Chapter 5 Eryx #2
The sentiment was so primal, so earnestly spoken, it delved deep into my soul. No one I’d ever been involved with had spoken about me that way. Not even Frannie—but I didn’t think about Frannie. I moved to keep going, but she stepped towards me at the same time.
We nearly collided and my fingers brushed hers. Her hand slipped into mine, natural as anything. My heart raced. I fought between my desire to protect her from the truth of me and the pure pleasure of her touch.
If she thought Magnus was a monster for hurting a child, what would she think of me, if she knew all I’d done? What would she think of me if she found out what had happened to Frannie because I couldn’t stop it?
Her touch was comfort I didn’t deserve. I’d been my brother’s enforcer for so long I barely knew what it meant to be a peaceful man.
I was a monster in every way that counted but one: I’d never hurt someone I loved.
But someone had hurt Frannie because I loved her, and I hadn’t been good enough to stop them.
No one should feel safe around me. But her fingers laced through mine, and her eyes rested on me steadily, like I could bring her peace.
And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted to.
I wanted to bring someone peace with all this violence within me.
She looked up at me, those long-lashed azure eyes wide with worry. And fear.
I’d seen Rhiannon Bronte fight with the grace of a dancer.
I’d seen her move so fast and so quietly she might have been a spirit herself.
She was lethal grace embodied, the only person in Orphium with as much blood on their hands as me.
The fear in her eyes nearly killed me. But it wasn’t directed at me.
She showed me her fear because she wasn’t afraid of me.
What was happening here wasn’t possible, and I knew she’d seen the movement in the bedroom wallpaper, as I had. It’s why I’d barely left her side. There was no telling what might have happened if she’d been alone.
The strongest of spirits ever recorded could possess a parapsych for eternity.
Malefics fed off fear, guilt, sadness—shame—and people like Rhiannon and I were lousy with those emotions.
To think of something getting inside her, twisting all that drew me to her.
It scared me. And I thought it might scare her too—she had that look in her eye, like she understood that what was happening here wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right.
My throat clenched tight around the thought, our combined fear nearly choking me. Was I allowed to take comfort in her? Was I allowed even one small measure of respite?
Slowly, so slowly it nearly stopped my breath, I let my fingers close around hers.
As I did, she nodded, determination in her eyes.
“What are you going to get on your pizza?” she asked, as though we were taking a walk around the neighborhood.
She began walking again, drawing me close any time I fell even slightly behind.
“Extra mushrooms,” I answered, knowing it was her favorite way to order her pizza.
“Excellent,” she responded, weaving through the back beds of the garden, where foxglove and gladiolas waved in the breeze amongst the echinacea, allium and yarrow. They were all completely dry, as though it hadn’t poured rain all morning.
It was a simple kind of oddness, something easy to miss. But in its simplicity, there was an eerie reality. Whatever magic worked here, it went against all natural order. Not even the strongest miracle worker could go against the weather, the seasons—the basis of life.
It was wrong.
I held tighter to her hand. The smooth silk of her skin contrasted with the worn-in calluses of a warrior’s palms. That was Rhiannon in a nutshell, lethal silk. A rosy-pink Elephant Hawk moth fluttered on to some honeysuckle as I relished the feeling of her hand in mine.
I frowned, glancing up at the sun. The moths were nocturnal, and by the sun’s position, it was high noon. Before I could say anything, Rhiannon walked toward the place where the garden gate was. Or where it should have been. The closer we got, the thicker the hedge of white roses became.
Rhiannon’s breath caught, and she made a little choking noise, her eyes widening, though her movements returned to that same slow, smooth cadence she’d used before. Then her molars ground together, her jaw clenching so tightly I thought she might crush her own teeth.
Her hand slipped out of mine as she rushed forward, apparently seeing something I did not—or perhaps could not.
She tore at the hedge. I feared the thorns would cut her, but she came to no harm.
Neither did she do any. The hedge was unchanged.
Rhiannon glanced back at me, pure frustration in her eyes as she drew her sword.
I stepped back, letting her do her worst, but also admiring the miracle of her having pulled a sword straight from her spine. I’d asked her about that after the heist, and she’d admitted it wasn’t always totally comfortable. Her face had gone so serious then. So guilt-ridden.
The Maere had not always left their swords in their metaphysical sheaths.
There was a time, centuries ago, when they’d worn them at their waists.
