54. Willow
Chapter 54
Willow
I take my sword and sit down with my back against the door. There’s no chance of falling through again. The solid stone has melded it closed.
Emrys does the same, but first, he walks across the partition down the center of the stables, distastefully kicking straw out of his way. He sits with his back to the door, his hate-filled eyes never leaving me.
I untie the laces on my cape to let the air in as I look around. Numerous doors stretch from floor to ceiling, hiding the inhabitants of each stall. Two lanterns dangle above, casting the only light. I don’t feel a breeze, which makes me think the boarded windows are the primary sources of airflow. Now they’re solid stone.
Hissing, shrieking, and doors rattling grow in intensity like an oncoming thunderstorm. The beasts know something is wrong. They want out with a renewed passion.
My gaze returns to Emrys. His face doesn’t seem so scary now. Maybe it’s because I’ve realized why, despite all his cruelty, I’m still attracted to him. Like each of my mates, he satisfies a different need in my soul. Or maybe his scowl is not so scary because my little sisters give the same look when I take something of theirs or tell them no when they really, really want something. It’s the kind of look one gives to mask the pain inside.
I close my eyes and fall into the past, back to when I was alone and aching—sobbing in my Crystal City room, desperate for someone to share my pain with—someone who would understand. But I’d returned to Elphyne and lived amongst heroes.
When I open my eyes, Emrys’s black brows knit together. He looks ready to run across the room and strangle me. Instead, I point my sword at one of the thick stable doors. “Why don’t you tell me about the Nightmares you’ve trapped in there?”
“Why would I tell you anything?” he spits. “You’re a brief, transient visitor in my very long life. Soon, your light will be snuffed out, and we’ll forget you as we do the rest.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.” I smile, unperturbed. “We’re mates. We’re destined to be together.”
“The only way we would be together is if you crawled on your knees to me.”
I stare at the expanse between us. “It’s not that far.”
His lips part, I guess, to explain that’s not what he meant by us being together. But then his jaw clicks shut with understanding. “Your attempts at wit are as feeble as your grasp on our reality.”
“Come on, Emrys,” I press, ignoring his barb. “Just tell me about the Nightmares. What if one of them gets out? Will you face them by yourself?”
His jaw works, eyes flashing as he contemplates my words.
“We’re stuck in here, aren’t we?” I say. “May as well fill the time. What else can we do? Unless of course”—I drop my voice to a husky whisper—“that offer about not resisting temptation stands.”
“It wasn’t an offer,” he balks.
“Sure sounded like an offer to me.”
I can’t bear to sit still, so I start pacing beside each stall, listening to the unique sounds and sniffing the air. A strange clicking comes from one. Is that even an animal?
I yank off my too-hot cape, toss it on the floor, and tap a door to test the creature inside. It slams its body against the door, and I step back. Interesting.
“You’re either mad or stupid to think it was,” Emrys continues. “I would rather sink my fangs into your juicy heart to drink up that persistent song before it gets stuck in my head.”
“Aw,” I pout. “You say the most romantic things. Tell me more.”
I rattle my sword on another door, incensing the beast within. When its screeches die, I start reciting poetry to myself and inspect the next stall. “Oh, Willow, my Willow, how does your skin glow?” Clang clang. More ticking and tapping answers me inside. Curious. “With silver bells and moonbeam shells, I’m making this up as I go.”
I pivot, grinning at him, waiting for an applause.
He grinds his teeth audibly. “Fine. I’ll tell you about the Nightmares. Anything to shut you up.”
“Excellent. What’s this one?” I tap the door of a quieter stall. “It smells familiar, like rotting flesh.”
His eyes narrow briefly as if I surprise him, and he doesn’t like it. He’s probably forgotten I grew up around the undead. I made them.
“It’s a Graftspawn,” he explains, then gives me no more.
“Okay . . . if you’re not elaborating, then I’ll just make up something. Hmm. What would a Graftspawn look like and do? Graft-spawn. Grafts-pawn. Graaah-fftah. Spooorn.” I play with the words on my tongue as ideas run through my head. “Ooh. Does it look like a winged monkey with poop for eyes and?—”
“Sit down before you hurt yourself.”
I don’t sit.
He gives me a disparaging look, but I see a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Imagine, if you will, the most grotesque amalgamation of flesh and bone, driven by an insatiable hunger for more parts to add to its patchwork body.” His voice takes on a dark, almost reverent tone as he continues. “Born in the House of Flesh, they represent the fear of bodily corruption, of losing one’s identity to a monstrous transformation. Each seam, each mismatched limb, is a testament to the fragility of our physical forms.”
I suppress a shudder. “So definitely not a monkey with poop eyes.”
His lips twitch.
“And you’re definitely good with your words. I’ll bet you read a lot, too.”
