The Phantom, page 19
Yes, Blythe’s hatred. How could he forget, even for a moment?
He fisted his hands. “Let’s get this done.”
Penelope’s grin widened. “My, my, my. In such a hurry. You’d think the gaggle of females weren’t about to offer you a jolly good time.” She turned and glided inside, clearly expecting him to follow.
He did, the thump of his boots echoing off barren walls. No furniture filled the foyer. Or the hallway. Or the rooms they passed. The palace was empty. But then, wraiths had no need of such things. They rarely slept, and when they did, they simply floated around.
“Do you want a tour of the place, or shall we get straight to business?” she asked.
A grunt was his only response.
“My apologies, Astra, but I don’t speak Surly.” She tossed him a glance over her shoulder and sniffed. “Care to try again?”
“I want this done,” he snapped.
“Fine. Just know you’re missing out. The vacant bedrooms are really something special.”
Up a flight of steps they went. Wait. He thought he sensed...firstone. Roux stiffened. If the wraith had firstone in her possession, she owned the means to slay him. Not just slay him but trap him. In the presence of firstone, he couldn’t flash or utilize other abilities.
Not by word or deed did he reveal his concern, however. Instead, he memorized every detail about the castle, logging inconsistencies in the dimensions to examine at a later point. Now that he’d explored within these walls, he could return without anyone’s notice. And he would. Remaining on another plane rendered the firstone useless. Mostly.
He would come tonight, in fact. No more spending his nights with Blythe under the pretense of guarding her. She was well able to care for herself. No more watching her. Wanting her. Imagining she straddled his lap and stroking himself.
Penelope soared past double doors, entering a ballroom with a royal dais and a throne made of—Roux did a double take. The throne was made of a dozen immortals frozen in time after being drained of life, their bodies contorted in different positions to fabricate a chair.
“Ladies,” Penelope announced, “I’m both sad and happy to report tonight’s delivery service is a go.”
He pursed his lips as he surveyed the “ladies.” Twenty-two wraiths waited in a line. Bones and hair in sackcloth; that’s what they were. None had chosen a palatable form like their queen.
Hate wraiths. Before he left this realm, he would find a way to slay each and every spectral here. Had these creatures not appeared above him, bearing Blythe’s image, his harphantom would not be forced to compete in the tournament.
Behind them, twenty-three prehistoric beasts like the one-horned monstrosity who’d pushed Blythe into the arena were chained to a wall. Each animal surveyed him with ravenous, beady eyes.
They’ll get theirs, too.
“He’s in a hurry,” Penelope told her followers, “so there’s no reason to make introductions or politely await your turn.” She clapped, all haughty disdain. “Well? Didn’t you hear me? Go, go, go. Feast!”
There was no time to brace. In seconds, the beings surrounded him, adhering their mouths to some part of his body. Not physically, but spiritually, and that was so much worse. They sucked on him from the inside. The pulling sensation never ended. Cold infiltrated his limbs and torso.
Phantoms did this, too. Which made sense, considering Erebus based the creation of his phantoms off wraiths.
Wraiths had come into being because of a curse. Knowing this, the Dark One used some kind of evil force to similarly curse those he killed, binding their life to his for the rest of eternity, forcing them to obey his every command.
Suction sounds filled Roux’s ears, and pulling sensations worsened. The cold spread, going deeper. He cringed, the urge to fight nearly irresistible. From Blythe’s exquisite kiss to this. From sizzling heat to frigid chill.
Weakness soon invaded. More than he’d expected.
The defenses in his mental prison crumbled. Prisoners rushed free.
“Oh, Astra. I forgot to mention.” All calculation and delight, Penelope floated in front of him. “In your haste to save the harphantom, you neglected to set a limit to how much of you my people can drink during each setting. Therefore, I took the liberty of deciding for you. In case you’re wondering, it’s however much they want. Try not to die.”
He attempted to respond, but he discovered he had no voice. Screams erupted. Thousands upon thousands of screams.
Do not black out. Do not...