I remembered it. When the Orphium Maere’s swords had been stolen, the rest of the warrior women in Palladiere and Aradios had all taken to keeping them hidden.
And now that the Orphium Maere had their swords back, they did the same.
Whatever Rhiannon saw or sensed was beyond me at the moment, but I trusted her. Trusted her instincts. I’d done my research on the assassin. I’d read all of the Consulate’s records I had clearance for that detailed missions she’d been a part of.
Ember Verona might be the most talented warrior in Orphium, but Rhiannon Bronte was a brilliant strategist. She missed nothing, and was so often several steps ahead of her opponents that it had piqued the Consulate’s interests.
Too much. It was likely why they didn’t want to let her go now.
If I was honest with myself, I’d admired Rhiannon from afar for years. I’d just never thought I’d have a chance at having coffee with her, let alone being in such close proximity to her. There was a part of me that didn’t want to leave the cottage now, but we needed to go.
Rhiannon hacked at the hedge, but made no headway.
I watched as she grew more and more frustrated.
Something bothered me about the moth. I turned from Rhiannon, but only slightly, keeping her in my periphery as I glanced back at the honeysuckle.
The Elephant Hawk moth was approaching the exact same bloom it had been a moment ago, rather than having moved on.
“Stop,” I said. “It won’t do any good. Look. The garden, it’s on a loop.”
Rhiannon did as I asked, her chest heaving slightly with the labor of her rage. She followed my gaze easily, watching as the little pink moth drew nectar from the honeysuckle, disappeared, and then appeared again, as though out of thin air. Her eyes moved over the garden.
“It isn’t,” she said after a moment of appraisal. That was not at all the conclusion I expected her to draw. “Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” It certainly looked as though the garden was looping. “Look at the moth.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I see it. Now look at the tree branches. Focus on those white pines.”
I watched as they followed the same pattern of movement, again, on a loop.
“Now look at the birches. See the raven that keeps landing on the branch near the birdhouse?”
I followed her line of sight. I saw the bird. “There shouldn’t be ravens here, not in summer.” Just like the moth should not be appearing in full day.
Rhiannon nodded. “Now,” she murmured, stepping closer to me. “Try to watch them all at once.”
I relaxed my gaze, trusting her. It took a few moments, and then I saw it. They were all looping, but separately.
“Wait for it,” she whispered. “Watch the birches this time.”
I saw it. The split second the leaves turned gold. It looked like a trick of light, but it wasn’t. The birches looped through their autumnal color for the briefest of moments.
“Keep watching,” she said. “I’m going to try something. Don’t take your eye off the loops you’ve recognized.” I nodded. Behind me, the sound of Rhiannon hacking at the hedge began again. “Now,” she shouted, the sound of her hacking intensifying.
I wasn’t sure what she meant for a split second, but then I saw it. Three more loops began. The noise behind me stopped. “The hedge is thicker than before,” she noted as she came to stand next to me. “What happened?”
I pointed to the black cat slipping around the corner of the house, moving towards the front yard. Then the reappearance of the iced tea pitcher. Next, the shutter on one of the attic windows shuddered in the breeze, but made no sound.
“It’s not one loop,” I said, fear gripping hold of me, finally. “It’s dozens, and the more we try to leave, the thicker they get around us.”
She sheathed her sword, her usually voluptuous lips pressed into a grim line. “Shall we try the phone?”
Both of us knew what we’d find, but I nodded anyway, following her back into the house. Rhiannon lifted the phone’s receiver and dialed Hemlock House’s number. I could hear the dial tone, plain as day. It was as though she hadn’t made a call. She tried again, but still, nothing.
“Do you want to try?” she asked.
I shook my head, then had a hunch and opened the fridge. The food inside looked good, but I had a feeling about it. “What do you see?” I asked.
She stared at the fridge for a moment, then touched her back, her fingers going around the invisible hilt of her sword. “First, I see the fixings for a turkey dinner. Milk. Eggs. The usual for a fridge at the turn of the century.”
I nod. It wasn’t what I saw, but that didn’t matter.
“When I touch my sword and focus, it’s empty. The light isn’t even on. But the rest of the room is the same.”
My stomach, which had clenched tighter and tighter as we followed her experiments, now twisted into knots. This was why no one could get out once the Cottage had hold of them.
“Shit,” I swore. “This is worse than I thought.”