Chapter seven
Pulling back, Aris nods to someone I hadn’t noticed before—a maid lurking in the shadows. She’s hardcore goth, with black streaks in her brown hair and raccoon-like eyeliner, chipped nails, and skin so pale that I’m reminded of a clown. She’s a little older than me and wears a dress like an eighteenth-century maid, like it’s Halloween or a cosplay convention.
I recognize her as the unpleasant one who served me the last time I was here. She probably cheered while I was bleeding to death at the gala.
She remains a few paces back, but her posture is erect, and Aris soon indicates her closer with a twitch of a finger. She immediately comes.
“She will care for you here,” he says, and my brow wrinkles.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. There has been almost no gloating or threats. He hasn’t demanded to know where I was or why I’ve come back. He’s just… letting me settle in? He’s giving me a maid?
Aren’t we going to at least talk about him slaughtering the mages? How about him possessing my boyfriend, or destroying Berlin? Isn’t he curious what plans I’ve come up with to fight him? “You are to take her to your room and care for her,” Aris says to the woman. “You will obey and follow her requests for the remainder of her stay.”
She nods, keeping her eyes on the ground.
Aris pauses and returns his gaze to me, scanning me. Finally, he nods to himself, finding his package still in mint condition, and he leaves without another word.
I stare after him for a moment, surprised by his swift departure, and watch the lumbering mass that is Ryan follow behind. A dog trailing his master. He has to duck and angle through the doorway, unaltered to suit his height.
I wonder where they’re going. What they’re doing. Planning .
Something twinges in my chest from him walking away after we just reunited. I didn’t necessarily expect him to shower me with affection and attention, but, still…
Glancing away, I jump to find the maid suddenly next to me. “As you heard, I have been assigned to you for the duration of your stay,” she says woodenly.
I blink at her empty expression and dull eyes. “What’s your name?” I ask. I don’t really care, but it’s the polite thing to say.
Her mouth. “Elizabeth,” she sighs.
“Right. Well, I’m Mary.”
“I know.” Her voice is cool, and my answering smile is tight. It seems things haven’t changed around here.
Elizabeth nods in a direction opposite to where Aris went. “I am to take you to your room,” she says.
“Right.”
She begins walking quickly and doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. I’m forced to scurry after her at a pace that is an honest workout as she leads me through familiar hallways.
We don’t speak. What could we say? I could ask why she doesn’t like me, but I have my suspicions; though I’m no longer Aris’ host—holding him back, as the Following thought—I am still of interest to him. It must drive her insane. For everything she’s given in his name, she is not the one being doted on. She is not his favorite. And how is that fair, when I don’t even want it?
I understand her hate, and it’s a shame that there’s no way to take it away. Not with the way she is now—indoctrinated, brainwashed. If I asked for another maid, I doubt that the dynamic would be any different. Maybe they’d be a better pretender, but they would think the same of me.
Elizabeth leads me to a room that’s different from the one I stayed at last time at the manor. It’s as large and vintage-looking as my old one, but there are modern incorporations in the forms of a minifridge and computer. With a quick look around, I spot a kitchenette and rooms connected to the bedroom we’re in now.
“He had it made for you,” she says distastefully.
I give her a bland look, then turn away. “Thanks. I can take it from here. ”
She huffs, and I don’t look at her as she walks out, shutting the door louder than necessary.
Now alone, I explore my new space. There’s an office area I pause at, quietly taking in a bookshelf with books Aris used to make fun of me for liking—forbidden romances between fated lovers, mysteries he guessed the endings to, far-fetched and fantastical dramas.
I pick one up and blink. It’s the sequel to a book I liked. The first in the saga was released before our imprisonment, and I hadn’t known that more were written. Yet, Aris has the whole series here for me. I hardly remember mentioning the story to him.
How… thoughtful.
I put it back on the shelf, suspicious and confused.
On the desk is a desktop computer that I boot up. The system only takes a few seconds to blink to life, and, finding a user profile already created for me, I sigh.
He never doubted I’d come back.
I click onto a web browser and search for the fallout of what happened in Germany. It has only been ten minutes since we left, but there are millions of search results. The top ones are accredited news sources that tell a similar story: Ryan appeared and tore apart the city. Aris taunted world leaders that his monster would not stop, and yet, Ryan left Berlin. This is the big mystery. Why did Aris and his creature retreat? What is he planning?
My name is mentioned more than once, with video and photo evidence of my meeting with Aris on the street. Despite dying and cutting my hair, my disguise was seen through quickly, and I’ve been identified.
His old host. What is her purpose in this?