19
THE LIGHT
Blythe paced before the crackling hearth, her wings flapping through the slits in her T-shirt, and her mind a mess. The storm had finally let up, but an icy wind continued to bluster inside the bedroom. Candles flickered all around, helping to warm the chamber without the presence of Roux the furnace.
If she’d been home, she might’ve taken Isla shopping or settled in an engaging book about torture techniques. But she wasn’t home and she wasn’t in the mood to read anything but the room—with the Astra in it. Where had he gone? Who was he with? The Phoenix, as Blythe suspected? What was he doing? Thinking? Feeling?
As she strode back and forth, stomping her feet, she scraped her claws over the hearth’s stone frame. A romantic association between the Astra and the Phoenix shouldn’t bother her. Roux’s comings and goings didn’t matter. Dead enemy walking, remember? But it bothered her. It mattered. She’d let him kiss her. They’d almost had sex.
To be perfectly candid, they absolutely, positively would’ve had sex if she hadn’t come to her senses. He’d nearly lowered his zipper, and oh, how she’d hungered for him to do it. No male had ever tempted her more. She’d been consumed by his scent, his heat, his strength. Even his expressions. The usually stoic warrior had displayed everything from shocked wonder to fierce possession. His touch had been eager and firm. Confident despite his lack of experience. Which was another turn-on, dang it!
He reacted to Blythe alone. Yearned for her alone. Or he used to. And now? Had she opened the floodgates of passion for others?
On her next pass, she scraped the stone harder, surprised when the thing didn’t crumble into dust. Part of her resented the return of her good sense. And she shouldn’t! Wrong turns put you in the wrong location at the wrong time, doing your best to put out fires you were never supposed to ignite.
Lifetime consequences for a momentary pleasure? Not a fair bargain on any level. And yet, still she desired the intense blond giant. And this time, she couldn’t blame the siren’s song.
What’s the matter with me? To a certain degree, Blythe had once acted this way with Laban, too, before she’d realized—or rather, accepted—that he was her consort. But Roux wasn’t her consort. He couldn’t be. To her knowledge, no harpy had ever gotten a new fated male. And, if such a thing were possible, which it wasn’t, there was no way the second would be the one who’d murdered the original.
Unless Laban belonged to the harpy and Roux belonged to the phantom?
No. No! All other harpies possessed a dual nature, too, reflecting whatever their father happened to be. Again, they only ever received a single consort. Even if said consort had only appeared in a solo hallucination and had done the unthinkable, telling them to move on and live their best life.
What kind of spouse did that?
Blythe paced faster. Why couldn’t she get herself together? If not for herself, for her child.
Sweet Isla. A whimper slipped free. Blythe stopped, just stopped, as a fresh tide of homesickness rose. What was the little girl doing right this moment? Did she need help with homework? Was she sleeping at night?
Regret joined the toxic assortment of emotions fermenting inside Blythe. Forget teaching the beloved child how to properly handle a foe. Why hadn’t she shown her daughter how to properly love her family?
How could a mother leave her own child without even saying goodbye?
With a shriek, she pounded her fist into the wall. Stone finally cracked, and dust coated the air. Tears seared her eyes. Tears? Ugh! What kind of a harpy cried?
First a bad wife and mother, now a bad harpy. Her chin trembled. Was overseeing a vendetta always this complicated? So far, Blythe had done little to aid her own cause. She gotten herself stuck in an unfamiliar realm, a participant in a death tournament. Oh, yes, and she was kind of owned by a wraith.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her vision, then rubbed the ruby still embedded at the base of her throat. As firmly attached as ever. Not even the slightest wobble.
Why had Penelope ceased feeding from her during today’s battle then? And why hadn’t the queen fed since its end?
An unexpected motion caught Blythe’s attention. Wings fluttering, she spun, ready to defend herself against—Roux! He tottered on his feet only a few feet away.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded, staggered by his deplorable condition. Not just pale but ashen. Shaky. “What happened?”
