by Amy Sumida
Slate kept shooting sideways glances at me all the way to the club, but I kept my gaze fixed ahead; out the window. He didn't say anything until we arrived and then it was his usual. I was to wait upstairs, have my dinner, and then go backstage to go over things with Eli. He didn't escort me back. He seemed to always know where I was, and he also knew that I wasn't going anywhere. The prick.
When I finally got onstage, I was ready to rumble. Locked and loaded with lyrics and venom even if I didn't have magic to back them. I had fury to back them and that would be more than enough. I also had a list of songs specially geared toward telling Slate off. Yes; I realized that this was getting obsessive, but the point of my performance that night was to—once again—show Slate exactly where I stood. Up there, I could get it all out before he stopped me with his scathing comments. It was cathartic.
I started subtle, with “Black Sea” by Natasha Blume. At first, the message was hazy. Was it a love song? Could be. Its sexy, rolling beats grabbed me by the hips and rocked me gently. Then I was undulating to words that become more combative than romantic. Commands. Imprisonment. Fire. This was intimate warfare. An invitation to drown in a dark sea; burn in an inferno of rage and lust. Every emotion, every sensation was the same; they all blended together. Rage, lust, pain, pleasure, and even love. There was no difference when you sank that deep.
To anyone else, it looked as if Slate were too busy working to notice what I sang. But I saw his shoulders tighten; the flash of silver when he glanced at me. Quick, like a gunshot. He barked out orders and slashed his hands through the air; trying to block me out. But he couldn't ignore me.
And this was just the start.
Next, came my battle cry; “American Woman” by Muddy Magnolias. This was as clear as it could get. I'm not going to take your shit. I'm not a fucking doormat, asshole. Slate could bark and bite all he wanted, but when it came down to it; I was more woman than he could handle. I was a chained beast just waiting for him to slip up. One thin piece of metal was holding me back. Without it, the Quarry would resemble its name. I'd fucking bring it crashing down around his smug face.
There it was; that smirk. Slate had finally turned to face me. He couldn't find anything else to distract him; everyone was focused on me and the stir my music was causing. Every woman in the place was shouting and pumping her fists into the air. The female power rising around me was breathtaking. Men roamed through the inflamed women; admiring as they kept their distance. No one wanted to mess with a roomful of Beneather ladies getting their fierce on.
Slate glanced around the club and then back at me. Finally, he gave up all pretense and returned to his lookout. He set a chair before the window, propped his feet on the bench beneath it, and sipped a glass of golden liquid. He looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying the show.
Oh, just you wait, Devon.
It went on and on; slap after lyrical slap. All Slate could do was listen. He took it well, I have to admit. His smirk disappeared after the crowd roared for my rendition of Lily Allen's “Hard Out Here,” and he actually chuckled. But his amusement faded when I reached the end of my set and slowed it all down with Bishop Brigg's “Dead Man's Arms.”
Maybe I went too personal with that one. If my other songs had been slaps in Slate's face, this one was a punch. The melody was macabre; a slow, twisted grind of bones and brutality. I sneered at his empty heart; called him a coward for locking it away and leaving it to grow cold. Denied that he could possibly feel anything for me. And then came the greatest insult of all; I told him that the dead had more love to offer than he did.
Slate's eyes burned, but not with passion. I started to shiver. He started to twitch. I accused him of being heartless; that useless organ transformed into something black and bloodless. His eyes narrowed. I swayed across the stage; stealing sideways glances at him before belting out the accusation over and over. The crowd began to look back at Slate; the exact reaction that I was going for. The Zone Lord had started this whole charade to protect his pride. Well, screw that. I was done being his perfect actress. Let's lay this shit out for everyone to see. Deal with it, fucker, or let me go!
I finished to roaring applause and a little confusion. The Beneathers didn't know what was real and what was a show. Then I saw Jago. I jumped down to the dance floor; right into his arms. Jago caught me automatically and then smiled slowly. Music blasted into the silent hole I'd left, and he started swaying me to it.
