24. utioner Style
Executioner Style
I leaned against the twins as the three of us walked together. For once, Tarantula didn’t say anything. He’d recovered quickest and stalked ahead of us through the Babilon streets, glowing with magic. You’d think he’d thank me for saving him.
I was a mess.
Death had left my legs unsteady.
When we finally made it to the inn’s stables, the twins separated to saddle their steeds. Tarantula tethered my dire horse to his, and I meant to protest, but I couldn’t remember how to speak. He grabbed my shoulder tightly.
“What?” I mouthed.
He shook his head with a fierce scowl, turned back to his horse, undid the pack, and pulled out one of the canteens of water. Uncorking it, he turned—water drenched my face. Apparently I haven’t drowned enough for the day. I swore as I sputtered, wiping the liquid off my eyes and face.
“I am testing a theory,” he said calmly, studying me with crossed arms.
“I’ll show you a—”
He dumped the rest of the water over my head. “Do thou feel any different?”
“No.” I hid my hands behind my back, hoping they weren’t glowing. He can’t find out.
“Seriously, how do thou feel?” he asked.
“Like I want to strangle you with my bare hands—”
Tarantula picked me up and placed me in his saddle. Before I could move, he mounted behind me and flexed so his thighs trapped me. They radiated heat like a furnace and had no business being so . . . overwhelming. Dying has damaged me.
Squire perched on the saddle, singing nonsensically off-key, and Axel quietly hummed the chorus.
“Are you okay?” Ella asked sluggishly as her body still recovered from the poisoning. “I love you, Zora.”
“Love you so much,” I said, meaning it.
Ella sniffled, and we reached between our dire horses for each other. Our fingers touched, and we shared a smile, a moment of peace amid the horrors.
“That is enough.” Tarantula (the horrors) pulled me back in the saddle so I was pressed against him. “We need to leave.”
Ella frowned. “Don’t speak to her with that tone.”
I opened my mouth to agree.
“Stop them!” someone shouted, and a horn sounded.
“Go!” Tarantula smacked the reins.
The twins kicked their stirrups, and our horses exploded forward, thundering through the street and out of the gate into the rainforest. Warm wind whipped through my unbraided wet hair, sending it straight back into his face.
Tarantula brushed the tendrils to the side. His rough finger pads scraped across the front of my neck, and shivers attacked me.
“How did thou get this scar?”
“I’ve always had it. You just never noticed.”
“No.” Fingers flexed against my throat as his breath made my skin pebble. “ ’Tis impossible. I notice everything about thee. Always.”
“Not this,” I whispered, chilled to the bone.
I’d evaded death for the second time.
Tarantula’s hand slowly fell away as if he sensed my melancholy.
For once in his life, he didn’t press. We rode in silence.
Long hours passed. His hips rolled in powerful motion behind mine, expertly matching our horse’s rhythm.
The hard planes of his chest radiated intense heat beneath my spine. We were moving in tandem.
Unlike the last time we’d ridden together, no one was bleeding out. Instead, I was soaking wet and we were both in sheer clothes. We were indecent at best and downright vulgar at worst.
My thoughts veered into depraved territory. It’s because of the trauma. No other reason. None at all.
As our carnivorous steeds picked up their brutal pace in the open desert, Tarantula pressed himself so flush against me that our sweat mingled, and I couldn’t tell where his evil began and I ended.
Nothing made sense anymore. Antichthon was a lie.
There was only anarchy, magic, and the Mist. We were truly living in dark modern-medieval times.
“What is it?” Tarantula asked coldly—a venomous arachnid in the body of a man. Sand blurred around us. “Why did thou just tense?”
He stared hungrily down at me, his mask shining brilliant in the sunlight. A silver scar reflected back, glittering across my face. “You must fight for those who cannot help themselves.”
“I’m afraid,” I whispered, peeking up at him through lowered lashes.
Tarantula tensed, jaw working back and forth. “Thou . . . should be.”
He held me closer than my own shadow, every inch of my body painfully aware of him. I need to get away from this man. He cracked the reins, his arms flexing as he caged me against his wide chest.
Eventually I passed out.
* * *
Axel crooned softly in a deep baritone. He was an exceptionally talented singer, and his morbid song created a dreamlike ambience.
Delicious hard warmth pressed against my cheek. Blinking, I took a second to get my bearings. My face was pressed against an armpit. Biceps flexed, holding me upright. I jolted straight and wiped drool off my chin, glancing up nervously.
Tarantula stared down at me. His hooded, piercing eyes studied my face.
I glanced away.
