Chapter eight
His words ring as I continue down the hall, too worked up now to return to my room. Is Jaegen untrustworthy? Not just that, but bad ?
I think of Jaegen’s anger. I think of my pulsing headaches and how he made my nose bleed and my heart stop. I think of him calling humans ants. I think of him burning me.
With clenched teeth, I force myself to move on. Aris is worse. Aris is much worse, and that is that.
I cycle through the other information Silva gave, trying to tell myself that our conversation wasn’t entirely useless: Aris used Henry to let the mages in and Dominachion is dead. The latter is… a shock.
It’s impossible to picture Dominachion, such an enigmatic and commanding man, gone from this world forever. I’ve been dreading our next encounter, and it doesn’t even matter.
If Silva is to be believed, he is the only surviving leader of the Following of the Forewarned. He and Aris. It should be a relief to have one less enemy to worry about, but this is just another reminder of how dangerous and random this world is. One could be a leader for hundreds of years and be dethroned in a moment.
I consider my position in this mess. Here, my safety is subject to Aris’ whims. So long as I’m in his favor, I live, but I have no idea where his interest comes from or how I can prevent losing it. I don’t know how to protect myself. And should his interest stray, I’ll be facing the wrath of a different god.
A god who might actually be more dangerous than Aris.
My mind races as I walk on. I pass a few grandfather clocks, whose gears and hands tell me it’s nearing midnight. Then again, the faces are so intricate that it could be four in the morning, for all I know. Either way, I can’t sleep; my mind is completely awake.
Going in circles in my head and circles around the house, I eventually end up somewhere on the ground level. This is where the grandest rooms are, the cursed ballroom where I was stabbed just a few turns away .
Though I’ve encountered a few individuals in the halls, I’m still surprised to hear chatter from a few rooms away. Light pours from the cracks between two doors, the brightest light I’ve seen tonight. I walk closer, curious, and peek inside.
Atop a dais, on an actual throne , lounges Aris. Unlike the skeletal chair described in the mage’s history book, this is less of an eldritch terror and more a marvel of metalwork. Made of gaudy, precious stones, with a cushion of the finest upholstery, he sits against a six-foot frame of fine stone. The legs supporting the heavy features are just as fantastical—humongous, carved, personalized.
The rest of the room is baroque in design, with columns, red drapes, and chandeliers made of silver and sparkling crystals. The ceiling is carved marble, the floor composed of dark tiles forming a mosaic of an ambiguous rune. The walls are draped in detailed tapestries depicting Aris committing vile acts, and black busts and statues peak out between the grotesque scenes—carvings of people gaping and screaming.
My eyes return to Aris. He is so devastatingly, grimly beautiful. Like a demon created to beguile and trick, this is a face to be followed. Adored. He’s changed out of his suit from earlier and replaced it with something similar, just without bullet holes. Cheek in palm, he frowns while drumming his fingers on his armrest. Gaze far-off. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about.
Suddenly, he sits up, eyes zeroing in on me through the sliver of the door’s opening. I still, watching a smile form on his face.
I’ve been found out. I’m under his paw now, attention caught, and he will not let me go until he’s gotten what he wants.
The chatter in the room dies as his followers notice Aris’ inattention. In chorus, they follow his gaze, and I shift at the feeling of being noticed. Seen.
Reluctantly, I take a deep breath and step out of the shadows, into the lion’s den.
The area is larger than it looked from the doorway. It’s open, too, a space designed for gathering, though there are only about twenty people here. Then again, I spot Ryan, and he counts for at least five .
He’s in the corner with Elizabeth, his ax resting against the wall. He has one hand on the hilt, the other around Elizabeth’s torso, his hand so large that it spans from the dip of her breasts to her groin. The grip is exceptionally familiar, and it’s with a start that I realize that the two of them are together .
How is that even possible, given his size? I mean, the size of his…?
I shove that thought aside.
