A Girl in Black and White (Alyria Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  She only snorted at that. “Say, what’s Alis doing with Juliana?”

  I peeked around the corner into the drawing room to see that Alis was indeed, completely enraptured in Juli’s every word. She was smiling with this whole sickening glow about her—well, only sickening to me, probably—and looked truly happy. I could only hope that I made the right choice in compelling Alis. And well, if I didn’t—I told you that I shouldn’t be allowed to make my own decisions.

  My mother was chatting with a few men I’d come to know over the months—more potted plants—and I knew she was speaking to them in my favor, but their attention was completely hers. I let out a breath of amusement. She was trying to sell me off to a bunch of men who seemed half in love with her.

  For the rest of the night, I said my hellos to any of the men my mother requested while trying to push Weston out of my mind, of his hands on me; but every so often, it would come back to me with a flush. I never could recall much of what I’d said to any of those men; the whole time my thoughts were fixed in Weston’s bed, him looking down at me, his hands by my head. I was trapped once again. But this time I wasn’t so sure I wanted to break free.

  It wasn’t until the next evening that I’d gotten myself into a tangle. Actually, I would say having a noose around my neck while thirty onlookers stood silently waiting for my hanging . . . a little worse than a tangle.

  Though, the most disturbing thing about this scenario was the crowd. They were as quiet as church mice and it didn’t appear as if they were even blinking. Wait, there. There was one—oh, and look, there was a yawn. They were alive, at least, and not impressionists of Sylvian prisoners next to magical rocks.

  It was amusing how I was the one banned from the city, yet it wasn’t me who stood waiting to watch girls hang to death with a bored expression. But that would be too logical a question to voice.

  It had all begun around six o’clock while I was sitting in the dining room, watching Farah as she made me some more powder for my ring. It took a special kind a witch to be good at spells, and I’d learned soon after arriving here that I just didn’t have the patience for it.

  The front door had flown open, and in came Clinton, his eyes glinting with malice. I sighed, thinking Alis must have shared his intentions to pledge with Juliana. “You did this! You compelled him to do this!”

  The few servants in the hall ran out to find Agnes, but before he could even reach me, the magistrate and ten king’s guards filed in the door behind him. The magistrate was in his fifties with a silver mustache and a high air about him like he was King instead of an incompetent official.

  He announced a warrant for the ‘wheaten-haired whore who worked at the Royal Affair,’ stating they’d received an anonymous tip that she was the Girl in Black. I directed my glare at the only bitch—I mean witch—who knew about the whole issue. “Really?”

  Farah lifted her shoulder. “You ruined my cards and my charm. The deal was only for the cards.”

  Ugh, witches and their grudges.

  Agnes had made it into the room by the time they were shackling magic-proofed cuffs on my wrists. She denied any knowledge of who I was and gave me the strongest glare I’d ever seen from her.

  Well, if anything, it had gotten me away from Clinton, who watched me, a bit cross, as they escorted me to the door. As I passed him, I pursed my lips, contrite. “Tell my mother that I love—”

  “If they don’t execute you, I will,” he hissed.

  “Rude,” I muttered as they pulled me out the door.

  Shit, shit, shit. This was the point I began thinking I was in a bit of a tangle. I couldn’t compel ten king’s guards at one time. I could bite my lip hard enough to let some blood drip, but the thought of doing that again sent a shiver through me. I’d promised myself. So, I decided I would just wait until they put me in a cell and I would escape that way. But they never did; they took me directly to this wooden platform I was standing on and slipped the noose around my neck before I could even blink.

  I was going to kill Farah when I got out of this . . .

  The magistrate began reading off my crimes to the crowd:

  “Arson of two of the Crown’s ships,” his voice reverberated through the air. “Murder of fifteen of the Kings’ advisories—”

  I rolled my eyes at that. They were nothing but slave traders, and I didn’t murder them . . . exactly; they just couldn’t withstand the compulsion.

  “And finally, Treason by threat of the magistrate’s wife.”

