by Zoe Parker
In this world, it’s safer to avoid any type of involvement with anyone. Liking something or someone makes you weak. It gives someone leverage over you. These are the rules of survival.
A shame that following my own advice is becoming an issue lately. At least in this particular situation. My eyes lift to Phobe. I’ve become a hypocrite. A crazy move, sure, but my sanity has always been questionable. The corner of my mouth turns up.
Questionable is being optimistic. Since when am I optimistic?
Then there is this weird Magiks crap going on. A half-breed Feyrie cannot handle Magiks. It’s a fact of nature. Only a full blood of any race can handle Magiks in their body. Feyrie’s, or Dark Fey as some call them, are a hodgepodge of physical mumbo jumbo, mostly because the majority are predators with very little to no Magiks.
Until recently, Magiks have been something I can only say I’ve seen evidence of once or twice in myself. The night the fake parents died, the more prominent memory. The last few weeks it’s happened several times. Little things, odd things. That weird thing with Jameson, predominant. My senses are even keener. My Magikal knowledge grows daily. It’s like another part of my brain is waking up. Another part of me, period. At that I concentrate on Phobe, sitting there reading his book.
I close my eyes.
Not too long ago I wouldn’t sense him there, hiding in his stupid shadows. But right now, I can feel every single inch of him. Can, even, with my eyes closed now see/feel the Magiks swirling around him like tentacles of an octopus made of Darkness—Magiks that are like those that touched me deep inside the last time I was beaten.
I felt it awaken in that secret dark place inside of me and come out to crawl across the skin of my back like little ants, killing the Light Magiks that is wielded so gleefully by Darvena. It didn’t heal the wounds until later, but it did stop the Light Magiks from doing more damage.
That’s never happened before. Yes, I heal quickly but never to this degree, a degree that increases daily. Something is different in never-never land.
Those very Magiks are alive within me now. Writhing inside of me but not trying to escape. Almost like it’s waiting for something. I reach out in my mind to touch it. With an imaginary finger, I caress it.
It caresses me back.
Surprised, my eyes shoot open to find Phobe’s face a breath from my own. My fist flies out and he catches it easily in one big hand. Without a word, he releases it.
He doesn’t move anything else.
His presence this close to me brings every atom of the writhing ball of Magiks inside of me awake. Against my formidable will, it pushes to the surface and towards Phobe. A smoky black tendril, almost identical to his, touches his face. His nostrils flare and his eyes light up before they close. Lips slightly parted his eyes fly back open.
Desperately, I try to rein in that part of myself that I am just getting used to existing.
A whisper of words that I hear as loudly as If he is shouting them, “Stop fighting what you are, Iza.”
“I can never stop fighting.” Or I will lose myself completely. I add silently.
“Do you know what your name means?” He asks in that same soft voice. The kind you use to coax an injured animal. Is that what I had become? I shake my head trying to clear it. “Darkness. It comes from the Fiend Language.” Eyes flicking to my mouth he moves away.
“Why would someone give me that name?” I ask, but really, I kind of know. Have always known.
“Denial, Iza, never works. You know why.”
This time I raise an eyebrow. Denial seems to work okay for him.
Stubbornly, I don’t want to go down that path. I have no idea how to deal with this type of…bullshit. Or him. But my brain travels there anyhow. That fucking prophecy. And I refuse to acknowledge it any more than that. So I do what I do best. Deflect.
“Because of my astounding wit?”
For five solid seconds, he sits there, his face a mask of emotionless granite but then a smile comes—like a soft slow rain. The first genuine smile I’ve seen him give. It isn’t a big smile but it’s real, and although it doesn’t last long, my skin feels the warmth from the truth of it.
Imagine that, me making someone like him smile. There is a first for everything. I deserve an award of some kind. Or a medal. Or a key to get me the fuck out of here.
For a moment, he just sits there considering me. Muscles tense from his scrutiny, my stomach knots. But not from fear. I’ve never feared this creature and never will. It’s purely from his closeness.
He moves a little back from me. Damn mind reader.
“You cannot hide behind it forever.” He says. “You have no memories of early childhood?”
Hating him just a little, I answer reluctantly. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything before…Paul and that coward of a woman who claimed to be my mother.”
“Who was this Paul?” He asks all humor gone from his face. Seeing that he can read my mind, this conversation is pointless. “It is an honest question. I cannot see everything.”
Fine. Answering his question won’t hurt. Much.
“A Feyrie who dabbled in blood Magiks.” Contempt bleeds into my words. Paul is someone I will forever despise, dead or not. There is no forgiving or forgetting someone like him. But—a smile raises the corner of my mouth—Paul paid for it.
Although not nearly enough.
“He haunts your dreams.” It’s a statement, not a question. And that should be someplace he stays out of. Jerk.
“I ended him, as you saw,” I add, not really knowing why. Maybe it’s his damn Magiks again.
I wasn’t the only one Paul liked to hurt; there had been others he dragged home—some of which I will never tell anyone about. And out of them, only one left me with any semblance of regret.
“When Paul died it was the first time this…junk inside of me ever became real.”