My focus goes to the other guests, feeling hot and sticky in a house as cool as a tomb as they look back at me. I don’t recognize any of them. Some wear dark cloaks that obstruct their underclothes, while others are in old-timey, formal dinner attire.
Aris stands from his throne, and he is immediately the focal point of the room. I feel like I can breathe easier with fewer eyes on me, though I know I should be feeling more uncomfortable, not less, in his presence.
Self-hatred bites at me. What ties me to him? What are we to one another?
“How good of you to join us,” says Aris, descending the steps of the dais one by one. Each footfall echoes, his followers’ backs arching in anticipation the closer he draws to them.
He stops when he’s just a foot away, close enough that I can feel his cold breath, can smell the vanilla—and yet, far enough that I yearn to step closer. No, not yearn . It’s a compulsion, like magnets. In proximity to one another, it requires true force to stay apart: conscious, active awareness of what I am doing.
I try to compose myself, head already swimming. I don’t have many defenses against him, but remembering that we have an audience is sobering. It helps, my desire curbed by embarrassment.
I look around, eyes catching on the drapes, the mosaic, and the many busts. “This is a bit much,” I comment, returning my eyes to him “Even for you.”
He pauses, then says, “Out.”
Immediately, the cultists go for the doors. Though they love his presence, they would never dream of disobeying; the lot of them are gone in an instant.
Once the double doors shut behind, Aris walks back to his throne. He sits unceremoniously, hair messed as he lays a hand through his dark strands. The throne is so large and gaudy that anyone else would look ridiculous on it, but Aris emanates something that demands respect. He’s only in his early twenties—chooses to appear that way, at least—but he looks as mighty as any king, with arrogance and dominance so striking that the air around him pulses.
His body language is casual, with crossed legs and shoulders that arch forward, but he somehow makes relaxation look imperious. If I didn’t hate him so much, I might be pissing myself to have those black eyes fixed on me alone.
“You’re angry about what happened at the Institute,” he remarks.
I almost laugh. I don’t know what I thought he’d start with in addressing his massive betrayal, how he might attempt to mediate or explain, but certainly not that.
“ Angry . That’s putting it mildly.”
“Upset, then,” he amends, folding his hands in front of him. My eyes flit to his pale, nimble fingers, the shift in focus entirely against my will.
Magnets.
My jaw sets. I’ve had a bad enough day as it is, what with Jaegen burning me, watching Aris kill someone, and the stupid, tricky conversation with Silva. Now this? Now I’m drawn to him again , the person I despise more than anything.
An enraging thought occurs to me: Is he using his powers to make me want him?
“More than that,” I grit out.
He raises a shoulder. “It’s all the same, and very well. I can be patient.”
“ Patient ! You really think I’ll just fall in line?”
Aris pauses, studying me. Something shifts in his expression. “I see. You are truly bothered by what happened. Why don’t we talk about it?”
Talk about it.
About it .
The attack on the Institute flashes through my mind, then Simon’s face at the bar. The terror, the panic, the pain. The deaths. Possessing Henry, kissing me with his body. Keeping secrets, stalking my dreams .
All of this, he calls “it.”
It feels as though there is something heavy on my shoulders, weighing them down. Soon, I can’t keep them bunched by my ears anymore and they fall as my breathing regulates.
I can’t respond. The words don’t come—or, better said, they form, but in fragments. A noun, then a verb, but they cannot be connected. They don’t make sense, even to me.
“Mary?”
My eyes pop open.
Somehow, that’s it. My name. That’s all it takes to unlock whatever was blocked, and it’s suddenly coming out of me, so obvious that it’s honestly stupid not to have said it before; the word should’ve been on the tip of my tongue the instant that I registered that it was him in this room—I should’ve been screaming it, yelling it, and I do, I am —
“ Why ?”
He stares back, meeting the challenge. “‘Why’ what?” He isn’t smiling and there’s nothing giving it away in his tone, but I know that he’s teasing me. “Care to elaborate?”
