Chapter 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MAEVYTH

F reshly bathed, I grabbed the warm mug of tea that Magdah had brought to my room–an herbal concoction she’d wanted me to try after I’d told her of my trouble sleeping. Mug in hand, I padded toward the thick, mahogany door adorned with dragon carvings and ornate hinges, which led out onto a stone balcony that arced outward from the castle. Crisp air had me wrapping myself tighter in the heavy robe I’d found in my armoire. Made of black velvet, with intricately embroidered deep crimson roses and black fur trim, I trusted it to keep me warm.

Flickering torches that seemed to light up on their own casted shadows over the balustrade. I peered over the edge, below which I found gargoyles and grotesques perched on jutting ledges, and beyond those was the dizzying height to the ground beneath, barely visible through the thick fog. The two moons shone high above, their crescent shapes inverted across from one another, and illuminated the dark silhouettes of the distant mountains. I wondered what Aleysia was doing right then, assuming the vision I’d had was true, and she was still alive. I had to believe so, because believing anything else would’ve destroyed me.

A cluster of tiny, glowing specks fluttered in the air around me, and I held out my palm, allowing one to land there. The moment it made contact with my palm, the glyphs on my hand let off a silvery glow. The insect reminded me of the small fireflies I’d seen in The Eating Woods, with its long thorax and human-like face that smiled at me, before taking flight again.

“It’s said to be good luck to catch one.”

At the sound of the deep voice, I turned to see Zevander standing out on the balcony next to mine. He peered upward as the cluster of fireflies danced toward him.

“What are they?”

“Celaestrioz. Some believe they harbor the essence of the gods.” He reached out his palm, allowing one to land there. “As a young boy, I used to feed them to my pet scorpions.”

Horror stricken by the visual, I shook my head. “Why would you do that?”

“The Celaestrioz are known to invade the nests of Noxidae birds. While some consider them a nuisance, the birds are harmless. However, the Celaestrioz swarm the mother and her young, devouring them alive.” He turned his hand over, allowing the insect to crawl over it. “I watched them once. When threatened, the mother bird sings a song to her young to calm them. It’s called Le’Susszia . Death’s Song.” He lifted his palm, and the insect took flight, the swarm dancing around him a moment longer before flying off into the night. “The scorpion is the only known predator that can withstand their venomous bite.”

“They bite?”

“Yes,” he said, staring after the luminescent plume that faded in the distance. “Most die from the venom. They detect hostility and attack on instinct. Which is why it’s considered good luck to successfully catch one.”

“And they didn’t detect any hostility when they allowed you to feed them to your scorpions?”

His lips twitched with a smirk. “I suppose my intentions have always been obscure.” It somehow seemed fitting that even as a child he’d been an enigma.

“I’d have never guessed something so beautiful and enchanting could be so awful.”

“I rarely trust the enchanting.” A fleeting look at me, and he sipped his drink. “Particularly something so beautiful.”

“I’d be inclined to think a man like you rarely trusts anything. Or any one for that matter.” I took a sip of the warm and soothing tea, staring at him over the rim of the mug. How darkly tantalizing he looked in his black tunic and leathers.

“Yet, there you are, standing on a balcony not far from where I sleep.”

“Yes, given how dangerous I am, it was probably foolish to assign me this room. I might just be ambitious enough to leap over to your balcony one night and hold a blade to your throat while you sleep.” The sliver of humor in my voice withered on a dry gulp when I peered over the edge of the balcony, to the sloping yard a disorienting forty meters, or more, below us.

Not a chance.

He turned away, but I managed to catch a glimpse of the dimple in his cheek. “Perhaps I should lock my door. I wouldn’t want you thinking I was eager to test your stalking skills.”

“Nor would I want to give you the impression my visit was anything but lethal.” I buried a smile into my mug and took another sip of my tea.

“Careful now,” he said, looking out over the dark landscape. “I consider threats to my life an invitation.”

I chuckled at that. “For what? Retaliation?”

Brow cocked, he set his drink down and, without warning, sprang up onto the balustrade, balancing himself on the stony rail with an uncanny agility, given his size.

Gasping a breath, I lurched forward, nearly dropping my mug. “What are you doing?”