Germany is blaming the United States, since I’m their citizen and Aris’ attacks first began there. The European Union is demanding reparations and military support from the U.S., which is making Americans mad. Apparently, the country was already going to help its allies, but now they don’t want to, after being blamed.
There’s infighting and politics, which surprises me. The articles even phase out of discussing Aris, like he’s hardly a variable. I don’t get it. Maybe people know that they can’t control or stop him, so they’re trying to blame each other?
Strange.
From reputable news sources, I make my way to posts from private citizens discussing the situation. They say: We must stop him. They ask: Why did Aris leave the first time, four years ago? They speculate on this at length. Perhaps Aris is a weapon controlled by the elite, released to keep the masses from discussing socioeconomic issues. Perhaps he is an alien who escaped from government captivity, who wants revenge on all humans.
It seems that the public knows nothing about the amulet or the mages. I didn’t know that it wasn't common knowledge.
I keep reading, going from discussion posts to a different side of the internet, falling down a rabbit hole.
On just about every social media platform, there are people who want to be with Aris. As in, physically. Romantically . They aren’t worshippers or followers of Aris, but they thirst after him like he’s an actor or singer. My mouth falls open at some of the comments.
I hope he comes to NYC next on his destroy-the-world tour. Did you see him covered in blood? I’ll be throwing myself at his fee t .
Attached to that is a photo with Aris’ face coated in a smatterings of dark, dried blood, his jaw and cheekbones pronounced.
This post is not an outlier. There are videos and gifs of Aris literally ripping people’s jaws off, and the replies are:
Can he tear me in half next?
Look at those veins!!! that cheekbone! he is so babygirl
What happened to that Mary girl? Are they looking for a third ?
Going to say something controversial. You know that guy killing everyone? Uhhh, is he single?
Ohhh… Keep me away from this man for his own safety.
WAIT, WAIT… IF HE CAN CHANGE HIS SHAPE, DOES THAT MEAN HE CAN GROW WHEN HE’S INSIDE YOU? YOU KNOW… HIS THING…
I can’t believe half of what I’m reading.
There are thousands of profiles posting things like this, and they seem to be real people. Some accounts go a step further and exist as dedications to him, posting pictures and sightings. Not for the interest of updating people and trying to keep them safe, but to lust after him.
Shaking my head, I shut off the computer, but the comments cycle through my head. If they met Aris, they’d be dead before they could even try anything risque. They have to know that. Are they insane?
And yet.
I think of my interactions with Aris—when he cupped my cheek, how his smirk made my heart race.
No.
Not going there.
In an attempt to distract myself, I resume exploring my new home.
Everything is fully furnished, clean, and ready to live in. It’s similar to the rest of the house in its dated decor, but there are no violent or gory paintings. The walls are paneled wood with neutral black-and-white photographs of famous locations—the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, and so forth—nothing troubling or triggering in any way. The wardrobe is wide, and the inside is filled to the brim with dresses all looking my size.
Did he have them tailored? I touch each, the texture welcome against my hands, before closing the wardrobe back up with a quiet click .
Anything I could think to need or want has been provided: in the bathroom are soft towels and robes, in the sitting room are even more books with tasteful marks nudged between the covers, and by the kitchenette is a kettle with rows of my favorite kind of tea stacked neatly.
Clearly, much consideration has been put into this space. Nothing is random; everything is to suit my taste—to the color of the comforter and sheets, to the intensity of the lights, to the temperature, with my very own thermostat. This should flatter me. Maybe it does, in a way. Who doesn’t want to be cared for? Those people online would be going feral. I can’t imagine how Elizabeth would react if her god made a room just for her. But the details just makes me wonder how long he’s been planning this.
Did it begin while hiding and using Henry’s body, or was it back when we were intertwined, when the necklace was starting to erase me? The fact that I can’t answer these removes my appreciation.
Finished with the tour, I take a seat at the vanity and pull my shirt over my shoulder to study the sigils on my skin. One is big and dark, as if burnt, and is composed of swirls; its twin, small and bright, is made of condensed spikes. Both rest at the height of my armpit, neither larger than the palm of my hand.
I’ll have to be careful of what I wear. Aris already knows that I have a way to shield my thoughts, despite not commenting on it. He might think that it’s from a rune I gave to myself; if he sees these sigils, he’ll know that’s not the case. Unlike the splotchy tattoo I gave myself, these marks are perfect and complete. Slightly hot to the touch and almost iridescent, they shimmer as I move under the light. They are the work of an expert.
