by Viviene Noel
Mahena’s eyes darted to the door—as though she debated standing up and running out. She swallowed hard and her thigh started twitching. Then the girl took a steadying breath, her body locking up, as though a secret, whispering darkness were ordering her to remain silent.
Emmerentia overlooked her own doubt and reached out, her hands falling onto her knees.
Mahena breathed out slowly before saying, averting her eyes from Emmerentia’s hands and meeting her stare instead, ‘There is a voice deep down. It is what kept me composed at the beginning. It gives me strength. The several times I snapped, I think it was this thing reacting.’ Mahena squeezed the linen beneath her own hands. ‘I want to go because that man made me feel something I cannot explain. I believe he has some sort of answer.’
The twin frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s just in my guts.’ Mahena jumped up and started pacing. ‘I would tell you if I could. I just...know I have to be there.’
Emmerentia followed her pacing. ‘Why are you so nervous?’
Mahena traced a circle with a finger in the air between them to describe the situation. ‘You demand a very intimate answer and I loathe giving those out.’
She averted her eyes to the carpet for a moment. A secret for a secret. The pit of her despair loomed closer as she dared a glance into it—the pain, the shadows, snickered back. Yet she only laughed at them. A secret for a secret. The dead were gone. Maybe, only maybe, there would be a day soon when she would allow herself to feel something other than raging guilt, and accept it—maybe, maybe, this woman in front of her would be the start of it.
Emmerentia rolled her shoulders back, joined her hands, then exhaled deeply. She looked straight at Mahena, biting back the sob coming up her throat. ‘Ashàar was my partner.’ Strangely, her voice held strong. Mahena froze mid-step. ‘He was murdered by people who wanted to get to me, a little over two years ago.’
Mahena’s face crumpled and her hands shot to her mouth.
Emmerentia brought up all the walls and shields and rocks around her heart, emptying all emotion from her words—she would not break.
The next second, Mahena was kneeling next to her. She went to hug her, but the twin held out a hand. ‘I never said this out loud.’ It didn’t soothe the pain but, surprisingly, it didn’t make it worse either.
Mahena sank to the floor before Emmerentia, leaning against the bed frame. She looked at the twin, her eyes empty.
There was nothing to be said, and Emmerentia did not expect anything—pity was for the weak. A warm thought formed at the back of her head. You never let me comfort you. She shook her head, closing that trap back harder, shoving all the strength of her willpower onto it.
Mahena stayed silent for a minute, until heartbeats could not be heard hammering through anymore, until she said, ‘I...I don’t think it is me.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t think that voice, or whatever it is, is me.’
A veil passed over her eyes—as though she was admitting it to herself for the first time, as though she wasn’t sure what option would be worse. ‘I... The random knowledge, the out of nowhere fighting, the sudden rages... I think it belongs to someone else. If that’s even possible.’ She stared into the wall opposite her. ‘Sometimes I feel like I am losing my mind.’ Her shoulders sagged a bit as the words slipped out of her lips.
Emmerentia focused her attention, her emotions, on the woman still sitting at her feet. That granted her another tug. She slid down next to her.
They remained silent for a little while, then Mahena turned to her. ‘Gods, this is too deep, I don’t do well with feelings.’
It dragged a low laugh from deep within her. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ Then she added, ‘I guess a party will make both of us feel better.’
There was another pause. Mahena squinted, angled her head, as though searching for something in the lines of Emmerentia’s face—she held the scrutiny, something in her chest easing.
42
Fàaran hurtled through the back alleys of the town, where the sun seemed to have forgotten to shine, after he’d picked up a scent too familiar to ignore. He hadn’t wanted to leave the girls in the Inn, but his entire body had pulled him out of the room and into the streets of this strange, fury-drenched town. Why Lorna had mentioned it would be safe eluded him, but they would not extend the stay beyond this night regardless.
The scent of her hit him in the face, and he almost choked on the strange tangle of rose, ash, and strength—choked as he realised he’d almost forgotten how delightfully intricate it was.