I almost snarl; I’ve never felt more animal. “You know what . Why did you go into him?”
For a second, I think that he’s going to continue goading, but he surprises me with an honest response. “I did it to punish our captors.” He adds sardonically, because he can’t help himself, “You do recall that they imprisoned us, Mary. Both of us.”
I splutter. “Don’t pretend like we’re—like—”
“Like what?”
“Like you care about me at all! You possessed Henry!”
“Yes, to punish our captors. As I said.”
“You didn’t have to hide inside of him while he… I mean…” Suddenly, I’m fumbling for words again, shoulders sinking lower, heartache rendering me mute. Finally, when I speak again, my voice is notably quieter. “Why did you stay hidden in Henry?”
“I did not reveal myself because I had things to do,” Aris says. There is no jest in his voice any longer.
“Things?”
“Yes. Things which Henry could not know about. I couldn’t tell you and risk that you would inform him. ”
I sit on that for a moment. It makes sense, in a way. It could even be the truth. “And why would he let you go into him?” I ask. “Or did you even get his permission?”
“Oh, he wanted me.” His lips quirk. “He thought that he could control me.”
“Control you…” I blink. Silva said that the mages wanted to use Aris against Jaegen. Is that what Henry was trying to do? Filing the thoughts away for later, I refocus. “So you’re telling me that the only way for you to get revenge against the mages was by going into Henry? By having him date me for months ?”
He pauses. “It took time to get things in order, and, as for why he pursued you, I didn’t tell him to do that.”
“So why would he…?”
“I thought of you,” he says, glancing at me and then away, as if embarrassed. My brow wrinkles; I can’t tell if this is rehearsed. “If his mind couldn’t handle that, if he thought the best way to deal with it was to seek you out, then that was his decision.”
“And you didn’t think to stop him?”
“Once the two of you were together, I will admit to enjoying it. I could touch the body we shared,” he says. “I could touch you , Mary. How can you think I would give that up?”
“Because you knew that I was falling in love with him,” I say furiously, “and you let him hurt me.”
His eyes narrow. Some emotion has finally shown: irritation. I should stop—be more careful with my words. He is used to his followers and their worship. They leave the room at the wave of a hand; they wouldn’t dare challenge him.
And yet, this is familiar territory—parry, thrust. There is almost a sense of relief in arguing.
Confronting him has awakened something I hadn’t realized I muted. The anger. Now, it’s here, and I’m forced to consider the indecency of it all. He lied to my face, told me he was leaving me, and then he did—he left me! He let me think that I could lead my own life, that I was safe, and then he watched—allowed, perpetrated —my heartbreak.
“Perhaps I could have handled things better,” Aris says, finally, surprising me .
It’s as close as I’ll get to an apology, but it isn’t enough. It just isn’t.
Suddenly, my anger leaves me in a rush, and I’m tired. And sad.
Aris made a room for me, tailoring it to my preferences. How does he remember a book series I mentioned once over a period of three years, yet fail in this regard? Why can he just not say sorry?
We spent so much time together in captivity. Years . Sometimes I could feel where he would go in my body before he decided to move himself. I could anticipate his dark jokes. And he knew me just as well. He knew that I often forgot to brush my teeth and reminded me to do it every night. He knew that I felt awkward under the attention of others and distracted me when the guards watched us.
And there’s the truth. This is why it hurts. It isn’t that he did it. It isn’t that he killed and betrayed and lied, but it’s that he did it to me .
“I don’t know who you are,” I start, tears rushing to my eyes—and, with it, cheeks heating from shame. It shouldn’t still hurt me; I shouldn’t still care. I know that, but I can’t stop the fire from burning. “When you were in me, we worked… Maybe not together , but there wasn’t this power imbalance that exists now.”
There’s a moment where I work out how to continue, and he watches all the while. Cat and the canary.
“I won’t forgive you for what you did to me. And I won’t forgive you for what you’re doing now,” I finish.
“I don’t need forgiveness.”
“Then what do you need?”