“They stole you from someone.”
It seems like such a simple statement but there are deep undercurrents there. It also solidifies my own belief in that fact.
“I don’t think about that, thinking about that makes me regret and hope. I have better things to do with my time, Phobe.”
He watches me, but I can feel him inside my head now, boring into my thoughts. If I don’t concentrate on blocking him, he can read them like a book. I have to work on that.
“Tell me the rest,” he requests.
How odd for him to ask even though he knows. Giving in to the impulse, I oblige him.
“I was a kid when he started his ‘experiments’ Five or six. 10 or so when the other shit started. That’s a guess.” I pause, swallowing, my mouth suddenly dry, as memories surge forward. “I know he hated my tattoo. God knows he tried a bazillion different ways to remove it…the fucking thing kept coming back like herpes.”
Realizing my hands are waving around like a bird flapping in agitation, as I speak, I tuck them under my butt. Self-consciously, I look at the floor before raising my eyes again to look at Phobe. Still, he watches me, saying nothing. Taking a breath, I continue. If I stop now, I’ll never finish.
“So, after Paul and Ma were fertilizer, I watched their tv for a while and then I tried to leave. That’s when I was caught. It was all for nothing.”
“Was it?” I frown at his question.
Phobe is just full of conversation tonight. Pondering his words, I chew on my lip thoughtfully. Yes, I am back in prison. Yes, eventually I am going to die. Until that happens it sucks. It really sucks. Wait…not all of it sucks.
Holding his gaze, I’ve got to admit that things are different than before. But not so different I will bare my entire soul. Already, I have given more to him than anyone.
And because I feel the tick-tock of time moving unerringly close to the end of me, I decide to give him just a little bit more.
“I don’t think you’re a beast.” The look on his face doesn’t change. “I think you’re a monster—of vengeance, violence, Primal Darkness.”
Still no change. “They chained you to that rock because it was the only way for them to win against the Feyrie…against you.” Still nothing, god he’s like a freaking brick wall. “They didn’t say how big your di—.”
“You should eat.” Finally, a reaction. One that can be taken several different ways.
I look down at the food beside me. A stale chunk of bread and a piece of cheese. And something that may have been meat once upon a time. Jameson snuck it down to me earlier in the day.
I completely forgot about it. Unusual for me. I love food. And it’s in short supply here.
Phobe stands smoothly and moves away from me. A safe subject is needed.
“How did Jameson end up helping you?” I ask.
Jameson is a curiosity to me. And a very safe subject. A creature of the dark trying so desperately to be one of the light. Something he will never succeed at. It doesn’t seem to stop Jameson from trying.
“I saved his life. A decision I now regret.” I nod at his answer. Knowing why he regrets it.
That fits what I’m thinking. It took something big for Jameson to overcome his abject fear of Phobe and come down here to help him.
“Why does he try so hard to fit in with them?” I ask.
Part of me understands on a fundamental level. But I also understand that it’s pointless.
“He made a promise to his father to carry on the family position.” Ah, so his father had been a previous Potion maker. “And he is afraid,” Phobe adds.
That I can totally see. Jameson isn’t a bad person but he isn’t a brave one either. It’s part of the reason he ran his mouth. Fear.
“Shame. He could be more,” I say, picking up the bread to tear off a piece.
I shove it in my mouth, trying to not look as desperate as I feel, for it.
“Why do you say that?” Phobe asks.
Forcing myself to chew slowly, I contemplate the answer. How can I explain that this Magiks stuff inside of me tells me so? That when I look at him I see the potential to be more, just under the surface.
Before I can answer him, he says, “I see.”
I give him an irritated look for snooping in my head.
“Why ask then?”
“You have to be asked to think of something actively; otherwise you go off in many different directions.” Did he just say I have problems concentrating?
I can’t argue it, I totally do.
“I’m learning to block you out,” I say in between bites. He grunts.
“Jameson courts death.” Well, that is cryptic. I figured since Jameson is still alive Phobe was over it.
“You mean cos of the Schoth thing?”
Jameson is lucky he has lived this long. He must serve a purpose for them. They have no long-term tolerance for Feyrie, not in anything but slavery and entertainment. I don’t wish it for him but I know there’s really nothing that can be done to save him.
“No.” Phobe answers.
Then why? Phobe turns his back to me and begins again to read his book. That makes no sense.
If not because of Jameson running his mouth, then why does Phobe want to kill him?
Eighteen
Iza
Two sleeps later, right before dawn, they came to take us to Arick. They really should reconsider that warning system. Once again, a guard is dumb enough to get close to Phobe. The man is dead before he starts to fall to the ground.
In retaliation, they make Phobe kneel before them while they pummel him with armored fists and feet.
Stomach burning with rage, I shock myself by moving before I recognize I’m doing it. Movements so fast, the men have no time to respond. Strangely calm, I pull a sword from a guard’s scabbard and run it clean through the gut of the one beating Phobe in the face.
The body hitting the floor is enough to send the other guards into a panic. The Magiks inside me wakes up, lending speed to my movements. Ducking to avoid a fist I move nimbly to the side, eluding a sword hilt swinging at my head. Distantly I know that my energy is very limited. But right now, I have the advantage of surprise and I’m going to use it.
