Ransomed to the World

by Stacey Brutger

  “Please have a seat.” Edgar held out a chair for her.

  Annora retrieved her knife, dropped it on the table, then sank into the chair. When he sat across from her, she straightened, suddenly nervous about being alone with him, conscious of the bed next to them. She cleared her throat, studying every nuance of his face. Something about his rigid posture made her own worries vanish. “You figured something out that can help me cast.”

  He rubbed his mouth, his eyes troubled. “We’ve been focusing on the spell book your mother left you, but I think she underestimated your affinity for dark matter. She expected you to be raised as a witch, so she gave you spells to follow. She couldn’t have expected your uncle to hold you prisoner and force you to immerse yourself in the afterworld. Not even phantoms are raised using the dark matter in the same way. It shaped you.”

  She shifted uncomfortably under his intense stare. The knowledge of what her uncle did to her still haunted Edgar. He’d seen too much and knew better than the others what tortures she had to endure just to survive.

  Her throat tightened, but she refused to drop her gaze.

  She had no reason to be ashamed—the guys had taught her that.

  Edgar leaned forward suddenly, startling her, and he captured her hands. “Instead of rituals and spells, you were essentially trained to rely on pure instinct. Training you with spells is like us expecting you to be able to speak a foreign language because you heard it once.”

  A weight fell off her shoulders. They were going to meet her father and the rest of the phantoms tomorrow. There was no way she’d be able to control her abilities with a handful of spells by then. “So what do you suggest?”

  “Your magic is too wild to be wielded by traditional means, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have any skills. We just need to refine your abilities.”

  She leaned forward, eager to learn more if it meant keeping the guys safe. “Explain.”

  “Call one of your butterflies.”

  Annora waited for more instructions, but none came. Humoring him, she did as he said. Dark particles curled around her fingers, the butterfly slowly taking shape, perching on her fingertip, until the wings started beating.

  “Amazing.” He reached out, running his finger gently over the wing. “It’s so lifelike.”

  Her cheeks heated at his praise, then she cocked her head at the slight inflection in his voice. “What do you mean? What do they look like when you call them?”

  Edgar lifted his dark blue eyes to hers. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” She stared at him blankly, not understanding.

  “I don’t have the ability to call them.” He reached over his shoulder and tapped the pommel of the sword strapped to his back. “I can call my sword from the afterworld, but I’m not able to actually create anything the way you do.”

  Annora could only gape at him. “I don’t understand.”

  Edgar nodded to the butterfly balanced on her fingertips. “He’s not real.”

  “Say what?” Annora frowned at the little bug. She could feel its feet gripping her finger, the slight breeze from the beating wings.

  “Put it on the table and, no matter what happens, hold him in this world.” Edger’s focus was so intense that nothing else in the world existed but them.

  She shook away her fanciful thoughts, eyeing him with suspicion, but did as he instructed. She barely got her fingers out of the way when Edgar slammed his hand down on the butterfly.

  Annora jumped and bit back a yelp, her eyes locked on the table, sadness pinching in her chest at such a senseless death. “Why would you do that?”

  He ignored her question. “What do you think you’ll see when I lift my hand?”

  Annora pursed her lips, unable to take her attention off his hand. “Butterfly guts?”

  But she wasn’t so sure.

  “Are you still holding him?” Edgar spoke softly.

  Annora nodded, still able to feel the splash of darkness. When he lifted up his hand, the darkness began to swirl and the butterfly took shape once more.

  Annora leaned closer to study the critter, but couldn’t detect any imperfections.

  “But how?” Uncertain if she wanted to know, her question emerged as a whisper.

  “Think of the darkness as playdough. If you have the ability to shape it, you can make anything. It just takes years of practice, a fucking lot of control, and the raw talent to mold something out of nothing. Most people don’t have the imagination.” When he leaned closer to study the butterfly again, it fluttered up in the air away from him, as if it remembered being squashed.

  Or, if what he said was true, she was unconsciously controlling it. “So they aren’t alive? They don’t think or feel…anything?”

  Edgar shrugged, leaning back in his seat, not ducking away from her gaze or her question. “No one knows, not really. You’re probably the only one who could answer that since you’ve been working with dark matter the longest.”

  Her mind boggled at the information. “So your sword—”

  “Is real.” He lifted up his hand. “It’s just imbued with dark matter. Anyone can touch it. It never changes shape. The dark matter allows it to move between realms, and my blood allows me to bring it forth.”

  Annora was floored.

  So much made sense now.

  “The afterworld can be a world of wonder or nightmares.” He spoke softly, his voice distant, as if fighting memories.

  “Edgar—”

  He cleared his throat and straightened, avoiding her eyes. “I’m glad you only see the beauty.”

  Disliking his dark mood, she asked the one thing that had always bothered her. “What about healing? After what my uncle did…” She trailed off at his thunderous expression.

  “Phantoms aren’t exactly the warm and fuzzy types usually concerned about the welfare of others.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “We have a few who are trained in the healing arts, but none with your talent for warding off death.”

