Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
-brIDA-
Space stretched around me, endless and suffocating.
Was this a memory? Of my life before. Had I been floating in the darkness? My life after my mother had felt like it had closed in, forcing me to dread each day. But this was not that. This was not a place I knew, and yet, I knew it intimately.
How long had it been now? Days? Weeks? Time didn’t pass normally here, or maybe it wasn’t passing at all. The only constant was the smoke. The thick, cloying scent of pucchia pulsed through my room every night like clockwork, slipping into my lungs, my blood, my thoughts.
“To calm you,” he had said the first time, his voice smooth and infuriating.
Calm me? The anger that burned through my veins could not be quelled. The rage that simmered beneath my skin was untouchable. Alive, seething, insatiable.
It wouldn’t bring Addie back.
The image of her face rose in my mind unbidden, sharp, clear. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms until they ached.
The smoke had started after the retching. Waking in the dead of night, choking on my grief and my own memories, and he’d decided this was the solution.
Every night, the nightmares came. And with them, the darkness. Wrapping itself around me, draining me of everything I was until there was nothing left. I’d remain there, shredded, crawling my way back to myself.
Until I’d see it.
A ball of light. A glow in the distance, calling me, beckoning me somehow.
And then, I awoke.
Sweat slicked my skin, my breath coming in frantic gasps. Seconds later, the sickness hit, dragging me back to the floor in violent heaves that left me trembling.
“This is becoming tiresome, Brida,” one of them said one morning, his voice cold and dismissive as he leaned against the doorway, watching me like I was little more than a chore.
Had he told me his name? If he had, I couldn’t recall. Not that it mattered. There was only one member of the Court of Whispers I was interested in, and he hadn’t come to see me in weeks.
Was he even still here?
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he had told me last time, his hand brushing my cheek. My stomach twisted at the memory. I had been at my worst that night, sicker than I had ever been.
The next morning, when I finally forced myself out of bed, I realized my clothes no longer fit me, hanging loose and shapeless, slipping off my shoulders like they didn’t belong to me at all.
That night, when I resolved to fight the inevitable, I felt it—the vibration in the walls.
It was real, a rhythmic pulsing that matched the frantic beat of my heart.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The walls felt alive beneath my palm, thrumming with energy. Not like the House of Shadows in Azmeer, with its fiery veins and ancient magic, but something darker. Something colder.
Then came the hissing. It started softly, slithering through the room like a living thing until it drilled into my skull. I clapped my hands over my ears, but it didn’t stop.
And then the smoke came.
The first wisps curled around me, familiar and unwelcome. Cinnamon and spice, the unmistakable scent of pucchia. I choked on it, yanking the thin fabric of my shirt over my mouth in a desperate attempt to block it out.
But there was no escaping it.
The window, my one lifeline to the outside world, had been sealed. The barrier shimmered faintly, a cruel reminder of my imprisonment.
I lasted ten minutes before the darkness took me.
???
“Good morning, Brida,” a voice greeted me, smooth and laced with an edge I couldn’t quite place.
Pain bloomed behind my eyes, sharp and unrelenting. My head throbbed as if someone had cracked it open, the room spinning around me in dizzying circles.
I forced my eyes open. I was still on the floor, exactly where I had crumpled the night before.
I dragged myself upright, every muscle protesting. My gaze landed on the man across the room. He was tall, his hair pale with a violet sheen, his eyes a deep, unsettling purple. Like every member of the Court of Whispers, he was painfully beautiful.
He extended a scarred hand toward me, his expression unreadable.
I stared at it, unblinking. I wouldn’t touch him. I wouldn’t degrade myself by accepting his help. There was something familiar about it, him, somehow.
“Suit yourself,” he said, dropping his hand and moving to the chair in the corner. He sank into it with an air of casual arrogance, crossing one leg over the other as if he owned the room.
I rubbed at my temples, trying to ease the pounding in my head. The pucchia dulled my senses, but not my physical pain. It muted the world until I couldn’t feel anything. Not even the faint pull in my chest that connected me to Dainan.
Where are you, Dainan? Be safe. Keep Lil safe.
