“Reaper,” the banshee whispered, her cracked words barely audible. Despite the volume, Veruca could see the siren’s soul jump, responding to the call of her voice as if the banshee had directed it to go forth and conquer. “Veruca.”
“Yes?” Veruca asked, tense, worried what the banshee might do with the power of the siren at her disposal.
“Can you see it?” she asked, her lovely eyes suddenly sharp and focused on Veruca intently. “Can you fix it?”
“Fix what?” Veruca asked, looking around the clearing fitfully before running her gaze over the siren, searching for evidence of broken bones or scrapes and bruises. What she found instead was possibly worse, but since she’d never seen it before she couldn’t be entirely sure.
The banshee’s essence was eating through the siren’s soul at an alarming pace, burning it away, caustic in a way that Veruca had never seen. Gasping, she jumped back, worried on a less than intellectual level about her own well-being. Heart pounding, she scanned the carnage, her mind running through the possibilities of what would come from the damage. Would the siren’s soul simply cease to exist? Would the banshee’s essence destroy the siren’s physical form once it ate away her soul?
Or, Veruca considered as she watched something extraordinary happen, was the siren’s soul in no danger at all?
It worked differently than other souls, that much Veruca knew. Magna’s power came from her soul’s independence, from its ability to break off in pieces and latch onto her victims, controlling them for as long she ordered. Sirens had enough juice to overpower anyone and anything within her vocal range, and that level of power was something Veruca had never seen before.
As she watched the siren’s soul rebuild, growing along the damaged threads the banshee’s essence had left, she found herself moving closer, crouching and leaning in as if a closer look would help her understand the mechanism behind the dynamic at play. The banshee’s essence was hungry, corrosive, destroying the pure and beautiful gold of the siren’s soul, but where it was eaten away, it revived itself, an impressive feat and one Veruca couldn’t help but wish she too could manage.
The soul was curious, speaking to her own in a way power rarely did. Veruca’s power snaking away from her own heart and down through her arm, waiting eagerly at the edge of her fingertips as she reached toward the siren’s chest.
The banshee hissed, grabbing Veruca’s wrist before she could make contact.
“Hurry,” she growled, her soul jumping in her chest again, her power spiking in a way that made Veruca flinch. “Fix it.”
“Fix what?” Veruca asked, forcing her gaze away from the spectacle in the siren’s chest and up to her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“My soul, it will eat hers away if you don’t fix it. Without the siren’s power, this body is just a case, just storage. In order to keep Belial at bay, I need the siren’s soul. Fix it.”
“What it?” Veruca demanded, yanking her arm out of the banshee’s grip. “I’ve never dealt with a banshee soul before. I’ve got no idea what you mean.”
“It’s…” The banshee growled, clenching her hands into fists, frustration naked on her Neptunian face. “You have to separate—I don’t know how it’s to be done, but if my soul is too … clustered, it has too much power.”
“Right!” Veruca cried, realizing in an instant what she meant. Just as the necromancer within Eleanor would take charge when allowed to coalesce, the banshee’s essence could be dangerous. Without thinking, she reached her power in, grasping for the loosely threaded bits of the banshee’s essence, aiming to pull at them, to weave them into separate ropes and wrap them lightly and separately through the siren’s soul.
When she touched the banshee’s power, however, she found only pain.
Chapter Sixteen
“Was that Veruca?” Finn demanded at the sound of a far-off scream. Without thinking, he jumped to his feet, moving like a man who was braver than he toward the gap in the foliage through which Veruca had earlier gone. Ankyati didn’t follow or speak, and Finn wouldn’t have hesitated even if she had. He knew the sound of Veruca’s voice and could recognize the difference in her tone.
The scream had not been one of intrigued shock or giddy surprise, but one of pain and worry.
“Veruca!” He thrashed through the strangling vines and covetous branches that tried to hold him back from the woman he loved. He had no clear plan as to what he would do when he found her, but Veruca had made him a good man in the time they’d been together. Finn was still a little rusty when it came to the etiquette displayed by a good man, but he knew one thing for certain: saving the woman you loved from danger was an imperative.
