Chapter nine
At eight in the morning, Elizabeth bursts into my room and startles me awake. She is insistent on making me presentable, and I’m too tired to argue. It’s only once we leave my room and I see a good amount of people hustling about that I wonder why I needed to be dressed up.
I get my answer a few minutes later when Elizabeth leads me into a place of worship. Larger than a chapel, smaller than a cathedral, and connected to the main building by a long corridor, it is undeniably gaudy. The pews are long with red, velvet cushions, resting on a floor that is either marble, granite, or a mix of both. Whatever else is not sculpted or ornately fixed is brushed with gold, polished and shining. Thousands of candles cover the room—most hanging, some placed haphazardly, overflowing wax holding their bases in place.
In the middle of the room, where one would expect a lectern for sermon, is a dais with a throne. It’s either the same one from last night or an exact replica. However, this time, and most notably, a certain god is missing from it.
Lines of people part as we pass, casting interested looks as we make our way to the front row. Some whisper to each other, hiding smiles behind white-gloved hands. Everyone has ditched their cowls and capes for formal attire; in black, they’re adorned in sweeping gowns or freshly ironed suits. It looks like a dark wedding.
The thought brings a cold sweat to my brow.
“What is this?” I ask Elizabeth. It’s difficult trying to interpret Aris’ actions. Will someone be brought in and sacrificed? Will he pull me onto the dais and force me to marry him?
She sends me a cursory sneer. “Mass.”
My brow furrows. My mother was religious, so I understand the ceremony meant to give thanks, but why is Aris holding it?
“What’s… the point?” I ask as artfully as I can.
“He bestows gifts. ”
This, I pause at, recalling Ryan’s transformation. Twisted bone and flesh. A monster assembled. Are those the kinds of “gifts” she means?
As I ponder, we take a seat in the front row, in such an open position that I feel eyes cutting into the back of my head. I try not to turn around, not wanting to engage any of them, but boredom makes me glance toward the entrance once or twice while we wait. The flood of people is constant, their entrance slow as each takes a moment to bow at the throne and respectfully motion their hands before moving to their respective seats.
They are taking time from their day to bow to something wrong. Evil .
I don’t want to participate in this, and I’m angry, even, that Elizabeth forced me into black lace, an outfit like the others. But as I stew and the pews continue to fill, I don’t leave.
Eventually, an organ starts playing, and I redirect my attention to the instrument’s pipes mounted above, each as large as I am tall, and made of pure silver. In the corner, I spot Silva playing the instrument emphatically, consumed with his task.
Admittedly, the haunting melody is beautiful. A composition of mournful minor notes, it reminds me of sirens luring sailors to sea, men thrust beneath the waves with a smile as water filled their lungs.
Finally, the captivating song ends. While my body is still caught in the rhythm, the room abruptly stands, and I move too slowly, scrambling to follow along.
A new song starts, along with the appearance of Aris. Dressed in a smart, well-tailored suit, from his clothing alone one couldn’t distinguish him from the crowd he’s assembled. But it’s his face, always his face, that betrays his otherworldliness. He is too sharp, too fierce, too much .
He walks down the center aisle, smiling at his awed worshippers, and this really does remind me of a wedding. The whole thing is performative. Practiced. This has been done before; rehearsed songs, a dress code, the Following knowing when to sit and stand and smile. How long has this gone on for?
When Aris passes our pew, he doesn’t directly look at me, but his lips quirk as he takes a seat on his throne. The Following follows; again, everyone sits in the same movement, the shuffling of shoes briefly deafening as Silva pauses his song.
While I scramble along, Elizabeth hands me a thick, black book. There is no title or date of publication, nothing to indicate what it’s even about, but I have a sneaking suspicion as I begin to flip through it. There are passages in limerick and rhyme, things like stories.
A bible.
When I look back up, Aris is staring right at me, eagerly drinking in my sour reaction. I shut the book as the others turn to a specific page and begin reading in harmony:
And as he played and they screamed;
The undeserving fell below, and to their knees.
The ceaseless chitter of waking night;
Ate their yells with grisly bites.
I stop listening, unamused by the unoriginal rhyme scheme and themes of chaos and pain, and am distracted as Elizabeth grabs me. It takes a moment to realize what she wants—to open my book to the right page—and I note this and easily evade her, holding it out of her grasp. She reaches over me, but I give her a mean look and keep moving until she has to stand to get hold of the book again. Exasperated, she surrenders with a scoff and returns to reciting in time with the others.
I glance at Aris to see if he noticed what just happened—if he’s laughing, what he thinks of it—and am surprised to find Silva beside him now, the pair speaking quietly. I wonder where Ryan is, since there’s no way he would miss something like this on his own volition. Did Aris order him away to kill more people?
The reciting abruptly ceases, as they have presumably reached the end of a particular passage, and Aris stands. The movement sends a rush of dark energy around the room, dancing across my skin and raising goosebumps. It travels to every corner in a burst, threatening the light of the candles, the thousand of which tremble as if exposed to wind.