Clutching his head, he collapsed to his knees.
Stomach churning, she rushed over to crouch beside him. Was the Phoenix responsible? She dies first! “Talk to me, Roux.” She checked his pulse. Thready. “Tell me what I’m dealing with here.”
“Wraiths fed...screams started...won’t stop.” He would have toppled the rest of the way if she hadn’t caught him and eased him to the floor. “Can’t make them stop, can’t make them stop,” he chanted, thrashing.
The wraiths had fed on him? No, no way Penelope’s crew had managed to overpower an Astra in his prime. A male who’d battled countless armies of phantoms for eons. Plus, there were no jewels adhered to his body. Not that Blythe could see, anyway.
Ignoring her own shakiness, she ripped his shirt down the middle. The material fell away, revealing moving alevala. Images jumping from one place to another, again and again, faster than a blink.
Her heart jumped in unison. She scanned him as quickly as possible to avoid getting trapped. Nope. No jewels. Meaning, he hadn’t been overpowered. There were no open wounds, either. The wraiths must have...what? Gotten his permission?
No way. He must have...but he wouldn’t...unless he would. She gasped again. He had given them permission, hadn’t he? He’d let them feed on him. He must have bargained with Miss Murder to save Blythe’s life. No wonder Penelope had stopped feeding during the battle.
A gesture Roux might have made for his Commander. But maybe, possibly, he’d done it for Blythe as well?
She gulped, something akin to tenderness flowing through her. A river newly released from a dam, eroding shores made of pain and grief. Her tremors worsened as she cupped his jawline to lift his head and study his face. His eyes remained closed.
“Flash to the bed, Astra.” The hard floor wasn’t comfortable. Especially for a man of his size, who hadn’t stopped flailing about. “I’ll follow you there, I promise.”
“The screams. Make them stop,” he repeated, as if he didn’t hear her. Maybe he didn’t. He gripped and yanked at hanks of his hair.
Did he speak of the same screams she’d heard when she’d ghosted inside his spirit? If so... She shuddered, remembering the horrifying chorus, and how it had driven her mad in only a matter of seconds.
Not knowing what else to do, she smoothed her fingertips over his brow. His cheeks. “I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Um. She would? There would be no better time to visit Wraith Island, reclaim her firstone dagger, then come back here to hack off his head. Or just hack off his head with a regular blade and discover whether his ability to recover from such a devastating wound was as developed as hers.
No. Absolutely not. He’d taken Laban out in battle. How could Blythe do any less with Roux? Sparing him now had nothing to do with his offer to fuel the wraiths and preserve her strength.
To her surprise, the Astra calmed somewhat as she caressed him. Heart thudding, she continued cooing and stroking, doing her best to disregard the soft, smooth texture of his skin.
“Yes,” she rasped. “I’ll keep you safe. For now.”
When he leaned into her touch, instinctively deepening the contact, a barbed lump grew in her throat. How could this male who’d known nothing but cruelty for the bulk of his life seek more of her? The ruthless harphantom who’d been nothing but, yep, cruel to him.
Whoa. Hold up. Was she vacillating between regret and sympathy for Laban’s killer right now?
Okay. Time to remind herself of Roux’s callous side. So. Screw it. There was no better opportunity to do what was needed than to experience one—or two or twenty—of his past blessing tasks. If she experienced pain while witnessing it, so what? If she died like the shifter, she died. Again, so what? She would come back. This way, at least, she’d know her own reaction to the tattoos.
What had he been forced to do in the past, anyway? To Blythe’s knowledge, none of the other Astra had ever spoken of his former deeds. And Roux himself had been super adamant that she never, ever look at his alevala...
What didn’t he want her to see? And when had she started taking orders from her enemy? Or a maybe enemy.
Maybe?
She huffed out a breath. He was.
Curiosity riding high, Blythe did it. She slid her gaze to his chest. Inhale. Exhale. The pictures continued to jump, shifting too swiftly to lock onto. Hmm. Each of the marks seemed to be a different version of Roux. Even pieces of him. There. His eyes, flickering with sparks of red. There. His lips, opening wide to unleash a bellow. There. His hand, clenching tight.