Air blasted out of me when he leapt to my balcony, over the perilous drop that would’ve surely crushed the life out of him with one misstep. He landed without so much as a sound, a deadly quiet to his every move that left me wondering if his victims ever saw, or heard, him coming. If they stared into the devil’s eyes before he claimed their souls, or if the world flicked to blackness with no explanation. Neither sound, nor warning.

Eyes on me, he climbed down from the railing, and as he prowled toward me, I backed up a step. Another. Then another. The wall behind me pressed into my spine, while he drew closer and yanked a blade from its holster at his thigh. “As I said, I consider threats to my life an invitation.” The broad side of the blade scratched over the fabric of my robe when he gently dragged it across my tightly contracted stomach. “You ought to be careful how you wield them,” he warned in that rich, baritone voice.

My spine stiffened at the awareness of the blade between us and the errant splashes of tea across my hand alerted me to the tremble in my body. Not from fear, though. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

An inexplicable thrill wound through me, while his eyes, ravishingly intense, seemed captivated by my lips. Far too riveted for me to mistake his thoughts right then. The indisputable longing to devour them.

He relieved me of the mug, setting it on the railing beside us, then placed the blade into my palm, curling my fingers around the hilt. With a sweep of his fingertip, he brushed the hair from my shoulders, and warm breath, scented with smoldering spice and caramel, scattered across my skin when he angled his mouth toward my neck.

My thighs clenched and shallow breaths stuttered out of me. I was all too aware that beneath his deadly charm and mesmerizing gaze hid a skilled and clever predator. And while instinct had me tightening my grip on the blade, my skin prickled, desperate for a single brush of his lips.

Instead, he whispered, “Should you decide to carry through with your threat, I’ll leave my balcony door unlocked.”

Bitter cold filled the space between us when he pulled away from me, and with a cocky smirk, he turned for the door.

The tremble in my muscles persisted as I stared down at the ornate dagger in my palm, the pommel of it shaped like a scorpion’s tail.

Much as I fought to deny it, the man captivated me. That spellbinding, defiant nature of his roused a dark and lecherous craving that refused to be smothered.

T he dagger rested on the bed, and legs crossed, I stared down at it, forcing myself to imagine the lives he may have taken with its blade. He’s a bad man , I told myself, because I needed something to pull me from the lustful thoughts he’d stirred. Thoughts that I’d long been taught were the devil’s seeds of iniquity.

He’s a killer. He has taken lives for coin.

Possibly innocent lives. A fact that I should’ve found revolting. Still, my head refused to accept the immorality, because he’d saved my life back at that prison, and as selfish a thought as that may have been, I couldn’t ignore it. Nor could I deny his impressive skills that must’ve made him exceptionally dangerous to his prey. All I could summon to mind was the visual of him leaping from his balcony to mine. The lethal grace and stealthy flexibility of his muscled body.

Sighing, I placed the blade on the table beside my bed and lay back against the pillow, where I curled onto my side, staring at it.

Shadows passed in my periphery, and I sat back up. Only the crackling fire of the hearth lit the room, but grew dim with unstoked logs. A figure in the corner caught my eye, its dark form blending into the shadows. It sat hunched over itself, the bony protrusions of its pale spine reminding me of thorny lizard scutes. Dark wisps danced in and out of its spectral form. Deimosi.

My heart thrummed a beat of terror as it turned toward me, staring back at me through black, soulless eyes. Long white hair hung in straggled sheaves about her gray, sunken face.

It was only then that it occurred to me I hadn’t seen visions of the dead since the nightmare of Aleysia I had when I’d first arrived.

“ Nonei le confidezsa. ” A raspy voice carried across the room, the sound of it sending a chill down my spine. “ Mortiz a dae et punire. ”

“I don’t understand.”

With a deep gnarl, she scrambled on all fours toward me, and I swiped up the blade, screwing my eyes shut as I held it outward with a trembling hand.

The raspy voice softened to one I’d heard before inside my head. “Do not put your trust in him. The Goddess of Death will punish.”

My eyes shot open on a gasp of breath. “Who? Do not trust who?”

The ghost had disappeared, though. All that remained were the shadows casted by the fire. Still clutching Zevander’s dagger, I sank down into the covers of the bed, breathing in through my nose to calm the shaky breaths that sawed in and out of me.

Who? my head echoed. Zevander? Had the ghost been warning me against him? Or someone else?

And who was the woman I’d seen just now? No one I recognized.

I slid the blade beneath the pillow, but held tight to the hilt as I closed my eyes, praying for sleep.