by Sara Page
I feel myself being yanked forward. A monstrous roar sounds out behind me. Somehow, someway, I’ve lost my protection.
There’s a commotion. Roaring, clashing.
Cries of anguish.
“Fucking hell. The things I do for you, Warrick!”
I can’t focus on what’s going on though because my head and ears fill with static.
The hands gripping my arms are so cold, so icy they burn. I try to pull away, but my very being is being propelled forward. I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know how to fight it.
“See, Ameia.”
Pain sears my eyes, ripples of fire scorching across the surface.
“See!”
My entire world explodes into agony. A thousand knives cut through my head.
Pressure. Excruciating pressure.
The hands reach up, claws slashing across my face. There’s a tug. It feels as if my eyeballs are about to burst inside my skull.
The voice booms, “Remove your veil, princess!”
I fall to my knees and then my eyes burst. My world fades to black and then color rushes back in.
I’m crying and screaming. My tears are too warm though. I glance down at my hands. They’re covered in blood.
So red.
I stare at my hands for the longest time. The blood is such a deep crimson it’s almost black. It seeps between my pale fingers, dripping onto my dress.
“Look up, Ameia.”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to see. I want my veil back.
“Look up, Ameia.” The words tug at my consciousness, urging me to do their bidding.
Slowly, painfully my chin lifts.
“Yes,” it grins.
After staring into the face of my death, I welcome the darkness back.
Chapter Seven
By degrees I become aware. First, it’s the position of my body. I’m stretched out across a cool, hard floor. Second is the pain I’m feeling. The pain is gone from my eyes but there’s an echo of the ache in the front of my brain.
A hand touches my head, enormously large but tender as it strokes my hair back.
My ears buzz with static but eventually I can make out words.
“She won’t accept you, Warrick. Walk away now, before you become too attached,” the booming voice urges.
There’s a snarl and the sound of two hard things smacking into each other.
I thought it was a monster that pulled me from the closet, but the real monster is currently bent over me, petting my head. I’m frozen with fear. What does he want from me? For the love of all, don’t tell me I called him.
The monster laughs, amused by whatever is occurring. I’m not brave enough to open my eyes yet. All I can hear is a great deal of snarling and thumping.
“Very well. I will share her with you, for the time being. I will give you the chance to press your suit. But when she rejects you, don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”
The hand stroking my head slides down, brushing across my cheeks. Following the length of my neck. I can’t draw in breath as the hand continues to roam, claws dragging across the hollow of my throat, lingering. Before slipping between the crevice of my breasts.
“It is best to let these things play out naturally,” the voice says almost thoughtfully, as if he’s musing to himself. “Who am I to deny your right to pursue your Calling? Who am I to stand in the path of destiny?”
Again he laughs.
Down, the hand travels, so large it nearly spans the width of my chest.
Inside, my guts churn and twist. Fear, revulsion, and dread creating a potent concoction that makes it impossible not to feel sick.
Please don’t. Please.
A whimper slips past my lips.
“I will release her into your care, but you will not harm her.” The hand pauses at my belly, fingers spreading to completely cover it. “You will guard her with your life. She is… precious.”
“Mine,” Warrick rasps and the thing bent over me laughs.
“We’ll see about that.”
Once more I feel everyone’s eyes upon me. My skin crawls from the attention.
“Open your eyes, Ameia,” a whisper slithers into my ear. “I know you’re awake.”
I don’t want to open my eyes, I don’t. But I know I have to. I know if I want to get out of this alive, I need to see and be able to influence what’s happening. I need to face the terrifying image of the thing that grinned at me.
Maybe I even need to grin back.
My lids feel so heavy, it takes an enormous amount of will just to lift them.
His face is inches from my face. His eyes are like two blazing fires, the flames roaring and billowing smoke in their hollow sockets. It’s hard to make sense of him, the mind struggles because he shouldn’t make sense.
He’s dark and light. Misty and solid. He’s a thousand shadows stitched together. Shadows that writhe, straining against their bonds. Wailing with mouths stretched wide open as they desperately try to escape their prison.
I can’t hold his stare; I have to look away from him. My eyes settle on the floor. It appears to be made of some type of dull black stone that absorbs what little light there is instead of reflecting it.
His hand is still on my tummy and I feel him squeeze, his claws pricking me. There’s a possessiveness in his grip.
“How do you feel?”
I push a hiss out between my clenched teeth as the sting of his claws settles in.
How do I feel? I feel like I’ve awoken in a bad dream. I feel like I’m going crazy. I wish he didn’t hurt me because then I could convince myself I’m dreaming.
But all my senses are fully functioning now. I can see, and hear, and smell—oh gods, the smell—that everything is real. This is reality.
Reality sucks.
“Ameia,” his metallic voice rumbles with impatience.
I buy another second by licking my lips nervously. Do I lie? How can I be honest? If I’m honest he just might gut me.
I settle on saying, “I’ve felt better.”
“You will report it at once if you feel ill.” From his tone I know it’s a demand, not a request.
I nod my head slowly, still unable to look back at him. Why does he even care? Why am I precious?