  “So not everyone can…” She pursed her lips, not sure how to phrase her question.

  “Come back from the dead?” He shook his head. “Not even close. Your ability to pull the darkness out of the dying is a skill more suited to reapers, which you probably acquired by repeatedly crossing over the veil and facing death directly. Most phantoms value their own hide too much to risk testing it. We’re more suited to healing injuries, not death.”

  Annora opened, then closed her mouth, her brain sputtering at the influx of information. “Then what can a normal phantom actually do?”

  Edgar cracked a smile, and her breath caught as his severe demeanor softened, reminding her that he wasn’t much older than herself.

  “Don’t ever mistake phantoms for being weak. Each house has different strengths, and its members are deadly in their own right.”

  “House?” The term was foreign to her.

  “The family into which each phantom is born. There are six main houses, and they’re bred specifically for their skills, a way to ensure the strongest survive. The families train their young from birth to master just one ability. It can take decades of dedication to be able to wield even a fraction of the afterworld the way you do so casually.”

  “And what does your family do?” She waited expectantly, struggling not to fidget, not sure if she really wanted to know.

  “Our family is trained in warfare.”

  Air whooshed out of her.

  Warfare…of course.

  “The other families are just as powerful and just as dangerous. One family is able to create weapons that can kill anything, another specializes in illusions, a third can track anything in any realm, the fourth can create potions that not only kill, but also allow others to use dark matter. While warfare might seem like it’s the most dangerous, it’s not. The smallest house and the most deadly is actually darkness.” The last was spoken ominously, his lean body tight with tension.

  Though he said darkness, she heard death. “Reapers?�
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  “Not exactly.” He shook his head. “Hopefully, you’ll never have to meet them, since they’re rare and mostly keep to themselves, not to mention very few actually survive the training. Whispers say they have mastery over dark matter, similar to what you can do, but their abilities are darker. They’re called the wardens of death because it only takes a single brush from their fingertips for them to kill.”

  “And if a phantom is born with no talent?” Annora wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “Every phantom has one ability or another. Only a small percentage have a skill not aligned with their house. Those kids are either traded or betrothed to other houses to forge an alliance.” He gave her a piercing look. “Natural talents such as yours are very rare and very valuable. They’re considered prodigies, and usually born once a century.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Much like you.”

  “No.” Annora recoiled, lifting her hands palms out, as if to ward him off. The last thing she wanted was to be considered valuable.

  Fuck if being considered special wasn’t what got her in trouble with her uncle in the first place.

  Humor brightened his face. “Most phantoms would give anything to have your level of skill.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not like most phantoms.”

  A genuine smile curled his lips, and heat licked at her skin. She leaned forward, hungry for more information about him. But the instant she got close, he cleared his throat and pulled away, running a hand down the front of his shirt in the only nervous gesture he allowed himself. “Unlike other phantoms, your magic is driven by your instincts. You don’t have just one specific talent like most of us. Instead, you have the ability to do whatever you wish. All you have to do is imagine it.”

  Annora ignored the information about her and homed in on what interested her most. “How do normal phantoms access their powers?”

  “With practice and a lot of discipline.” Edgar stretched out his legs, his feet stopping so close the heat of him licked at her skin, and she became hyperaware of his nearness. When he spoke again, her concertation nearly shattered.

  “Witches use spells to focus and access magic. Phantoms use complete control over our minds and bodies, usually forged by months or even years of total isolation.”

  Her head snapped up in shock. “You mean you don’t touch at all?”

  “Of course we do.” His eyebrows lifted, eyes twinkling. “But it can interfere with our training, so we limit physical contact until we’re older, not to mention phantoms don’t trust others to not kill them if they get the chance.”

  She shivered as she imagined his bleak world. She’d lived most of her childhood in isolation and couldn’t imagine going back to that. Touch was like a craving, one she refused to give up. But his explanation revealed so much about him.

  Why he kept his distance from her and the others.

  He was like her and didn’t know how to be normal.

  “So you’re saying that all I have to do to stop my father is get close enough to touch him?” She didn’t think it could be that easy.

  Edgar gave a bark of laughter. “No. The isolation just allows us to link to the afterworld. After decades of practice, the ability has been drilled into us, and we can call on it in seconds to protect us from any kind of attack. I was trained as a warrior to slip in and out of the shadows unseen. I’m nothing more than a soldier, not skilled like you.”

  She didn’t believe it for an instant.

  “Show me.” Annora thrust out her hand in silent demand.

  Edgar clamped down on her arm and dragged her closer, his grip just short of brutal. He got right in her face, his eyes bleeding black. “Never merge your power with anyone! Ever! You both risk either consuming too much power and burning out or…dying.” He released her and launched to his feet, his chair rocking back and forth as he practically leapt away from her.

  “You would never harm me.” She didn’t doubt it for a second.

  “It’s still dangerous,” he grumbled, the steam going out of him.

  “That’s it.” Annora sat up straighter. “You once told me that when a perfect match is found, phantoms can join their powers, making them stronger and faster. Making them unstoppable. Daxion thought he had that with his wife, but his plan backfired.”

