6. Stage of Grief Anger
Stage of Grief: Anger
PRESENT DAY
LOCATION: SCORPION HOLE MILITARY BASE
The day passed in a fugue of violence.
Now pale moonlight streamed through the window, casting fang-like shadows across the bedroom. Back aching, I sat stiffly in the wooden chair I’d moved into the corner opposite the washroom.
The dial sat on the chair’s arm, pointed at where Tarantula lounged atop his bed. Squire slept peacefully on my lap as I turned the page of my book, but I didn’t bother to look down. I nervously spun a fountain pen between my fingers.
Tarantula leaned lazily against his headboard with a book also open in his hands, staring at me.
Never had two people reading been more volatile. Each page flipped sent a knife point of dread trailing down my spine, and I prayed to the old god for strength in the face of evil.
“To love and to die,” he said, and the deep register of his voice sliced through the tension. “I did not take thee for the blubbering romantic type.”
I held the book up higher, turning it sharply like a weapon so he could read the full title.
“Ah,” he said. “To Love and to Die: A Hunter’s Guidebook to the Wilderness.” He cocked his head to the side as if puzzling through a problem. “What is it about?”
“I don’t know,” I deadpanned. “I can’t read.”
He smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. He held up his book to show me the title, The Creed of Kings and Democracies. A history book about Westmere politics, very male-centric and a complete snooze-fest. Stolen from my pile. I read it to fall asleep.
He would enjoy that.
I rolled my eyes and focused on mine.
The page documented a fifteen-step process on how to slaughter, skin, and roast a boar. In the cramped margins, I’d annotated my favorite poems, each carefully selected for how they fit the moral dilemma presented at each stage of harvesting.
Contemplating the ethics of hunting brought me peace. You couldn’t just kill an animal and walk away. You had to sit with it, bow to the forest, and thank the universe for your blessings.
I mindlessly scribbled between the lines: Complete the quest. Complete the quest. Complete the quest.
“Thou know . . .” Tarantula said slowly, with the tonal confidence of someone about to be extremely rude.
“The Midlanders on this base think thou art uncivilized. It does not help, your consumption of such debased literature.” He made a humorless sound.
“I could give thee some recommendations, to help . . . educate.”
I counted to ten because the bastard wouldn’t stop offering to teach me things. If one more person calls me stupid.
He slowly closed his book but kept his long middle finger pressed between the pages to hold his place. His hand completely dwarfed the cover. He cradled the book suggestively, his finger placement lewd. Images flashed through my mind of that same finger—Nope, not going there.
“Stop talking to me.” A hot flush burned my face.
He slowly slipped his middle finger from between the pages, laying his book on his pillow. “I am going to the washroom.”
“Don’t care. I told you not to talk.”
He gestured to the dial. “Just a forewarning. I know how much thou enjoy your power trips.”
The mattress squeaked loudly as he stood, storm magic swirling around him like glitter. His shadow plunged a large swath of the room into darkness, myself included. I raised the dial high, and he eyeballed it as he sauntered across the space, stopping in front of my chair.
Ever so slowly, he leaned down so we were eye to eye, and the dial pressed against the DANGER written on his chest. His right hand spread across both pages of my open book.
“When I get out of this wretched collar—” his voice roughened, practically inarticulate as he hovered close enough to slaughter “—I am going to acquaint thee with a form of torment so personal—”
Zap.
He jolted with electricity and gritted his teeth, falling onto one knee. Eyes locked on mine, not blinking, he held on to the arms of my chair and leaned forward, caging me in. Voltage prickled over the wood, shocking me lightly.
The Mist rolled across the floor in a haze, gathering into tendrils. It rose toward the collar and dial.
I turned the knob down.
Tarantula pushed himself up, unfurling to his full height, muscles tense.
With one last hateful glare, he stomped loudly into the washroom and slammed the door shut behind him.
Immediately he opened it back wide like he’d remembered his only purpose in life was to torment me.
The sound of his loud peeing filled the room.
“Very elegant,” I called out, trying to hide my unease. “What a stand-up gentleman. You clearly have a lot to teach me.”
The door slammed shut.
Water ran.
Seconds bled into minutes.
He was washing his hands for far too long. Is he fashioning his toothbrush into a shiv? Crap, I needed to sharpen mine. Time kept passing, and he remained inside the bathroom.
“Did thou fall into the toilet?” I asked, mimicking his accent as I tried to sound nonchalant.
Squire opened a bleary yellow eye on my lap. “No, me here,” he chirped sleepily.
“Not you, darling.”