What in all hells was Demeera doing here? He had been so wrapped up in his sister’s drama he had missed the gentle tugging on his own bond, on his own fragment of devotion to another being. It was faint, so barely perceptible only the desperate strength of his hunger propelled him forward. Because it was hunger, it was always primal hunger that guided the bond.
And he had never felt hunger so complete.
It was still daylight, but the day had turned to mist and rain following midday, so Fàaran slipped, and crouched, and folded into the shadows of the various buildings, becoming what he had been trained to be—become what they need, and get what you want.
The twin found himself at the edges of the town, almost sniffing with desperation—as if he was a beast—after the trail, barely breathing to mute as many sounds as possible. Without magic, she wouldn’t feel the bond, wouldn’t feel him. But if, despite it all, they still found each other in the middle of chaos, then perhaps he wasn’t so delusional over her after all.
Fàaran forgot all senses of caution as he stepped into the fog twisted woods, the dampness of freshly dropped water circling him. And then—
Trails of blood. And a body. And another.
He stilled. Rose and ash washed over him, and he stumbled a step, frozen in shock.
Crouched over the dead-eyed man who had stared at his sister the night before, her blood-red hair spilling around his face, was Demeera.
He hadn’t truly thought he would find her, not so easily, not here. He didn’t dare move, didn’t even dare breathe.
Regardless, she stilled and snapped her head around, teeth bared. Blood dripped down her delicate, perfect mouth. Her thick, golden horns curling back behind her ears like a crown. Everything was the same as the day they parted.
Despite himself, he felt a weight in his chest lift.
Demeera cocked her head to the side, unmoved, untethered—studying the sack of meat who dared disturb her snack, no doubt. She wasn’t in her fighting leathers, rather in a set designed to facilitate swift travel.
She snarled viciously. ‘What are you doing here?’
Despite the promises of torment darting in her eyes, her voice was feminine, enthralling, a low note on a violin.
Fàaran stepped forward, blinking again. The threads within his blood tugged forward—an answer and a condemnation.
Demeera shifted her feet in the muddy ground. His eyes lowered in response, and he moved again. Fàaran knew the demon’s defensive stance—this wasn’t it, not entirely.
She didn’t move, but didn’t drop the dagger in her hand either. Her amber eyes glinted in the mist surrounding them.
Gods, her eyes.
How he’d missed the golden expanse of them. And because it was her, because she was so wild and unpredictable and changing, the twin remained silent.
Magic was gone and so she couldn’t feel the bond, couldn’t feel the thread woven between their souls. He barely managed to feel it some days. Had she forgotten it entirely? But the Shadow hadn’t lunged at him, and had instead paused, as though something about him piqued her curiosity.
Demeera squinted and sniffed at the air again. ‘Are you going to gawk all day, or answer me?’
A command, but—a hint of play.
Fàaran found his voice at last. ‘I would gawk at yo
u forever, if it pleased you.’
The Shadow snorted, but smiled faintly. She waved her hand at the dead bodies around. ‘I’ve been following a broken scent for weeks. None of these match it.’
The twin’s lips curled to the side. He gambled, boring his eyes into hers, praying she wouldn’t slay him for it.
Snarling softly in return, he said, ‘You’ve been following my scent.’
B
Emmerentia brushed her thighs together, feeling for the dagger strapped to her thigh.
‘I expected something more...grand?’ Mahena said as the three of them walked through the gates of Lord Mayfair’s house—why did this name tickle her so much?
Emmerentia glanced at the girl. ‘It’s hard to say what they lost.’ She was again struck by Mahena’s appearance. ‘You look like a forest princess,’ she whispered against the wind, barely more than a murmur.
And she truly did—the deep emerald and gold gown, the twig-shaped hair pieces that she’d placed in the side-braid, the light shades dabbed on her face.
Mahena snorted, a playful smile on her lips. ‘I must have been an elf in a previous life.’