It’s a small display of power, but the minuteness is what makes it impressive. It is a reminder of his constant restraint, and what it means for a flame to reside in a house of wood .
As his eyes roam over his followers imperiously, a pin could drop. Everyone is still, some trembling from excitement and the effort it takes not to move. It is as if they are a beast with one set of lungs, holding a collective breath. I realize, with a sudden flush of humiliation, that I’ve gotten caught up in the moment, too. To retaliate, I breathe, my shoulders dipping, chest rising and falling.
“Now,” says Aris smoothly. “Which of you deserves to come before me?”
There are a few long, heavy seconds before four volunteers scramble to their feet. Dressed the same as everyone else, they don’t stand out or seem special in any way—and, indeed, their forms are stiff and eyes downcast, like they have suddenly come to the same realization. Aris observes them emotionlessly, gaze skipping over each face.
It must be a full minute that ticks past in absolute silence.
Finally, Aris raises a hand, motioning a woman forward with a twitch of his finger.
She is instantly stumbling over herself and those next to her in an attempt to exit her crowded pew, filled with nervous energy. When she reaches the aisle, she tries to summon a shred of composure, taking a shaky breath that everyone can hear. All eyes are on her.
If I were her, I’d have passed out from the attention. But, hands twitching at her sides, like playing keys of a phantom piano, she keeps going, walking forward. Toward Aris.
There isn’t anything outstanding about her. In a merlot colored dress, she is older than me by maybe ten years, curvy and pretty, but there are no peculiarities to make her interesting. If I’d seen her on the street, I never would’ve expected her to be a cultist.
I’ve no idea what it is about her that caught Aris’ attention.
When she is before him, she falls to her knees without preamble, so swiftly that her kneecaps clack against the wood. She does not flinch, and she bows her head until her forehead touches the ground. She is shaking.
From nerves or reverence, I can’t say.
Aris watches her, smiling—endeared, maybe amused—before bending slightly to press two fingers to the top of her head .
“Nora,” he says. “You intrigue me. Your family worshiped me for generations. But there was a time where you doubted them, and my existence—did you not?”
At this, she stills. “Dark One—”
“Be silent,” he replies, not unkindly but firmly, and she listens.
The entire room is at attention, pulled taut toward the scene—even me. I have no idea what might come next. Is he exposing a nonbeliever? What is the punishment for that? Does he even really care about such things, or is he just having fun?
“I don’t blame you,” continues Aris. He straightens, returning his hand to his side. “Ardent, desperate worship, without results to be seen. No proof of this deity, no return on your many prayers. Of course, you doubted and perhaps resented the idea of me. But then, I returned. You saw that I was real, and you came running back.”
Nora’s arms come out from under her, and she collapses to the floor. She’s trembling harder now, most certainly afraid, aware that Death himself is staring at her. And yet, she doesn’t run. She doesn’t beg, or offer excuses. There is something to be said about that.
Aris watches her for a moment, then looks at me. His expression is neutral, nothing to be gleaned, and I have no idea what he wants from me. I just stare back, my brow wrinkled, and shake my head in confusion.
Is he asking what I think should be done with her? Would he put her life in my hands?
Ebony eyes return to the woman on the floor. “What is it that you would ask of me, Nora?” says Aris.
It takes some time for the woman to pick her head up. “I don’t deserve a gift,” she whispers, and the words echo around the chapel.
“You volunteered,” Aris says.
“I was—I didn’t—” She shakes her head, choking on her words. “I am so sorry, Great One. That was pompous. It was wrong. Please, kill me.”
“Kill you,” repeats Aris.
Nora finally looks up and speaks without fear, “Kill me to honor you. ”
Only now has she resorted to begging, but not for her life. She is begging… to die?
I can only see the back of her head and long, golden curls, and I wonder if she is crying.
Aris meets her gaze, considering, letting her sit on her request. “I chose you to receive a gift,” he says finally. “Do not offend me with rejection.”
Murmurs arise in the crowd, fabric in motion as individuals turn to one another. I can hear no conversations, but their shifting limbs mirror my own. I don’t understand. Why spare her? He has killed for less.
Aris pays none of us any mind, staring directly at Nora, while I study him. The look in his eyes is unreadable, fathomless; it is impossible to gauge his intentions.
She bows her head. “If it is your will, then, as my gift… I want to spend the rest of my life spreading your message. I was wrong before, but I understand how misguided the rest of the world is. I want to enlighten them.”
Aris hums. “A fascinating prospect, to warp the minds of others. If this is your wish, you would be bound in service to me, bending wills and deceiving.”
My scowl deepens. As if he isn’t doing that enough already.
“This is my wish,” whispers Nora. The room has again quieted after the brief uproar of mutters, so it can’t just be the front rows hearing the awe and relief in her voice.
Aris smiles, placing his hand atop her head. I lean forward, expecting something akin to Ryan’s transformation, a body torn apart to give way to a new one, but, when Aris lifts his hand a few seconds later, Nora looks the same. Maybe her shadow seems a little darker, but that could just be my imagination.
