22. Niamh

CHAPTER 22

Niamh

M y mind keeps replaying that moment with Cyrus over and over again. I remember writhing in agony. Being pecked at by sharp, nipping knives. Or beaks. Or…

I can't remember.

I do, however, recall him taunting me with knowledge of my mother—the fae he once ‘possessed.' The lesson he taught her was something she would never forget. Long-term consequences. A consequence that he hinted would be around my age.

The more I relive those words, the more my heart breaks. I can't help it. I can't stop the darkness from creeping in the doubt from taking root.

I am a hybrid forged in violence. My father may have been a monster, and I might have been the one to kill him.

No, a voice in my head insists. You did not kill. That we know.

We. Not Caspian's strong, confident assurances. Not my own egocentric, internal thoughts. No. Something else is in my brain: we. They speak to me in soft, harsh whispers that grow louder the more I seek them out.

You did not kill. The bad thing did. We watched. We hid. Inside of you, we hide.

Inside of me.

Flinching, I twist myself around to see my back. I can't see through my orange dress' material. I strip it off and toss it aside. Then I spin. Arch my hips. I go around in circles, trying so desperately to see.

Caspian watches me from the corner of our private space. He doesn't move. Doesn't react. He doesn't even speak—in our combined mind or out loud.

No mirror is available here, nor do I have enough strength to approach the one in the bathroom. Slumping to my knees, I cup my face in my hands. Sobs rip from my throat. Soon, I won't be able to keep the tears at bay.

From nowhere, a gentle touch sweeps across my shoulder blades, gathering my hand in a fist. That same figure crouches beside me, their body ice-cold, their voice stern but cautious.

"Tell me what you need me to see."

What I need him to?

The tone of his question was soft and soothing. It's not one he's used to using. Still, he tries.

I clear my throat and blink any wayward tears back. "Just tell me…everything," I rasp.

Everything from the time I was in the Citadel. Everything that happened after. I've spent so long ignoring my wounds and pretending my scars didn't exist. So damn long.

All along, I was wearing proof of their lies in plain sight. Once upon a time, I had wings. Someone—the Lord Master perhaps—took them from me. They tore them out.

"I see..." Caspian tucks my hair over my shoulders and fans his fingers along my lower back. His touch sends shivers down my spine. There is something so intimate about it. We've been joined together in more ways than one and yet having him touch me and describe my body in a low, haunting tone feels the most penetrating of all. I can't breathe as he traces a path up and down my spine. As his thumb ghosts over the line of a scar, I suffocate.

"I see beautiful ivory," he says to me. "Lines of ebony and scarlet. Your scars seem fresh, as though they've barely begun to heal." His fingers tremble as he traces the length of one.

It's horrific, what he is describing, yet his voice is awed. He means every word he says.

"I can see marks here," he says next, caressing around one shoulder blade. "Harsh, slicing lines. There are marks, round and identical on either side--"

My wings. Wings that existed once. That grew from me. I was born with them.

It hurts to acknowledge that. It hurts so much I can't hold back the tears any longer. What aches most of all is the way Caspian so delicately avoids those aching, empty spots. He turns his attention higher up, to my shoulder instead.

"These are new," he explains, stroking to indicate a patch of skin from spine to shoulder, extending halfway down my ribcage. "Tattoos, they seem like."

In his thoughts, I catch a glimpse of the marks: two ebony birds with feathery wings that mock the loss of my own.

"Altaris said you could hear them," he wonders out loud. "In your head. Do you?"

"No," I lie to him. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I don't even feel guilty.

To be a hybrid—and now a hybrid, murderer with fake wings made of ink and dark magic in her skull… It is too much. Too many abominations to deal with all at once.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Caspian relents. Although he knows I am lying, he has not challenged me yet. Rather, he lets his hands fall away, and I feel a chill from the lack of his touch.

"You should get dressed," he says. Then he stands and hands me my dress.

Huddled on the floor, I pull it over my head. I stay there, even as Caspian begins to pace the space around me. He fiddles with a set of knobs in the corner to adjust the heat. He goes to the fridge. Rummages around. Pulls out the remaining slices of bread. Then he places two on a plate and sets it down just within my reach.

I sense him retreat to a far corner after that, watching me still.

It's so strange. In contrast to Day, he isn't prone to outbursts when ignored. The only thing he does is wait. He waits for the mood to pass. He waits for me to stop crying. He waits for me to speak.

He knows I will eventually speak again.

"I need to find her," I say. "The woman in the ledger. Whether she is my mother or not. I need to know what happened. The truth. I can't go back until I do."

Regardless of whether the fae is Night Aurelia or someone else, the implication remains the same: yet another lie they told us will be proven false. This one even Altaris believed. Real fae can and do enter the mortal realm. They can linger.

In addition, they are capable of procreating with creatures other than fae.

This fact complicates matters, provoking a concern I had never considered before. Caspian has been with me unbidden and without protection. No safeguard against what mating is meant for.