“Would you eat something, please?” The man’s tone was bored as he examined his nails. “You’re starting to look frail. It’s unbecoming.”
My stomach growled in response.
“I had something special brought for you.” He gestured to the tray on the bed.
When he lifted the lid, my breath caught. Pastries and fruit, bright and vibrant and far too tempting.
My favorite.
He must have noticed my hesitation because he sighed. “Brida, there is no poison in the food. None of us would benefit with you dead.”
He was right, of course. And as much as it infuriated me, I was desperately hungry.
I stumbled across the room, every step heavier than the last. The mattress creaked under me as I sat down, the sound too loud in the oppressive silence.
I made sure to hold his gaze as I reached for the pastry.
My fingers trembled slightly, though I tried to mask it.
Slowly, I brought it to my mouth and took a bite.
It was buttery and sweet, with just the right balance of tartness from the wolfberry filling. My body reacted before I could stop it, a shiver of pleasure running through me as the taste exploded on my tongue.
“Good girl.”
My jaw clenched, and I spat the pastry onto the floor, the remnants rolling out of my hand.
His sigh was long and theatrical as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you have to be so difficult about this?”
“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
His eyebrow quirked as if my question amused him. “Do you not remember?” he asked, his tone quieter now, more dangerous.
The truth was, I didn’t. I had no idea who this man was, and something about that made my skin crawl. Was this part of the court’s games? Another tactic to break me down?
“I don’t ask questions I possess the answers to. Again, who are you?”
His laughter was low and rich, echoing around the room like a taunt. “A spitfire, indeed. What I was told was true.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his impeccably tailored suit.
Of course, he wore purple—like every other member of the Court of Whispers. He was tall and broad-shouldered, muscular in a way that made him seem like he belonged to the Eternal Court rather than Whispers.
I forced myself to remain still, even though my stomach begged for another bite of the wolfberry pastry lying just inches away. My throat tightened as I swallowed hard. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
“I see we’ll have to do this again,” he said finally, his voice heavy with mock resignation. “I am Marius.”
“Not a very strong name for a member of the Court of Whispers. You and Reed Marsh must be great friends.”
His lips twitched, his expression unreadable. “Interesting.”
“Why are you here?” I asked, ignoring the way he assessed me—trying to dissect me piece by piece. “Has your lord and master sent you here to watch over me. As I told the others, I will only speak with Marsh.”
“I’m here to get to know you, of course,” he said smoothly. “And for you to know me. As I told you during one of our previous visits, I am a cataloguer, of sorts.”
Previous visits. Is the pucchia erasing my memories? Was it meant to do that?
His answer only fueled my frustration. “Well, you already know I’m fond of pastries,” I said dryly, “and you doubtless pried it out of someone that wolfberry happens to be my favorite.”
“Is it now?” His eyebrow arched, and for a brief moment, his smirk softened into something more genuine. “A lucky guess. It’s my favorite too.”
Silence settled between us, thick and unyielding.
“Must I suffer through your presence while I enjoy my breakfast?” The ache in my gut told me it had been too long since I’d eaten.
“Do you not enjoy my company? I find that surprising—”
I cut him off, my teeth clenched. “What would there possibly be to enjoy?” If one valued mind games and incessant talking, they would perhaps find him tolerable.
He brushed another invisible speck off his leg and rose, his movements slow and deliberate.
“That will be discovered in the coming days. But for now, all you need to know is that you and I are going to get to know each other.” He gestured toward the plate again.
“Beyond just wolfberries, of course. Do eat, Brida. You’ll need your strength. ”
Before I could respond, he nodded once, offered a sly smile, and turned to leave.
I stared at the door long after it clicked shut, replaying his words in my mind. Was this a dream? Maybe I was still trapped in the nightmare, the one where nothing was real and everything felt wrong. But was that not my life?
But the pastry… that was real enough.
When I was sure he wouldn’t return, I picked it up, my fingers brushing the sticky filling as I tore off a piece. This time, I allowed myself to savor it, the sweetness grounding me in the moment.
This is real. I thought to myself. It has to be. I had almost convinced myself until I made my way to my window and saw, far in the distance, a glow radiating in the horizon. Not the sun, not the light for the world. No, a light just for me.