She gets to her feet and looks at herself, slowly raising her hands to eye level. Apparently coming to the same realization I have, that she appears mortal and the same, she looks at her god in confusion. There is hesitance in this confusion; she has questioned him already and fears retaliation on his part.
Aris just raises a hand, uncharacteristically patient. “Bring him in,” he says to two cultists by the doors .
They must have been briefed beforehand and were expecting this signal, for the pair immediately swing the doors open. Again, as if rehearsed, members of the Following walk forth from behind the doors, muscling an individual with them. With a bag over the person’s head, I can’t make out any distinguishing features, but they’re in a suit with an American flag pinned to the front. From their build, it looks like a man, one who fights the cultists on every step, digging his feet in, shouldering his weight into his carriers. The followers struggle a few times to exert their dominance, and at one point it even looks like the man will get free. Still, no one comes to aid; everyone else is still, watching.
Finally, the group gets a tight grip on the man’s arms and passes by me, the kidnappee grunting and hissing all the while. They approach Elizabeth and Aris, tossing the man at their feet. Happy to have finished their workout, the cultists join their brothers and sisters, sliding into a pew to watch.
Hands and feet unbound, the prisoner jumps to his feet. Aris doesn’t move to stop him, and Nora follows his lead, just watching. The man pulls the black sack off of his head and breathes quickly, shortly cropped hair scraggly and standing from static. His expression is wild as he looks around to gauge his surroundings. When I see his face, I don’t recognize him, but his eyes narrow on me with recognition.
Sneering, he turns and comes face-to-face with the scourge of the earth, Aris the Devourer. For a moment, fear overrides anger, and he just stares as he realizes the gravity of his situation. It’s not the cartel who’s gotten him or some sicko who could hurt him using human and practical means. What he is facing is something beyond his understanding.
Aris’ smile widens, and that does something to the man. He knows he can’t win—he must know that—but that is a dangerous person, someone with nothing to lose. Fury flashes across his reddening face. Despite who is before him, he opens his mouth with something undoubtedly nasty on his tongue.
But Nora reaches out, resting her hand atop the man’s broad shoulders. There’s an inquisitive look on her face, as if working through a puzzle. For a second, he just stares at her in outrage and goes to shake her off, but then he stills. Relaxes .
His tense, defensive stance goes to one of a marionette hanging limp. His head falls down, as if his neck is too weak to support it, his expression blank, eyes listless, hate abandoned.
And then, he crashes to the floor, falling to his knees. He bows his head low before Aris. “Dark One,” he murmurs reverently.
I sit so straight and lean so forward in the pew that Elizabeth shoots me a glance. The man sounds like a worshiper.
Aris smiles and turns to Nora. “You see now?” he says like a patient father.
She nods, the glee on her face turning my stomach. “Yes,” she murmurs, lowering her own head. “Yes, I see.”
Aris turns from her, looking back at his congregation with sweeping eyes. “Who is next?” he asks, voice carrying across the room, bouncing against the walls.
Almost everyone stands, murmuring joy and excitement. They’re about one second away from hip, hip, hooray!
I’m one of the only ones to stay seated, head buzzing as I stare at the man on the ground. Already forgotten, his head turns to the side, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. Now that he is no longer speaking, he looks absolutely empty. Wiped clean, a shell.
I wonder who he is, for a moment. The American flag makes me think he’s a politician or someone working for the government. Well, that was who he was . Now, I don’t know what he is, and I have no idea what Aris will do with him.
Perhaps all he was meant to be was a demonstration. Once mass is over, he’ll be tossed aside like a jacket shed upon entering a home, stuffed into a closet until it’s cold outside again.
I imagine roaming the halls and opening a random door to find this man staring blankly at the ground. The thought is painful, striking, after watching him fight the cultists with such fervor.
A few followers behind me raise their voices, their elation and devotion uncontainable. It draws my attention, making me shudder. I’ve known for some time that they worship Aris, but seeing them pray and bow is just… something different.
Something familiar .
I was raised Evangelical, but my mother was the faithful and reverent one, never missing service. How these people regard Aris, their deference and awe, reminds me of her.
She would hate to hear such a comparison. But, as I see the tears in the eyes of these people, as I watch them shake with awe in Aris’ presence, I can only see how my mother would react to meeting her God.
“Hallelujah,” I mutter, looking back at the man.
This goes on for an hour, Aris bestowing gifts. He chooses five others from the dozens gathered, bringing them in front of everyone like show animals. He wants their transformations to be a performance.
Of the five he chooses, most change physically. Others, like Nora, retain their mortal looks. I find the latter to be much more disturbing; if something looks like a monster, a monstrous nature is expected. Expectation provides comfort.
The physical changes are entire, a full alteration. The inspiration for many are clear; Aris likes elements. A woman becomes born of storms—cornstalk hair turning to strands of lightning, clothes morphing into dark, nimbus clouds as she is granted the ability to form tornadoes and earthquakes with the twitch of a finger. One morphs into a creature of shadow and ravens, another into something with flames for legs and a molten core. Another, younger girl falls to her hands and knees and remains quadruped as the vertebrae of her spine erect into needle-sharp, stone masses that shoot lava like miniature volcanoes.