  My eyes shot to the group of king’s guards off to my side, searching for two in particular. Finding them near the middle, it seemed they were evading my gaze with everything they had.

  “Traitors,” I mumbled, shaking my head. “And here I thought we were becoming friends.” My voice was light, but this was actually where a cold sweat began settling in underneath my skin.

  My gaze caught on Henry who was pushing himself anxiously to the front of the crowd, to Tasha who sat on his shoulder, eyeing me like I’d finally gotten what was coming. Should have never saved the bastard from his hanging.

  While the magistrate finished off some, ‘By order of the Crowns,’ and unnecessary, ‘Here ye’s,’ I tried to force the burning in my palms, tried so hard that the back of my eyes hurt.

  But as the king’s guard grabbed the lever that would drop the floor beneath my feet, the panic set in like a cold snake running down my spine. I stared blankly at the crowd, a chill running through me like I’d been dunked in ice water as he pulled the lever.

  The tiniest spark ignited in my palms, barely flicking—

  And then I dropped.

  Right onto the dirt in an alley around the corner. I lay on my back, staring at the orange cloth blocking out the sun. My heart stuttered in relief, imagining everyone’s blank faces watching an empty noose swing back and forth. I wondered if they had even blinked.

  That was so close, though. Too close.

  A relieved laugh spilled up my throat.

  “Did I somehow miss the humor?”

  My heart unwillingly warmed at his voice, and I sat up, pulling off the worthless magic cuffs and brushing the dirt off my arms. “You saw that?” I asked Weston. “Wasn’t it great?”

  His boots skimmed the edge of my sandaled feet, and I leaned back on my hands to look up at him. I should have been holding onto the anger I had for him, but it was a reaction I couldn’t control: my entire body heated in his presence, my heart skipping. He didn’t look so happy to see me, though, with that muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “Yea, I saw it. And no, it wasn’t impressive.”

  A frown pulled on my lips as I got to my feet. I was brushing the dirt off my butt when he grabbed my arm and pulled me roughly down the alley. “I want to wring your neck for the stunt you just pulled.”

  “Why’s it matter to you?” I challenged. He was leaving soon to go court naked Elian princesses, so why pretend he cared about what I did?

  “The short version or the long version?”

  I pursed my lips like this was a much more serious question than it was, before looking up at him and supplying, “Short?”

  His voice was deadpan. “It was stupid.”

  “Long?”

  “It was very stupid.”

  I smiled, but it fell off my face when he jerked me around the corner. The sun was low over the water, placid ocean waves and sailors’ shouts steady noise in the background as we walked to the far side of the docks, near the harbor.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked. “I’m not going to Elian with you no matter how much you want me to.”

  He flicked his gaze to me. “If I wanted you to go, you’d go.”

  I frowned as he pulled me down a wooden dock, our footsteps hollow against the wood.

  I wouldn’t have followed him so easy if I weren’t so conflicted on what to do back home. But I hadn’t quite figured out that situation yet; all I knew was that I’d be stealing some of Farah’s poison to slip in her drink.
And so, until I figured out a better plan with how to deal with Agnes, I’d see what the Titan was up to.

  “You pick out a husband?”

  My eyes widened, shooting up to him. The question was voiced nonchalant and completely emotionless. A sliver of unease trickled into my heart. What happened to jealous streak? And why did I suddenly mourn that? “I don’t think I would tell you if I did,” I said cautiously.

  He raised a brow in question.

  “You might kill him like you do everyone else.”

  He didn’t deny it or confirm it, he only pushed me up against a wooden boathouse wall and chained my wrist above my head—wait, what?

  “What the hell . . .” I eyed the heavy iron chain, pulling on it, noticing it was attached to a rafter, keeping my arm completely stretched out. Before I could even think to stop him, my other wrist was stretched above my head, a shackle digging into my skin.