“I hope you know what you're doing, Diva,” Jago whispered in my ear. “And that it doesn't get us both killed.”
“You'll be fine,” I purred as I ran my hand down his cheek. “You like living dangerously, don't you, J-Bird?”
Jago yanked me closer with a smirk and spun us.
“I've missed you.” Jago's lips hovered over mine. “So has your friend.”
“How is he?” I asked instantly.
Jago dipped me; bending with me. “He's Cerberus; you know.”
“He's having the time of his life,” I huffed.
Jago laughed in my ear; his face against my neck. That was one thing I loved about the gargoyle; when he did something, he gave one-hundred percent.
“It's about time someone rattled the boss' cage,” Jago lifted me up his body, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Let's rattle it until something comes loose, Diva.”
The dancers around us formed a circle around us and cheered us on. I arched my back; hands running through Jago's short hair. His breath was hot on my cleavage, his hands tight on my ass. He set me back on my feet only to twist me around and grind against me from behind. Women swooned, men got hard. The arousal in the air was heavy and sweet. Then Jago's teeth nibbled my ear.
I was torn away from Jago suddenly, and I realized that the other dancers were backed against the railings. No one watched eagerly anymore; they all knew they were a step away from becoming collateral damage. They just needed to figure out which direction to run in.
But Slate didn't explode. He didn't punch Jago or shout at me. He simply tossed me over his shoulder as if he were a fucking caveman and walked off the dance floor.
“Lover's spat,” he said crisply to the onlookers.
Instantly, the room exploded into laughter, cheering, and ribald comments. Slate ignored all of it and walked right out of the club. His car was waiting for us outside; doors open and engine running. He tossed me in the passenger seat, slammed the door, and then got behind the wheel.
“So, a dead man can love you better than me?” Slate slashed at me with his stare. “I suppose you'd know; seeing as how you're fucking a blooder.”
“Fuck you, Devon. Banning knows more about love than you ever will. He waited centuries for me.”
Slate screeched away from the curb and shot through the Zone as if he were Vin Diesel. We were pulling into his parking spot at the arena in under four minutes. He yanked me out of the car and escorted me roughly inside his imposing home. Oh, excuse me, Building 1.
“Did I hit a nerve?” I hissed as Slate sped up the stairs; dragging me behind him.
Maybe this had been a bad idea. He'd been treating me fairly good before. But then, that was the point. I could handle angry Slate better than sweet Slate.
Slate cast me a narrow-eyed look and kept going. It wasn't until we were in his office, with the door firmly shut and locked behind us, that he turned to face me. And shoved me against the wall.
“Is this how you got five men to share you?” He snarled in my face. “This hot and cold routine?”
“Hot and cold?” I asked in bafflement. “All I've got for you is cold.”
Slate gave me a derisive look. “Really?” He asked scornfully. “Is that what you call the looks you give me?”
“I do not give you looks.” Blood rushed into my cheeks with the lie.
“If we're going to play, I'm going to have some fun too, Diva,” he sneered Jago's nickname at me. “You tossed down your cards, now it's my turn. We'll see who has the better hand.”
&nbs
p; “I don't want to play with you, Slate.” I lifted my chin and met his glare with my own. “I wanted to have my say without all of this shit”—I waved my hand at him—“interfering. Now, you know where I stand. In fact; just take me back to my cell. I think we'd both be more comfortable with me in the arena instead of onstage.”
“More comfortable.” Slate laughed and pressed his erection against me. “Do I feel comfortable to you?”
“Back off, Slate,” I growled.
“It's Slate now, is it?” His smile twisted. “Are you starting to believe the lie? Is that why you put on such an angry show tonight? Trying to distance yourself?”
I shoved him away. “I'm over this shit, Devon. You've made yourself clear; you have no heart. I've made myself clear; I'm not interested, even if you did. I can't be interested in you. On top of me having more men than any one woman should, you're my fucking jailer.”
“Yes; you keep saying that, but you don't seem to understand it.” Slate jerked away from me but held onto my hand as he did; yanking me into the center of the room with him. He dropped my hand once we were there. “Don't move.”
