Chapter 9 Paeonia #2
He nodded, approaching her and extending his arm, waiting for her to hook her elbow with his. “So don’t you go running away,” he warned.
She imagined being turned into a statue and gulped. She walked beside him as he guided her out of the graveyard.
“Can you feel me?” she finally blurted.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
Paeonia’s cheeks went aflame. “I-I only meant—”
Castor gently nudged her and smiled—he was teasing her.
“In a way, yes. But it’s rather odd. I can’t seem to decipher what the feeling is.
I touch your arm now, and I can feel the way our arms are interlocked, but I can’t make anything else out.
I can’t tell if I like the fabric of your coat, or if you’re producing heat. ”
Her face sank.
“Don’t look so glum, Peony. None of this is your fault.”
“How long have you been trapped here?”
“Well”—he looked to the sky and pondered—“since the last remnants of Grim Fae left permanently. I suppose it’s been over a hundred years.”
Paeonia’s arm tightened against Castor’s. He said it like it was nothing. “And the others?” She almost didn’t want the answer.
“Ah, you’ll have to ask them that yourself. I’m afraid they might turn mutinous if I speak out of turn.”
He was grinning when he spoke, and Paeonia came to the conclusion that his hubris was much for show. He cared about the other Stoneborne here. He even seemed to care a little bit for Paeonia.
He patted the top of her hand, and Paeonia’s breath caught in her throat when she didn’t shudder. “It’s so strange,” she mumbled.
Castor gave her a quizzical look, and she realized she had spoken that thought aloud.
“Oh, I—uhm—don’t usually like to be touched.”
“That so?” He glanced down at where their arms were interlocked. “Want me to let go?”
“No, no. It’s odd… I don’t seem to really mind when you touch me.” She squeezed her eyes shut when she heard her words and how provocative they sounded. But when she glanced at Castor, he wasn’t ridiculing her, but rather tilting his head with concern.
“And who is it that often touches you? Who made you realize you didn’t like physical intimacy?”
Paeonia’s breath swept from her at the question.
Barth was the first person who came to mind.
Paeonia hadn’t minded her father’s touch, or other relatives, until Barth.
Once he had shown interest in her, it was like everything changed.
Like she finally realized touches could be more than just friendly.
She worried she might never enjoy another man’s touch.
Would never enjoy Barth’s. But something about holding Castor’s arm made her feel at ease rather than anxious.
They neared the castle, and Paeonia hadn’t time to respond when Castor’s arm on her tightened as if he knew she hadn’t known the right words to describe how she felt.
“Rowan will be wanting you.”
Her heart sank. She had been enjoying her time so much with Castor that she had forgotten about Rowan’s expectant oversight. “What for?”
“He wants to take you to the Night Market.”
Paeonia whirled, her lips pursing as she tried to form words. “W-what? Why?” That couldn’t be right. Why would he want to take her there? “Now? But it’s still daytime. Barely even midday!”
Castor let out a laugh through his nostrils. “My dear, the Night Market never closes. Forgive its name, but the Night Market is an all-day affair.”
She sagged forward.
“Just be grateful he’s taking you now and not at night.”
“Why? What happens at night?”
Castor hurried his pace. “Just stay by his side. And don’t do anything foolish—I know you have a knack for that sort of thing.” He tried to jest, but she could hear the concern.
Inside the castle, the piano rang melodically through the rooms. “Is that Rowan?” Paeonia asked Castor, but he didn’t reply.
He brought her into the study where Rowan stood, the piano having stopped, and he took a few short strides to stand before them. He eyed the way Castor held Paeonia before grinning. A smile that took her breath away.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
Paeonia strolled behind Rowan as he led her out the castle gates and onto an invisible path in the woods. She tried to find a rhyme or reason for the direction he led her, a discreet path he might be following, but it all just looked like overgrown woods to her.
She snuggled her fur cloak tighter around her chest, the soft blue of it matching the dim light that shined through the trees’ crowns.
Her hair fell in loose blonde curls down her back apart from the section she tied up with the ribbon, short bangs gliding across her forehead, tousled with the wind.
She examined Rowan’s expansive back as he trudged silently ahead.
He wore a dark overcoat, its tails flapping as he moved, the sleeves rolled despite the chill.
