51. Danica

Danica

51

R hyland's kiss crashes into me, a full-on make-out hurricane that blows away all the Whisperlings' icy bullshit. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back hard, taking out my anger at myself on his lips.

My mind races, lashing at myself for succumbing to the Vales' treacherous illusions. I should have known better; I should have been stronger. Emily's phantom screams still echo in my ears, a reminder of my momentary lapse.

Damn, I love his taste—a sexy ocean breeze. It yanks me back to reality quicker than a J?gerbomb. I'm lost in the storm of his kiss, reminding myself this is real—no smoky asshole illusion could replicate Rhyland's smoking hot mouth devouring mine.

The weight of his remorse gnaws at my core. We clashed and tore into each other with the ferocity lovers sometimes show. I get it—it's not all going to be smooth sailing—but that's not the soil where a strong relationship grows.

When we finally come up for air, foreheads touching and breathing hard, I know I'm back. No more falling for fake trapdoors for Shadow Dickwad and whatever messed-up tricks he pulls next. From now on, I'll remember what's real—Rhyland lighting me up like a pinball machine. His love guides me home like a lighthouse when I'm adrift.

Rhyland's eyes shimmer and an apology is already on his lips. "Don't," I manage to say before he can speak. Don't apologize. I'll—fix it."

I'm breathless from more than just the kiss; the weight of responsibility presses on my chest like a physical force. He searches my face, and for a heartbeat, I worry he'll argue. But instead, he nods, understanding the promise in my words.

We linger there until the sun begins its ascent, casting pale light that struggles to penetrate the dense fog. It's not much, but it gives us a semblance of visibility—a white canvas that hints at shapes and shadows rather than the complete obscurity of night.

"What of Azrael and Adrian?" Erik inquires. "Do you have any thoughts on where they might have ventured off to?"

Channeling my inner DNA whiz, a lightbulb flicks on—they are sitting ducks without my blood. They must be laying low until dusk blankets everything. I waste no time in bouncing this theory off Erik.

"Seems the sun is in our damn favor for once," Rhyland growls.

Mounting our horses feels like an act of defiance against the night's events. We're still here; we're still moving forward. I take out the map again—a piece of parchment that holds more than just directions—and lightly tap the next location.

The map stirs to life under my fingers as if waking from slumber. A delicate glow emanates from its surface as it begins to illustrate our next destination: Whispering Woods.

The voice accompanying the map's animation is ethereal, a whisper yet clear enough to cut through the fog, which clings to us like a second skin.

"Whispering Woods," it intones as though confiding a secret meant only for us. "It is a place where ancient trees weave a canopy so thick that daylight fears to tread. Here lies the domain of the Whisperlings—spirits born from profound silence and keepers of secrets untold." The animated lines on the parchment form an intricate dance of gnarled branches and paths that appear and disappear in mere moments—a maze meant to ensnare unwary travelers. "The paths are many," continues the voice as if reciting lore passed down through ages uncounted. "Yet most lead not where they promise but into confusion and ensnarement."

Even I can't help a little involuntary shiver—there's a real, creepy truth bomb in those words. Deep down, I know that whatever freaky Friday we're about to march into in those woods will be more than just some throwdown or fancy footwork challenge.

"To traverse these woods unharmed," concludes the map's narration, showing a glowing path cutting through deception, "one must be sharp of mind—beware, for things are not what they seem."

Crap. After the dumpster fire of last night, my faith in my own head game is seriously shaken. I better strap on those mental blinders tight, or we're booking a sequel to disaster—this time, with more encore.

And a cryptic riddle to boot!

Just freaking great!

"Oh, Princess, what porous mental shields you have," Lucian drawls with a smirk. "Pro tip—Might want to patch those up before your thoughts become public domain."

"Alright, Luci," I shoot back, my words laced with a pinch of sass. "What's the big, dark vampire secret that has you speaking in riddles?"

"Newsflash: Your mind has fewer defenses than a cardboard fort. Even a charming intruder like myself can stroll right in without knocking."

The rumble of Rhyland's growl vibrates through me from behind like a subwoofer of pure irritation. It's his not-so-subtle way of telling Lucian to choose his next words wisely—unless he's looking for a one-way ticket to a vampire-style ass-whooping.