Tell me. Tell me, Aris, so I can take it from you.
So I can hurt you.
He doesn’t respond immediately. There’s an unidentifiable look on his face, his cavalier attitude wiped away, and he suddenly appears in front of me, eyes narrowed as he leans down.
Could my question have unsettled him?
“What do you want?” I push, trying to do it again.
His lips part, then press together again. “What is it you want? You know I will not be swayed, and yet you returned to me. ”
“Because maybe I can sway you.” My heart beats furiously as his face tightens. I don’t know his expressions well enough—is he angry? If he were inside of me, I’d know, but we are entirely separate now.
“Explain,” he says.
“My motives for coming here aren’t entirely innocent.” I pause, and his brows push together, head tilting. The movement reminds me of when I was a child, trying to figure out a magician’s trick.
He is searching, but he won’t find a trick; there is none. I’m not an actress, and he is too clever; I have to go with the truth. Then again, maybe that is a trick itself—to make the truth into what I need it to be.
Maybe I’ve learned something from him, after all.
“I hear what you’re saying, and you’re… right,” I say.
“I’m right,” he repeats with disbelief, then smiles a little patronizingly, stroking my temper.
“You’re right,” I grit out and take a breath to calm myself. I was planning on telling him this anyway. Let him think he’s clawed it out of me, that he still has the advantage. “I know I can’t stop you, but maybe I could be some kind of… advocate for my people.”
“ That’s why you returned?”
“Yes.” Sort of? It’s close enough to the truth. I do need to stay around him. “Maybe I can make some good from all of this. Maybe I could advise you.”
“Advise me? To do what?”
“You want to destroy the world, and I could do my best to make that happen… humanely.”
He pauses. “You resent me for my actions, yet you’ve set that anger aside in hopes of preserving a race that has forsaken you?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him, and he stares back with the same look as before, trying to work out my trick. Finally, Aris shakes his head, confused and irritated. He does not like not knowing; he hates not understanding. So used to reading my mind, it must be frustrating trying to understand the things I mean behind what I say .
“You would witness atrocities for the possibility of perhaps catching me in a good mood one day?” he says, shaking his head as he scans me up and down. “You understand, it would be useless.”
“For the most part,” I agree.
Aris falls silent. I know what he must be thinking: I am practically giving him the ability to destroy me. I want to witness his actions? Fine, then he will show me the worst. He cannot be influenced, and aren’t I the sweetest of fools for thinking there’s even a chance?
It’s almost too easy. But maybe Mary is just that stupid. It’s almost not fun how easy she’s making it, and yet, how could he not seize this opportunity?
Yes. It is too easy. It is stupid. I wait for him to accuse me of lying. I wait for him to again bring up that I am scheming. I wait for him to tear off my shirt and display my runes.
But then:
“My own advisor…” he muses, his smile growing more suggestive. Aris traces a finger up my exposed arm, and my eyes shut unwittingly.
So cold, so electric. I feel as I did in Berlin, the lower parts of me heating. Wanting. I wait for him— yearn for him —to trail upwards, but his touch suddenly disappears.
I open my eyes, confused by the blank look on Aris’ face. He’s staring at the ground, as if trying to work something out.
“Aris?” I ask, to no response.
Five, then ten seconds pass, before he blinks and shakes his head. “My advisor,” he says again, eyes narrowing as he tries to get back on track.
I stare at him closely, intrigued. There’s a fogginess to him that I’ve never seen before.
Aris takes a breath he doesn’t need, then smiles at me. “That sounds delightful, Mary.”
My answering smile is wobbly. He might think I’m second-guessing my proposition, but I’m struggling to hide my giddiness. I can’t get ahead of myself, but what if that was Jaegen’s spell working already?
“Good,” I say cautiously .
He adjusts his jacket. “Well, advisor, you’ll spend the day with me tomorrow, then.”
“Doing…?”
My unease brings him back to himself in a flash. Aris smiles. “You’ll see.”