He shifts uncomfortably at my observation. Inwardly, I’m fist-pumping the air in triumph. His awkwardness means my Christmas gift for him is suitable. I continue my path along the partition to give him a moment. Each stall I pass, the Terror inside throws itself at the door. I don’t even antagonize them. It’s almost as if . . . they scent my pheromones. The doors are solid, from bottom to top—except for that thin gap below and above. It’s enough for me to smell them and vice versa.
The fever curdles in my stomach, making me feel sick. I startle when the crash against a door is so violent that a whiff of coppery blood washes out from the crack beneath it.
“A Chimera.” Emrys’s voice is now so close that his breath tickles my skin. “A shapeshifter.”
My eyes flutter closed at his nearness. I didn’t hear him move from his spot by the door. His very scent wipes out all fear—sweet, tobacco, pepper. My body recognizes him as my mate despite his desperation to be something else. Awareness ripples through me, pulsing that need again.
Gloved fingers brush my neck as he shifts my braid to the other side, away from my ear. The rasp in his deep voice is a direct line to every feminine instinct I own.
“It takes on forms,” he says, “tailored to your deepest, unspoken desires and uses seduction to lure its victims closer. It fulfills your favorite erotic fantasy and then warps it into something terrifying right when you’re about to—” He nips my ear lobe. Pleasure shivers through me, and I gasp. Or maybe it was his.
“How do we kill it?” I ask, trying to maintain focus.
Leathery fingertips swipe down my neck and curl around my throat. “Did you know the inspiration for their creation came from us Sluagh? From the sexual cravings we instill in our victims?”
“So you understand, then. This thing inside me I can’t control?”
His fingers flex against my throat, gentle but firm—a reminder he has me caught—much like his prey behind the stone door. My head drops back to his shoulder. Our bodies are flush. Every haggard breath he battles pushes against my spine, forcing me to inhale. I sense him looking over my shoulder, down my front, watching my breasts surge beneath my gaping shirt as I breathe—Legion did the same thing when Bodin licked my cleavage. The memory kindles heat in my blood, making me ache for release. A needy moan slips from my lips.
“Look at you,” he murmurs hotly. “So desperate for my touch.”
“Yes,” I breathe, eyes fluttering as his other hand lands on my waist.
“Where?” he grunts.
“I . . .”
I can’t concentrate because his palm glides around my hip, aiming between my thighs. He stops short of where I need him most and growls in my ear, “Beg for it.”
“Please,” I whimper, my hips flexing forward, shamelessly trying to connect. He teases me, lifts his hand, and then lowers it until I feel his heat. I have no sense of logic. My brain is drowning in a haze of need. My control snaps. I take his gloved hand and use it to cup my pussy through my clothes. Instant pleasure zooms into me, and I gasp, “Yes. More of that.”
“More what?” He rubs the seam between my legs, first slow and tentative until I beg, plead, whimper. “This?”
My body answers for me, melting against him, panting hard. His fingers grow confident, fast, and hard. I cry out as bliss builds, hot and demanding. I hear his lips part—maybe to speak or to scold, but when I reach up to cup his nape and steady myself, his breath hitches. His grip tightens on my throat, courting me with pain. When I make a needy sound in response, his erection digs into my lower back. He groans, low and deep and hot into my ear. But he doesn’t pull back. He barrels toward this violent end alongside me, lungs heaving with mine.
I feel as beastly as the creatures on the other side of the door. I feel wrong. But good. This is not the place to lose myself. Except with Emrys, it’s the only place.
There’s no other way to explain this paradox except to steal the words from his mouth. With him, I can’t tell if I’m losing my mind or finding it. He forces my chin up, throwing my head back so our eyes clash. Upside down, the effect is dizzying. He bows over me, white hair spilling, shrouding his lust-filled eyes. I am wet, soaked through and into his gloves. He works me relentlessly, gauging the rise of my pleasure through the silent plea in my eyes until I lose focus, lose air. Finally. My orgasm builds, the tease of ecstasy growing closer, I’m about to?—
He lets go. Steps away from me. Cold air rushes in. My release dies miserably, unfulfilled. I collapse to the ground, my mind a whirl of agony and empty joy. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them out.
“Why?” I croak, swinging my gaze up to him.
He stands above me, eyes wild, jaw clenched. “I lied.”
“About what?”
It hurts to breathe. I have no answer as he crouches, coming eye-to-eye with me.
“I lied when I said I would be with you if you crawled to me.” Darkness swims over his features. “You’re just like the rest of them: a manipulative slut, through and through. I wouldn’t be with you if you crawled, begged, or bled for it. I’d rather pluck out my entrails and string them on the mantle—save Legion the trouble.”
“I hate you.”
“Good.”
A strangled scream rips out of me, but I don’t engage. He’s not worth it. Instead, I turn my back and search for my sword and dignity in the hay. Nightmares rattle their cages, screeching and raging. I know how they feel. What an asshole. Fucking floater . Stupid, big fat—my fingers wrap around the hilt. Instantly, my mood calms. Something about the familiar touch of the grip is comforting.