Nothing seemed to be wrong as he burst into a clearing and slowed to a confused halt, but his thundering heart wasn’t convinced. Veruca looked up at him, clutching her hand to her chest, her teeth bared in pain, but seemed perplexed by his appearance.
“Finn?” she asked, wincing and folding in on herself slightly. Almost as if she’d forgotten he was there, she turned to the siren—who was awake, much to Finn’s surprise—and snarled. “You didn’t warn me.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to. Ankyati said you were accomplished, one of Belial’s best. And you’ve got the necromancer. Any trouble you’ve had is on your own head.”
“What’s happened?” Finn asked, closing in and dropping to his knees to take Veruca in his arms, holding her close in case it was the best way to help her. If she shoved him away and needed his support in some other way, so be it, but physical contact was what he knew best.
“I tried … her essence—her soul is different.”
“The siren?”
“The banshee,” Veruca corrected, gesturing with her free hand to the siren.
Finn looked past the small singer, hoping to spot the banshee Veruca seemed to be talking about, but couldn’t see anyone else except the two of them. “Is she invisible?”
“I’m here,” the siren said with a sigh, shifting her position. She looked as uncomfortable as Veruca, hunched inward like someone with a bad bout of food poisoning.
“Ehm,” Finn mumbled, still lost. The siren was the banshee? When had that been figured out? Did that mean things were done and he could finally haul Veruca off to some topless beach somewhere she could enjoy the sun and sand and sight of Finn bottomless?
“We don’t have long,” the siren said, gesturing to Finn. “He’s here now, use him.”
“Yes, my love,” Finn said with a grin, hoping to lighten the mood. “Use me.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do with him,” Veruca said, before taking a shaky breath and forcing herself to sit up straighter. She seemed as stiff as an old woman but she held her head high, and Finn could tell she was trying not to let on that she was still in pain.
“Necromancer souls are some of the most resilient and hard to damage. You use his to fix mine. You’re already bound, you just need to deepen the connection, pull his power into you and use it as protection. If you’re quick, there’s no harm to either of you.”
“I’m not going to risk Finn’s soul,” Veruca spat, horrified by the idea.
Finn rubbed his hand down her arm, hoping to keep her calm, since he had no idea what they were talking about and had no helpful suggestions.
“It’s not a risk if you’re any good,” the siren argued. Dramatically, she slapped her own chest with the palm of her hand, leaning in close, her expression intense. “We don’t have much time. Her soul is strong. It can repair itself but not for much longer. Without her voice, we have almost no defense against Belial.”
“Why do we need—” Finn began, before thinking back with a wash of adrenaline to the conversation in the bathtub, worried instantly about what could have caused Veruca’s cryptic request for him to flee.
“Fine,” Veruca relented, shaking her head minutely. Growling out a sigh, she went silent for a moment, before taking a hearty breath and adjusting herself so she could see Finn’s face. “Darli
ng, I need to borrow your soul for a moment.”
“Sure,” Finn said, trusting her implicitly. Her lips twitched slightly at his casual attitude toward what even he could tell was a scary situation, and then she pressed her hand to his chest and he felt his soul unravel.
****
Weaving Finn’s soul into her own was easy, no more difficult than tying a knot. His soul was eager to be part of hers, both because his necromancy made it reckless and adventurous and because of the love they shared. Tangling the golden ropes of their spirits together was a pleasure, something that soothed the stinging left in Veruca’s chest from when she’d so casually reached out and tried to handle the banshee’s essence.
She’d been burned, much like the siren, but she didn’t have the same ability to heal, to correct and recreate her soul from nothing. A tiny part of her soul had been singed away for good, leaving her feeling frayed and damaged. Even though she was worried that Finn’s soul might suffer the same fate, she had no reason to distrust the banshee’s word.