Everything he wore was dark. His frame cast a daunting shadow beside him, and Paeonia marveled at it.
How that sight would’ve frightened anyone if they encountered Rowan alone in the dark woods—even a grown man.
He carried a small leather satchel that hung at his hip, a dagger strapped to his other.
She had never seen him with a weapon. Even in the garden, he implied he had killed the creatures without one.
So the fact that he had one on his person now as they approached the Night Market frightened her.
But that was good, she should be scared.
Maybe some fear would prevent her from making more foolish choices.
Eventually, the woods opened into a clearing, a decrepit building in the distance.
Paeonia scurried beside him. It looked like an old waypoint, a watch tower perhaps.
But it was falling apart, overgrown, unused for years.
She glanced sidelong at Rowan who remained silent.
He took her straight to the entrance, and Paeonia knitted her eyebrows in confusion.
She couldn’t understand why he looked like he was about to enter the forsaken structure.
But he did, and Paeonia was too scared for what lay just along the shadows of the woods to remain outside.
She hurried after him. He walked straight to a winding set of stairs that looked like they might lead to a dungeon.
A faint glow of a candle sparkled in the distance.
It made it hard to see as she descended the steps, most of it left in the dark.
Maybe Rowan was taking her here to leave her locked up, to teach her another one of his lessons. Or worse, kill her.
Her breathing became unsteady, and a small whoosh escaped her as she tried to steady herself. Rowan’s eyes flickered back to her momentarily before settling forward again.
They landed in a damp stone basement. The smell of mildew and souring dampness was overwhelming.
“Where are we?” she whispered, her words echoing, making her shiver. Rowan didn’t answer.
He led her to the back corner, approaching a fireplace, stepping straight into the pit. Then he crouched, sliding under the smoke shelf, the back clearly an illusion, and disappeared. Paeonia looked back and forth as if waiting for someone else to notice that he just vanished.
“Let’s go,” he called beyond the bricks.
She started and rushed to follow, bowing under the bricked fireplace with caution and faced another set of stairs. She hurried down them until she met Rowan’s back. Then she heard a cacophony of echoes. Conversations. The clinking of coins. Flickering fires.
“Put your hood on,” he demanded, and Paeonia didn’t fight his words.
When they rounded the end of the staircase, her mouth wanted to drop. Rowan leaned over, speaking lowly, “This is the Night Market.”
This is not what Paeonia had been expecting when she thought of the Night Market. She pictured stalls and booths scattered in the woods, perhaps witches and other uncouth people running black market goods. But what she faced was far wilder.
The Night Market sprawled within a vast circular chamber, its cobbled ground uneven beneath her feet, slick with dampness.
Wooden beams jutted out at odd angles, framing the space with uncertain support.
Bridges arched over a yawning central pit, and as she peered downward, she realized the market didn’t end at this level—it plunged into the depths, floor upon floor, a labyrinth of commerce and chaos, the bottom reflecting the light like it might be made of water.
Erratic staircases and precarious walkways wove through the air, linking the many tiers.
Every inch of the walls were alive with shops and stalls, a riot of color and sound.
The flickering candlelight cast an eerie, dreamlike glow, as if the entire market existed just on the edge of reality.
But the company of the market startled her more than its vastness.
Bodies filled the district, every floor littered with creatures.
Not just fae. Not just witches. But everything spanning from every myth she had ever heard.
A stone golem strolled by, an imp creature clawing at it, attempting to ask for a ride.
Three merfolk crossed her path, absent of tails, but distinctly aquatic, dripping water in their wake, their spines held high like the air refreshed them, their legs covered in scales.
Their skin had been strange shades of blue and green, the underside of the female’s breast covered in scales, the side of her neck sporting gills.
A vampire hissed as it approached a nearby shop, threatening the satyr that seemed to be harassing him, saying that he would slit his throat if he didn’t leave him be.
Paeonia’s eyes were wide with disbelief, unconsciously walking a little closer to Rowan as he led her into the crowd.
A minotaur bumped into her, and she apologized, only to be met with glowing crimson eyes.
She yelped and flattened herself momentarily against Rowan, hoping he’d take her somewhere a bit more secluded.