“Good. I desire healthy grandchildren.”
Why did I have to ask?
Fuck it all.
I forgot—that thing—is Striker’s father. What did Striker call him? The Devourer? Did he devour those shadows shrouding him?
Straightening to his full-height, perhaps it’s because he’s standing over me, it looks as if he stands ten feet tall. He steps back, taking his hand with him. “Release them.”
Movement catches my eye and I turn my head, watching two Ravagers being shoved roughly forward. I blink. Did my vision get damaged? One of the Ravagers is purple and the other isn’t… His skin is black, like obsidian. It’s almost as if the armor I’ve seen Beast and Striker wear, the very same armor the one standing next to him is wearing, has become a part of him. Horns protrude from his head, twisted and barb-tipped, breaking through the dark, straight line of his hair. His eyes are red but it’s not a glowing light. They smolder like coals burning in their sockets. His body is bulkier, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing armor, but the armor blends in so seamlessly that I can’t tell where it begins or ends.
Beast said the other side corrupts. Is that what happens to Ravagers that spend too much time here?
If it is. If that’s what happens to a Ravager, what’s going to happen to me?
“Approach.”
I feel like an imbecile just lying on the ground so I start to sit up, propping myself up on my elbows. My world tilts. My equilibrium is off. I may have all my senses back but my body needs to get used to using them. Everything here is just a little different. There’s a purplish tint to it all and the air is hazy. It gives the scene a nightmarish quality—a quality it definitely doesn’t need help achieving. The texture of t
he floor is rough, digging into the palms of my hands. The shiny black walls are so tall, they go up and up, disappearing into nothingness. There’s a squadron of guards, or at least I’m assuming they’re guards, holding formation in front of the only exit.
The obsidian Ravager rushes forward. Instinctively I start to scramble back. The closer he gets, the more I realize how big he is. He’s huge, a hulking behemoth. The ground beneath me literally vibrates from the pounding of his feet as he barrels down on me.
He’s faster than I am. Reaching down, he just scoops me up into his arms and then brings me up protectively against him. He huffs and puffs with exertion, his breath hot in my hair. Arms tightening around me, I can feel the thundering of his pulse behind the thick plate of his chest.
“Mine,” he rasps so softly I barely hear it.
Of course, this one would be Warrick.
Which means the other one must be Vis.
I straighten in Warrick’s arms but he’s so tall my feet don’t touch the floor. His hold is tight but it’s uncomfortable. I squirm and the toes of my boots slide against the plates of his shins as I struggle to get a grip. Finally, after he gets his fill of smelling my hair, he swings me up until I’m cradled in his arms once again.
Before, I preferred it much more than being thrown over his shoulder. Now that I can see, I hate being held like this.
“I can walk,” I protest.
Warrick either didn’t hear me or is intentionally ignoring my statement. I sigh, afraid to press the issue, and resign myself to the humiliation.
Vis walks much slower, more purposeful. He’s in no hurry to reach us. No, from the way he looks at me, it feels like he’s more intent on glaring me to death. I lift my chin haughtily, giving him as good as I’m getting. He’s just a plain ol’ purple Ravager. I’m not afraid of him.
The two Ravagers distract me so much, I completely forgot that the Devourer is standing just a few feet behind us.
“The white chamber has been prepared for her,” his voice booms out, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “See that she is made comfortable.”
Warrick grunts and Vis nods his head.
He turns his full attention to me and I don’t look away quick enough. His eyes, the flames change, becoming two mirrors that reflect my own visage back at me.
“Rest, Ameia,” he croons as I stare at my reflection. My eyes—they’re so bright, completely consumed by red, I don’t recognize them. “If you have need for anything, just ask.”
He doesn’t mean that. He can’t. Still, what’s the harm in trying?
“I need to go home,” I somehow say without choking on the words even though I know he won’t grant the request. I just need to put the words out there, in the universe. I need it to be known that I want to return to my family. I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to be with any of them.
Warrick’s arms tighten around me that much more.
The Devourer grins, his mouth spreading wide with wicked amusement. “You are home, Ameia.”
Chapter Eight
Warrick carries me, much to my displeasure, through the halls of the palace. The Black Palace, I think of it, because just about everything it’s made of is some type or shade of black. Obsidian, onyx, and jet stones cut with veins of violet purple and vermilion red. Charcoal ceilings, ebony furniture, and licorice fabrics. The only things not black are the torches ensconced in the gleaming walls. Their flames burn a brilliant blue mixed with an orange that seems completely out of place in this environment. About as out of place as I feel at this moment.
How did I get here? How do I escape?
Will my eyes be forever red?
I tip my head back, peering up at Warrick. He’s probably my best chance at surviving this situation. I’m certain I can play on his sympathies, but it will be extremely difficult to extract information from him if he can’t answer any of my questions.
Vis, on the other hand, could answer my questions. But from the way he snorts and stomps behind us like a petulant child showing his displeasure, and not to mention all the death glares I’m getting, I doubt he’ll be very accommodating.
I’ll have to be extra careful with him. It’s clear he doesn’t like me.
