25. Kayan

TWENTY-FIVE

Ishouldn’t leave Alana. My job is to be here, by her side, helping her navigate what’s coming. But she is frustrated, and angry, and she banished me from her side.

Until she wants me back, I can do nothing. I cannot return to her.

So, I go to the only other person I can think of. I go to Rosalie.

I found her days ago. I searched and searched, and finally found her.

Right now, I have the opportunity to help her.

When I reach the shield at the edge of the camp, I cross it without hesitation or difficulty. Then I close my eyes and allow darkness to fill my vision. I breathe slowly and deeply. I feel the heartbeats of the fae in the camp. I hear the light flutter of wings as some of them turn over in their sleep or walk restlessly around the campfire.

Flames crackle, leaves rustle gently in the breeze.

I hear their thoughts, floating, flitting, in and out of my head. And I wonder whether this is what Alana feels when she searches others’ minds. For me, it is a gift from the spirits. It is not mine, and it is not fully formed.

I get snatches. Enough to know whose inner voice I am hearing but not enough to latch onto anything tangible.

I rise up into the air, stretching out my arms and my wings. It has been so long since I had wings like this, I forgot what it was like to truly use them.

I beat the air softly, hovering above the trees.

My glimmering shadow is reflected on the canopy’s surface. Yet, it is not really there. No one else would be able to see it.

Again, I wonder if this is how Alana feels. She is here, but no one truly sees her. Even after all she’s done, she walks amongst our kin and they treat her as if she is a pariah. Something to be kept away, to be afraid of.

She is so strong.

But she shouldn’t have to be.

I try to dislodge my thoughts from Alana, even though it is almost impossible because she is my charge. I am her guide. I am supposed to be by her side. I am not supposed to leave her for a side quest of my own choosing.

And yet, nothing stops me.

When I reach out beyond the camp, to search for Rosalie in the nooks and crevices of Luminael city, there is nothing blocking me.

I see the streets, the taverns. I hear voices. I search them all. They flood my mind.

Bright blue lights encircle my body, swirling around me like a cyclone as my power intensifies. And then... there she is.

Rosalie.

I feel her.

My eyes spring open, and my body disintegrates. The next time I am whole, I am standing in front of a large, dark mansion on the outskirts of the city. A Sunborne estate with sprawling gardens and an ivory facade.

I float towards it, taking in the dark windows.

Only one is lit. At the very top of the house. A small orange glow beats there like the whisper of a heartbeat. It flickers. It draws me in.

I pass through the front door with no resistance. Up the stairs. Down hallway after hallway. The floor is wooden, and would creak if I were a mortal treading on it with solid footprints.

But I am not.

So I pass silently through the sleepy depths of the building.

When I reach the room where the light flickers, I pause and inhale deeply.

I can feel her. I know it’s her, and yet... her energy is darker somehow. Like Rosalie, but shrouded in a dark grey shadow.

I hesitate for a moment. I cast my thoughts back to Alana. She feels safe. She feels the same as when I left. In this moment, she does not need me.

When I enter the room, I keep myself hidden. I do not let Rosalie see me.

But I can see her.

She is in a white robe, and she is simply sitting at the dressing table. Her palms are pressed flat against it, and she is staring vacantly into the space in front of her.

She scratches the wood of the dressing table with her fingernail, but it does not seem like a conscious movement.

Hanging in front of the wardrobe beside her is a dress made of dark purple silk. The bed is grand, and has drapes hanging from its posts.

This is not the room of a woman who is being held prisoner... or is it?

She stands up from the dressing table and walks over to the bed. She is more a ghost than I am. Like a remnant of the girl I knew just a few months ago.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, she reaches into the table beside it. The drawer sticks, but she tugs it open and slides her hand inside. She rummages. I move closer. She is dislodging a panel at the back.

When she brings her hand back out, she is clutching a piece of paper.

I stand behind her.

As I move, she looks up, and for a moment I think she’s going to lock eyes with me. But she doesn’t; she just stares right through me.

I turn my eyes to the paper she’s holding, and my breath catches in my chest.

On it is a sketch of me. My likeness. At least, how I was. Strong, muscular, but small wings. Not the wings I was gifted after my death.

She traces her thumb over the image, and a tear escapes, rolling down her perfectly smooth cheek and onto the floor.