With each transformation, the crowd becomes rowdier, desperate for their own turns, until Aris raises his hands. The crowd then silences, bowing their heads. A new tune on the organ plays, and they slowly, obediently, file out.
It takes twice as long for the crowd to disperse as it did to form, as feet drag. Those Aris bestowed with gifts are obvious with their desire to stay, lingering and offering gracious vows of servitude. They almost hang off of him, simpering. He doesn’t push them along with the others, instead lounging on his throne with a mighty grin as they fawn .
I can only watch, disturbed as I understand the game Aris has been playing. He is not gifting them; he is dismantling them. They are endowed with chaos now, what made them human stolen.
After a certain point, I can’t watch anymore and go to leave, but that’s when Aris stands from his seat.
“Mary,” he says, beckoning with a raised hand before I make it two steps from my pew.
His followers turn to look at me in unison, and I shift in discomfort. I hate how they crowd around him and hang onto his every word and movement—not just because it’s creepy, but because it’s me he’s always moving around and talking to. I’ve never liked being the center of attention.
“Leave,” he says to them suddenly. For a second, I worry that he’s read my mind, until I remember that he knows me and my fears, intimately.
The stragglers’ shoulders droop, but they don’t question him. Reluctantly, joined by Silva, they file out, the doors shutting behind them with a thud.
Now, it’s just the two of us.
I should be shrinking under his gaze and the power within it, but I’m just irritated. “What the hell was that?” I demand.
“Mass,” he says. Annoyingly, he isn’t surprised by my reaction, which reinforces my belief that it was a performance. The only thing is, I’m not sure if it was for me, or his followers.
“Oh, I get it.” I cross my arms. “You want them to rely on you.”
“So cynical, Mary. Maybe I am merely repaying them. They have treated me well, as you can see.”
I scoff. “Like you care about their devotion.”
He doesn’t respond, just studies me with those otherworldly black eyes—eyes that pull me in like a riptide, and soon, I can’t take the pressure. I head for the doors again but come to a sudden stop when the air grows heavy, electric.
That’s how I know that he’s angry; I’m about to suffocate on his power.
“Do not walk away from me. ”
I pause, halfway down the aisle already. My back is still to him. “What was the point of all of that?” I say. “The truth, this time.”
He pauses long enough that I finally turn around, and nearly jump out of my skin to see he’s right behind me. Before I manage to step back and gather my thoughts, his hand shoots out to grab my shoulder, rooting me in place. Even through the layers of fabric, I feel tingly from his hold.
“The point is to show you what I’ve been doing,” he says, hand flexing. “Isn’t it prudent for you to learn, as my advisor?”
I nod slowly. “All right… so you’ve been holding mass.” “Yes.” His hand travels, touching the lace of my short-sleeved gown. The tips of his fingers meet my skin. “But that isn’t all I’ve been doing.”
I watch where he’s stroking me, distracted by the feel. “Hmm?”
“Surely, you wondered where Ryan is.”
I look back at his face, the length of his grin making my stomach sink, and I realize two things. One: the performance is not over. Two: while I slept, he had all night to prepare the best ways to toy with me.
“Are you ready?”
“For what?” I ask. Already suspecting. Dreading.
Where is Jaegen now, to prepare me for this?
As Aris pulls me close, smelling of the night itself, the other god remains notably absent.
It’s just us.
Though my face is buried in his blazer, I know we’ve moved somewhere; I feel the change of temperature, the coarseness of the air. Sure enough, when Aris pulls back, we’re no longer at the estate, but standing on an overlook, miles from a desert city.
Mosques and sand-colored turrets make me think he’s taken me somewhere in the Middle East. But where? I look for more details and find that what I first thought was a city we’re overlooking is actually just one, humongous estate. It could be a parliament or even a palace, and the large structure is surrounded by tall stone walls. There is a vast number of personnel guarding the wall, clutching weapons that probably weigh half of what I do .
Ryan is here, too, his massive form coming in handy by shielding me from the sun that has already started to make my skin sticky. My lace dress has a thick skirt and is definitely more suited to the cold halls of the mansion than desert travel.
I take one look between Aris and the estate and sigh. He plans to destroy it if they don’t surrender, and maybe even if they do.
“As your advisor, I am advising against this,” I say firmly.
Aris bends to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. This close to him, it’s difficult to think. My head pounds; I tell myself it’s from the heat.
“I am willfully ignoring your advice,” he says softly.
Our eyes meet. Mine, pleading. And his, amused.
He stands up straight. “Let’s have some fun.”
Ryan grunts in acquiescence, and the setting shifts again, as we go from an overlook miles from the palace to right outside its walls. I struggle to right myself from the transportation while Aris and Ryan remain composed—though, Aris does spare me a glance.
“Nothing touches her,” he says, and Ryan immediately moves closer to me.
Before I can object or comment on any of this, the security guards begin yelling; we’ve been noticed.
