28. Niamh

CHAPTER 28

Niamh

M inchae does not die by the time morning comes. There is the expectation, heavy in the air, that she will. Caspian seems to think so. Contrary to his violent nature, it is an impending demise that unsettles him. I can guess why. With his senses, he can hear the victim's ragged breathing. Listen to their heart struggle to beat. He can taste the inevitable decay on the air, like a rainstorm about the fall.

I do not know how I feel. How I am meant to feel.

There is something else in the air that threatens to distract me from this horrific situation. A feeling. A suspicion. A niggling tingle at the back of my mind.

I am forgetting something. Something important, but what?

After checking on Minchae and Aleska, I return to the roof and pace while Caspian watches. He will know when Altaris arrives or if anything changes. That is why I tune the rest of the world out. Why I don't feel guilty for sinking inside my skull and blinding myself to everything.

Everything but the voices in my head I've been desperate to ignore until now.

They chatter, there in a corner of my mind only I can reach. Like living beings, they speak amongst themselves in hushed whispers that I must overhear.

"...our mistress isn't ready. We mustn't make noise until then. Mustn't say?—"

The thoughts don't belong to Caspian. They are far more alien than even his are. Distorted and high-pitched. Unnatural. Yet, there are two distinct tones. One is soft and lilting, the other deep and rasping.

"Hush. She has noticed your chittering. Hush."

The voices go quiet while I stare at the city awakening around me and try to breathe. Monster, Altaris called me. Hybrid. Abominable.

Perhaps another term should be added to that list. Insane. I'm hearing voices. Even among the fae, it is not a promising sign.

I shift closer to the edge of the roof, hiding my face from Caspian. Despite my best efforts, I can't hide my nerves from him. My thoughts.

I can sense his interest stirring. His steps advance on me, purposefully noisy.

"What is wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say quickly, wrapping my arms around my front. "I am cold, is all."

"Cold." He repeats it like a foreign term. Then he inclines his head toward the door. "Altaris has returned. Come."

"Coming," I say. Then I listen to him open the door and step inside. Hesitate. "I am coming," I insist.

So, go.

He does, but I don't know if his absence provides the peace I thought it would. It is easier to think. Easier to prod those lingering, hazy thoughts, and question what they mean.

Something happened back at the circus. Someone attacked Minchae. Who?

Who?

"We know…" The two strange voices reply in unison, their voices faint, beyond Caspian's notice. He has gone downstairs to greet Altaris. His unease ignites our connection like a candle wick caught aflame. Something is wrong.

And yet…

I can't move. I can't tear my gaze away from the view below and I can't stop myself from asking, of those disembodied voices.

"Who?"

They reply in a whisper that triggers a rushing of blood through my eardrums. A whisper that makes the entire world fall away. But this sudden drop isn't the thrilling excitement I felt while ‘flying.'

It is terrifying, as though—for a horrific moment—I cease being Niamh. I cease being weak and meek and malleable.

I become something unknowable and terrifying.

A stranger within my own skin.

I stumble back and catch myself against the door to the warehouse, rattling it loudly. From down below, Caspian hears. He is worried, racing back upstairs. I can't let him know. Can't let him hear the word echoing around and around in my mind.

I wrench the door open and stagger inside. The heat hits me like an invisible wall, searing over my chilled skin. Then Caspian's icy hand clamps over my wrist, trapping me between two extremes.

"What is wrong." He isn't asking this time. He tugs me inside and slams the door behind us both. Then he pulls me down a flight of stairs and into a room on the second floor. It is long and narrow. One large window at the far end lets in silvery light—that gray dawn that creeps in before the sun fully rises.

It makes my skin look sallow, and it makes my Caspian glow. Like marble. He guides me closer, his palm against my chin. "Tell me." He growls the words.

I can't answer him. The words won't come. I can't find the right ones. So, I say nothing.

I close my eyes and relent to his touch.

I close my eyes and try to forget the answer to a question I should have never asked.

"I'm fine!" I pull away from him and head downstairs. I practically run, with him easily keeping pace behind me. His fingers lash at mine again, but I don't have the strength to return the gesture.

As I trip down the last few steps, I spy Altaris standing in the middle of the main room, his back to me, his voice mid-sentence. "And then we shall pay an old friend a visit—Ah!" He turns his head and looks me up and down. There is a coldness in his gaze that wasn't there the other day.

Almost as if…

"He knows," the voices whisper. "He has confirmed it. His own means. Ancient methods."

The same lie they told me. A lie, it has to be.

"Not a lie," they counter. "We saw for ourselves. The truth. Who attacked the fae-blooded one. Who killed the vamryre. We saw?—"

"It seems our darling one is distracted this morning," Altaris snaps. "Caspian, perhaps you can fill her in when time isn't of the essence and lives aren't on the line. I shall be waiting outside."

He storms to the door. For the first time I realize that his clothing isn't a bright shade of purple. It is a deep, dark black that sets off his alabaster skin. He is more vamryre than ever. Dangerous. All-knowing.

A threat to me.

"I'll stay here." I'd forgotten the mortal woman, Aleska. She sits beside Minchae, holding her hand. From the dark shadows beneath her eyes, I can tell she hasn't slept. Yet she smiles, her eyes bright. "Don't worry about me. Altaris said he'll send over some of my things. How thoughtful."

"He wants us to come with him," Caspian explains. "To a someone who can find the ledger."

A ledger containing secrets. Supposedly of my mother's identity. Supposedly not.

Suddenly, I am not as eager to find those answers as I was before.

Answers can be more dangerous than the mysteries they resolve.

Such as the one provided to me by imaginary voices whispered inside my skull.

Who did all of those horrible things?

You did, they replied.

You.

You.

You.