when one of her teeth was knocked loose.
Lavana seized her shoulders and shook her. Her pale blue eyes flashed with reflected torchlight. “Where is the Enneahedron? What did you do with it?”
Magda’s head lolled on her shoulder. Every time she was about to pass out, the goblin blew some damned glittering dust over her and she was wide awake again, drowning in sick pain sweat.
She’d thrown up the bread and every bit of bile in her stomach, soiled herself, gone into a waking coma for a time, but had been relentlessly snapped back to awareness by the goblin.
She’d screamed her throat raw and begged for them to stop, and yet, she hadn’t answered the question. Even she was surprised.
She spat out her tooth and a globule of blood onto Lavana’s scarred face. The burn left by Python’s iron rack had healed into a tight, red line.
So many scars, she thought with an air of melancholy.
Damion and Lavana, and now she, too, would be covered with them, though the goblin hadn’t touched her face with the iron yet. He was afraid facial wounds might hinder her ability to speak.
Lavana’s face twisted. “The spear,” she said.
“Are you sure?” the goblin asked, waddling on his bowlegs over to the array of iron brands. “It might kill her.”
Lavana straightened up, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her over-gown and wiping the blood off of her face. “Let’s find out.”
“Giving up so soon?” a new voice said from one of the shadowy corners.
Magda hadn’t realized anyone else was there, but then, she’d been sinking and rising through consciousness so much it wasn’t surprising she’d failed to notice they’d received company.
Lavana spun, evidently surprised herself.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
The shadows seemed to drift away from him like smoke as he stepped forward.
He looked like a warrior or a Prince, except his long hair was strangely pale and his eyes very dark.
Pixies with fair hair were exceedingly rare, though not unheard of.
But her own amber eyes were considered quite dark for a Pixie.
So it was startling to see eyes darker still.
“Nothing,” he said, black eyes sliding past Lavana and meeting Magda’s.
She gazed at him through the rippling sheen of pain, like heat waves. Blood dripped from her lips, down her chin.
“Your cousin is better looking than you,” he remarked.
Lavana’s hands fisted. “She won’t be very good looking when she’s dead.”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug, his gaze drifting away as if he was bored.
He had been there before. She remembered his voice now, the lackadaisical drawl, his accent leaving his words slightly clipped.
She’d never heard anything like it before.
Through her wavering vision, she zeroed in on the strange fabric of his trousers.
She spat more blood onto the floor. “Leather?”
This drew their attention back to her.
Pixies did not wear leather.
Lavana sneered and turned to the goblin. “Now, do it.”
“Wait,” the blond stranger said. “Give me a glove.”
He held out his hand. The goblin snatched up the ichor-gold gloves from a chair.
They were the same ones the guard had worn when opening her cell.
She’d seen him hand the gloves over after they’d dragged her down the hall into this room.
It had not been far from her iron cage, but was deeper underground.
There were no vents to the outside—no way for her to tell just how long she’d been in this room. Hours, days, pain warped the time.
The goblin held up both gloves. The stranger took them, frowning, and flung one of them down.
“I said a glove, singular,” he said.
“Forgiveness, master,” the goblin muttered, bowing and backing up.
“Now the iron,” he said coolly, pulling on the glove. The golden metal tightened around his hand, magically conforming. “The small one, there.”
The goblin snatched up a nail, long and slender, and held it up to the stranger.
“Thank you,” he said, plucking the nail from the goblin’s knotty fingers.
Then he turned back to Magda, smiling gently down at her. When he did so, even through the pain, she could sense it.
“You’re Lavana’s Prince,” she said.
He crouched before her. Behind him, Lavana glowered, retreating back by the door.
“I am a Prince,” he said. “My name is Endreas.” His gaze slid down her. “You look in quite a state. Let me help you.”
With a graceful twist of his fingers, a sweet-scented breeze swept around her.
When it dissipated she was clean, blood and filth gone, rips in her clothes mended, even the tacky sweat sheeting her body had vanished.
Though all of her wounds remained, the pain still shattering through her, the simple sensation of cleanliness brought tears to her eyes and choked her scream-strained throat.
He smiled more broadly—beautifully. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
It was better. So much better.
“Magdalena . . .” he said, brushing the sweep of her bangs from her eye.
Her hair was clean too, no more wet-dog tangles. Silken strands slipped against her skin, causing another sob to rise into her chest.
“I’m looking for something,” he said, “and I think you can help me.” He rose up so that he was eye to eye with her. “And if you do, I can help you.”
She pressed her lips tightly together, though they were swollen and aching, but she couldn’t take her eyes from the impossible depths of his. They were so dark and lovely, like the black valleys between the white peaks of the stars.
“I know you’re hurting,” he said, close enough that she could taste the warm honey of his breath. “I can make it stop.”
He ran the backs of his cool fingers down her cheek.
From his touch, a flood of relief washed down her face, healing her aching lips, eroding the top layers of pain, soothing it away like the ocean cleans marks carved in the sand.
She gasped, her eyes slipping shut, tears trickling down her face.
But too soon, his fingers left her. The pains reared up again, each one reasserting itself as if new.
A low whimper left her, a desperate pitiful sound that only seemed to make each patch of burned skin ache all the more.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked softly.
Another racking sob tore at her chest, she struggled to hold it in, but she was failing. She didn’t want to hurt anymore. The pain was too much. Her head bowed.
“I can take it all away for you. Every last drop,” he said, stroking the back of her head. “All you have to do is tell me what you did with the Enneahedron.” His hand slid down her face, lifting her chin. And then the iron nail appeared. “But if you don’t . . .”
The tip of the nail hovered just beside her left eye.
Though it was the smallest bit of iron in the room, its malignant energy pressed against her as if it were a hundred times larger, magnifying all her pains.
They seared a million times more than before, like her very soul was being burned.
The nail hovered just above her skin, tracing the curve of her face, her lips, her chin.
A fresh sweat broke out over her. Her whole body trembled out of control.
And then the nail disappeared into his gloved fist.
“I can make it all . . . go . . . away,” he said.
“Kill . . . me,” she begged, tears flowing freely, lips quivering.
He gazed at her, studying her for a long moment. How could eyes so dark be so bright?
And then he stabbed the nail down into her thigh. She pitched back, screaming. The iron flooded her, a thousand white-hot knives slicing up her leg.
He clamped his hand over the nail, fingers digging into her flesh. Seizing her hair, keeping her head canted back, he pressed his forehead against hers. “I’m not going to let you die . . . Magpie.”
He released her hair and her leg and very slowly extracted the nail from her body. Blood dripped off the end and began to spread around her wound, soaking into her jeans.
His bare thumb pressed to the puncture. The pain exploded and she bit down hard, gritting her teeth. And then the sparkling coolness began to seep into her again, washing away the ache until it was almost completely gone. She moaned.
Catching the back of her neck, his wonderfully cool lips grazed her ear. Healing waves lapped at her bleeding soul. “Tell me where.”
His mouth swept along her cheek so he could bring his gaze to hers again.
The fine arch of his brow, the upturned edges of his eyes, the straight line of his nose, and the steep cliffs of his cheeks, she had never seen anyone so beautiful.
She didn’t just want to tell him where she’d sent Kirk and the Enneahedron, she wanted to curl into his lap and lick his neck.
She smiled weakly, gazing longingly at his lips.
Too bad he’d stabbed her with an iron nail.
“Fuck . . . you.”
He smiled back at her. “You know, I like you Pixie Raes more all the time.”
He slammed the nail into her shoulder, knocking her chair back. Her head cracked against the stone. Finally, the pain disappeared.