Ignoring them, Aris approaches the wall with all of the swagger in the world. He takes a moment to study it—twice as tall as Ryan, with intricate carvings on the sandstone—then, he fists his hand. Immediately, the heavy stone turns to sand, cascading to the ground.
The revealed courtyard shows dozens of fountains and a long stretch of grass with flower beds ill-suited for the climate, currently being treated with sprinklers. There are statues of fierce animals as big as cars, finely detailed and unweathered by the sun, displayed between large potted plants. A gated pool is in the distance, with lawn chairs and an outdoor bar. It’s the perfect picture of exuberant wealth.
A few guards were patrolling inside this yard, and they set out toward us with battle cries. I’m briefly taken aback at how many people are willing to work security at a time like this, instead of being with their families or doing things they actually enjoy. I doubt any of them knew that Aris would target this estate, but, still. There’s an apocalypse going on. Why waste your days patrolling for some rich guy?
And now, I think sadly, they will die for some rich guy, for no reason at all.
I open my mouth to plead, again, for Aris not to do this, but it’s too late. Two swords have already appeared in Aris’ hands, which must be made of obsidian for how black they are, and he lunges to meet the guards.
Bodies fall like wheat under a scythe, tumbling into and bloodying the water of the fountains, the filters unable to cycle quickly enough. The guards from outside join the ones in the yard, determined shouts turning to screams of terror as they realize who they’re facing. Some stay to fight, but most drop their weapons and run.
Those who remain are promptly dispatched.
I stare after Aris for a moment as he twists and jumps and strikes. Is he just using swords for fun?
Shaking my head, Ryan and I wade through the gore, following Aris’ excited, animated movements. Though Ryan is stiff with joy that could rival his master’s, he doesn’t leave my side. Every time I shift, Ryan shifts with me. When a weapon appears, he angles himself in front of me.
Nothing touches her.
Despite the guns and how outnumbered we are, I feel only sorrow for the death, no fear that I might be injured. Ryan famously doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t need to. He will always, above all, follow orders from Aris.
As we approach the entrance, our attackers multiply again, becoming too numerous for Aris’ blades. Aris tosses the swords and incinerates a group of thirty men with a glance. Their screams rise through the air, horrendous and animal-like.
It’s only Aris inflicting the blows at first, until two would-be attackers jump toward me. Ryan beheads them with a single swing of his ax, then jumps in to assist Aris. Faster than a muscle-monster should move, he transverses across the yard, cutting and sweeping and maiming. And, still, he makes it back to my side before anything hits me .
The courtyard is soon silent, the ground is littered with ash, blood, and bone. And Aris is out of sight.
It’s no great mystery where he went; we simply follow the trail of bodies and grunts into the opening of the abode.
We walk through a home as grand as expected, given the yard decor. There is what I think might be an original Picasso hanging on the wall, though it’s been splashed with entrails and has a bullet hole in the middle of it. As we go further, I spot what I think is an Egyptian mummy displayed in a gilded sarcophagus. The two of us pass by quietly and reconvene with Aris in a private bed chamber.
A balding man cowers in the corner while Aris tears through what must be the last of the guards. When he kills the last one with a messy kick to the face, someone runs at me, a gun raised. Ryan meets him, breaking the man’s back over his knee like a stick.
Aris then grabs the sobbing man, forcing him to his knees.
Now, the room is entirely quiet, except for the cries.
Aris shoots Ryan and me a cursory glance before putting an arm around the man’s shoulder, whispering something I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it makes the man cry harder.
Aris tsks and releases his hold, the man promptly seizing and falling forward. Still, and dead.
Again, things are quiet as Aris admires his work and Ryan awaits further instructions. I just stare at the senseless violence, shocked stupid. The crunches of bone and screams of pain ring in my ears. The blood sticks to me like sweat. Moist. Wet. I am littered with it, reeking of it.
I look down at my hands; they are shaking. Will I ever get this blood off of me? I picture myself in the shower, scrubbing at my skin until it is raw and pink.
“You are surprised,” says Aris, and I slowly look back up. He is studying me, and Ryan is gone—I hadn’t noticed him leave. “Why is that? Surely, Jaegen told you of my savage ways.”
My heart stops.
Aris smiles, an unfamiliar glint in his eyes. “Did you think I did not question how you suddenly appeared in Berlin, or how I can’t read your mind? These are curious feats for a mortal to perform, wouldn’t you say? They would be hard to accomplish on your own.”
He knows .
Of course he knows. He has lived forever and is more intelligent than I could ever hope to understand. With the mages dead, who else would I get magic from but Jaegen?
Now would be a good time for him to freeze like he did last night, to go away and to forget his suspicion. But he is entirely himself.
He steps towards me, as bloodied as I am, and I am too stunned to even flinch when he wraps his arms around me. There’s no use resisting; his hold is impenetrable.
“Did he tell you to advocate for your people?” he murmurs in my ear. I think of him whispering to the man before killing him minutes ago.
“I offered because I want to help people,” I say shakily. He knows, he knows. How long has he known—since the instant he saw me?
“You can’t help any of them.” His tone is dark. “You have always known that.”