And, due to Finn’s unpleasant past coming back to bite him, she’d seen firsthand the strength and fortitude possible in a necromancer’s soul.
Giving it her best shot, tangling Finn’s soul in thick ropes around hers, hoping to insulate herself from the banshee’s power, she pushed forward, aiming to knot and tangle and adjust the banshee’s soul in the same way she had the necromancer inside Eleanor, but at five times the speed.
Finn’s soul was a champ, reacting in a way Veruca couldn’t have expected, and she almost paused to study its vigor, the way it seemed to harden against the danger inherent in the banshee’s caustic essence. The fight it put up, though, wouldn’t last long and, even though his soul wasn’t as easily burned away as hers, even with the brief contact, she could feel it weakening.
Time wasn’t relevant as she worked, though Veruca had the vaguest notion that she needed to be quick. By the time she was finished, she was aware that her own aches had eased, and that Finn’s supportive hug had turned into more of a sleepy lean. As she pulled their power free of the banshee’s chest, her soul taking its time untangling itself from Finn, she inspected her work.
“It’s … better,” she said, almost unable to believe that she’d mitigated the biting contamination down to a slow depreciation. The siren’s soul had a fighting chance now, recovering at a pace that beat the banshee’s erosion.
“Yes, much,” the banshee said, taking a deep breath in a way that made Veruca think it was something she’d been longing to do. “Wow.”
“Hell of an introduction,” Veruca said with a smile, before shifting slightly to jostle Finn. His soul was back in place, though she could see the weakness along its edges, and she hoped it would repair itself quickly enough.
“Indeed,” the banshee said, getting to her feet. She shifted, rolling her shoulders and adjusting her hips like a bodybuilder who’d woken up in a small dress he wasn’t yet sure he liked. “You’re Veruca.”
“Yes, and this is Finn.” Figuring there was no harm in leaving Finn to sit in the soft grass, Veruca got to her feet and put out her hand. “Nice to meet you. We’ve got a lot to talk about, but perhaps first you could tell me if you have a name?”
“Darcy,” the banshee said, taking Veruca’s hand and shaking it once, though her grip was weak. “It was the last name I was given before being banished. It’s stuck with me.”
“Well, Darcy, I think perhaps we both have some explaining to do.”
“Lucy,” Finn sang, before giggling drunkenly and then immediately frowning as if his own behavior had startled him. “Now you’ve got some ‘splaining to do, Finn.”
Veruca eyed him, wondering if perhaps she’d made some mistake in the way she’d set his soul back into place, but Ankyati spoke up from the distance.
“The tea’s kicked in, I see. It’s a slow ride, but what a crest.”
“Tea?” Veruca demanded, suspicious instantly. “He seems drunk.”
“He is. For us it’s a relaxant, but humans, especially fae spawn, it can have a slightly different effect. I can have someone gather him up if you don’t trust him to walk.”
“Walk where?”
“Well, I’m assuming you’d like to have a conversation and the seating options here are abysmal.” Even though Ankyati hadn’t called or even gestured, a group of brownies poured in, surrounding Finn and gripping his arms, legs, and hips, carting him off the way they’d come. Finn giggled as he was manhandled, though he probably would have done that sober as well.
“After you,” Veruca said, letting the banshee go first.
****
Ankyati provided snacks and drinks—promising these would not intoxicate as the Queen’s tea had—and left Veruca, Finn, and Darcy alone in the clearing, settled into stone and wood seats.
Finn munched on some crackers, occasionally mumbling to himself and acting out some sort of drama if he managed to bite them into interesting shapes. Darcy didn’t seem bothered by his strange behavior, so Veruca decided it wasn’t worth addressing.
“Now,” she said with a sigh, before leaning in as if about to share secrets. “You mentioned defense against Belial.”
“Of course. It’s why Ankyati suggested the siren. I hadn’t considered it an option before, which is likely for the best. Even if Belial didn’t see the danger to himself in giving one of us such power, it would have made him much more dangerous than he already is.”
“You believe Belial is dangerous?”