Warrick notices my gaze upon his face and our eyes meet. A clashing of awareness. My immediate instinct is to look away but I hesitate. There’s just such a tortured look in the depth of his smoldering eyes, I feel myself being drawn into them. I feel… pity for him. As dark as he is, as monstrous his appearance, he looks at me as if he’s in pain and only I can ease it.
“What happened to him?” I ask aloud, without realizing it.
Warrick’s eyes flare but he doesn’t appear to be upset about my question.
“It’s a long story, princess,” Vis snarls out, putting extra venom on my title from behind Warrick.
“Still, I would like to hear it,” I insist.
Warrick’s head dips down and I stiffen as he drags his nose tenderly up and down the side of my face.
Oh, boy. I can’t think of a delicate way to discourage such intimacy between us.
“Perhaps when we reach your chamber. It’s not the type of story to be shared in public.”
Warrick’s nose reaches my nose, rubbing gently against my bridge.
It could be worse, I suppose. At least Warrick hasn’t attempted to kiss me, yet.
My situation could be worse too. I can see now; I have my sight back. I’ve even been assigned my very own chamber to rest in. Perhaps I’ll just bide my time, keeping safe until someone comes to rescue me. Or perhaps I’ll even be clever enough to figure out my own escape plan.
If only there were a way to learn the fate of the Harpy and all that were on it. If only I could trust the answers they will give if I ask.
We ascend two different spiraling staircases and walk numerous halls until finally reaching the door to the room I’ve been provided.
“Allow me,” Vis offers, stepping in front of us. He pushes open the heavy door and steps back, giving us room to enter first.
There’s this glint in Vis’ eyes that makes me wary to enter, but I don’t actually have a choice. Warrick just carries me inside, oblivious.
The white is so surprising, so harsh on the eyes, I feel myself squinting. I know it’s called the white chamber but I didn’t expect it to actually be white. Snow white, in fact. White walls, white carpet, and giant white canopy bed. It’s as if all the color has been sucked out of the room. Such a stark contrast compared to all the dim darkness we’ve been in. My eyes ache and the throb in my brain pounds. I think at this point I would prefer the dark. This room feels too clean, too sterile to get comfortable in.
Warrick hesitates for a fraction of a second as if he’s unsure where to deposit me.
“You can put me down,” I say gently. I feel like I need to walk on eggshells with him, until I know exactly where I stand.
He strides over to the massive white bed. I half expect him to drop me or lay me down, but no. He turns and lowers, taking a seat on the edge. His grip on me never giving.
What do I do now? I’m so caught up in how to deal with Warrick, how to put some distance between us without offending him, I completely fail to notice the two most important objects in the room. It’s not until Vis approaches the wall with interest that I see pushed up against it is two baby cribs.
“No,” I gasp in horror, the blood in my veins chilling as the realization sets in.
I try to break out of Warrick’s grasp but his arms flex around me until I push angrily at them, all my patience gone. “Let me up.”
His arms drop immediately and I jump up, in my panic forgetting him. I rush over to the cribs, hoping I’m just hallucinating or something. Hoping that after everything I’ve been through I’m finally freakin’ losing it.
Reaching out, I grab the rail of the closest crib. It’s feels all too real, all too solid.
“Why?” I ask no one in particular.
This just scream
s of premeditation. The attack, my capture, it wasn’t chance or bad luck, was it? This isn’t just some random act of fate. It was all planned.
Inside the crib is a stack of white fluffy fabric, clothing perhaps? There are rattles, blankets, and even a little stuffed teddy bear. I grab some of the fabric and lift it up. It unfolds in my hand, unfurling and fluttering down my arm. It’s not just fabric I realize, my horror growing, it’s a little white baby gown embroidered with a delicate lace around the hem.
I drop the gown as if I was just burned and jump back. “No.”
“I was told if it’s not to your liking,” Vis says, his eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth. “Or if you are in need of more, simply ask. Your wish is our command. King Zar demands only the best for his beloved daughter and grandchildren.”
I take another hasty step back and immediately slam into Warrick. He grabs me by the arms to steady me on my feet while my mind wraps around the realization that not only was all of this prepared ahead of time, very clearly planned, but they expect me to remain here until I give birth to my children.
“This is not happening,” I say defiantly and lift my chin with determination.
Vis lifts a brow. “What is not happening, princess?”
“This!” I snap and wave my hand at the cribs.
A sardonic smile spreads across Vis’ lips. “You do not like the cribs?”
“Get rid of them,” I nod. “I hate them.”
I want them gone. They’re too damn frightening, too damn symbolic. Just the thought of still being here months from now makes me want to claw my way out through the walls with my bare hands.
“Very well,” Vis sighs with a great deal of exaggeration. “I’ll see that it’s done.”
It’s not enough. Panic still threatens to overcome me, I can feel it swelling up my throat and wrapping around my heart. I feel completely out of control of this situation. I need to get some control back.
“And I hate this room,” I add. “I can’t stay here. It’s distressing me.”
Vis frowns now and Warrick’s squeezes my arms reassuringly. “This room has been carefully prepared for your comfort. It is the best room in the palace.”
