13. Belle
Belle
Finally. A purpose. Something to break up the monotony that is my captivity.
I sprint from one pillar to the next, hoping to stay hidden in the darkened hallway.
I attempted to find something black amongst the overflowing garments in my dresser, but there was only a sea of green.
Lord Pan must have a green kink or something, and it’s getting ridiculous.
I opted for the darkest dress I could find, and pulled over a green fur coat, making me wonder if there are green furry animals running around Neverhaven.
It wouldn’t surprise me. At least the clothes are dark enough that if I bleed through, it’ll be somewhat discreet.
It’s my time of the month, and yet again, Neverhaven fucking sucks at inventing products to make life for women easier.
I’m free-flowing into a ball of expensive-looking handkerchiefs as I descend the halls, completely killing my vibe and my focus.
I left Weasel in my room, snoring loud enough for the maids to think it’s me in a deep slumber. Right now, I wish I brought him along, though. Hollowbrook is creepy as fuck in the middle of the night.
I could have ventured to the library during the day.
I was bored enough, spending hours skimming through my borrowed copy of The History of Dinglelogs, and discovered Dinglelogs are far less interesting than they sound—just a group of berries used medicinally.
There was a dingleberry joke screaming to be had.
Perhaps I’ll continue my vandalism streak and add it later.
There’s no reason to assume I’m not allowed in the library.
Rourke opened the doors for me, afterall, but I don’t want anyone catching my research, even Rourke, though I doubt he’d have a clue what my plans were even if I pulled out a book titled: How to Break Darlings and Escape Hollowbrook.
He definitely has a few screws loose, but I’m not willing to risk my tiny glimmer of hope on the chance he catches onto my plans.
I’m unsure whether there are staff members sucking Pan’s micro-dick who would tattle on me.
The Shadows seem like pricks, emotionless expressions atop their complete black attire.
But right now I wish I had befriended one of them, if only to borrow some threads. I miss wearing something besides green.
There’s a chance I can still run into someone, even with the cover of darkness.
But old habits die hard, and I’m used to working at night.
I yearn to be back in the city, adrenaline rising the hairs on the back of my neck while I scout desolate alleys, instead of creeping around a manor dodging unknown terrors.
I reach the library doors, letting out a breath of relief that they’re still open.
A tremor runs up my spine at the thought of having to fetch Rourke to open them for me again.
We never discussed the details of our arrangement.
How often do I need to give him my blood?
Will I find these doors closed if he decides he wants more than what I offer?
I try to stuff away the memory of his lips on my skin, sucking me in, sending a heated jolt down my body, lower than I’d like to admit.
Perhaps I would give more than I had planned without putting up much of a fight.
The deeper I enter, the more light illuminates from sconces on wooden pillars throughout the room, as if the magic of this place knows to brighten my way.
The room is longer than it looks on the outside, rows running down for what seems like miles.
Books line the tall walls, wheeled ladders making it possible to reach the top.
Rich wood, decorated with an ornate floral design, makes up the tall ceilings above.
I’m rejuvenated, eager to start pillaging my own rescue, but the more I scan, the more I realize how helpless I am even now.
There’s no bright, red arrow pointing to the row of “Darling Breaking” textbooks.
I am clueless as to where to start among the rows of literature.
I don’t have all the time in the world. It may seem like Peter is uninterested in impregnating me, and Rourke has some weird devotion thing going on, but Lord Pan will return, and once he does, I doubt he’ll be happy to find his plans have gone off the rails.
A podium at the center of the room beckons me.
I must have missed it when I ventured in with Rourke earlier today.
It’s almost like a spotlight glows from above, guiding me to peer closer, but I’m sure that’s my imagination playing tricks on me.
It seems like a good place to start, except the opened, prehistoric book resting on top is blank.
I flip through the thick parchment, and each page is as empty as the rest. The cover is a plain and worn leather without a title.
I rest my palms on the wooden surface beside the book, staring around the grand room.
“Where would they keep blood magic books?” I ask no one.
The book vibrates, and text appears on the pages, the words crawling to life as if an invisible hand scribbles them down.
“Well shit, it’s a magic book.” I lean closer, finding details of the aisle and rows for books containing information on blood magic.
I’m about to start my research when an idea pops into my head.
“Where are the books on breaking the magic of a Darling?”
I wait. Nothing happens. “Not even an error message or a parental control alert. Damn, this magic is janky.”
I’ll take what I can get. I repeat the previous directions aloud a few more times to help me remember before racing away.
There’s a bronze number at the endcap of each aisle, and I seek out number six.
The rows are organized alphabetically, and I run my finger along the leather spines until I meet the center of the long shelves.
There’s a shit ton of books, even though I’ve narrowed my search.