  He turned his back and walked a few steps away, while I wide-eyed the situation I was in. “Why is there a sheet under my feet? And what the bloody hell is this? If this is some kind of taboo thing you’re into—”

  “Calamity, shut up.” The voice was quiet, almost strained, but it did shut me up, completely. Something was wrong here. Maybe being chained to a wall would clarify that to me, but that wasn’t it—it was the tension in the Titan’s shoulders, a tightness I’d never seen before. He was uncomfortable. And that sent uncertainty prickling inside my chest.

  I watched him with wide eyes as he pulled a blade out of the back of his waistband and twirled the handle between his fingers. My heartbeat sped up, watching the too natural way he handled the knife. “What are you doing with that?”

  “Your magic,” he said tightly. “Why can’t you use it?”

  I shook my head uncertainly. “I don’t know.”

  “Think, Calamity.” His words were harsh. “What mental barrier is stopping you? It’s not physical, it’s all inside your head.”

  Unease ran through me. But he was mistaken—it was physical. I’d know. It was my body. “You’re wrong.”

  “This magic thing, it’s a head game. Different for everyone. You’re the only one who can figure this out, or trust me, I would do it for you. When we leave here, you’re going to have full use of your magic.”

  A nervous shiver went through me, and I shook my head. “I don’t think I want your help. In fact, I know I don’t.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were void of emotion, completely empty, sending a chill through my heart. Two things I suddenly knew: one, he’d shut down on me, and I wasn’t going to get any more sympathy from him; and two, I was getting his help whether I liked it or not.

  My gaze shot to the knife in his hand by his side. He was planning on helping me, by what, throwing his blades at me? A sliver of fear ran down my spine but then dissipated with the breeze, my grandmother’s tale coming back to me.

  “Did he carry a sword to chop off heads?”

  “No, he only had knives. He was a skilled knife thrower, you see . . . the best in the land.”

  Did he think that I wouldn’t trust him, that I thought he would miss? He was too good to miss his target. I knew that with a certainty. It wasn’t easy to get used to the idea that I would have knives thrown at me, but for some reason, I trusted him impeccably. “Fine. Let’s get this over then,” I told him.

  Involuntarily, my heart beat fast while he turned his back, taking a few steps further away—is that really necessary? I wondered with a sense of unease—but before I even saw him throw it, a sharp burning sensation pierced my arm. I gasped, looking up to see the edge of the blade had cut into the sensitive skin underneath my arm. The warmth of blood trickled down my shoulder and into the sides of my dress, the sheet catching it before it could drip between the cracks and into the water, keeping me from any Shadow magic.

  I turned my horrified gaze to him. “Why would you do that?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I missed.”

  “You didn’t miss!” I choked out. “You did it on purpose.”

  “Yea, I did,” he admitted, his expression emotionless.

  I swallowed, nerves erupting in my stomach while I tried to hold my arm up so that it didn’t rub against the sharp edge of the blade. “Weston,” I breathed, shaking my head uneasily. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “You won’t ever figure this out sipping wine in your whorehouse.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help! And I don’t want it!”

  “Well, you have it.”

  I gritted my teeth. Wouldn’t leaving me like I was be easier for him to control me if he wished? Why did he even want to help me? Fear erupted in my stomach, rushing through my bloodstream at the thought of more pain. “You wanted me. You had me. Why can’t you just leave me alone now?”

  “I thought you didn’t need to be saved, Princess,” he said harshly. “That’s not the way it looks right now.”

  Anger rushed to the surface.

  “If you’re so confident, then be the hero of your story. Save yourself,” he told me. “Fast-travel.”

  “What?” I breathed.

  “Fast-travel. Do it now. You have three seconds.”

  When he said, “One,” panic immediately ran through me like icy water, a cold sweat rising underneath my skin.

  “Two.”

  “Wait!” I cried.

  He didn’t even say three. Hot pain erupted in my side, sharp and searing. A hiss of agony escaped my lips, the backs of my eyes burning as I looked down to see the edge of the blade had cut my skin, black blood seeping down my hip and bare thigh.

  I brought my anguished gaze up to Weston, resentment filling my chest. “I don’t want to do this anymore!” I cried, pulling on the chains.