Aris is at his most dangerous when he is serious, and he’s very rarely serious. When you’re all-powerful and immortal, it’s hard to be phased by inconvenience, or even tragedy. But I have seen him like this before: dealing with Dominachion, with the Grand Mage.
Neither are on this Earth any longer.
I shut my eyes, and, for the first time today, I relax. I always relax before I think I’m going to die. There is nothing to fear in that moment, nothing more to fight or to give. It’s actually kind of wonderful.
Strangely, Aris’ grip loosens, and he releases me. My eyes pop open to regard him, suspicious and wary as he steps back to stare at me with just as much doubt.
This is uncharted territory for us both. How is he to punish me for tugging against my leash? It’s funny to watch a dog struggle, but not when it itches for another owner.
“He is using you,” Aris says, hands drawn into fists.
“And you aren’t?” I have always been his source of entertainment. I’m nothing else .
Aris ignores me, shaking out his hands to relieve the tension, beginning to pace. He reminds me of lions at the zoo, a predator revealed in his jaunty movements.
“It won’t work,” he says. At first, I think he’s only speaking to himself, but then he looks at me. “Whatever you have planned will not work.”
I take a moment. Everything is on the line here; I can’t have him believing this. “I’m not… with Jaegen.”
Suddenly, Aris is before me, gripping my arms. He is so close that a deep breath would force us to touch. “Do not lie to me,” he growls. “That is the one thing that I will not tolerate from you.”
His tone offers no negotiation, his expression lethal.
“Why do you care?” I demand, blinking through my intimidation. “f you can’t be defeated, if you’re not worried, why does it matter if I try to stop you?”
Aris’ eyes narrow to slits.
Something wet touches my bare feet, and I look down, not exactly surprised by the blood, but it does tether me to the moment. He has just massacred a hundred people, and I am questioning him. Goading him.
What is wrong with me?
“‘ Why ?’” he says incredulously, as if thinking the same thing, unable to comprehend my nerve. But then, he pauses.
I look up, brow furrowing as his jaw clicks and moves. I don’t recognize the look in his eyes, mainly because there is no humor there. No jest, for once.
Aris says, “Because you are my friend.”
I let out a breath.
Finally, something real.
My chest lifts as if there’s been a weight on it, relief rushing through me. It feels like a dam has been cracked open, water spurting through the cracks—so furiously, with such power, that it washes away the foundations of homes, steals the breaths of children. There is horror in this, but not completely. New people will come. There will be new houses and new children.
Because you are my friend.
That was something real. Something honest. Something true .
I want to laugh—I nearly do—until I see the look on his face and realize that I reacted too soon with my relief. Rashly. I see the reality: the dam has broken and people are dead and that is the end of the story. Nothing new will come or grow on this land.
Aris’ lips are puckered like he’s had a lemon for the first time, mouth so twisted that the tip of his nose has raised.
All night he plotted ways to catch me off guard, to play with me and put me on the spot for my ill-thought revenge, and yet, he’s the one who lost this round.
The silence is so thick it could be cut.
Aris’ chest heaves up and down, though he doesn’t need to breathe, and his pupils are fat, like we’re in complete darkness. I have no idea what to do or say.
He’s caught me by the tail. He knows I’m working with Jaegen.
And I’ve got him by the ear. I know that he cares about me.
What now?
“Will I be joining them?” I ask as casually as I can, glancing at a pair of corpses by his feet.
He scoffs. “I don’t wish for your death, Mary.”
I nod. I appreciate him saying that he doesn't want to kill me. It's the little things that make a relationship.
“Then what do you want?” It’s the same thing I asked him last night.
Aris stares at me, and I stare back, and neither says anything. To speak would be to lose, like blinking during a staring contest. Even my unsteady breathing feels like a concession.
After a long moment, Aris says, “We are leaving now.”
He grabs my arm and flits us back to his own sprawling estate. But when we’re there, solid ground beneath us, he doesn’t let me go. His grip is punishing, and I don’t feel like I’ve won anything.
Before I can ask what we’re to do now, where we stand after I witnessed his massacre and he learned of my deceit, Aris abruptly releases me and storms away. I stare after him for a moment, stupefied, before getting myself together enough to walk back to my room .
Chapter ten
I don’t see Aris for two days. He’s left and hasn’t returned to the manor. I look for updates online but find nothing substantive, just more thirsty comments and threads.
Truthfully, I’ve been a mess. I have no idea what he’s doing, where he’s gone, what he’s planning. I don’t know if he’ll suddenly change his mind and kill me for my deception.
I didn’t admit to plotting with Jaegen, but Aris knows. Trying to deny it only enraged him further.
I have no idea what to do. I’d talk to Jaegen to get his thoughts on the situation, but it’s been nothing but radio silence from him, too. So I’m on my own.
I’ve hunkered down in my room and try to sleep to escape the downtime. But there are nightmares.
In one, I stood before a mountain of corpses that I knew I had to climb. Cold flesh in various states of decay squished beneath my hands as I went higher, pulling myself along by the scraps of clothes, caked in blood, ice, and snow. I must have climbed for hours in temperatures that grew more frigid and unfriendly by the minute.
