4. Niamh

CHAPTER 4

Niamh

W hen I wake up, I am both burning alive and freezing cold. Limbs of ice encase my body. Warm air trickles through the gaps, trying to coax life into this frigid form.

The truth is I would rather freeze to death like this in his arms, safe from all who seek to harm us.

Because there are plenty. Unease taints the air as the unseen heat does. Prickling and looming. A constant reminder of the threats that haunt us.

A bounty lies on both our heads. Retribution for Day's death—a pain I will endure later. Address later.

For now, Caspian is a prison that binds my body tightly to his. He doesn't sleep, I know that much about the vamryre. True to his nature, he is still and quiet in the dark. He scarcely makes a sound. Yet his mind is wondrous and teeming with life.

I love to explore it, for his mind is so alien from mine. My thoughts are orderly, beaten into submission. For years, all I had in my skull was a secret, tiny space to store a few precious things. Just a few.

Caspian's mind is a garden, scorched and stripped raw, but now overrun with seedlings long since buried in the dirt. It is beautiful, terrifying chaos. A maze of new recollections and old memories. Like a valley of ice, glass, and stone, it is a frightening, twisted place. He has yet to navigate it all himself. I doubt he even wants to.

I do. I would scale the highest mountain and crawl to the ends of the earth for him. For him, I will tiptoe through the mess his master made of his mind and help him salvage whatever is left.

I will do this all somehow while avoiding the council and helping him silence Cassius forever.

Maybe…if I do so, he will want to help me.

He will stay.

Yes. I nod to myself and peel my eyes open to the room we've found ourselves in. The bottom floor of Altaris's supposed new Safe House. One inhabited by just a vamryre and a wayward not-fae.

Compared to my small room in the Citadel tower, it is massive. Every sound echoes. My breaths scrape on the air. Large windows scale the walls, letting sunlight in.

Poor Caspian. He must be careful not to step into one of the many puddles of golden sun. Were we in the other realm, the rays could not harm him. Here, they are painful. Perhaps deadly.

We will need to cover the windows.

For now, we need to clean. There is too much dust in here. Too much clutter that reminds me of Altaris. He must store things here in boxes that are piled in the corners and block most of the open space.

If I could, I would destroy everything he owns. I hate him. The Lord Master was indifferent to me, but Altaris is cruel. He cloaks his malicious ways with kindness and fake smiles, but one day, I will make him pay for toying with me. I will rip out his throat?—

"Naughty little fae," Caspian scolds against my ear. He was never asleep, of course. The crisp, mocking voice still startles me. "Creeping into my mind, stealing my anger from me. You are delicate and soft. Hands like these couldn't kill if they tried." He holds one up for inspection.

His thumb runs along my palm as he watches pale fingers flex, with nails too frail to rip out any throats. At least, not yet.

You stole from me, he implied. The anger. His glorious rage. It's in my head, seeping through me, making me think naughty thoughts.

I laugh. Then, bare my teeth as though they were fangs like his. There is something appealing about his anger. I enjoy the power that comes from picturing myself biting and tearing. There is nothing like feeling powerful-it is so damn different from fearful, meek submission.

"I like you submissive and meek," Caspian tells me, but there is amusement in his voice. He likes that he's infected me.

Perhaps, in some way I have infected him.

"You heal me," he says, so quietly I could have imagined it. Thought the words in my own mind and pretended he uttered them.

Before I can be sure, he stands, tugging me along with him. He steers me to a metal square against the wall. Opens it, revealing a light and several shelves and a few strange items scattered across them. He takes out a bottle of white liquid and makes me drink from it. Milk. Then he opens a clear sack and pulls out a slice of pillowy soft bread.

I eat as he watches me. Awe flits across those red eyes before his thumb shoots out to trail the length of my chewing mouth.

"I need to remember," he says, almost as if reminding himself out loud. "You require sustenance."

Sustenance and comforts that he doesn't. Like more milk to ease the dryness in my throat. Then water to wash the blood from my hands. More blood stains my beautiful pink dress and Caspian strips it, tossing it aside. He leads me to a new room with a porcelain basin that he fills with water from a metal tap. I climb inside and it's blissfully warm. Far better than bathing with a bucket of lukewarm water and an old rag.

Yet, it must have been a while since Caspian needed to bathe as a mortal does. His body is perfect, even when streaked with blood. Awkwardly, he stands, watching me.

"I need soap," I say.

