Mistakes Were Made (A Pygmalion Fail Book 2)

by Casey Matthews

  “Uh, no,” Dak said. “This is an Isaac dungeon. Chests are always traps.”

  Eliandra eyeballed the chest. “Always?”

  “Always,” I owned.

  “What kind is this one?” Dak asked.

  “Black-powder bomb. It’d kill us all. So unless someone wants to risk defusing that…?”

  Snorts all around, excepting Dak, who hefted the treasure chest onto one shoulder.

  I scrambled after him. “What are you doing?”

  “Dude. It’s a bomb. We’re taking it with us.”

  ***

  “What’s in this one?” Dak asked, schlepping the chest into yet another chamber.

  “Please say it’s a bedroom full of friendly pillow elementals,” Eliandra grumped. She’d not slept her hour and it did her attitude no favors. We were all feeling it: filthy, exhausted, and half starved. Part of Eliandra’s sleeve was blackened from the last battery of flamethrower traps and Dak had almost taken a swinging guillotine to the face. We were tired; making mistakes. Only Ronin seemed collected as ever. She hadn’t even sweated and her hair was all in place.

  “There’s a key in here for the Pit of Souls,” I said. “We get there, we can rest before the last room.” The dank chamber’s centerpiece was a waterfall feeding a crystal-clear pool. My gut flipped over. “Oh—except the key’s inside a giant ooze.”

  Water from the pool parted and a transparent, slippery blob the size of a bear smacked wetly onto the cavern floor. That turned out to just be its foot, though, and two more giant pseudopods plopped onto dry rock. Finally, the whole mass of it rose from the water and towered over us, a featureless bulb atop three gelatinous pods; in total, it was thirty feet tall and filled with glittering coins and bits of metal from things long ago swallowed.

  “Guess oozes don’t need as much to eat as giant snakes and ogres.” I stepped back nervously. “Maybe it’s not hungry.”

  “I brought it a snack.” Dak tossed the treasure chest into the ooze’s central bulb. It splatted there, and the creature engulfed it with shocking speed. For a moment the chest floated within its clear trunk, wood bubbling and melting away.

  Dak shoved me into a wall, shielding me with his dense body, and I covered my ears. The chest exploded. The boom rang through the room, shockwaves rolling into Dak and their residual force into me.

  Clear goo smacked the walls around us, the same consistency as jam chucked against cabinetry.

  “Done and done,” Dak said, standing straight and dusting his hands. “Now, since I did the real work, you all can dig for the key in piles of dead snot monster.”

  ***

  Since I’d been mostly useless for the dungeon crawl, I dug for the key, and was soon coated in transparent slime. When I pulled my hand back from clapping the key into Dak’s palm, stretchy mucus strands connected our hands until we managed to break them apart with a snap!

  We both shuddered and he opened the door to the Pit of Souls.

  For a moment, the four of us stood on the balcony overlooking it all. I could feel the day’s aches fade at the vision.

  It was technically a chamber, something interior to the palace and at its very root, but we could see no end to it. Columns of sapphire crystal hung from the ceiling, each shining with its own light so that everything was the color of peaceful twilight. From where we stood, there was no visible bottom or edge to the space. We had a sense of its scale in the soft hiss of many waterfalls we couldn’t see. The sound didn’t quite echo, but wrapped us in its whisper.

  Ahead were dozens of stone pedestals, towering hundreds of feet from the fathomless bottom, as straight as skyscrapers and scattered across the abyss like lily pads on a dark pond. The pedestals’ tops were each a hundred feet across and covered in beds of green moss and fungal forests.

  Water poured in from the ceiling, but patches of the chamber—especially around the crystals overhead—had no gravity. There, the water pooled in huge, floating blobs. Some of the blobs overflowed and poured into others below; others were connected by tributaries and rivers that looked like winding glass tubes. When the lowest layer of floating lakes overflowed from the antigravity wells, the water fell in misty white streamers down into the dark.

  “All right,” Dak said. “Your dungeon gets two stars for level design, but five stars for the graphics.”

  “Exquisite,” Eliandra breathed.

  “We’ll rest here,” Ronin said. “What remains of the dungeon?”