Finally, I reached the top and looked down at the body at the top of the pile. Of course, it was my face looking back at me. I’m not sure what killed me exactly, but my body was properly mangled, so much so that if it had been real life, I wouldn’t have recognized myself for how beaten I was.
I couldn’t stop myself. I reached down, fingers shaking, numb and black from frostbite as I stroked my misshapen face. This was why I needed to come up here. To see this, and learn: I was already dead.
As soon as I realized it, my body reanimated and grabbed me. The other corpses shot to life in a delayed jolt, their movement forcing me into their pile, screaming as I sank lower and lower until I suffocated on rotten flesh.
I shot awake in bed, panting and clutching my throat. I turned on the light and ran to the nearest mirror, desperate to confirm that I hadn’t succumbed to rot. Naturally, I hadn’t, but it still took hours to calm down.
It’s not the first nightmare I’ve had, nor the worst. I wonder if it’s my own mind torturing me, or if Aris has found a way inside.
Can’t sleep, can’t stay awake. No escape.
I read. Try to, at least, but I’m not engaged. The words are just words on a page—no story or emotion behind them—and, between the lines, I see blood splatters.
My mind drifts to the past: Henry, Simon, the Institute. What are they doing? Is Simon well? Where is Henry? Do they think of me? And what would my life be like if Aris had never attacked the mages?
But thinking these things is just another form of torture.
I pace. Try to read again. Pick at my food, so nervous I can’t eat at all.
Jaegen kept me waiting in London, and maybe Aris is doing the same. I should feel relieved for the reprieve, to have a moment to catch my breath, but I don’t know when he’ll return, or what he’ll do to me when he does.
Beyond that, I’m resentful to be tossed aside again.
It is night and I am in the throes of a nightmare when I’m shaken awake. I register a presence next to me and immediately swing at it. The presence catches my fist, encircling my hand.
“Well, then,” says Aris, amused as he gently squeezes.
I tug my hand back, and Aris waves his own. The room is quickly illuminated by candlelight, revealing the monster beside my bed.
He watches me closely. “You were having a bad dream.”
“Obviously,” I murmur and stand to put some distance between us. Aris watches me move toward the sofa without a word, and I notice a meal on the side table. “What’s this?”
“I won’t let you weaken yourself.”
I scoff. He really is that controlling; he’d take a break from ending the world to make me eat some chicken. “I’m not that fragile,” I mutter .
He gives me a look like I’m ridiculous, lasting so long that I’m unprepared when he appears before me. Without warning, he grabs me by the arm and shoves me against the wall, pulling back before I feel the sting of impact. Still, I’m trembling from the movement, and his grip on me is bruising.
He leans down, breath on my cheek. “You don’t have the slightest idea how fragile you are.”
Before I can respond, he shifts again, throwing us to the ground. We roll, once, twice, and by the time we stop, my body is covered with his own. His hands cage my wrists, grip like iron.
“Get off of me!”
“Escape.” He clinches my hands a little tighter, making me lightheaded.
Tears sting my eyes. “I can’t!”
“What was that?”
I know what he’s doing, and I’m still playing into it; there is no other way. “I can’t,” I grit out, humiliated and furious.
His grip lessens, smirking. “I just wanted to make sure that you knew.”
I turn away. “Does it make you feel strong, picking on me like that?” I mutter.
“I was only making a point.”
He releases me after a final push on my arms. Another show of his superior strength. But he doesn’t let me up; he’s still straddling me. If I try to stand, there’s a risk he’ll push me back down to berate me further. But staying like this is just as embarrassing.
Aris looks at me with mock innocence, a smile growing.
“Why are you here?” I ask angrily. I can’t believe him—he’s ignored me for two days and showed up in the middle of the night to toss me around.
“You won’t eat.”
“I am eating. And you could have just asked me to eat some more. You didn’t have to—”
He leans down until his chest rests against my own. I can feel his cold despite the layers of fabric between us. “I didn’t have to… what? ”
I glance away, cheeks flushing. I won’t lie—proximity to him is starting to affect me. I want him close. Closer . Pinning me for longer. But maybe on the bed…?
“Why did you leave me here?” I say tightly.
“‘Leave you.’ Hm…” He leans down even further, propping himself on his forearms as his hard edges press into me. “Well, maybe I was a little…” His lips brush my ears, and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from arching into him. “Angry.”
“Angry,” I murmur breathlessly, mindlessly, caught up in the feel of him against me.
There is a taut, tense moment where I feel completely out of control—and not in the normal way where decisions are being made for me. No, I feel like I can’t control myself . I don’t know what I’m going to do next.
“Eat.”
A hand splashed through a water’s reflection, the moment is ruined.
I glare, and he just raises an unimpressed brow, waiting for me to give in. He can go all night, all month, all year. He’ll keep me pinned beneath him forever.
Finally, I scoff and shift to bear my neck to him. He proved his point. I am fragile, and he is stronger than me. He can make me do what he wants. I might as well go along with it.