"Ha! Relax, brother. I've retired my Peeping Tom days—swear on my fangs." He smiles with all fang. "One traumatic mental stroll was one too many. But don't blame me when your thoughts come blaring through like a goddamn stadium PA system. Your brain's a wide-open broadcasting station."

"Wait…You're telling me you can actually eavesdrop on my thoughts, like…right this second?" My voice is a cocktail of shock and outrage, shaken and stirred.

"Yeah, it seems like when you're freaked out, stressed, or asleep," He winks, "your thoughts go into overdrive stereo mode," Lucian says casually, like reading minds is no big deal. "It's like your emotions turn up the volume knob in that head of yours."

Rhyland exhales deeply, clearly mustering all his willpower to keep his cool. It's crystal clear he's very familiar with Lucian's supernatural eavesdropping, but it seems he's not too thrilled about how I'm practically broadcasting my thoughts like a morning radio show.

"So, what's the genius plan, oh Enlightened One?" I ask, tilting my head, all ears for his next slice of wisdom—or whatever you call it when Lucian's wheels are turning.

"I've got a couple of nifty tricks up my sleeve... you know, to fortify that whimsical brain castle of yours. But only if Captain Brood-a-lot gives his royal nod of permission." Lucian offers with a smirk.

"Okay, I'm genuinely curious," I say, curiosity gnawing at me like a mouse in a cheese factory. "What's the full scoop on your mind tricks? Seeing my— ahem —dream is one thing, but what else have you got stashed in your mental magic hat?" Lucian chuckled at my mention of that; "Rhyland only gave me the teaser trailer for your brainy superpowers."

"Consider me a cerebral hustler. If I fancy, I can shimmy into people's noodles, see their thoughts—dreams," he says with a smirk, and I can't help but roll my eyes. "and even make them dance to my tune. But that specific little trick is a mortals-only club. It seems like the supernatural crowd's immune to my charms—they must be slathering on some mental bug spray."

"Over the millennia, the Fae have cultivated a resistance to vampire charm," Axilya supplies. "We consider this a strategic evolution—our means of fostering an innate immunity."

"Is that right?" Rhyland's voice is a low purr as we shift on the saddle, Storm walking steadily. "It's sort of like you are evolving to be top dogs over other creatures, huh?"

"One might say so," Axilya consents. "View it rather as an apparatus of survival. Our progenitors instituted this measure eons past to shield our kind from extinction."

The endless enmity between the fae and vampires is a saga of conflict older than the stars.

"This is precisely why your mention of Amara employing 'compulsion' strikes me as odd, given our immunity," Axilya adds.

Rhyland's shrug rolls off behind me, his tone nonchalant. "Beats me. This is news about you guys being immune—that mind fuckery isn't my thing. Whatever the hell Amara's pulling, it's not the same shit your forebears were guardin' against."

I can't resist tossing the question to Lucian, "Ever pulled that mind-whammy on me? The compulsion number?" I feel Rhyland tense up behind me; ears perked with interest.

"Yup," Lucian quickly answers with no remorse. Rhyland rumbles in that gravel-pit voice of his, but Lucian cuts in before he can unleash the thunder. "And, for the record, it's a big ol' dud on you—might be that halo in your family tree buffering you up—not that I've nailed down the why. And before Mr. Scowl-In-Boots over there goes full-on beast mode, let the record show I only gave it the old college try that day you came sniffing at my club about Max—worked on Emily. But—surprise, surprise—it ricocheted right off you. That's when yours truly clocked you as something special."

The memory of that day and Emily floods my mind—missing her most. "Huh, interesting. But you've still got access to my mental diary?" I quip back. "And hold up a second! You went all mind-magic on Emily?"

Lucian rolls his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Look, Princess, your mental barriers are flimsier than Grandma's Metamucil farts. I can show you how to build up those defenses, especially if we're about to tango with the Whispering Anus Brigade. Just a little brain armor 101, no biggie." He adds, "And let's be real, it was just to get her to stop busting my balls—nothing to write home about."