‘Don’t say things like that,’ Fàaran snapped.
Emmerentia eyed him up and down. He’d been awfully broody since he’d gotten back from his business. She’d tried to reach him through their bond—to no avail.
Mahena lifted a brow, but ignored it. Whether she was learning, or not caring anymore, Emmerentia could not tell. The girl stared at the mansion with clear disappointment in her eyes. Except for the ornate wolves’ heads adorning the top of the gates, there was nothing notable about the place.
A step forward—
Mahena’s hand shot to the twin’s, and her own heart twisted at the abruptness, twisted as the meaning of the gesture was taking a different turn.
Before she could ask, the door opened to reveal a stocky, steel-eyed man, his butler uniform strangely at odds. ‘Good evening, who shall I announce?’
‘Lady Ahra,’ Mahena smiled.
Emmerentia forced herself to avoid staring the man up and down. There was something lingering about him, something rippling beneath the surface. She couldn’t tell what.
A glance to her brother had him nodding; she wasn’t alone in her growing suspicion. And once inside, it only heightened.
B
As they entered the room, beckoned by the butler, Mahena forced herself to halt gracefully—purposefully. She paused, studying the crowd, when really all she wanted to do was huff, and puff, and beam, and scream—her heart pounded against her ears. Emmerentia remained close to her, too close almost, too obviously on alert. She discreetly nudged her. ‘Relax, you look ready to slaughter your way out.’ The twin gave her a pointed look that she ignored, all thought of dreadful, draining and painful conversation momentarily forgotten.
Mahena waltzed her eyes through the beautifully dressed people, through the grace and the poise, over the brute strength emanating from some and the seemingly ever-present, barely contained, underlying tension—until she met the stare of the man who had invited them here.
What she saw flashing in his gaze had her catching her breath—raw, true emotion. Shadows, ghosts.
She blinked, her heart skipping a beat, her pendant warm for a while now. Gods, what had she got herself into?
Lord Mayfair prowled through the crowd with feline grace, and she knew that he was nothing of the older man she had believed him to be when he approached her—he was bigger, brighter, as though being here awoke something within him. Mahena fought the urge to stumble back a step under the intensity of his gaze, barely containing the urge to gasp for air as her heartbeat skyrocketed. She willed her eyes to a smile.
Emmerentia whispered into her ear, ‘Is that...?’
He stopped in front of them, those troubling eyes glittering with some unknown...message?
‘Lady Ahra.’ His deep voice reverberated across her skin, as though it had a life of its own. ‘I am delighted to welcome you to my home.’ Delicately taking her hand and lifting it to his mouth, his lips brushed her knuckles in a subtle kiss. His evergreen eyes remained fixed on hers as he added, ‘You are a sight to behold.’
The little voice growled.
Her every instinct, every gut feeling, roared at the man and thrashed within her. She shifted her gaze slightly from his, attempting to break the spell cast upon her and noticed a thin, pink scar along his cheek bone.
‘What happened to your cheek?’ The question jumped out of her lips before she realised she had even thought about it. That scar hadn’t been there this morning.
Shaking her head discreetly and schooling her features into innocent charm, Mahena ignored the amused curl of his mouth and said, ‘I do apologise. It is a pleasure to be here.’ She inclined her head lightly as she smiled, then gestured to the twins. ‘Lord Mayfair, may I introduce my companions, Ella and Dorian.’
She almost tripped on the names as she made them up then and there.
The men nodded to each other, and Mayfair gently brought Emmerentia’s hand to his lips. Mahena was impressed she refrained from jerking her hand away.
‘It is a lovely home you have, Lord Mayfair,’ Emmerentia noted, a mask of aristocratic politeness covering her real emotions.
