Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
ELENA
Restlessness clawed at Elena, driving her to pace her prison’s polished floors. For days now, she had been unable to sense her Shadow. It was as if a wall stood between them, one she couldn’t penetrate no matter how hard she tried.
Was he dead? No, surely not; she would have felt it.
He was tethered to her, after all. But then, what had happened?
Had Katerina managed to sever the connection Elena had forged when she’d cast the spell, binding Niko’s soul to hers?
And if so, did that mean their bargain was forfeit…
that her Shadow was no longer compelled to return to her side?
Nausea washed over Elena at the thought, and she sank onto the window seat, gulping the clove-spiked tea that one of Sammael’s minions had left for her.
The weight of the Darkness that had become her constant companion, by turns oppressive as a raincloud and comforting as a blanket on a frigid day, crushed her lungs.
Desperate for air, she clawed at her chest. Her vision darkened, narrowing, and she blinked, then blinked again, trying to clear it.
Light flooded her eyes, so bright she had to wipe away tears.
Her hands were empty; the teacup had vanished.
She glanced left, then right, and gasped.
Somehow, she was standing on the sidewalk beneath her window in her frayed wedding gown, the brimstone-scented wind whipping the fabric around her ankles.
Except, she wasn’t really there at all. She lifted one of her trembling hands, only to find her flesh transparent; through it, she could make out the speckled limestone facade of Sammael’s palace.
In a panic, she glanced up toward her room, and sucked in a breath: the smudge of her blonde hair was clearly visible, pressed against the glass.
There was only one explanation: Her body remained in the room where Sammael had imprisoned her, but somehow, her spirit walked free.
Elena straightened, her lips rising in a smile. This was nothing to be frightened of. This was an opportunity, and she had no intention of wasting it.
She looked around again, to make sure she wasn’t being watched.
The sun-drenched street was empty, which she suspected was by happenstance rather than design.
When she’d occupied the cottage, Sammael had decreed that no one venture near without his consent.
He’d done this out of consideration for her, lest she glimpse a horned, forked-tongue beast and dissolve into a puddle of silk-encrusted terror.
But while such a sight might have appalled the girl she’d once been, the woman she’d become wouldn’t blink twice at it.
For she was the rising Queen of Darkness, and minions of the realm posed no threat to her.
She pitied them, for she had what they did not: a form of true beauty, one she did not have to borrow or shapeshift to possess.
Even Sammael’s form didn’t truly belong to him.
Why he’d decided to anoint himself with hair as red as the setting sun, given the choice, was a mystery.
It was as unattractive as Katerina’s wild mane, like the demon himself.
He lacked imagination, and vision, and most of all, he was not the one the Darkness favored.
That was Elena, and if her gift was sometimes a burden, it was one she would willingly bear.
What she wouldn’t bear—what she couldn’t—was the thought of losing her Shadow. And perhaps this venture would provide a way to get him back again.
The wind gusted again, carrying with it a peculiar scent: musty and dank, as if she stood not in the Underworld, but truly belowground.
She had the strangest sense that bars enclosed her, engraved with runes to keep her gifts at bay; but she stood on a wind-swept street, free to go where she chose.
Unless Sammael had somehow trapped her spirit here, too…
Perhaps he had. Perhaps that was why he felt free to leave her and go about his peculiar, private business, since he had already circumscribed her freedom.
Maybe his newest machination decreed not that no one could come near her, but that she could approach no one without his permission, in astral form or otherwise.
The thought that he’d imprisoned her in soul as well as body set her feet moving, down the cobblestones and toward the market square where he’d created the replica of Kalach.
She half-expected to hit a barrier at the street’s end, but no; she rounded the corner without impediment and continued walking, the musty, fetid stench filling her nostrils as she went.
At the next corner, Elena paused and narrowed her eyes.
The last time Sammael had taken her this way, when he’d given her a tour of the streets around the palace, this block had been filled with cheerful, red-roofed cottages much like the one he’d built for her.