I want to catch it, taste it, kiss the tears away.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

She presses the drawing to her chest, then she shuffles back on the bed and lies down. Resting her head on the pillow, she blows out the candle next to the bed and the room descends into a flickering half-light, illuminated only by the lantern by the dressing table.

With the drawing pressed to her chest, she runs her other hand down her body, over her breasts, and her hips, and her thighs.

Her nipples pebble beneath her touch, stiffening into peaks I want to seal my mouth over.

I stand beside her, watching as she opens her robe and her legs.

Her fingers find her clit and begin to draw small, soft circles.

Arousal washes over me like a distant wave. One I can see but can’t quite catch hold of.

She closes her eyes and whispers my name.

I move so I’m on top of her, straddling her. Beneath me, her hands are moving furiously now, and her breath is coming in quick gasps.

Her face is flushed.

She pulls down her nightdress and exposes her breasts.

I dip my head and run my tongue over them. I cannot feel her, cannot taste her, but her eyes spring open and her lips part as if she felt something.

I try again, watching her face as I flick my invisible tongue over her sweet pink buds. She breathes harder, her chest heaving, leaning up into the whisper of my touch.

Then I sit back. I look at my hands. She can’t see them or feel them, but maybe...

I hold them above her body, allow my fingers to levitate above her skin, then I search for the moisture in the air. I pull it towards her, cool it, and send it like a soft breeze to caress her skin.

When she moans louder, I dip down between her legs and blow soft bursts of air onto her clit.

She tilts her hips towards me and calls my name again.

My cock is hard. I didn’t even know that was possible, but I’m not resisting it. I reach down and wrap my hand around myself as I continue to play with the air around her pussy. Making her think she’s doing it to herself, creating these new and unexpected sensations.

When her skin grows warm, and flushed, I know she’s close.

I’d recognise that expression anywhere; the one she wears when she’s about to come.

She combs her fingers through her hair. Her body arches. She cries out, then grabs a pillow and uses it to soften the moans coming from her lips.

The picture she was holding slides off her chest onto the floor.

I come before she does, but it is the strangest sensation. An orgasm without ejaculation. A burst of energy that fizzes and then disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Rosalie lies still for a moment, eyes closed. She is crying again.

No, no, no. Don’t cry. I’m here.

I curl next to her and wrap my arms around her. But she doesn’t feel me. She has no idea I’m here.

She is still crying when her bedroom door flings open on its hinges. It clatters back, hitting the wall hard. She starts upright and pulls her nightdress up, reaching for her robe.

In the doorway is the Sunborne fae who bought her at auction. I’d know his stance anywhere.

His lecherous eyes graze her body. He rests one hand on his rotund stomach, and continues to leer, smirking as he says, “Well, well, well. You could have called for me, Rosalie, if you were... in need.”

Rosalie’s expression hardens, and bile settles in my gut.

This time, I do feel it.

Every bit of it.

The rage and the disgust at the thought of his thick old hands all over her.

He strides into the room. Then he spots the drawing. His eyes narrow. She sees it too, but he’s quicker than she is, and he picks it up, crinkling it in his fist.

When he opens the paper, and sees my face, his cheeks become scarlet red and his chin wobbles as he spits, “You were pleasuring yourself to this?”

Rosalie’s entire body is aflame with embarrassment.

“To a badly drawn sketch of your dead boyfriend?”

She blinks at him. She frowns. “Dead?” The whisper breaks on her lips.

“Dead,” he repeats, eyes like steel as he holds up the piece of paper and tears it into a million tiny pieces right in front of her. “Eldrion killed him. Rumour has it, he was trying to help your friend. The empath. Trying to help her escape.”

No, that’s not what happened. This wasn’t Alana’s fault.

Rosalie stands up and storms over to him, then kneels down and starts to scramble for the torn pieces. “Get out,” she whispers.

The old fae moves towards her, but she snaps her head up. Fire blooms in her palms. Her eyes flicker orange. “Get out!” she cries. “Get out!” she screams again and again, stalking towards him as he backs away.

As he slams the door shut and bolts it tight, he yells, “Calm yourself, Rosalie. Next time I visit, I want you your usual self. And we will never speak of this again. You have a job to do. Remember that.”