  “One final room,” I said. “Boss encounter.”

  “What’s in it?” asked Dak.

  “Well.” I fidgeted. “That’s the problem. I don’t exactly know.”

  Chapter Eight: The Pit of Souls

  Crossing the Pit of Souls meant getting wet. We jumped into a lake floating just below the balcony, swam to the far edge, and dropped into a smaller pond forty feet below that one. My stomach leaped into my throat when we fell. The pool we landed in hovered over an ideal pillar, one with a fungal forest whose mushroom caps almost reached the bottom of the pool’s gravity well. One at a time, starting with Ronin, we dove to the depths and punched through the bottom of the floating pond. I went second to last.

  My limbs shook from fatigue and lack of food. I felt like skin stretched over bones. My palms pressed against the invisible tension of the gravity well, and it took every effort of will to push through the glassy bottom. It gave with a pop. I fell through along with a shower of water, trying to right myself, but my body was slower than expected and I hit the mushroom cap on my side. Fortunately, it had enough give that nothing broke.

  Dak landed after me, at a crouch, helping me to my feet. “You look tanked, man.”

  “Just hungry.” I hadn’t eaten in close to two days.

  Dak’s weight bent the mushroom cap, tilting the stalk until the lip went flush to the ground twenty feet below. He eased me off first, and when he slipped free it sprang back up. I collapsed onto the spongy moss of the pillar, splaying my arms. It felt amazing. My vertebrae all relaxed into it and my worn muscles went slack, aches in my body radiating pleasantly. I could hardly move, but apparently the others were made of tougher stuff; they built a fire from woody shoots that grew at the edge of the pillar.

  They built it nearby, and soon heat soaked me through. I rolled onto my side and we all crowded the orange glow. Every now and then, a burning shoot would burst and send a whorl of sparks straight up. There was no wind, so the smoke never blew anywhere. It just lifted upward into our ceiling—a glassy dome of water—and curled around, disappearing into the eerie gloom.

  Ronin produced a single piece of hardtack, split it three ways without taking one herself, and gave me the biggest. I guiltily swallowed the whole morsel, unable to look anyone in the eye.

  “What did you mean about not knowing the final room?” Ronin asked.

  “My drawings created this dungeon.” Along with some other things. I tried not to look at Eliandra. “Sometimes the stuff I make doesn’t turn out as expected. It has a life of its own. I don’t know if it’s my subconscious driving it or the world itself. But the last room was unfinished; I was tired after planning the other rooms and went to bed without thinking up anything particular. All I had was an evocative name.”

  “What was the name?” Eliandra tilted forward, curious.

  “The Mirror Room.”

  “You’re a bit of a Potterhead, so maybe it’s like Rowling’s Mirror of Erised.” Dak grinned. “If it is, you need to all prepare yourselves for a vision of me and Anne Hathaway robbing a casino together.”

  I blinked at him. “Seriously?”

  Dak shrugged. “She’s a tremendous actress. I respect her body of work. And casinos piss me off.”

  “Everything pisses you off.”

  “Casinos especially, though.” Dak folded his arms. “They’re predatory. And Anne is wearing her Catwoman getup and calls me Ace. Look, it’s my deepest desire, it can be whatever I want, okay?”

  “The truth is, we don’t kno
w what’s in there,” I said. “What if it’s mirror golems?”

  Dak shuddered. “I want a sword.”

  “I could try drawing one.”

  “No,” Ronin said. “Rest. Regain your strength.”

  “If he’s willing, I say let him try.” Eliandra’s stomach growled. “Perhaps some food while he’s at it.”

  “I said no.” Ronin stood and cast a glance at each of us in turn. “He’s valuable. I won’t see him damaged in the attempt. He’ll try tomorrow, if his head feels better.” She stalked off through the mushroom stems, muttering, “I’ll search for food.”

  Eliandra stared after Ronin. “So strange.”

  “Will you please explain her?” Dak asked the Queen.

  “I don’t know what happened before me.” Eliandra brushed a lock of hair behind one ear and grinned over the flames at the orc. “Besides. Why would I tell you anything? Your suffering pleases me.”

  “And I despise you to your spoiled core.”

