4. Stage of Grief Denial
Stage of Grief: Denial
Lounging across from me, Tarantula asked, “What . . . art thou reading?” His voice was a deep rasp, the sound reminiscent of a dire wolf’s warning growl. He was all throat and menace, looking deceptively casual.
A second bed had been moved into my already claustrophobic room. Our narrow beds sat across from each other on opposite walls, one arm’s distance apart. Our headboards flanked a large window, which sat above a small end table.
I could hear the exact moment each breath escaped from Tarantula’s lungs as he studied me. Handcuffs glinted around his wrists and ankles, and the diamonds on his throat caught the moonlight.
Squire snored beside me, tucked half under the covers like he didn’t have a single care in the world.
Tarantula was close enough to reach out and strangle; close enough to land a killing blow; close enough to whisper a death threat and be heard; close enough to die by his hand; close enough to touch; close enough to maul; close enough that he would hear me if I sobbed into my pillow.
I clutched the poetry book protectively to my chest. “None of your business.” My voice came out too hesitant, weak, in the quiet bedroom.
“Thou do not need to pretend.” He smirked, tucking his arm behind his head, biceps straining through fabric. “Westmere literacy rates are pitifully abysmal—a sad state of idiocy.”
I lowered my book. “Excuse . . . me?”
“You suffer terribly—poor illiterate peasant,” he drawled, the modern pronoun bizarre on his accented tongue, as if he was trying to appear different than he was.
It didn’t work.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, fingers trembling.
“A poor serf? ’Tis what thou art. Do thou need me to read that book to help thee find sleep? I am at your impoverished service.”
Crack.
Pages opened wide as the book fell from his thick skull, fluttering to the floor.
Magic hissed, steaming off his shoulders, a silver haze in the dark night. He touched his forehead with disbelief. “Thou . . . did not . . . throw a book at me.”
“But I can’t read. What else would I use it for? Is it not a weapon?”
He blinked slowly. “I detect sarcasm.”
“I detect an egotistical, pompous pig.”
He smiled lazily like I’d complimented him.
The sun had set hours before, and it would be hours until it rose anew. Our first night together. Darkness crept around his body, shadows multiplying as they crawled through the room. Evil thrived at night, Tarantula its perfect personification. No person, thing, or natural element would save me.
Not from him.
“Why the damned would thou risk your life in the Iron Ritual?” he asked abruptly.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I bared my teeth. “I’m going to destroy you.”
His glare could kill.
Four walls closed in around us—animals in a cage. Shards of light from the full moon pierced through the inky blackness, reflecting across his shiny platinum mask.
Neither of us had slept for a single second. A mutual state of aggressive stubbornness. The harder I willed him to fall asleep, the more he seemed to tense, his eyes bright and alert.
Without a book to occupy my hands, I clicked my fingernails together.
He pointed at me, his long arm nearly crossing the distance between our beds, magic rising off his finger like smoke. “Careful,” he said threateningly, eyes flashing.
“Ryse was right,” I said, needing to wipe the grin off his face. “You really are neutered.”
“Thou art unlearned and rude, assaulting your betters.” His accent roughened with rage as he gestured at the book on the floor. “Such a brat. Is there no such thing as education in this sewage pit of a contin—”
“Don’t call me stupid!” I turned the dial for the first time.
Tarantula convulsed on the bed, blue sparks jumping as he tasted electrocution. Metal chains clattered. Whispered grunts escaped his parted lips as his body went taut. Only a ruthless monster could have created this collar. I want to kiss the engineer.
Blue strands of Mist rose from the floor in thick streams, attacking the collar. I turned the dial down. The Mist retreated. Pained masculine rasps filled the quiet room.
“Don’t call me stupid,” I repeated.
His arm shot out. Silver exploded from his hand.
Wind slammed against me, and my braid slapped my face. He pinned me with storm magic to the bed, arms spread. Metal dug into my palm where the dial lay in my open hand. I couldn’t move my fingers—all five digits were spread wide, trapped by the invisible force.
How in the damned is this him neutered?
The sensation of being crushed by the gusts of punishing wind increased. I screamed silently through the panic, eyes watering as silver strands battered me. Sheets slapped loudly against the wall. I focused on reaching the dial as everything began turning black.
“How does thou like that?” he asked, smug with gloating. “Thou insufferable—”
I wrenched my pinkie finger through the magic and hit metal—the dial turned all the way up.