I look at my arm, where my old rune sat surrounded by red, irritated skin. Now, it’s fully healed, the ink missing, the magic gone. I don’t know why Jaegen removed it, and, amid the pain of receiving the other runes, I hadn’t noticed its absence.
Its nonappearance stings. It was a pathetic thing, but I was proud of it. I put it on myself; I’d saved myself.
Something sits wrong that Jaegen just… wiped it off. He hadn’t even asked.
With a sigh, I let go of my shirt, letting it slide back up my arm. My feelings toward Jaegen are complicated. He is a fickle ally .
You know what you have to do, he’d said to me.
But… do I?
He was so vague. I need to be around Aris for the mark to work, but he didn’t know how long that would take. He didn’t say how it would work, either. Will it start glowing the moment Aris gets too close? I was too preoccupied with our reunion earlier to even think of looking. I wish that Jaegen and I come up with a way to stay in contact, but he was so eager to begin that we didn’t even discuss it.
My mind starts to spin—Jaegen, Aris, the runes, the fate of the world. I decide that I need a distraction; I need to leave this room. Stuck with my thoughts, I’ll lose my mind.
I’ve been through this labyrinthine house before—enough times where I might be able to find my way. Granted, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to roam, but I wasn’t expressly forbidden from leaving this area.
Maybe there are things that I can uncover about Aris’ plans. The thought is thrilling, yet, even as I walk out the door, I’m aware that it’s far-fetched. What do I think, that I’ll find Aris’ diary with a page titled “evil schemes”?
Still, I’d like to try. I need the distraction, and stopping Aris is why I came back here, after all.
Trailing a path I’ve memorized by grim portraits, I repress shudders, unsettled by the feel of phantom bugs on my arms. I’ve forgotten how the atmosphere clings to me here—heavy and oppressive. There’s always a draft in these halls, no matter how many layers or jackets I pile on—a breeze that feels like the breath of a slumbering beast.
Though the metal fixtures shine and the furniture is well-maintained, nothing about this place feels open or inviting. I think it’s the lighting; it’s always dim, but strong enough to cast an eerie glow on the paintings.
Like the Mona Lisa, the eyes of victims and killers alike watch me pass—some, gleeful, mocking, and others despairing. Help me, help me, they whisper. Sometimes, if I turn quickly enough, it looks like expressions have shifted.
Rubbing at my arms, I tell myself it’s my imagination, but my senses remain on high alert. Realistically, I know that no one could hurt me here, not without Aris’ approval, yet I’m on edge .
When I’m in the belly of the house and cold all over, I consider retreating to my room. I am sufficiently distracted, the paintings are getting to me, and it doesn’t seem like I’ll be getting any answers—it doesn’t seem like there’s anything to find. While deliberating, I pass by an open door, the floorboards creaking under my weight.
“Who’s there?” comes a familiar voice, and I still. “No one should be in this wing.”
My heart pounds in my chest. Silva. The thought of his striking eyes cuts me as I recall when I saw him last: the fall of the Institute, Silva barking orders to find me, and, finally, how he forced the Grand Mage to open the portal, presumably murdering him right after.
I do not like this man, if he’s even a man. An immortal follower of Aris’ cult, he stood by Dominachion when he pushed the dagger into me. I saw him smile.
“Who’s there?” he says again, this time sharper.
I take a breath to settle my nerves. Aris wouldn’t have brought me back and took such care in setting up my room just to kill me a few hours in. And if Aris doesn’t want me dead, then I have insurance. None of his followers will hurt me.
Still, I glance at my arm, where my old rune used to be. I try to remind myself that I’m powerful, that I used magic once, but the thought doesn’t stick.
“It’s Mary,” I say, approaching the doorframe.
Inside, I find Silva on a velvet chair with a book so thick that he has to prop it up with two hands. If it weren’t for his silver eyes, he’d look like any other grandfather—perhaps too stern, clothes too old-fashioned, but average enough, with hair a mix between gray and white.
“Ah.” He shuts his book with an audible thwump , setting it on the table beside him. “Well, what are you doing just standing there? Come in.”
Silva gestures at a seat adjacent his own, the expectant look on his face making me nervous. I’d almost prefer him threatening my life to this social nicety. “I’m good where I am,” I say.
“Come in,” he repeats more firmly. “I’d like to speak with you. ”
“You would?” I ask warily, taking a cautious step inside. The air feels even cooler in here than in the hall, and I glance around, taking in what looks like a grand piano, bookshelves, and heavy curtains, impenetrable by the light of day.
Instead of electricity, the room is illuminated with candelabras and an oil lamp beside Silva, with a flame that flickers wildly, close to death. Given the muted light, it doesn’t seem like the best place to read.