Closing my eyes, I slowly count to ten in my head. Then I climb to my feet. I want nothing more than to shove my blade in Emrys’s gut—to help him realize his dream, Legion’s, or whatever he’s on about—but getting angry at each other won’t solve anything. We’re still mates. Eventually, we’ll have to find a way to live together. At the very least, I can pretend to get along until we escape.
A stall’s inhabitant throws himself against a door behind me. The bang is so loud and violent that the entire structure shudders. I whirl around and come face to face with Emrys.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Forgive me. I’ve left you unfulfilled when you need it most.”
“Forget it.” I try to push him away.
He grabs my shoulders. “Willow, let me soothe you.”
I shove him. “Enough with the games.”
He’s suddenly in my face, all hot, male angles and broad shoulders. Eyes dark and eager and unguardedly hungry. That bond connecting us in my chest vibrates like a warning. This is wrong. My gaze darts to the hands gripping my shoulders—no gloves.
“Come now, little moth,” he purrs. “You know you want relief. You need me to fill your aching, empty, dark places no one else dares to tread. You need me to fuck you so hard it hurts.” His voice drops to a whisper. “We’re two peas in a twisted pod, both sick fucks reveling in self-flagellation. Why not hold each other’s whips? Suffer together.”
A groan on the ground behind him, a flash of white hair amongst the hay. The stall door is wide open and—oh shit. This is the Chimera in my face, not Emrys. Instinct takes over. My wrist flicks up. The tip of my blade sinks below his ribs. I push to the hilt with two hands until the blade pierces the other side. Warmth spills over my hands. His skin shimmers and flows like liquid metal. It struggles to hold Emrys’s appearance, morphing into something hideous—monstrous teeth and misshapen bones. Itching magic scuttles from the sword onto my hand, tingling so intensely it hurts. With a gasp, I realize it’s me disrupting the Nightmare’s shift, or rather, the skull charm Bodin added to the pommel.
The Chimera’s warped rippling stops. It looks at me, shocked, and then it spills in a cascading gush of blood and viscera to the straw-covered ground—the stench of death blooms. Inky blots form in the puddle and drip upward. I step back to avoid being hit, but they’re not as wayward as wisps. They spill toward the ceiling, splash on the stone, and leave dark stains.
With the creature gone, I see Emrys on the ground a few paces back, clutching his head. That bang must have been the stall door opening, and he was hit. Terrors throw themselves at their enclosures. They know one escaped, and now each attempts the same. He lifts his gaze to me, then to the mess, then back to me. A flash of vulnerability, of something profound, flickers in his eyes.
Some kind of awareness bounces between us. Moments ago, he was cruel, wicked, and hateful toward me. I don’t trust him, but we’re in this together. I rush to offer him my hand. He takes it before realizing what he’s done. I help him to his feet, and then he lets go like I’m lava.
“Yeah, I still hate you too,” I grind, gazing at the blots splashing onto the ceiling. They rot the stone and wear away at it like acid. In time, a hole will form. But will it be enough for us to climb out?
Emrys gives my sword a dubious look, curses under his breath, then stalks down the partition and gets on one knee. He swipes the straw aside, yanks open a hatch, and shoots me a death glare. “Are you coming?”
“You mean to tell me that was there the whole time?”
His lips flatten. Nostrils flare.
“Little moth . . .” He points at the shuddering stall doors. “Meet the flames.”
A door cracks down the middle. Spindly, arachnid-like legs poke through the gap, trying to escape. They make a clicking sound.
Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Screw waiting for the blots. We’ll be dead before that happens. Heart leaping into my throat, I pivot and run to Emrys. The clicking and shrieking follow me, louder and closer. They’re out!
I drop, skidding boots-first along the floor as Emrys descends into the hatch. Sharp bits hidden beneath the straw cut into me as I slide. I twist to my stomach, hoping to know what’s coming so I can defend myself—wrong move. Fear obliterates my logic. My momentum slows. I do nothing but stare in horror as multiple shadowy entities crawl along the walls and ceilings, their eyes glittering like cold, distant stars. Some kind of web spurts out from them, latching onto surfaces.
Strong hands grip my waist and tug. I’m dragged down the hatch, acutely aware of Emrys’s larger body behind me, his presence both a comfort and a threat. He maneuvers us, making space to reach up. With a swift, sharp motion, he slams the trapdoor shut. He murmurs something under his breath and traces arcane symbols on the hatch’s underside.
When he’s done, he turns and does something I can’t make out in the darkness behind us. A whooshing sound breaks the silence, startling me. Emrys’s tall, broad-shouldered silhouette grows darker as torches ignite along a long, endless tunnel before him.
He faces me, firelight dancing in his stark eyes. As I study him, a realization dawns. This tunnel leads somewhere he wants to keep a secret—a secret big enough to keep that he was willing to wait in a stable filled with Nightmares.