Now, though, it was an industrial district, dotted with sprawling warehouses.
Hunched demons clad in dusty rags scurried in and out, hauling wheelbarrows filled with bottles.
One of them caught sight of Elena and began to chitter like an alarmed insect, poking its compatriots with a long, red-clawed forefinger.
The others gaped, then bent to their work with alacrity, hauling the wheelbarrows inside and slamming the doors behind them.
Irritation stabbed at her: why had they run?
Had Sammael forbidden them to speak with her?
And was this what the streets of his realm had looked like all along, underneath the glamour he’d cast?
Why did he think she needed to be coddled in order to be happy?
Why could no one see her as the powerful, dangerous creature she’d become?
After all, she no longer even needed a body to move about the world.
Perhaps these scrabbling minions feared her; that must be it.
She was tempted to bang on the metal doors behind which they’d disappeared and demand answers.
But the agitation that had possessed her earlier churned even more strongly now.
Who knew how long this newfound freedom would last?
She had to go, she had to escape, she had to see—
Bracing herself against the driving wind, Elena quickened her pace.
Head down, she hurried past the warehouses and down one street after another.
It was midday, and the sun baked through her diaphanous dress and heated her see-through skin, as if boiling her very blood.
She needed a cold drink; surely that would calm the torrent of unrest inside her.
It seemed a terrible inconvenience that, even in astral form, she still had to contend with petty bodily needs.
For all she knew, the lemonade would pour straight through her, soaking the street below.
But she craved it, with an intensity that brooked no question.
She was empty inside, and she thirsted, and she must be satisfied.
One of the stalls in the market sold lavender lemonade; Sammael had brought her a tumbler of it once, icy and sweet, with a refreshing sprig of purple grave-mint.
She would go there, and they would serve her though she had no money, for she belonged to Sammael.
And if they failed to fulfill her every wish, why then, she welcomed the pleasure of seeing the Venom of God lop off their heads.
Sweat plastered her hair to her cheeks as she rounded the final corner and stopped dead, chest heaving. Where the market should be was a vacant lot, deserted save for the dried leaves that swept through it. Every stall, every stand, was gone.
Sammael had done this, out of revenge. He had taken her from her home, he had imprisoned her, and now he had taken her home away from her.
Fury burned through Elena, scorching through her veins. Wave after wave of heat washed over her, and thirst raked its way down her throat. Was she always to be hollow, coveting what she could not have? Were her needs never to be sated?
She stood in the street and howled, scoring her dress with her fingernails in protest. It did not even give her the satisfaction of ripping, of course, as it was not truly there.
Infuriated, she sucked in air to scream again, and the mildewy scent that had pursued her from the palace filled her lungs.
She fell to her knees, choking and spitting to rid herself of the taste.
And then the street around her whirled. Spun. Faded.
Gone were the dessicated leaves and abandoned lot, the sky with its merciless dual suns, and the relentless wind.
Instead, she stood in a dark, damp corridor.
One wall held torches; the other was studded with cells, their bars engraved with the runes she’d envisioned.
And somewhere in this hellscape was her Shadow.
His essence pulled her onward, even stunted by the enchantments that restrained his true self.
Was this why she hadn’t been able to sense his presence? Because he’d been imprisoned and locked away? Who would dare to do such a thing?
Elena glanced down at herself, curiosity penetrating her rage.
Only an outline of her body appeared in the gloom: the shimmer of her wedding gown, its hem hovering several inches above the floor; the gleam of her fingers as she trailed them through the air.
She was here, but not here, much as she’d been in the streets of Sammael’s realm.
She was aboveground.
Somehow, the Darkness had gifted her this moment, however partial her presence, and she did not intend to waste it. If Niko was indeed here, then she would find him and set him free. He would be grateful, and he would worship her as he should, and then she would take him home again.