I flash a quick grin just thinking about that time with Emily and her epic meltdowns, serving Lucian a grade-A ball-busting he's not likely to ever wipe from his memory.

Whipping my head around to Rhyland, I catch his ocean-blue stare, all heavy with that wordless determination. He tosses me a nod, no need for a pep talk, and that's my cue—the learning marathon is officially on.

With the Whispering Woods a couple of hours out, we've got a chunk of time perfect for a brain-boosting binge. "Okay, Luci, teach me."

"Picture your mind like a fortress," he instructs his tone a mix of authority and reassurance. "Your thoughts are the priceless treasures kept within those walls. To reinforce your defenses, you've gotta make those walls thicker and the ramparts higher. Mentally build an impassable barrier, solid and unbreakable, to guard your inner world."

"So, I've got to build a fortress in my head, right?" I ask, seeking that clarity I crave in and out of the lab.

He nods, and I close my eyes, trying to conjure up the strongest, most daunting walls I can imagine encircling my mind. I conjure up my lab's familiar, comforting confines in my mind's eye. The door is locked—firm and final—a barrier to the outside world. The blinds are drawn, casting the room in soft, secure shadows. The scent of antiseptic, sterile and sharp, drifts to my senses. There's an intimacy to the quiet, an echo of my focused, solitary work with beakers and petri dishes.

It's just me and the quiet hum of my thoughts, a symphony of hypotheses and discoveries. With this peaceful, private image as my foundation, I take Lucian's guidance and start to build my mental fortress. Each detail of my lab—from the cool metal surfaces to the rows of meticulously labeled specimens—becomes a brick in my shield. This haven, where my science thrives, is now the stronghold safeguarding my thoughts. With Lucian's words as mortar, I fortify the walls, confident and cocooned in the safety of my inner sanctum.

Lucian's voice breaks through again, coaching and steadying. "Visualize a shield holding firm, Dani. That's your space, your sanctuary. Trust it."

I stay fixed on that mental image, reinforcing the vision of my lab. Each detail bolsters the walls a bit more. Oddly, I find a soothing solace in this picture I've painted in my head; it roots me. A sense of readiness settles in as I solidify the last brick in my mind's fortress.

"Okay, I've got it," I announce, surprisingly firm. "Do your worst."

"Swing and a miss, Sugar. Your walls wouldn't even stop a horny chihuahua, let alone a mind reader." Lucian sasses with his signature sharp wit. "Gonna take more than some lacy lingerie layering your pretty head. Try harder, Princess."

I exhale in a puff of frustration, feeling the sheen of sweat as a testament to this intense cerebral gymnastics session. But surrender? That's not in my vocabulary. I grit my teeth, determined to push through. Mind over matter, just like in the lab. I will get this.

Rhyland's arms encircle me from behind, his presence a silent pillar of strength as I labor through the mental workout. Words are unnecessary; he knows the level of concentration this demands. His occasional squeeze is a wordless communication, a reminder of his unwavering support right here with me.

We're only an hour deep into Lucian's brain boot camp, and I already feel the mental burn. He keeps penetrating them with ease. This stuff is intense and draining. Gaining this skill, this mental muscle Lucian wields gives me a whole new level of respect for him. He's not just a master of witty comebacks and nightclub domains—he's honed a trait that demands every ounce of my will.

The fortress of my mind needs bolstering, something—someone unbreakable. Instinctively, my thoughts turn to Rhyland, my steadfast protector. I close my eyes tighter, and there he is, a tangible presence within the sacred confines of my mental lab. With his strength and assurance, he is beside me amidst my vials and equations. I sense a shift then, a newfound solidity in the barriers of my mind.

Feeling the change, confidence surges within me. "Okay, Luci, give it a shot now," I challenge, ready to test the might of my reinforced defenses.

"Well, I'll be damned...you're a star pupil, Princess. Your walls are solid." Lucian laughs, and I can't help but grin. "Just keep 'em up. Takes practice and some serious brain juice, but I'd say you've got this shield thing on lock." He finishes with a wink.

As our group rides deeper into the territory of Whisperling whispers, I feel a determined surge within me—I'm ready. I'll protect us all, starting from the labyrinthine corners of my own vulnerable mind.