11. Syrus #2
It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me, considering he’s speaking aloud rather than invading my mind. How generous of him. “Then we shall proceed with our plans to visit Strata.”
“I don’t need to rest,” I say, dropping my piece of toast and sitting up straighter—and immediately feeling annoyed with myself for jumping to attention like an excited puppy.
I don’t need more reasons for the Lord of Malice to think of me as a dog brought to heel.
“Surely the sooner we get to work the better.”
“You might not need more time, but I have other matters to attend to,” Syrus says, casting a weary look at Vizmodeus like I’m just another thing on his long to-do list.
“I suppose you’ve forgotten that every day we remain linked, my body is being poisoned?” I push, hating the note of desperation creeping into my voice. It’s a shit negotiating tactic, and I’m usually better at playing it cool. I suppose being in hell is starting to thaw even my icy nerve.
His red-ringed eyes flare, revealing more of the brown in them than usual.
“And you’ve forgotten that we’re in my domain and will follow my schedule,” he says haughtily.
“So I’m just expected to sit here, drawing closer to death, until it suits you?
” My voice is rising now. I know it’s not productive to put my anger on display.
If nothing else, living with Ada taught me that.
But everything that’s happened since I left my father and stepmother’s house—the bruises on my wrists, the cut still healing on my arm, even the tightness of the gold band on my finger—has trampled my usual self-control to dust.
A line creases between his brows, and a rush of sensation pours across my skin, whispering in a ghostly touch down my arms. I gasp as my hands slam down onto the table surface and stay stuck there, palms flat and fingers splayed. I meet his gaze as he hisses into my mind.
“That was the deal you made with the cards you had, Rose Radley. Maybe the game was fixed. Maybe you’re a terrible player. Either way, I suggest you accept the hand you were dealt.”
As quickly as he possessed me, he withdraws, rushing out of me with such force that I jerk my head back, knocking it on my chair. My hands fly up from the table, released from his grasp.
His words remind me of what Oxel said the last time I went scavenging. The problem is, I was good at that game. I knew what I was doing. None of that helps me here, though.
I rub the back of my head, silently fuming as the Lord of Malice picks up a glass of water and sips from it. His eyes flick over me and the food I’m eating before looking at his chamberlain.
Vizmodeus seems to know what’s being asked of him, clearing his throat and pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment.
“Have you actually experienced any adverse effects from the possession yet?” he asks, pencil hovering over the paper.
Oh, I don’t know, maybe having a total fucking asshole in my head every five minutes? I think furiously.
When Syrus’s lips tighten into a thin line, I realize that thought was louder than I intended. I really don’t want another demonstration of his ability to control me, so I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.
“No,” I admit, though it still comes out sounding sour. “Not yet.” Even my allergies haven’t made an appearance yet, which is unexpected when every other thing in Strata set them off.
Vizmodeus nods, writing something down.
“Morning, girls and boys.” Asterim wanders into the room in a swirl of organza. Like Syrus, she’s barefoot, but her bejeweled shoes are slung over her shoulder with one hand. She drops them on the floor as she sits down, the sheer fabric settling around her in a glamorous cloud.
“Good night?” Vizmodeus asks without looking up from his parchment.
“Wonderful.” She sighs happily as she reaches for a stack of pancakes and, rather than move a few onto her waiting plate, proceeds to start tucking into the whole thing.
“Oh good, someone got you clothes that fit,” she says, eyeing the plain black pants and tunic I put on this morning. “They’re a bit boring, darling, but with your coloring I think you still pull them off.”
She pours an entire jug of syrup onto the pancakes. “Still, if you want me to fix you a proper wardrobe, all you need do is ask. I know all the best dressmakers in Malice.”
I blink. I thought she had organized these clothes for me. If not her, then who?
“She doesn’t need a new wardrobe, Aster,” Syrus says flatly.
“Nonsense,” Asterim waves a pancake-laden fork at him. “Half the dance halls will point-blank refuse to let her in if she turns up in such a dreary ensemble. Something you’d know if you ever had any fun.”
“It’s enough fun just guessing what sparkly monstrosity you’re going to dress up in next,” Syrus says, leaning forward with a smirk.
“Spoken like a true monstrosity himself,” Asterim shoots back, baring her pointed teeth. I glance between them, wondering if Syrus’s temper is about to take the sort of turn that would require me to duck for cover, but to my surprise, there’s an amused gleam in both their eyes.
“Reprobate,” Syrus says.
“Pig,” Asterim parries.
“Drunk.”
She leans back in her chair and shrugs with a grin. “You’ve got me there.”
“Anyway,” Syrus leans back too, crossing one leg over the other. “We can’t all spend our nights partying from dusk until dawn.”
“‘Can’t’ is a funny way of saying ‘won’t,’” Asterim replies lightly, pouring herself a steaming cup of coffee. “Especially as now you have someone to show the sights of Malice to.” She winks at me, and I instinctively shake my head.
“Oh no—” I start, but Syrus gets there first.
“That’s enough, Aster. She’s not going anywhere. And neither am I. The sights of Malice have nothing to offer me.”
Something shifts. Rather than offering a pithy retort, Asterim falls silent.
I stare at Syrus, who is now studying the inside of his cup.
He sounded so bitter, so dismissive of his domain, and yet when we were down by the Morphos yesterday…
I remember how he helped that demon to his feet, almost gentle.
I must be staring for too long, because when he looks up, he immediately meets my gaze. I drop my eyes, pushing my chair back from the table.
“I think I’ll go back to my room,” I mutter, pausing when I reach the door. “You don’t need to have Triya guard my room, by the way,” I say, turning to address the Lord of Malice. “I won’t try to leave the castle on my own again.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “But I didn’t put her on guard. She does what she likes.”
Asterim releases a little giggle. “She must like you.”
Great. Well, at least someone around here does, I think as I leave the dining room and turn into the corridor.
I plan to keep my promise to Syrus about not leaving.
While he bantered with Asterim, I was turning over what he said about this being a game.
He’s right. But cashing in my chips isn’t an option, so I need to figure out how to play smarter.
For example, there’s no point risking my life trying to get back to Strata on my own.
Not when I know the Lord of Malice is going to take me there himself.