What if…

"You can't," he says, helping himself to these thoughts, which include him. "Fae can only breed once they become Night."

How does he know?

He shakes his head before I can ask. "It is how they keep them controlled. Otherwise that creepy fae Day of yours would have sown plenty of spawn."

The hatred he has for him seeps into me. Day's arrogance enraged him. It bothered him how he spoke to me. In fact, Caspian had every intention of killing him when he tried to kiss me.

It was only after he saw my face that he restrained himself long enough for me to have the opportunity to act.

I swallow hard at the realization. Restraint is a new skill for him, one he is still learning to grasp. He made himself try, even then, for me.

In the same way, I will try to embody aspects of him. No more sniveling and weakness for me.

"Day would know," I rasp. "He would know if our mother ever left. What she looks like. Why my wings were stolen. He knew everything."

Sometimes, he hinted at things, daring me to ask. Good, sweet, honest, and obedient Niamh never would.

"There is a bounty on you," Caspian replies. "For his death. You killed him and stole me according to them." He laughs at that.

I sigh. There is something else apart from my scars that I haven't let myself acknowledge. A sinking sensation. A feeling. An omen.

"I do not think he is dead," I say thickly. "I think he is alive. I… I think I can feel him somehow."

A bad taste in my mouth.

A chill constantly running down my spine.

A creaking in the darkness that draws me closer to Caspian without realizing it.

He has known all along. I can tell even before I look up to see him nod just once.

"He lives," he says. "He will come for you. Don't know why he hasn't yet."

Perhaps he'd gotten lost. The mortal realm is so loud and wild and expansive compared to ours. Without Caspian to lead the way, I would have never made it this far. I might still be in those woods, huddling in on myself.

"I should find him," I say. Not for revenge. Not out of hatred. I should find him simply because… He is blood to me. That means something. Even if he saw me as an abominable thing he merely humored.

I will not treat him the same way. I will not leave him behind.

I can't ignore him so completely.

And Caspian seethes. Through clenched teeth, he warns, "The creeping fae. He wanted to hurt you. Still does."

"I know," I admit, facing him. "But if I fear him, he will have control over me always. I won't be able to stop running."

He flinches at that, my Caspian. Too late do I realize that the same words could apply to him and his master.

"Fine." He pulls away from the wall and stalks toward me, his hands flexing in and out of fists. "Find the stupid, creeping fae. Let him hurt you. Use you. Take advantage of you. Would you have me watch?"

"No," I say. "Never. But if I need you to intervene you would trust me to ask you to."

He stops short. Cocks his head. Hisses. Sighs.

"You aggravate me," he snaps. "So many rules when it comes to you. Too much emotion. You must think with a clear mind. Like a predator. You must not be seen as weak!"

"I do not want to be weak," I say after a hard swallow. "I don't. I want to be strong, but in my own way. I do not want to be a monster."

Like Cyrus.

Like Cassius.

A similar argument could be made for the Lord Master as well.

Not Caspian. He thinks I mean to include him on that list. Pain flashes in his eyes, raw and real and unhidden from me. He turns on his heel, aiming to run. Leave. Think.

I lurch forward and take his hand. "Don't. I didn't mean you. Never you. You are… unique. I could never fear you."

He lets my touch linger for a moment. Then he shrugs me off. "It is late. You should sleep."

But it is morning. The sun is so bright he must lower his hood to protect him, even while inside. So bright, that splotches of light paint the space between us as he approaches the far side of the room and begins to lift boxes of old things Altaris left behind. He lifts a heavy crate. Storms upstairs with it. I hear it slam down somewhere on the second floor.

Again, he repeats the same task.

Thud.

Stomp.

Slam!

Eventually, I can't watch him any longer. I move to organize the pile of Daven Wick's things instead. I fold our clothing. I set Altaris's book in some dark corner where I don't have to look at it. On my way back, I step on a bawled bit of parchment.

I stoop for it, intending to put it in the section of the room designated for trash. My fingers twitch. I find myself turning the page over and peeking at what's written inside.

No, drawn.

Created.

A masterpiece.

I stare. Long after Caspian's stomps and slamming crates fades to a distant murmur I can't tear my eyes from this piece of paper, for it is the most beautiful thing in all of existence. Beautiful beyond anything else. More precious than wings or flying.

More precious than being in the mortal realm, even.

Someone captured me. They drew me on a page, in lines of soft gray. I stand on the roof of the Citadel belltower, my face half-turned, my eyes in the distance.

The view point is of someone who would have watched me from below. Watched me and memorized this moment. Internalized it. He hoarded every last detail away in his mind to depict onto paper later.

He drew me in the most perfect work of art.

It heals any ache I felt until now.

It chases all my fears and doubts away.

It has me riveted, heart, mind, and soul.

He drew me perfectly, and in his eyes, I seem beautiful.