He pulls back, wordlessly accepting my defeat, and gets to his feet. Aris extends a chivalrous hand to help me up, which I pointedly ignore. He laughs as I walk past him to the table, staring at the platter of assembled food.
It’s like a Thanksgiving feast with boiled potatoes, blackened corn, turkey legs, and a pitcher of water. There’s a pre-prepared plate, but there is a serving platter on the side, in case I’m still hungry—which I will not be.
I’m not a necessarily heavy sleeper and am somewhat surprised that he managed to set this all up without waking me. Then again, he probably just brought it with a snap of his fingers. No assembly required. No effort on his part.
I take a dejected seat and pick up my fork, moving things around on the plate. “So?” I say. Now what? I can’t tell if he’s punishing me or if he’s just being himself right now.
He sits across from me, clearly pleased with himself. “Drink your water, too.”
A glass has been poured for me already, and I take a quick sip. I go to set the drink down, only to startle when he appears next to me.
“All of it,” he orders and tips the bottom of the glass so I have no choice but to swallow.
I gulp the water down, shooting him another glare when he sets it back on the table and refills it. He keeps his place beside me on the couch and does not return to his original seat.
“Is this really the best use of your time?” I remark.
“I have nothing but time.”
Not true. Though, he doesn’t know that.
He might have discovered who I’m working with, but he said that he didn’t want to kill me. So long as I live, the plan lives with me. Holding tightly to the memory of his blank face, I tell myself that it could even work.
I move more food around the plate, then skewer a group of vegetables and plop them in my mouth. “You’ve been gone the past few days,” I say after swallowing.
“I told you. I was angry.”
“And you aren’t now?”
“Your actions were not entirely unexpected,” he admits after a moment, “and I’m confident that I can handle any plot Jaegen has devised.”
I watch him closely.
“I must say, it isn’t the scheming that bothers me.” He pauses, picking up a strand of my newly dyed hair, and his lips twist. “It’s just, he should have known better than to interfere with you.”
The tips of his fingers are centimeters from my skin; the thought of contact makes my heart race. “Why?” I murmur.
“Because you are mine,” Aris says, as if that were childishly obvious.
Mine.
Ashamed by the flush that courses through me at the word, I turn back to my food. Aris loses his hold on my hair from the movement, and his hand drops back to his side. Only inches of distance gained, it’s still a welcome reprieve from the horrible, lashing urge to touch him.
It’s like a compulsion—more than that, an addiction. A biting, aching urge that I feel from my scalp to the tips of my toes.
My core is so warm, my body so stimulated and bothered, that I’m unable to focus enough to even swallow. I can’t keep myself together. I should be rejoicing—he’s been monitoring what I eat and brought me food. That’s proof that he cares, isn’t it? And his face is no longer pinched, his eyes lighter. Perhaps he’s no longer angry, either—indeed, he even said that he isn’t worried about my actions against him.
But I can’t feel happy about those things. I can’t consider strategy when all I’m thinking about is him—thinking about him in a way that I shouldn’t be.
I finally set my plate down. Aris’ brow raises at the clatter, but I’m so annoyed that I hardly notice.
“Are you making me want you?” I demand.
His smirk grows. “You want me?”
Hell . Didn’t think that one through, did I?
My face feels like it’s on fire. “You know what you’re doing!” I hiss, glaring at the wall. “It’s just another way to mess with me, and you need to stop. I don’t want you doing it.”
He is silent for longer than expected, long enough that my embarrassment ebbs and my skin cools, and I finally risk looking back at him. Of course, Aris is still staring at me, but his gaze is more curious than triumphant.
“You are using something to keep me out of your head. Magic—a rune or mark of some sort. Perhaps an object.”
“So?”
He perks a brow. “ So , the magic blocks me. I cannot influence you the way that you are accusing me.”
“You’re lying.”
“Of course, I must be, because who would you have to blame, then?” Aris asks, teasing gone from his voice. He even sounds gentle. “How could you reconcile your affection for me?”
I scoff. “I feel no affection.”
“And now, who is lying? ”
I’m struggling to think of a response when Aris stands and puts his hands in his pockets. “I am required elsewhere. I will fetch you tomorrow,” he tells me. “And we will travel again.”
Thoughts of his hands on me are quickly shoved aside. “You will kill people,” I say.
He nods, then smiles. "You are adorable when you're frightened."
My glower just makes his smirk grow. “You’re teasing me.”
"Would you like for me to say that I do not enjoy it?" Aris looks me up and down. “You’re in a mood now, aren’t you? I see that you don’t like to be reminded of your feelings towards me.”
“Hate and disgust?”
“No,” he murmurs, eyes dancing. “Not those.”
I work my jaw for a moment, deliberating what to say. How to come out on top. Finally, “No, I don’t like you killing off my species. Pretty sure it’s hate.”
“That’s not all of it, though,” he says. “You should work on being honest toward yourself, Mary. The truth does wonders.” “Does it now?” I reply flatly.
Aris’ smile grows. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, before disappearing into the shadows of the room.
I toss my fork at the place he just inhabited.