Rather than chase a single image, she stared hard at the spot just over his heart. Finally! A connection snapped into place when those inked eyes appeared, meeting her gaze. Impact jolted her, air gushing from parted lips.
Her mind blanked, only to recalibrate in seconds, a scene taking shape...
Suddenly, she was lying on a familiar stone altar, her mind nothing but noise. No, no. Not her. Anything she experienced now, she experienced as Roux. But the altar. Wow. It reminded her of the one Roc had built for Taliyah, when he’d intended to sacrifice her.
Roux wasn’t bound, but he wasn’t free, either. He remained motionless.
He wore a loose white shirt and matching pants. Not to mention his customary blank expression. Above him, lavender sunlight shone from an azure sky. Around him, a crowd of—what were those? Shadow people? Or something else entirely? Dark outlines matched the shapes of many of the Astra, even those of Chaos and his attendants.
Eerie, yes, but tainted? No. So how had a memory like this killed an immortal in a matter of seconds, simply because she’d viewed it?
One of the almost-people approached the altar. This one had the shape of Commander Roc. Wait. Was Roux about to suffer the same fate as his leader’s previous brides?
Yep. Sure enough. The silhouette of Roc tore into Roux, shredding his body. Tissue and blood flew in every direction. Through it all, Roux made not a peep. He lost limbs. Organs. Even his head.
So. He could recover from a beheading.
Abruptly, the scene spun into another. As the new one crystalized, she realized she was—no, Roux was standing before a shaded outline of the Astra named Halo...who pinned and shredded him just as Roc had done.
The scene spun again. Again, Roux died at the hands of a shadowy Astra. Then again. And again. It happened over and over, one murder revolving into another. Once the lineup finished, each one repeated, only faster. Same order. Same outcome. Then came another repeat, faster still. It came again and again and again. A never-ending spinning wheel of blood, pain, and death, leaving Blythe dizzy.
Sickness churned in her stomach. Hers, not Roux’s. Or maybe theirs? She felt the burn of it through the haze of memories. Then the screams started. One after another, soon blending into a familiar cacophony of horror. She struggled to keep her thoughts together. A colossal chore, yet somehow she managed it. Kind of. Intelligence came in bursts. The Astra’s blessing task. Had he been forced to relive the tasks completed by his friends? Only, he took the place of their victims?
Did it happen in real life? Or was this some type of mental torture?
Mental torture, she’d bet. Meant to be reminders of his childhood, when he’d been physically tortured by someone else who was supposed to love and care for him.
Poor Roux. How many times had he relived his friends’ blessing tasks? Once? Or an endless cycle until a clock ran out? Either way...
How was this male still able to function? As she’d suspected, he’d known nothing but torment and betrayal throughout his life. How did he not hate the males he considered compatriots and friends? Or did he? Did a part of him resent them for what happened, whether it was real or not?
Blythe attempted to extract herself from the memory, but the spinning wheel held her captive. Roux died again. And again.
No escape? Stuck here?
Panic gripped her, but she fought it, focusing on her goal rather than the failure. Disengage! Abort!
She clawed and kicked, attempting to evade Roux’s stream of chaotic consciousness, but an invisible tether held her in place. With no other options, she wrapped herself in that tether, letting it choke the life out of her...
Blythe came to with a gasp. Her eyelids popped apart, and she sagged to the floor beside her Astra. Or rather, sagged on top of him, resting her head in the crook of his arm. Though she tried to shift positions, she was too weak.
Sweat soaked her. Probably blood, too. Breath sawed in and out of her mouth as if she’d just sprinted across three different galaxies, chased by a posse of her worst fears. Roux had calmed, at least. He wasn’t flailing anymore.
As she lay there, her mind ravaged into oblivion and her body absorbing his heat, her eyelids grew heavy and slowly slid shut. Darkness teased the edges of her mind.