Slate left me standing before the fireplace as he stalked about gathering things; a little remote from his desk drawer (I still don't know how he opened it) and a glass of whiskey from a sidebar hidden in the wall (no clue on that one either). He moved slowly and gracefully now that he had me where he wanted me. Finally, the Zone Lord went to a large, leather armchair in front of me and settled his muscled frame into it.
“I want you to dance for me,” his voice had gone deeper. Lower. As in lower on my body. I could feel its vibrations touching me.
“I don't give a flying fuck what you want.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Dance for me,” Slate said again; his eyes burning me. “Like you did for Jago.”
He hit a button on the remote and music started filtering into the room from hidden speakers. Vaguely, I noted it was Rob Zombie's “Pussy Liquor.” Aggressive, overtly sexual, and bloody. Just like him.
I let out my breath and lowered my eyes; letting them wander down his body. I sashayed forward to the tick-tock beat. It was the kind of sound that makes your hips swing like a clock pendulum; perfect for some sexy dancing. Slate's eyes followed my movements; tracking the chainmail as it scraped against the leather. Slowly, I leaned forward and set my hands on the armrests to either side of him and set my face in front of his.
“Someday, Devon, I'll be free of this fucking collar, and you will be dancing to my tune,” my voice was sweet but there was a menacing edge to it.
Diamond glints flashed in Slate's eyes and his deep breaths lifted his chest aggressively. His lips pressed together before they curved into a smile.
“Perhaps you will get free,” he conceded. “But tonight you're mine, and you're going to dance for me.”
“Pathetic,” I whispered. “You think you have power. You run one city; hiding underground. You have no idea what true power is.”
“I know all about power. It isn't your strength or the size of your kingdom.” Slate slid his hand up my neck and then closed it gently; just beneath my chin. My pulse beat against his fingertip. He used his thumb to keep me staring at him. “It's about strategy; using what you have in the smartest way. Gathering people around you to help you use it. Knowing which people to trust and which to kill. Twisting them into killing for you. Power is wielding your world like a weapon until everyone in your sphere recognizes that it is your world. And you, Spellsinger, are in my world now. I may not have power up there.” He jerked his chin up. “But down here, I control everything. Life and death. Like the life of a little Sasq'et girl.”
I froze.
“I know this has been rough on you, and I was going to let you off with some light punishment tonight, but then you went and put up such a furious fight. So, you aren't just going to dance for me anymore.” Slate's grin got vicious. “You're going to strip.”
I jerked away from him; my blush deepening.
“Fuck you,” I whispered.
“Remove your clothes. Slide those leather pants off and show me the sweet, pink places you've been teasing me with.” He pressed the remote again and the song started over. “Slowly.” He licked his lips. “And put that chainmail back on after you're naked.”
Slate put the remote down on his armrest with a precise movement. Don't make me pick it up again. He settled back against the leather and took a sip of his drink. Rob Zombie started growling; the erotic beat tickling my blood. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
I have never hated anyone more. Not even Oonagh. At least the problem of my attraction to my jailer had been solved.
I kept my stare on Slate's as I lifted my chin and started to sway to the music. I'm with my lovers; dancing for them. I closed my eyes. No; that didn't help. I'm on stage; this is just another performance. Yeah; except I'm getting naked for a man as fresh hatred blossoms in my chest for him. I clenched my teeth against the trembling in my lips and lifted my hand to the hem of my chainmail top. Slate's stare zeroed in on the movement and widened. Was that surprise?
I took off the chainmail and let it fall. The metallic hiss of it slithering to the floor grated against my pride. But there was a little girl lying in a cell because I'd failed her family. What was pride in light of a young life? My hands reached behind me for the zipper of my corset. Slate sat forward. Were his hands trembling too?
