Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T he cottage is silent as I approach.

The windows are dark, the black curtains wafting quietly.

On impulse, I scoop up a fallen rose, holding it to the surface of the book, which is cradled against my side. I keep my right hand free, and I'm fully prepared to drop the book if I need to defend myself.

I step through the dark doorway, finding the shadowed hallway just as I imagined it would be.

The walls are inky blue and decorated with swirling, silver filigree. The furniture is ornate and carved, but sparse, each wooden piece in just the right place.

This is the home of a dark creature.

Before I obey the urge to move farther inside, I take a step back, testing whether or not the cottage will trap me.

I'm relieved when it doesn't.

As I move easily back into the garden, I'm aware of my pack watching from a distance.

Even from afar, I can hear their relieved sighs.

Either I have no soul, or the cottage is simply obeying my wishes as its creator.

I remove my boots and place them at the door so I can walk more quietly along the hallway.

So far, there's no sign of Emil, and like before, I can't sense his presence.

He may as well be a ghost.

Multiple rooms lead off from the hallway. Farther ahead on my right, I make out the shape of what could be a kitchen, but I can't bring myself to go that far.

Too loud in my imagination is the sound of my mother humming within that room.

I swerve instead toward the second room on my left: a sort of living area but without large chairs. An ornate table rests against the far-right wall, a black rug covers most of the floor, and a fireplace burns softly within the opposite wall.

There's no other furniture in the room.

The fire has completely died down and the soft glow of the coals isn't too bright for my eyes, nor too dim for me to see clearly. Not that I can't see in the dark.

Given how comfortably warm the air is outside, I would have expected a fire to make this room overly hot, but it doesn't.

Once again, this environment is perfectly adjusted to my needs.

On impulse, I step toward the table and place the damaged book onto its surface, positioning the black rose beside it.

It feels like an offering, but I'm not sure to whom I'm offering it.

Or maybe it's a declaration of war.

"You shouldn't keep that book so close."

I'm not surprised that Emil crept up on me.

Without turning, I close my eyes, sensing his location.

Behind me… and maybe a little to my right…

"The pages may be dead," he continues, "but the book's malice lives on."

The memory of the book's impulses thrums through me, at which my claws suddenly itch to be released.

"Take control of the light and the dark," I say, repeating the clear instinct that raged through me when I tore through the book's center.

There's a pause behind me, and even if I listen hard and try to scent the air, it's as if Emil has vanished again.

"That was the command of one of the darkest beings who ever walked this Earth," Emil says with a soft snarl. "He was the one who wielded the arcane magic that turned soil to ash and rain to blood. His command has echoed through time, enduring despite the sacrifices that were made to defeat it."

The nearness of Emil's voice tells me he's close to my right shoulder now.

I could simply turn around, but I'm not ready yet. Not when he's giving me information I desperately need.

My fingers haven't left the black rose and one of its thorns pricks my skin. Black blood seeps from the wound and drips, very slowly, onto the table.

"Take control," Emil whispers at my shoulder. "Of the light and the dark."

I stiffen as I suddenly realize…

That's what my father has done.

I can't stop my surprised whisper. "My father was obsessed with this book and now he controls both light and dark."

"A feat that only a creature born of both light magic and dark magic could ever truly achieve."

While Emil speaks, my fingertips leave the rose and brush the book's torn edge.

Then, my focus flickers to the fireplace on my left. "I could burn what remains of this book."

He's so near to me that I sense the way he shakes his head. "External forces?—"

"Can't affect it," I say. "But I'm not talking about external forces."

Again, I sense his reaction, reading the small silence to mean I've given him pause.

Taking a guess as to his exact location behind me, I step directly into him, satisfied when my back connects perfectly with his front.

"I'm talking about a fire of my own making," I whisper, holding my breath as I take everything I can from the physical closeness between us and the illusion that I can sense my heart again. "This place is of my creation. Surely, I can create a fire hot enough to burn these broken pages. Turn them to dust?—"

I catch my breath as his arms wrap around me from behind, one at my waist, and the other across my shoulders above my breasts. He draws me close enough that every hard plane of his chest and thighs presses against me.

"You told me we were bonded in fire and betrayal," I say, raising my arms to press them over the tops of his, as if I were the one holding him and not the other way around.

"What do you want from me, my Veda?" he asks, his voice more broken than I was expecting. "Why did you come inside this place when you could have remained free of me?"

What do I want from him?

I want to drag my claws across his chest and make him feel my heartache.

I want to sink my teeth into his neck and taste his blood.

I want to scream at him that I will have every vengeance that is owed to me.

But more than all of that, I want to forget all the ways in which he shielded me, protected me, healed me, soothed me, helped me, fought for me, bled for me…

And now I want to forget what Anarchy so aptly warned me about: he lies .

"I want you to tell me the truth," I whisper. "I want you to tell me what my mother said to you before she died. I need to know why she looked at you as if…"

In the vision, she was lying on the cold, marble floor of his realm while he kneeled beside her, gripping her shoulders.

She had reached up to gently press her palm to his cheek, a gesture that was far too compassionate to be shared with an enemy.

I continue speaking past the lump in my throat. "As if seeing you brought her deep sadness."

He's quiet, but now that I'm pressed up against him, holding on to his arms, he is real to me. He can't slink back into the shadows as if he has ceased to exist.

His response is wooden, and it's like an echo from the past, a repeat of what he said to me when things were far simpler between us. "I am a dark creature, and I have the power to choose."

It isn't an answer.

Unless it's an answer within an answer to a question I haven't asked yet.

I remember when he first said that same thing to me. It was in the context of him explaining when he would drain life to feed his dark magic. He made it clear to me that he would choose when to take life.

But very soon after, when we spoke about his choice to become the keeper of dark magic, he made it clear that…

"Choice is an illusion," I say.

So, then… which is true? Does he really have the power to choose or is his belief in choice an illusion?

My head spins as I try to focus on why I stepped into this cottage in the first place. "I need to know how I destroyed the book. I need to know about my mother's family. You have the answers, I know you do?—"

He cuts me off with a sudden snarl. "Lie or truth, you cannot trust my answers. Even less than you can trust what anyone else tells you."

Beyond frustrated now, I can't stop myself from spinning in his arms, my claws snapping out to press into his chest. "I will give you a truth and here it is: I want you to hurt as much as I'm hurting."

Despite his snarl only moments ago, his response is quiet. "Your heart's pain is already mine."

His arms drop away from around me to hang at his sides. When I last saw him, he was wearing a white tunic and matching ivory pants, but now he's bare-chested.

Only the long pants remain, along with the belt with a harness that's empty of whatever weapon might be intended to rest within it.

"Whatever pain you're feeling," I say, shaking my head at him, my claws extending further, dangerously close to cutting his skin. "It isn't enough."