He says nothing as I walk closer and take a seat next to him. I reason: he is a murdering cultist, but he might be able to give me some answers. Maybe this excursion wasn’t useless after all.
Silva studies me for a moment, and I feel like a mouse about to be placed in a maze. He relents, glancing at the piano. “Do you play?”
“No.” I follow his look, studying the expensive instrument. Dusted, or perhaps just well-used, it’s the focal point of the room. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”
His lips quirk. “No, it isn’t. I’m only making conversation.”
My fingers curl on the armrests of the chair. Why is he being pleasant? Is he trying to get on my good side, or trick me in some way? Unable to reach my own conclusion, I decide to just ask him.
“Why not attempt platitudes?” he says.
“You tried to kill me.”
Silva doesn’t respond right away, and the flame beside him flickers, makes a crackling, dying noise, and fades. Its absence shadows half of his face, his silver eye the only part I can make out of his left side.
He clears his throat and stands, walking to the bookcase with the finished oil lamp in his hand. Wordlessly, he refills it, lights the lamp again, and moves back to his seat, settling against the cushion.
“We will never be allies,” Silva says, breaking the film that his faltering light created. “But we need not be hostile. Certainly, there are things you would like to ask me, ways I could help you…? ”
My eyes narrow. An olive branch. “How would I know you aren’t lying?”
“You are so suspicious now,” he remarks with a wry smile. “Well, I wouldn’t lie because Aris wouldn’t like that. He wants you to be happy here.”
“Happy. Here .” My voice is flat.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. This is your home now—you’d best embrace it. Embrace Aris .” When I don’t immediately respond, Silva continues, “Wear his clothes, follow his whims. Let go of whatever attachment you have to your world, and be his pet—oh, I see you don’t like that word! Fine then. Call it what you want, but be what he wants. Remove the magic you’re using to guard your thoughts, and let him in. He’s already won, Mary. Don’t fight it anymore.”
His words hit like a massive wave. Dragged underwater, I toss and turn with the break of the tide.
How did he know the exact thing to say, what would cut deepest?
I try to take a breath, and it’s like there’s water in my lungs. I flail—struggle to speak. Do they all know that I've blocked Aris from reading my mind, already? Do they suspect a scheme?
I am so clearly out of my league. But I’ve always been, and I’ve gotten this far. The thought should be encouraging, but it almost depresses me. I’ve gotten here not from swimming on my own but because a riptide dragged me out, giving me just enough oxygen to breathe.
“Why did you want to say that to me?” I eventually ask, anxiously twisting my necklace.
He shrugs and reaches for his book again, losing whatever edge he just tried to cut me with. “Just a piece of advice,” he says, and offers nothing more.
For a few moments, I stare at him in disbelief, annoyed that he’s disregarded me, annoyed that I care. He doesn’t have any power here—why am I giving it to him?
He must sense my irritation; his lips quirk. "Something to ask, Mary? "
“Where is Dominachion?” I demand, applying some authority to my voice. This conversation will not have been a waste of time. I will not be intimidated; I will get my answers.
Silva turns a page. “Aris disposed of him and the other leaders of the Following.”
But he kept Silva alive? I watch him, trying to gauge if he’s lying or not, but he gives nothing away.
“Why do you ask?” he says. He isn’t even looking at me.
“Why wouldn’t I? He wanted me dead, and he was in charge.”
“Dominachion was never our leader; Aris is.”
“Even after disappearing for centuries and leaving you all behind?”
“Even after,” he says. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
Actually, yes. I have lots of questions. But he makes me feel little, talking down to me like this. I weigh the worth of my ego, then finally say, “Yes. What happened at the Institute?"
"You'll need to be more specific."
“Who betrayed the mages?”
“Who do you think?” Silva turns a page again. He can’t possibly be reading so quickly—is he just trying to make me feel insignificant?
Why am I subjecting myself to this?
I set my jaw. “You tell me. Only mages could let other people into the Institute, so someone had to—”
“And Aris was inside of a mage, controlling him at will.”
Henry .
Silva continues, “He could leave the boy’s body when he wished, and return just as easily, altering his mind to erase the gaps in memory.”
So Aris possessed Henry and used him to betray what he loved most. My heart falls into my stomach. “And when did Aris get a… form?” I ask, voice notably quieter.
“When did he become corporeal?” Silva says, repeating the question more succinctly. “I haven’t asked the Lord, but I would imagine he gained the ability the moment he transferred into the mage’s body. That was around the time he began communicating with us again.”