I’m so tired of taking their shit.
‘You can’t leave with me, can you?’ I ask Phobe while dodging a mailed fist.
‘I am bound by the stone Iza. Run.’ He encourages me.
Knowing he’ll be the one sent to find me, is not why I want him to go with me. There’s another reason entirely. Turning to run up the stairs, I stop halfway.
I can’t do it. Can’t leave him. I just can’t.
Turning around I run at another guard who has his back to me. And find myself flat on my back, the air gone from my lungs. Rickher’s gloating face appears above mine. He grabs a handful of my hair and drags me to where the other men are huddled around Phobe.
With a heave, he tosses me to the floor, directly in front of Phobe. I look up into Phobe’s face. I changed my mind, lost the only chance. No, I chose not to take it. Simply because he can't go. He means more to me than freedom.
What an incredible revelation.
A booted foot to the center of my back topples me forward into Phobe’s arms. He looks down into my eyes as he calmly rips the calf muscle out of the man that kicked me. Ignoring the screams of the injured man he holds my gaze.
When did I start to care this much?
‘What a completely foolish and absolutely unselfish thing for you to do.’ His voice sounds…surprised.
‘Go big or go home right?’ It’s all I have for a response. Literally all.
Rickher digs his hand into my hair, it’s one of his favorite things to do. He smiles at Phobe and pulls me up against him. “The Magistrate might let us have her tonight.” He sneers, tugging so hard on my scalp that some of the hair rips free. He raises his other hand to strike me.
“Should be a boring night for her then.” Phobe taunts him. Out loud!
Those words have the desired effect; Rickher’s fist drops, and his attention turns to Phobe. It’s the first time Phobe has ever deliberately incited them to draw the focus from me. Hell, I think it’s the first time he has ever spoken to them. I open my mouth to say something.
‘When will you listen to me? I heal instantly, you do not. Now be still!’ He yells into my head.
My mouth snaps shut. True, it’s much easier for him to take the beatings than me, as he has reminded me repeatedly. I know this. But it doesn’t mean I feel right letting it happen.
This time he said it, yelled it with genuine emotion. So this time, I listen.
As the fists fall on him, once again, he simply watches me. The wounds inflicted lasting only seconds before healing. With my mouth tight, I give a small nod.
I’ll be quiet but I’m not happy about it.
“To your feet, slave. The Magistrate wants to see you both.” Says Rickher as he grabs me.
Not surprisingly, he punches me in the stomach. The breath leaves me in a whoosh. Rickher drags me behind him using my hair as a shackle while Phobe follows—his eyes not leaving me the entire time.
Nineteen
Phobe
What she did hits me harder than any blow ever could or will. She would’ve escaped. They didn’t expect her to fight, especially as viciously as she did, moving so beautifully that for a moment I was dumbstruck and just stared at her.
Then the stupid woman just gave up her only chance to get away—to stay with me. She will not try escaping again, not even if presented with another fucking chance. Simply because I cannot go.
Something in the area of my heart tightens. No one in creation has ever done that for me, sacrificed something so fucking bloody important.
It infuriates me. And yet…
I can see every one of her questioning glances. I choose to ignore them.
Right now, it is taking everything I possess to process that someone chose me over something as valuable as freedom. It is such a sacrifice for someone so unworthy of it. I am torn between anger and something that takes the bottom right out of my stomach…
I choose anger.
It is the safe choice. The only choice.
It does not matter that they would send me for her. What matters is she would have had some freedom, some more time to live. The thought of being the one to take her life twists my stomach.
Yes, anger. That is what I am choosing to feel.
Twenty
Iza
After the guards tossed me into the “let’s make Iza Bleed Room” and leave, I have a moment to gather my scattered thoughts.
Now that I’ve worked out the jumbled mess that’s my brain I can think clearly again. Those thoughts immediately focus on Phobe. He’s so angry with me. It’s bleeding off him in waves.
Doesn’t he realize I can’t leave him here, alone, in this mess?
I’m not stupid. I can picture what would happen if I got away. Survival would’ve been very brief. Arick would send Phobe after me, more than likely, and there’s no escaping him. If I stay here, I’ll still die, just not by his hand.
Well, hopefully not. Arick is a sick bastard, so who knows for sure?
Honestly, I’m still muddled a bit from him yelling at me. Raising his voice is new. It’s that emotion—because those words absolutely held emotion—that made me accept what he said. And accept something else, too.
He has become important to me.
Somehow, despite my best attempts, he’s become an integral part of my life. My only friend, my best friend. It’s the closest description I can find for what he represents in my life.
We’re not lovers—no matter how much sexual tension there is between us at times. Okay, all the time. A feeling inside of me says, that under different circumstances, one day we might be. I push that thought away; it isn’t something that needs to be dwelt on, at least right now.
Unlike anyone before, I trust him. Something I’ve never done, and really…I want to keep that. Trust is such a rare thing in my world. Something you protect and keep close to you. A treasure.