  She scowled. “I was only teasing. But you don’t tease. You’re simply mean.”

  “I am. But if you tell us about Ronin, I’ll say something nice about you.”

  “I don’t require your praise,” she said.

  “No, but I also don’t lie. So whatever I say to you that’s nice is the truth. You could taunt me with it forever and ever.”

  She tilted her chin up and the teasing smile was back. “Tempting. I’d love something to hold over your head.”

  “Given your height, this is pretty much your only shot.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but the grin remained and it was damn cute. Dak always knew precisely how to ruffle a girl’s feathers so that she’d love him for it—conversationally, at least. The few times the sparks ignited and led to a date, it had flamed out quickly. I always had the sense he was holding out for something special, and whatever his faults, Dak had never messed around with a girl he wasn’t serious about.

  Eliandra took her time thinking over his proposition—she seemed to like keeping us in suspense. “Ronin knows all about dreamers,” she said finally.

  I leaned in. “Is that what I am?”

  “It’s what she calls your kind. I believe she’s met one before. She also hates Dracon, but I’m not certain how personal that hatred is; she doesn’t talk about him, except as her adversary.” She looked at me. “You, though—you she knows.”

  “What? How?”

  “At times I would despair about our task. About whether we could kill an extra-dimensional god, a creator force as powerful as Dracon. She seemed unconcerned; she hinted that Dracon was not the final dreamer who would come. When I asked about others, she would get strangely quiet. I believe that she anticipated you, Isaac—or someone like you.”

  “But you said she knows me,” I said.

  “I can’t explain it.” Eliandra sucked her teeth. “She acts differently around you.”

  “Like how?”

  “She’s usually silent. We’ve passed weeks before without trading more than two words at a time. The amount Ronin’s said to you practically qualifies her as a chatterbox by her own standards. The few times I pulled words out of her growing up, it was the same argument—I wanted to save my mother. She’d insist it was up to her, not me. Took me ages to get her to treat me as an ally and not a child.”

  “She was like that with me at first,” I said.

  “Not anymore.” Eliandra frowned into the fire. “She expects you to pull your weight. You’re part of her circle.”

  “You sound bitter,” said Dak.

  “It took a long time to earn her faith in me. I’m not sure what makes Grawflefox so special. Maybe because she needs him more than me.” We were all quiet, and Eliandra plucked a small flower, rotating the stem between thumb and forefinger, lost in the twirl of the petals. “I called her an ‘unfeeling replacement’ for my real mother. Not my finest hour.”

  I’d never seen Eliandra quite so vulnerable. “She cares about you.”

  “In her way.” She closed her fist around the flower, squeezing. “I blamed her for my choosing to rule Korvia and fight Dracon. But at every step, I made those decisions. If anything, she fought me on them; played devil’s advocate and tried to give me a choice. She’s big on that—on taking a step back, letting people act. Spent most of my childhood standing back, letting me make stupid decisions, and always being there to pull my derriere out of the fire. So if she always made me decide, why doesn’t it feel that way? Like I was steered into this life I hate.”

  Maybe it’s because I drew you as a queen. It wasn’t Ronin steering you—it was my portrait. I bit down on the reflexive apology, certain as ever I didn’t want Eliandra to know I’d drawn her.

  Dak tossed some shoots on the fire. “Isaac’s aunt is a Calvinist—kind of religious person who thinks everything’s predestined by God. A certain kind of person chafes under that idea; I’m one of them. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter whether we have destinies. What matters is the implicit logic of our own decisions and how well it stacks up against our values. You value your family. You became Queen to save your mother. It may not be your ideal life, but it’s the life you needed, to pursue your values. Your life sucks because you’re a good person and Dracon’s not. It’d suck whether you became Queen or not, and it’ll keep sucking until that prick’s taken care of. No sense blaming yourself or anyone else for it.”

  He was subtly trying to cheer us both up, and I appreciated it. Looking into the fire, I realized Eliandra hadn’t answered the questions I really wanted to ask, so I tried one: “Where’s Ronin come from?”

  “I suspect somewhere full of violence,” Eliandra said. “It’s what she’s best at.”