I couldn't tell; I was too busy trying to stop myself from crying. Why was I letting him get to me? It was just a body; just skin and bones. Let him look. It wasn't as if he were threatening to rape me. So, why did it bother me so much? Maybe because deep down, I'd suspected that Slate wasn't the man he pretended to be. Look deeper, sweetheart. That hadn't been Slate; that was my subconscious saying that it believed in him. There had been hints that Slate was a man of compassion. Of honor. The murderers in the cells around me. Criminal collar; that's what Aaro had called this thing on my neck. Slate thought that I was one of them; a killer. And yet, he looked at me as if he wanted me to be something more.
The way Slate had rushed to my side with a healer when I'd been hurt. The way he spoke to me. The way he moved around me. The way he'd held himself back when I told him to stop. How he forced me from the arena when I refused to take his offer. Part of me had thought it was all a ruse; that Slate wouldn't have truly hurt Tessa. But now, I realized I'd been wrong. I'd been looking for a knight where there was only a mercenary.
The first tear fell, and I broke our stare in shame. How had I been reduced to this?
With a curse, Slate shot to his feet. He reached behind me and grabbed my hands; easing them away from the zipper. Then he pulled me into his embrace. His whole body was tight; strumming with an energy I couldn't understand. My hands pressed against his raging heartbeat, and I found myself laying my cheek against it too; listening to the music inside him. The tears poured out of me. A river of them. A fucking ocean. All the pain I'd been holding back for so long.
“Forgive me,” Slate whispered brokenly. “Oh, fuck me. I didn't think you'd do it, Elaria. I was certain that you wouldn't. I was so sure that you were playing with me; luring me in with this superhero act. I believed it was all an elaborate trick and this would have been my proof; the proof I needed to push you away for good. Damn my eyes! Damn my hands and lips!” He laid his cheek over my head. “If only they had never seen you; never touched you or kissed you. Maybe I could stop tormenting us.”
I was shaking in confusion. The world was shifting rapidly around me. What the hell was happening? Slate took me from one high to the next; fury, fear, hopelessness, and now this... whatever this was.
“A killer can't care for a little girl,” Slate spoke as if he were working something out. “A woman who decimates kingdoms does not turn around and degrade herself to save a child. It just doesn't happen.” He eased back to search my face. “So, either you are the most complicated person I've ever met, or you're not who I believed you to be.”
>
A woman who decimates kingdoms. He knew. Slate knew my greatest shame. My greatest regrets. It wasn't in those reports, but he had found out. How? How could he have learned about something that happened in Tír na nÓg? The man never seemed to leave his zone. And now he was staring at me as if he needed me to tell him it was all a lie. As I had been searching for honor in him, he had been desperately trying to find it in me.
I stepped away.
“Elaria?” Slate's voice broke on my name.
“I thought you didn't make apologies?” I whispered.
“You make me break all my rules, Spellsinger.”
“I am exactly who you think; a murderer. I killed them,” I whispered. “I couldn't stop her. I tried,” I reached a hand out to him; not for help but understanding. “She was so much stronger than me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm a goddess.” I made a painful sound that was supposed to be a laugh. “Darcraxis is a god. Once upon a time, when there were no worlds, only vast, empty space, we found each other. We loved each other, and we made beautiful things together. We made planets; entire solar systems. We made the Shining Ones. And then they turned on us. They splintered my soul, trapped my goddess magic, and then sent the rest of me into a human body.”
Slate gaped at me; his hand frozen halfway to mine.
“It sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it?” I asked mournfully. “It is; the tale of how fairies were made. How they rose up to topple their gods; tucked away those powerful divinities and then simply forgot about them. Forgot that their greatness had come from something even greater. I fought my way through several lifetimes and then I finally reached one that gave me back some of the power I had lost.” I waved a hand to myself and grimaced. “It was time to become whole again.”
“A goddess?” He whispered. “You seriously want me to believe—”
“I came in contact with an orb,” I went on; cutting him off. I had to get it out; lay out everything and watch his eyes fill with his old condemnation. “I thought it was Darcraxis inside the sphere. It wasn't. It was a key to his prison. And when I freed him, the orb shattered, and I discovered that it was a prison too; one for the other half of my soul. I was made whole and became Faenestra; the Goddess of Light and Fire, wife to Darcraxis, God of Darkness and Water.”