Mahena lifted a brow—they were so stiff even she could feel it. She couldn’t tell whether it was from the atmosphere, from that tension echoing in her own bones, or because they had already noticed he had a strange effect on her.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I will have to steal Lady Ahra away for a moment. Enjoy the party.’ Adam offered his arm without waiting to hear if they did, indeed, mind, and Mahena rested her hand on top of his. She gave the twins a side look, a reassuring sign to divide and conquer, to find partners of their own for this specific dance.
‘The dancers,’ Mahena started as they walked down the stairs to the dance floor, stopping to observe until the next dance began, ‘I have rarely come across such purity of movement.’ She forced herself to speak, if only to avoid drowning in the effect of the ethereal music ensconcing her. She fought the urge to close her eyes, to erase the beings around her and dive into the ocean conjured by the melody. Such music was to be savoured in peace. ‘I find it inspiring,’ she offered, leaning slightly into his shoulder, to break the silence when he still didn’t respond.
Adam was observing her from the corner of his eyes. Their unwavering intensity had her knees almost buckling beneath her weight. He looked at her as though she were a living memory. As she met his stare, somehow, the sounds around them flickered.
The voice hissed quietly.
She mentally shook herself out of the daze. Focus, Mahena.
She tried a change of subject. ‘I realise our presence here attracts attention, not just at the party but since we’ve arrived in town. Are passers-by so uncommon?’
As the words left her mouth, multiple sets of eyes turned elsewhere. He couldn’t have bought her being a writer all that well. What did he see in her? Whatever it was, she was sure he was imagining it.
The music lowered, slowing down as the dancers fluidly performed the last steps. They came together in a line, smiling and joining hands as they bowed. The crowd applauded, a wave of positive energy exploding from the joy it had gathered. The dancers waited until the cheering stopped. The circle formed around them opened, allowing the troupe to exit the centre of the room, sudden and complete silence accompanying them. Form of respect?
Once they left, the music began again—different, cheerful, a little faster.
Lord Mayfair turned to Mahena, extending a hand to her. ‘Shall we dance?’
Honestly, with the way he was looking at her, the giddiness it prompted within her, she would have agreed to literally anything—so much for being a strong and independent woman, goodbye feminism. His eyes sparkled as they pierced her soul, t
he charisma emanating from him a compelling spell of its own. It tugged at a string inside of her. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it twisted the cap on the pressure building within her, releasing a relief tethered with a familiarity she didn’t recognise.
Mahena blinked, breaking the stare. ‘I might actually know this one. Are you a good leader, Lord Mayfair?’
His eyes danced and his grin turned wicked in answer. For some reason, Mahena had a fleeting suspicion she had just indeed entered a pas-de-deux of more than one kind.
As she moved to the centre of the dancefloor, she caught a glimpse of Emmerentia, and realised the two sensations were utterly different.
Mayfair placed his hand on her waist, dragging her gaze back to his. She forgot time, place, and meaning as he spun her around, leading her where she ought to be in time with the music. Elegant and graceful, out of the ordinary, he wasn’t necessarily handsome in a dazzling, beautiful way, but the years had been generous, bestowing on him, and perhaps intensifying, a magnetic charm. He reminded her of an old liquor, rich and intense, hypnotising.
The room evaporated, lost in space, the moment encapsulated in the vibrations travelling through her body. She lightened, a feather blown by a dizzy breeze—hot, and warm, and electrified, and free.
As Mahena surrendered completely to Adam’s lead and the heady melody, the world faded around her.
She was the wind, invisible, a speck of dust gifted with sight. Below her ran a grassy plain, smothered by a tense silence. In the near distance, she spotted a pack of wolves racing for the cover of the woods ahead of them.
Within a second, she was above them. Their harsh, ragged breath pierced the terrifying silence, but despite their exhaustion they flew forward. The alpha—she just knew he was—a golden-brown massive beast, led the group faster than anything she’d witnessed. There were six in total, one female—smaller—carrying a pup in her maw, circled by five other wolves. Escorting her to safety, Mahena realised.
Then the voices breached the silence of the race—human voices. In her mist form, Mahena shivered at the cruelty emanating from them.