  “Then. Save. Yourself,” he growled. “Fast-travel.”

  “No,” I said panicky. “You don’t understand. I can’t do it!”

  “I didn’t know you were so weak. So pathetic.”

  His words struck a chord in me, my rage burning a hole in my chest.

  Three seconds later, searing agony cut into my thigh. I choked on the pain, not letting myself cry out. But when he came forward to pull his blades out of the wall, I shook my head. “No more.”

  He didn’t look at me. “Seems like you’re nothing but the damsel in your story, after all.”

  I growled in frustration, pulling on the chains. It’s like he knew exactly what to say to make the rage fester inside me. Why was he doing this? What had I ever done to him?

  He walked away from me, the panic building in my chest once again. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I saved myself earlier. I can fast-travel when I really need to.” Not exactly true, and I didn’t mention that the spark I had felt was nothing but a flicker, only saving me by the tiniest hair.

  “You need to right now.”

  I gritted my teeth, my heart beating hard in anticipation.

  This time I tried so hard that a sweat broke out on my skin. I focused on the burn in my palms, but the fear of the pain was a constant battle in the back of my mind. Panic rolled down my spine and then was interrupted by a sharp pain in my other thigh.

  I screamed in frustration, tears burning my eyes. I didn’t need to look to know that the cut was the deepest yet. They were getting deeper each time until the fear that he’d throw one directly at me sent a nauseous roll of horror in my stomach. He would do it. The emotionless gaze directed at me said that we weren’t leaving until I’d figured this out.

  “You could have died earlier.” His voice was cold. “I’m surprised you made it this long. Now fast-travel. Because this time isn’t going to be a scratch.”

  A scratch? I was covered in blood, warm and sticky. It dripped down my arms and bare legs. The wounds were already knitting back together, but the pain wasn’t any less. And the idea of a full stab wound made my heart stutter so hard in my chest, I lost my breath.

  “One.”

  “I hate you!” I scre
amed. I’d been focusing so hard, so damn hard. My head ached with the beat of my heart. Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum.

  The flame in my palms . . . the burning. Why couldn’t I find it? Maybe like he said, it wasn’t in my body—but in my mind. I frantically searched, panic engulfing me from my shoulders down.

  And then there was a click, a ringing in my ears. Buried behind thoughts, memories, was a wall of black and white, built stronger than stone: the knowledge of who I was, of what I was meant to do.

  “Two.”

  Each stone was stacked on top of one another, not with glue, but with resentment of what was taken from me: a normal life, freedom.

  My gaze was blank and unseeing, my weightless body swaying from the light ocean breeze as a numbness overtook me.

  Save yourself . . .

  Be the hero of your story . . .

  I wanted it more than I wanted my old, sheltered life.

  I felt the shift in the air as he threw the blade. With a fire kindling in my stomach and then expanding, the clink of the empty chains rattled against the wooden wall as I stood beside Weston, gazing emotionlessly at the knife that would have stuck itself into my thigh completely.

  I had suppressed my magic, didn’t accept it. And therefore, it didn’t accept me.

  My vision blurred. I blinked, taking a swaying sidestep, but with a rush of dizziness, I was held against a familiar chest as he walked down the dock.

  “You left your blades,” I said, so numb.

  “I don’t want them.”

  The blood had dried on my skin, most of the wounds having knitted themselves back together. It looked like someone had dripped tar on me, across my white dress, down my legs and thighs.

  But there was an undeniable sense of peace that rushed over me. As if I had spent the entire day in the sun and water. Black faded into my vision, weight pulling my consciousness down. Glancing up at his expression, it was still blank, shut off, as if this was merely a chore for him. But just before the dark took me all the way under, I rested my hand on his chest . . .

  Bu-bum. Bu-bum. Bu-bum.

  I blinked my eyes open, my brain dazed and confused as I looked around. The sun was shining through my bedroom window, and I knew I’d missed breakfast. Mid-groan, last evening came back to me.