He frowns and I swear he mutters "ah, ha," like a historian making some revolutionary realization. He leaves, returns. I stare. Giggle.

Wait. It's a noise I've only heard from the Citadel workers, or mortals walking outside of Altaris's shop. Even Poppy would do so for no reason, as if her thoughts alone were entertaining enough.

But I bring a finger to my lips as if to trap the sound inside me. Feel it. Relish in it. Try to remember how to make it again.

And Caspian…

He is more determined than I am. He stares at me and then lowers his gaze to the bottle in his hand. He raises it as if it alone was the source.

But it wasn't. It was…

"The look on your face," I say, trying to explain. How his red eyes had narrowed then. I can't put it into words. More noises slip out of me. A giggle, a gasp. A sigh as he stalks forward and upends the bottle, pouring liquid directly into the water around me.

Then he crouches. His pale hands slip beneath the water's surface. He stills. Looks up at me, dark eyes questioning. He wants to know something but won't ever ask it out loud. It lingers in his mind, and he lets the thought drift over into mine.

Why that noise? That laugh. What made me do it?

I suck in air and try again to explain. "You looked so…confused. You know everything, but you'd forgotten this: baths need soap to wash the body clean. You'd forgotten…" My lips twitch, and I can't contain another giggle. Another louder, lingering bit of sound. It startles him. He stiffens, then lowers his head, still testing the water's warmth with his fingertips.

I think I've offended him. Then I hear it: a single thought floating amid his chaos. Beautiful noise.

My heart thumps. The air in here feels tight again. Stifling. Perfect. Suffocating.

I could die like this here, with him. But then I wouldn't be able to experience new things. New observations about him, my Caspian. Like the fact that once he recalls that water needs soap to clean, he snaps into action with clinical efficiency. With a rag fished from Daven Wick's borrowed things, he helps me wash with more care than even I utilized while performing my chores around the Citadel.

I slaved over those floors. I strived to ensure that every last inch gleamed and shone.

Compared to the way he treats my body, I woefully failed. He worships this pale, gaunt frame. He utilizes a care that leaves me breathless. Yet I can tell from his expression alone that he doesn't intend to treat me any differently than what comes to him naturally. So studious he looks. How I would imagine an artist would, slaving over their artwork.

Or so I assume.

Eventually he looks up and notices me staring. His hand grips the rag tighter, leaving it pressed into my lower back.

"You are laughing," he warns, still cautious. Am I mocking him?

Never.

"I am happy," I say. It sounds so strange on my tongue. A foreign word I've never spoken. A mind state that requires near-constant giggles and laughter.

A word that makes him frown and eye me in a new, unsettling way. It's like he's noticing my appearance for the first time. The face atop the body he's washed with utter reverence. Too-big eyes. Dark hair, clinging to me like a cape. Twitching pink lips and crooked, broken smile.

He looks at me, this abominable creature. This half-something, half-fae thing. He looks at me and for the first time in my life I don't feel unworthy of being seen.

In his eyes, I am something beautiful. Something worthy of being touched.

And he is worthy, too. Worthy of laughter and giggles and anything else I could possibly give him. I'd offer him the world if I could. He could have my tears too if he wanted them.

"I like your laugh," he says, his expression stern, his voice brusque. Business-like. He then stands and extends his hand to me. I take it and step out of the tub into the suddenly chilly air. I stand still as he wraps me in a fuzzy strip of cloth and then helps me into the clothing Daven Wick provided.

A big, bright shirt like Colleen's in sunflower yellow. A long, green skirt that swishes as I walk. I love them. Soft and warm and bright.

He picked them for me due to their color alone. It inspired a thought he couldn't shake: how would I look draped in fabric sunlight? I can't tell what he thinks of his creation in person. He merely tilts his head while those red eyes roam my body from head to toe.

Watching him, I note all of the ways the mortal realm has affected him as well. He's more alert, and constantly on edge. Bathed in dried blood, he somehow seems less intimidating than he did when he cornered me in the archives. He seems lost here. Unsure.

"I should wash you," I say, steering him to the bathtub.

He doesn't resist, and I take my time to inspect him in every way I can. He's so tall that even though he sits on the rim of the tub, he still towers over me as I crouch beside him. He doesn't seem to care or notice the water temperature I bathe him with. He just watches me, his gaze stoic, limbs rigid and unmoving.