  “I wish I could just Google her social media history,” I sighed. “Old pictures of her killing dragons, a relationship status for when she broke up with her demon boyfriend. This universe needs Twitter.”

  Dak slapped the back of my head. “Don’t blaspheme.”

  Our conversation died awhile and we absorbed the fire’s heat, savoring the loud pop of brittle kindling. Finally, Eliandra glanced at Dak. “You must compliment me now.” She lifted her chin. “Make it good; I hear them often.”

  “Your tits are amazing. Don’t believe all the haters who think they’re too small. Roundness is more important than size.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You may not be a natural-born orc, but you are a beast.”

  “Like you haven’t been staring at these things all day.” Dak flexed and every chiseled inch of his arms displayed brute contours beneath hunter-green skin.

  Eliandra waved her hand. “It’s all a little overdone for my tastes.”

  “Liar,” Dak said with his typical supreme confidence. “But fair is fair. I promised an honest compliment and I won’t back out. Here it is for real: I can’t read you.”

  “Hardly a compliment.”

  “It is,” he said. “I don’t have a category for you. You’re arrogant, self-absorbed, but sharp enough to know you’re those things. It’s a weird combination of traits I hate, with exactly enough wit to make me still enjoy talking to you.”

  It wasn’t my read on her. To me, she seemed to slide fluidly from one role to the next. But Dak had only known her for five hours.

  “I love how your words are backhanded praise for your own sensibilities.” She lay back against an enormous toadstool. “Your ‘compliment’ was just, ‘I hate you, but I still deem you worthy of my attention.’ ” She glanced at me. “I see why Dak likes you.”

  “Yeah? ’cause I don’t.”

  “You look up to him.”

  “Bullshit,” said Dak and I at once.

  “You do,” Eliandra said. “Since I’ve met you, Grawflefox, you’ve been everything Dak is not. Restrained, considerate, and always putting yourself in others’ places. Dak only reads people deeply enough to dissect them. He’s brash and vicious. You wish you could be Dak. A piece of you lives vicariously through him. Tell me: when someone in your life angers
you, who do you talk to first?”

  I frowned. “Dak.”

  “And Dak mocks him relentlessly while you stand back and say, ‘He’s not that bad.’ ”

  Neither of us spoke. She had us dead to rights.

  “See, Dak is your other half,” Eliandra explained. “I think you should both kiss. It would round out this thing between you. Grawflefox could wear a dress if it would clarify matters.”

  Dak glanced bashfully my way, and I back at him. My friend swallowed, hand to his big orcish heart, and leaned toward me. “Isaac.”

  I brushed hair out of my eyes and batted my lashes back at him. “Yes?”

  He tilted closer. “Your eyes. They sparkle in the twilight.”

  “Be still my heart.” I leaned up.

  Just before our mouths touched, Dak asked, “How about it? You gay yet?”

  “Am I supposed to be aroused?” I asked. “All I’m getting is barely suppressed giggles.”

  “That’s the gayest non-gay thing you could feel.”

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “Kind of hungry. But not for your penis, sorry.”

  “Maybe we’re doing it wrong.” I started coming in from the side. “Here. Let’s try from an angle. Could be our trajectory’s off.”

  “I should have my hands… where? Here?” He put a huge paw on my chest.

  “Seriously, gay guys don’t cup each other’s tits. I think. Wait, do they?”

  “You are the most Ohio thing that’s ever happened,” Dak said, shaking his head. Abruptly he leaned in and licked me from chin to hair, leaving a huge wet cowlick standing on end. For a moment I stared at him, and then we burst into gales of laughter, flopping back onto the spongy turf.

  I laughed so hard I was snorting. “Oh God, I thought you were going to do it that time.”

  “Yeah.” Dak sighed wistfully. “Being gay would be so awesome.”

  “ ‘Gay’ is your word for ‘backwards,’ correct?” Eliandra shrugged. “I’m not convinced by this display. I’ve seen males hide their affections behind less obvious ploys.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” Dak said. “If I were gay, I wouldn’t hide it. I’ve been Black, adopted, and disabled; if they want to mock me for liking dick too, let ’em. To be offended, I’d have to think liking dick was bad. I don’t.”