I feel numb. The betrayal strikes anew.
All those months.
All that time that I was feeling comfortable, finding a home… Aris was free to leave. Aris was biding his time. Making his plans.
I left my room to get answers, and I got them all right. I shouldn’t have asked. Now, I know, and I am ashamed for the way I felt when Aris touched my cheek, for missing him, for coming back to him at all.
I stand to leave, and Silva abruptly says, “You mentioned Jaegen to me.” His silver gaze rises from his book and cuts into me. “Don’t worry.”
“Worry?”
“The Lord doesn’t appear to know about our conversation, or the favorable way you spoke of his rival.”
Jaegen gave you immortality, I said to Silva as he forced the Grand Mage to his knees. Why aren’t you loyal to him instead?
It was a desperate manipulation after learning of Aris’ treachery, after Henry broke my heart and the mages were massacred. Silva and Aris had just torn the Insitute apart, I met Aris for the first time in person, and I was standing in front of a portal, desperate to escape.
The words had come on their own.
Admittedly, it wouldn’t look good if they got back to Aris, and I’d bet Silva would love nothing more to turn Aris against me. So why is he keeping it secret?
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“No.” Silva puts a mark down, then closes the book. “I only wanted to iterate that your belief in Jaegen was misguided. He made me immortal, and you thought that I should owe him for that.”
“Was I wrong?” I ask when he doesn’t add any more. The thought feels incomplete, like he’s trying to lead me to something.
“You have been wrong about everything.”
I can’t help a tired chuckle; it’s myself I’m laughing at. He is taunting me, again. “How?” I ask, lips twisted humorlessly.
“You haven’t looked at any of this the right way. Instead of opportunity, you see strife. You have the chance to be on the winning side, yet you refuse to take the ‘golden ticket,’ as it were. I saw this the moment I met you: there was a god inside of you, and you treated it as a burden.”
I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished, walking toward the door. I’ve heard enough. “You really are crazy,” I say.
I think: You kill for him. You dedicate your life to him. Aris, who doesn’t care about you at all. Aris, who will destroy the world on a whim. Aris, who hurt and betrayed the only person who actually cared for him.
“Am I?” he asks. “You distrust my Lord’s abilities, yet you advocate for another. If their powers are truly such curses, why embrace one and not the other?”
I pause. Is he trying to say that he knows I’m working with Jaegen? How could he have figured it out so quickly? There’s no way. “I haven’t embraced…” I drift off, unsure how to continue. I’m too terrible a liar to finish the sentence.
“Haven’t embraced what?”
“Any powers—any gods!”
“Are you sure about that?” he asks, tone patient and controlled. “You’ve got the stink of a deal badly made—it’s written all over you.”
I do my best to school my expression. There’s no way he knows, I tell myself again.
Silva continues, “Do you think that Jaegen is altruistic, that he fights for the good of this world?”
“Well, he doesn’t want to end it.”
“But keeping it corrupted and ruined—is that any better?” He pauses, then says, “Do you think that I asked for immortality?”
I blink, surprised by the turn in conversation. “I saw your society’s photos. A whole bunch of you don’t age.”
“And did we ask for that, or was it a deal badly made?” Patience turns to pity. “Mary, why would anyone want to live forever?”
I stare at him, unsure whether I should keep listening, unsure if I should believe it. Jaegen tricked Silva?
“When you were imprisoned by the mages, the Grand Mage propositioned you and my Lord, asking for the service of Aris,” Silva continues. “For, as scared as the mages were of Aris, as much as they abhor everything my Lord stands for, they were willing to work with him. Why do you think that is?”
It’s a question that’s bugged me for months. The catalyst to all of this, and I never understood it. But what Silva is implying…
“They wanted to use Aris to fight Jaegen?”
His smug, responding look is my answer, and I say nothing for a few moments, digesting this revelation.
No. It doesn’t make sense. Either Silva is lying, or he misunderstands.
I shake my head, coming to a decision. “The mages hated Aris,” I say “He represents chaos—he is chaos. They would never choose him over Jaegen.”
“You see destruction and chaos as wrong—as evil even, but it is what it says it is. There is no deception in it. Pain is the beginning; it is the end. It is honest.”
I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. No deception? “All Aris has ever done is lie to me.”
Silva looks back at me. Sees me . “Has he?” he asks.
Again, I laugh, but it’s my nerves driving the sound this time. I’ve no idea how to respond to this line of questioning, and there’s no use in entertaining it. So I laugh again, this time more firmly, and leave the room.
But I feel his gaze on me long after, every gory portrait I pass full of eyes that are silver and cold.