The large rounded windows at the end of the aisle only reveals a silver moon.
The magic warmth around the room may provide a cozy ambience, but it’s shit for reading.
I plunge forward regardless, pulling out large volumes, skimming the blurbs and table of contents for anything that might be relevant.
Large stacks of books surround me, a physical feat to pull each one from the shelves. My eyes ache, my biceps shake, and my fingers are rigid. Several hours have passed, and the confusing jargon of Neverhaven scholars runs together like an endless stream.
To create an elixir for tremors, apply blood with a rootweed leaf.
I’m lying on my belly as I switch to reading a different book spread out on the floor before me. I hope skimming through three books at once might speed up this process.
Bountiful are the treasures sown upon the blessed and their nectar. Only the binder can undo a bond by giving what has been taken. Though the heart must be in acceptance for the power to take hold.
The title reads "Blood Curse," but it seems to be just a book about blood poetry, since it makes zero sense. These people really need to discover modern medicine and get over their obsession with my blood.
The book at the end of my reading line seems to be a history book on blood magic, and I’m hopeful there’s something about the creation of the Darling that might help me reverse the cursed magic.
The origins of the Alchemist Division of Harbinger derived under the crescent moons at the turn of the star's axis…
A loud crash echoes from a distance, and I jump to my feet, kicking the volumes away as if the scattered and small space between me and the books might disguise what I was doing.
I race down the aisle, toward the entrance.
I should be hiding deeper in the literary maze, but I can’t fight the innate stupid blonde instinct in me to seek out the scary bump in the night.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the low light in the hallway, but I make out a crumpled figure across the hall. Someone ran into a pillar holding a vase—the scattered pieces littered around an unconscious body. Against my better judgment, I rush toward the scene.
It’s Peter, disheveled and sporting a nasty gash above his eyebrow.
I fold over him, bringing my fingers to his neck to check his pulse.
I shouldn’t care. If he’s dead, that solves half of my problems, yet there’s a spark of relief once I feel his breath under my weight and the signal of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips.
He stirs, opening his ethereal green eyes. “Ah, it’s you again.” He smiles and reaches for me, cupping my jaw. “In a place that only misery should grow, a flower such as you has bloomed.”
Such sweet words from such a rotten boy.
Surely he’s mistaken. He thinks I’m someone else.
The poignant smell of booze seeps off him, surprisingly, not completely unpleasant.
I shake him away and look around, hoping there’s a Shadow or a servant to help get him back to his room, but we’re utterly alone. “Peter, can you stand?”
“Why would I want to when you are on top of me?”
I’m thankful for the cover of darkness to hide my blush. I sit up straight, creating distance. “You need to get back to your room and find a maid. You’re probably going to need stitches.” I lean forward, tracing underneath his wound. His skin is warm, calling more of my flesh to rest on top of his.
He doesn’t flinch, probably can’t even feel me. He’s completely distracted, dragging his fingers across my neck in a straight line. His touch is so gentle, pulling me in closer. My skin pricks in anticipation for more, of where he’ll drag his finger next.
His joyous expression vanishes, replaced with a deep sadness. “I wish they could stitch you up. You'll bleed soon. It always ends the same. Slitting your throat just to get away from me. Just like my mother.” His smile returns, and his eyes close.
I decode his words, jumping from horror to pity to confusion.
I can’t decide if he’s threatening me or revealing a deep-rooted trauma, but I’m leaning toward the latter.
I wonder about his mother. Was she as cruel as Rourke’s?
Perhaps she was kind, left him something to miss when she was gone.
Maybe even an ounce of humanity behind the hard facade he hides behind.
Lying here, barely conscious, completely disarmed, it’s easy to appreciate his otherworldly beauty—his autumnal, feather-light hair, the slope of his nose, the chiseled cut of his jaw. Yes, he’s beautiful—the bastard.
He chuckles and wraps his fingers around my wrist. “Well, we don’t have much time. How about you suck my cock while we wait for the bloodshed, aye?”
I jump to my feet. “You’re an absolute pig!” I shout, crossing my arms over my chest and storming down the hallway to my room.
“Ah, come on! You usually love doing that!” He shouts after me, his voice barely a trickle.
“Stupid,” I mutter to myself. How could I let myself feel even a shred of sympathy for him? I hope he rots there. And yet; I glance back for just a moment, catching a maid scurry out from the darkness and lean down to help collect Peter from his mess on the ground.
He’s pathetic—a drunk, evil prick. I can’t let him disarm me again. I can’t let any part of this cursed estate distract me from my mission for freedom.
Peter was raised in Hollowbrook, formed in its image. They’re one and the same—beautiful on the outside, yet completely rotten within.