A hazy sunrise glowed on the horizon. Squire hooted as he perched on the horse’s head, beak raised while the desert rushed around us.
Dry air scratched roughly at my nose as the alien world of sand stretched endlessly in every direction.
The twins rode beside us, a trail of dust billowing behind our steeds.
Ella rubbed at her tired eyes, hunching low, riding half asleep while Axel watched her with concern.
From the veracity of my clear thoughts, critical thinking had returned. The scent of dark cherry filled my nose, and a hardness pressed against my lower spine. I jerked forward, nearly falling out of the saddle. He pulled me back upright.
Tarantula made an angry sound that vibrated through his chest.
Squire swiveled his head around and stared at me with wide, perpetually surprised eyes. “Morning, Zora!” he hooted with delight.
“Good morning, darling.” I blew him a kiss and tried to scoot forward in the saddle.
“Hello, slutty spider.” Squire tucked his beak bashfully (not helpful).
Tarantula waved. “Hello, little bird.”
Squire chirped and turned like he was embarrassed.
Tarantula chuckled as he shifted his hips forward, still straddling me. Beads of sweat dripped uncomfortably down the side of my neck. He watched their descent. His tongue snaked out, wetting his lower lip.
I opened my mouth to tell him off but caught sight of the deep canyon to our left. We were close to getting back to the Scorpion Hole. What is the Marshal’s grand plan?
Time stretched with painful slowness.
Finally our horses thundered to a stop in front of the base’s hangar. We dismounted tiredly, all of us worse for wear.
As soon as our feet hit the sand, a dozen Shadow Swords leveled their weapons at Tarantula.
Axel pulled Ella behind him and backed her away from the scene. I inched toward them.
“What is the meaning of this?” Tarantula demanded.
A biting breeze slapped my hair across my face and blew through the Crimson Army.
Ryse lunged behind Tarantula. Click. He fitted a thin new shock collar around the very top of his neck.
Tarantula froze, jaw tight. The metal glinted in the sun, with even more diamonds than the last one. In one smooth motion, Ryse pressed a key into the latch and removed the old collar. He didn’t meet my eye.
Tarantula stood with an unnatural stillness.
The Marshal stepped forward, cape billowing.
“Your agreement was based on you remaining . . . neutralized, always. A shock collar is part of that. This is merely a housekeeping matter . . . for Knight Zora’s protection.
” She pressed a new dial into my palm. Then she turned to Tarantula.
“Knight Zora will escort you back to your private quarters. I will debrief each of you individually.”
Ella mouthed something over her shoulder about coming to check on me, but Axel shielded her with his body, blocking my view as he led her back to their room. Shadow Swords bowed deep, falling into perfect formation around the Marshal as she also left.
Just like that, Tarantula and I were the last Mages in the hangar. Soldiers in scarlet milled about, but they all kept their distance.
Silence mounted.
Tarantula didn’t say anything, but his lips curled upward and his eyes promised retribution. He didn’t need to speak. A gust of wind whispered across the front of my jugular.
“Don’t thou dare try anything,” he warned.
I turned up the voltage and ran.
* * *
Tarantula and I were back within four walls, our beds far too close together. Electricity tingled across the tip of my tongue as he twitched on his mattress while I watched.
Night had fallen, but no moonlight softened the tension in the shadow-drenched room. Squire snored in my bed, tucked under the covers with his head on the pillow.
I will complete my quest.
I will complete my quest.
I will complete my quest.
My hand was steady as I periodically turned the dial.
Rule of survival: Never make a moment of peace with evil, only war. Don’t let the darkness in.
Sparks burned brightly as Tarantula, still half naked, grunted in pain, fists thumping against the wall, chains rattling. His headboard rocked rhythmically. Silver boots kicked where they hung off the too-short bed.
“Despicable woman,” he spat.
The meek didn’t survive. Not these days, and especially not with him haunting the world. Sadists didn’t deserve mercy. I stood next to his bed, legs spread wide for balance, still in my dirty clothes.
I needed answers, and he had them.
“Why do you call me vassal?” I asked again. “When will the Emperor attack Westmere? Why do you want to enslave us all?”
His lips pressed together, eyes promising pain.
“Why did you kill Aurora?”
Neon-blue lights jumped through the air. He somehow still looked posh and elegant, shirt parted, stomach clenching, while he was being tortured. Life wasn’t fair.
I turned the dial down.
“Tell me something,” I demanded for the fifteenth time, refusing to quail under his blistering expression.
“No.” His eyes were murderous.
Electricity resumed its dance.
“Tell me why you killed my best friend.”