But beneath my touch... He stirs to life, adjusting himself to my cleansing swipes. It is necessary for me to remove some of his clothing, and with every part of him bared, my throat tightens. The weight of my heart grows heavier, and my tongue becomes damp, so that I have to swallow repeatedly. After I wipe him down, I can't keep myself from lingering, tracing my fingers along his muscular chest. His skin is porcelain, unblemished by any flaw. Not a single scar, not even a pimple or birthmark. He is perfect. In a trembling voice, I tell him so. Perfection in living form.

That compliment doesn't seem to offend him. He merely nods, his voice a low, rumbling rasp. "I am."

All vamryre are taught to think so, and embrace their physical perfection. Yet, I can't risk asking him next, "How long? How long have you been a vamryre?" He remains silent as my fingers traipse over his breastbone and ghost across a pale nipple.

As I approach the crest of his ribcage, however, he gently bats my hand aside and stands.

In no time, he redresses himself without requiring my assistance. Then dons a leather jacket with a low hood. Wearing it, he can navigate the warehouse fully and in silence, we fall into the task of moving Altaris's boxes out of sight and opening up this space.

Our space.

I've never had one to call my own before. I'll accept such a gift even from someone like Altaris. A whole space to call my own. A winding room with echoing floors and beautiful windows that display swathes of the outside city. A shadowy alley. A flat, gray yard overgrown with weeds. The brick of a nearby building.

Even if we travel to the other realm, we will come back. We must. I will promise myself that much at least.

In silence, Caspian and I continue to wander, and look and inspect.

But in contrast to my awe, he is brooding. Impatient. Unimpressed.

"Too many points of entry," he says, scowling at a window. His hood protects him from the worst of the sunlight, not that it seems to bother him. The amount of glass does.

"Too much space," he adds while standing in the center of the room. "Too many obstacles."

The observation gives me a glimpse into the way his mind works and how he thinks. The awe of his own space does not faze him: as a vamryre, ownership was not a question. They could take what they wanted from whomever—except their master. Belongings were interchangeable, and nothing held their interest for long.

Until him.

Until me.

Having something to protect is new to him. An uncanny, unfamiliar feeling. Any bad actor can use various avenues or routes to get to us, and he notes them all.

How differently we both see this space. I view it as the epitome of freedom, while he sees it as a fortress that must be defended.

How can I not? In this realm, I am not regulated by a single bell tower. I can go where I'd like. Do what I want. Even with the risk of danger looming overhead, it is…

Perfect. Beyond any dream I could have ever dreamed.

I'm smiling again. It is only from Caspian's gaze, the way he clenches his jaw, that I know.

"Your anger is intoxicating," he explains without prompting. "Your happiness is vibrant. You feel emotions differently than others." He doesn't know what to make of it. Slowly, his lips curl downward into a disapproving frown. "You are a contradiction."

"What does that mean?" I ask, hoping he will tell me. I don't feel insulted. No. He could never intentionally hurt me. Instead, I am curious. Compared to the straightforward texts I grew up reading, his way with words is so different. Sprinkled with hidden meanings and unusual phrases, he is a language unto himself.

One I desperately want to learn.

He eyes me for a long while, his head cocked. "You do not make sense. Even your tears are beautiful. You shouldn't exist."

I was wrong before. He can hurt me. With gutting, tiny stabs of an invisible knife. All the air has left my lungs, and I am unable to breathe. My vision turns blurry.

"No!" He is beside me in an instant, swiping at my face with a hiss of annoyance. I'm crying again, those infernal tears he called beautiful.

"You wail and I want you to stop," he snaps, bringing his mouth low to brush my jaw. "The mere sight of your tears irritates. I don't want to provoke them. I hate it. I speak to you as I would anyone else. You have me, wrapped around your little fingertips, at your beck and call. You repulse me in your pain," he adds, raising a finger toward my chin. It shakes. With rage, he shakes. "I should enjoy your meaningless sobbing. I should want to hurt you."

The fact that he can't frustrates him.

It thrills me.

Pain has been the one gift I have so freely received since the day I was born. My own mother didn't hesitate to give me it in spades. Yet, a monster who kills—heartlessly, he kills—can't bring himself to deliver that same gift to me alone.

I like this feeling. What is it? Power?

I feel powerful near him.

I feel…

"I feel safe with you," I tell him, meeting those soulless eyes directly.

Safe enough to return with him to the other realm if it means setting his mind at ease.

Safe enough to withstand any enemy.

Safe enough to indulge in greedy desires I shouldn't.

I could offer him up any and everything to stay. My heart. My soul.

All the blood I have in me to take.