  Edgar gave a bark of caustic laughter, stepping through the darkness to appear in front of her a second later. “Merging is giving and taking. There has to be a balance. Daxion had no intention of being an equal to anyone. He trusts no one but himself.”

  Her mind immediately switched directions. “So he always planned to kill her. What he couldn’t have predicted was her becoming a reaper and retaining her powers. Having me kill her won’t just sever their connection like he claimed, will it? Killing her will finally give him the power boost he’s been craving!”

  For being so smart, Annora wanted to smack Edgar for not connecting the dots sooner. She couldn’t believe she didn’t work it out sooner. “Did you know?”

  “Of course not!” Edgar clenched his hands into fists, as if to stop himself from snatching her close. “The connection is supposed to be severed when we die so we don’t drag our spouses into the afterworld with us.”

  Annora growled her frustration, feeling foolish for thinking she could outwit Daxion at his own game. “Maybe that was the plan. Maybe he thought if the connection remained open, he would still be able to control her and in turn, gain control over the reapers.”

  “Fuck.” Edgar blanched, threading his fingers through his hair as he began pacing again. “He wouldn’t take that risk.”

  Annora bit back a groan, deflating in her seat. “Unless he was working with a young, naïve witch who believed she was saving her unborn child. He must have found something in the grimoire to bind himself to his wife even after she died. When he failed to get what he wanted, he had my mother create the coin. That’s why he wanted it so badly…not so he could go into the afterworld, but protect himself from the reapers. It’s the final part of his plan. With the coin, he could kill his wife and take her reaper powers without being harmed.”

  Edgar stopped with his back toward her, his hands on his hips, his head bowed. “Fuck.”

  “If we had kno—”

  Edgar whirled in a cloud of smoke, appearing before her. He snatched her out of the chair and dragged her to her feet, his voice guttural. “Would knowing have changed anything?”

  Annora opened her mouth, then finally closed it, the fight going out of her.

  No, it wouldn’t.

  If she didn’t obey Daxion’s orders, he’d still try to harm her mates.

  “How am I supposed to protect you?” Edgar’s question was hoarse.

  “You don’t. You aren’t supposed to protect me.” Annora rested her hand on his chest, and her heart clenched when he flinched away. She stretched up on her toes, brushing her lips against his, only pulling back when he froze. She wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

  Heart hammering against her ribs, she gave him a small, uncertain small. “We protect each other, that’s how.”

  The tension drained from his shoulders, his focus dropping to her lips, hunger darkening his expression. “Always.”

  What she noticed most was that he didn’t back away.

  She trailed her fingers up his chest, skimmed them over his shoulders, then down along his collar, humming in approval when he shivered.

  Maybe he was like her, craving closeness but afraid of taking a chance.

  Eyes on his, she stretched up and brushed her lips against his once more.

  Something inside him snapped, and he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. He bent forward, dipping his head, his kiss devouring her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her taste.

  One kiss wasn’t enough.

  The edge of the table pressed against the backs of her legs, and she fell against it, clutching him close until he was sprawled on top of her. She wrappe
d her legs around his waist, shivering at the intimate contact.

  His hungry growl sent lust pounding through her.

  He stiffened at the sound, his mouth slowing, and he nibbled at her lips before reluctantly retreating. Her breasts rubbed against his chest with each ragged breath, and he cleared his throat, tugging her up with him as he straightened. His touch lingered on her as he pulled away, then he ran a distracted digit down the front of his shirt.

  She traced her fingertips along her tingling lips, her knees trembling at the banked hunger on his face. Lured closer, she leaned toward him, seeking one more taste…and nearly fell on her face when he hastily took a step back.

  “Not yet.” He held his hand out as if to ward her off, his eyes jumping around the room, a grimace twisting his features. “Not here, not like this. I don’t want to be rushed.” His gaze landed on her once more, and his face softened. “You deserved to be worshiped, not taken in haste in a rented room above a tavern.”

  Annora liked seeing him flustered, liked that she put that look in his eyes, and she smiled at him. “I don’t mind.”

  “No.” He took another step back, then turned toward the door, his back toward her as he spoke. “Why don’t I see if I can find you some more appropriate clothes for the next couple of days?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to answer before he disappeared out the door.

  Annora wandered over to the window, her mood darkening, troubled by how far her father would go to gain power.

  He would never stop, no matter who he destroyed.

  Unless she stopped him.

  A movement below made her jerk back from the window. From behind the curtains, she spied Xander sneaking out the door. Needing the distraction, she opened the window, then hesitated. She glanced once over her shoulder with regret, wanting to go find Edgar to let him know where she was going, but she didn’t have time.

  Oh, he was going to be so piiiissed.

  She ran toward the table, snatched up the blade Logan gave her, and shoved it in the back of her waistband.

  Burying her guilt about sneaking out, she decided to test Edgar’s theory about her abilities, and dropped from the window, calling to the darkness to cushion her landing.