Tarantula shouted expletives, thumping his fists against the bed as he kicked the wall and the electric light show resumed.
Inches away, his neck tendons strained, spider legs twitching across his jaw.
He made a retching sound as glorious sparks sizzled brightly in the night.
We suffered together for long, hideous moments.
The Mist gathered. Streaks of blue rose from the floor, gaining shape.
Frigid wind slowly dissipated as he lost control of his magic, and I turned the voltage off. I grabbed at my chest, faint with relief. “Apologize for calling me stupid.”
He labored with harsh, pained exhales. “No.” He coughed. “I shan’t tell a lie.”
The device rested heavy above my pounding heart as I struggled to calm my spiraling thoughts. You couldn’t reason with evil. You couldn’t tame a monster.
I can complete my quest.
I will complete my quest.
I won’t fail.
A single tear streaked down my face. “You’re an awful, wicked bastard,” I whispered as I rubbed at my aching, bruised ribs. He wielded his power like a hammer.
“Says the heartless, torturous brat,” he said with disgust as mutual hatred filled the air, tingling on my tongue.
Tense hours passed in restless hostility as we both refused to break.
When the golden haze of morning light drifted through the window—and Squire shrieked his morning song, passionate, loud, and off-key—nothing had changed.
Tarantula had stopped pretending to blink hours ago, and my vision blurred from refusing to look away.
You had to meet a predator in the eye. Always. Even if it felt like you were dying.
A frazzled ball of nerves sparked where my heart used to be as I debated pulling the covers up over my head. I wanted to pretend everything was fine; I wanted to tell the Marshal I was too weak; I wanted to refuse to go through with it; I want to abandon my duty.
Curling onto my side, I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself as small as possible, hiding from my cowardice.
Tarantula made a sound in the back of his throat.
Gathering my fear, pretending it was courage, I threw myself out of the bed, grabbed the dial, and ran to the adjoining washroom, slamming the door behind me.
Rule of survival: The only way to surmount danger is to keep moving through it. Don’t stop.
Splashing cold water on my face, and then Squire’s, I brushed my teeth quickly.
It took everything in my power not to stare at the second bag on the sink, the one filled with masculine products.
Why does he get toiletries? The door creaked, chains clanking.
I spun around with a strangled shriek, holding the dial up defensively.
Tarantula held his hands up in a surrender gesture.
Squire screeched on my shoulder.
Tarantula’s nostrils flared as he glared down at us. Long seconds stretched. He studied the scars on the side of my face, lingering where the silver one bisected the corner of my lip.
“Thou have toothpaste on your chin,” he said coldly, but his ears turned scarlet, betraying his agitation.
I hastily wiped my face, feeling unmoored.
His lips quirked up. “Made thee check.”
Dirty trickster. I held up the dial threateningly.
“Careful,” he warned. “Someday I shan’t be collared.” His voice dropped an octave as he crowded me deeper into the washroom until my knees knocked against the toilet. “Thou will be defenseless against my wrath.”
Long, graceful fingers rose up and flicked the end of my braid mockingly. “Thou art,” he whispered, “in grave danger.” A flush spread across his face, disappearing beneath his mask.
He took another step closer, body heat and magic pouring off him. His eyes flashed with a strange iridescent sheen. Sunlight dancing across naked snow. A masculine scent filled my nose, sharp and deadly—dark cherry mixed with . . . grandiose delusions?
I struggled not to breathe him in.
His lashes fluttered as he looked down at where I’d pressed my bone dagger to his chest. I always slept with it sheathed across my hip.
“Careful,” I said, mimicking his deep voice. “I’ve taken down beasts far more dangerous than you.”
He leaned closer, pressing himself into my dagger, and dragged his tongue across his upper teeth. “There is no beast more vicious than me in all Antichthon, because I will do . . . anything to get what I want.”
I broke out in a cold sweat because he radiated grave seriousness. He wasn’t lying.
I pressed the blade harder into the front of his jumpsuit, needing to hurt him, and put some space between us so I could breathe without feeling sick to my stomach. My fingers prickled. Silver gathered around the dagger blade, traveling off his chest and onto my skin.
We both stared down at where the storm magic swirled between us.
“What is the meaning of this?” I asked.
He hunched forward, leaning down to my level so we were in a bastardization of an embrace. “Fate,” he whispered darkly, his hot breath fanning across the sensitive shell of my ear.