“You do not?” Darcy tensed, leaning back and examining Veruca in a way she hadn’t seemed to do before. “I was told you’d understand, that you were here as your own agent.”
“Well…” Veruca trailed off, thinking of how the Fairy had likely phrased it to avoid lying. Bargains could not be secured with lies, but treachery and half-concealed truths were fair game. “I suppose I am. I wasn’t running errands for Ankyati by Belial’s orders.”
“Then you’re free of him?”
“I’m … not under his control, if that’s what you mean.”
“Are you marked in some invisible way?”
“Marked?” Veruca asked, perplexed, thinking of the red splotches that grew slowly, taking over a soul as the time left in a contract counted down. “No, my soul is my own.”
“Then you are your own agent, you do not serve him?”
“He’s been good to me. I do serve him, at my own free will.”
Darcy shot to her feet, stepping to the side and taking a hearty breath.
“I will not go back,” she said, her voice ringing with determination. Veruca winced, noticing the siren’s soul shivering in her chest, waiting to be called to action. Desperate to avoid being under someone else’s control again, Veruca held up her hands, trying to show deference to a creature she wasn’t sure would buy it.
“I will not take you anywhere you don’t want to go, I swear. I was sent by Belial to retrieve you, but what happens now is up to you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Darcy said, tense, fear naked on her stolen face. “I won’t leave here with you.”
“You don’t have to—I can’t exactly force you to,” Veruca said, still feeling lost. Part of her was flashing back to her conversation with Eleanor’s necromancer, the revelations that had spooked her but not surprised her. Sighing, she gestured to the seat Darcy had vacated. “Please, sit. I have questions, and I think you have answers.”
“I will answer,” Darcy said, inching back into her seat as if nervous Veruca might grab her. “But watch yourself. I will not be responsible should you not like the answers.”
“Unfortunately, I think I might already know what they’re going to be.”
Darcy was quiet for a long time, watching Veruca askance, as if curiosity were eating away at her nerves, as if she suddenly had true reason to believe what Veruca was saying. “So you’ve had your suspicions?”
“I didn’t,” Veruca said, her eyes downcast. “Until it was suggested I speak with one of … you
r contemporaries, a necromancer named Ronald. He had similarly unflattering things to say about … about Belial.”
“I did not know him.”
“No, the banshee he named was not you. But, he described an upbringing … not dissimilar to my own, though with—” Veruca found herself rubbing her fingers against her palms, a nervous gesture she wasn’t used to. “Well, perhaps not more deceit, but a different kind. Ronald described knowing that he was party to taking lives, but claims he was told it was for the greater good.”
“Aye,” Darcy said, an accent not dissimilar to Finn’s peeking through, making Veruca wonder if talk of the past was bringing up involuntary memories of the same. “The amha were told—”
“Amha?” Veruca interrupted, thinking the term familiar, but not sure why.
“Ah, Reapers, necromancers, humans of your kind. Those descended in some small part from the fae. Is that not the term in—” Darcy blinked, looking lost for a moment. “No, I see from the siren’s memories a more … crass term has taken its place. Fae spawn.”
“Crass?” Veruca lifted a brow, curious for only an instant before waving it away. “It doesn’t matter, honestly. What were you saying about my kind, what they were told?”
“Lies,” Darcy said with a shrug, as if it were simple. “Not all, some were as corrupt as he, selfish and interested only in their own gain. Some believed themselves above the duties of humankind, above the need for being decent, perhaps out of arrogance or just small-minded greed. Some followed him simply because they got riches and … other benefits.”
“Do you mean sex?” Finn piped up, surprising Veruca, who was sure he was off in his own little world, unaware of the serious conversation going on beside him. He was squinting, looking like it was a little too hard to concentrate, and Veruca realized he’d likely just heard the word “benefits” and assumed sex was the topic of conversation.
“Not so harmless as that, but yes, essentially.”
Voicing Veruca’s horror while she sat stunned at the implication, Finn said with disgust, “Rape, then.”
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