He curled back into a ball and fell asleep.
“Did your sire ever teach you the concept of manners?” Tarantula yelled back mockingly, overenunciating the modern word. It sounded strange on his lips.
“No.” I flipped the page. “I never met the man.”
The door banged open, and Tarantula stalked out of the washroom. Sniffing dramatically, he smoothed and tucked in his sheets like the bed wasn’t up to his high standards. Seating himself down elegantly, he lazed back against his headboard. My face prickled under his sharp scrutiny.
I will complete my quest. My pen ripped through the page as I steeled myself for his filth.
“ ’Tis probably for the best, for your sire’s sake,” he said slowly. “A headstrong daughter . . . not a womanly trait in sight. Controlling thee would cause any man consternation.”
I snapped the book closed.
“Oh yes,” I said quietly. “I’m sure the man who was taken hostage by the Empire, separated from his pregnant wife, and most likely mercilessly slaughtered would be embarrassed to have a competent daughter who could provide for his grieving widow.”
Tarantula’s jaw clenched. I stood, leaning over his bed with the dial leveled at his tattooed face. I didn’t remember moving across the room.
He shook his head. “The Empire does not take hostages.”
“Tell that to the man who was removed from his home in the middle of the night, never to return again.”
His eyes sharpened. “Or . . . your sire just wanted to escape from your pregnant harpy of a mothe—”
He convulsed in a show of sparks as I turned up the dial.
Grabbing his curls, I wrenched his head back. He let out a guttural groan as he twitched, eyes twinkling with an emotion that looked suspiciously like enjoyment. It can’t be. Electricity pricked my fingers, but I barely felt it through the burning rage.
He licked his lips, and the saliva sizzled.
“Say another word about my mom.” I yanked hard at his hair, pulling him closer. He shuddered as I whispered, “And you will learn just how feral I can be.”
Canines flashed as he smiled sadistically.
I slapped his face, sparks flying between us.
“Do that again,” he ordered, voice gravelly as he convulsed, still grinning.
The collar sputtered.
Mist thickened around it in a thick blue cloud.
Turning down the dial, I dropped his silky hair, but I couldn’t make myself back away. I stood over his bed, shaking. “Zora, we are not like the Empire. We are good,” Mom whispered in my head. His face blurred. I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to let tears fall.
Two days stuck with him and I’d already become what they all called me—uncivilized.
When I opened my eyes, he stared up at me with an unreadable expression. “Thou art very loyal,” he said quietly. “ ’Tis . . . becoming.”
“My loyalties are none of your concern.”
He folded his hands behind his head casually like he wasn’t in chains, muscles still twitching with aftershocks. “I beg to differ.”
“Say what you want. It doesn’t change anything,” I muttered.
He cleared his throat. “I can be very thorough.”
“What?”
“It can be immensely pleasurable.”
“Excuse me? What are you—”
“Do thou want me on my knees? Or on my back?”
“Stop speaking—”
“There are many ways . . . are there not?”
“What the damned are you talking about right now?”
“Begging.”
I tried to find words, but there were none. Our gazes locked. Oh nice, it feels like I’m on fire. Time stretched peculiarly around us. My legs cramped from standing, but I refused to sit down as he kept his head tipped back, eyes hooded. Raw, torturous domesticity.
Hours passed, but neither of us moved.
I will not lose.
Never to him.
When dawn finally came, we exploded into action at the same time, jostling shoulders as we each tried to get to the washroom first. We brushed our teeth with violence, trading blistering glares.
I washed my face, and water sprayed out of the sink—splashing both of us. Oh no. I yanked on the faucet, pretending it was broken, then hid my glowing fingers behind my back. Pain thudded deep in my skull.
Accidental storm magic?
Is there even such a thing?
“Incompetent commoner.” Tarantula rolled his eyes, looking exhausted as he toweled off, seemingly none the wiser to my slip-up.
“Pompous royal bastard. Get over yourself,” I hissed, nerves strung out from the sleepless night.
He threw the towel onto the floor and stepped close. His rough thumb scraped heat across my cheek as he wiped off a droplet of water. We both froze in shock. His hand burned against my skin.
Danger imminent.
A flush slowly traveled above his collar, up the top of his neck, and settled across his cheeks, disappearing under his mask. His breath quickened.
He whispered quietly, “How did thou get this silver scar?” His nostrils flared as he leaned dangerously close. “It reeks of . . . magic.”
“None of your business.” I reared back, away from his wicked touch. “You smell yourself.” I looked pointedly at the metallic flames steaming off his shoulders.