by Amy Sumida
I slid my finger along the inner edge of the drawer. What I'd thought was drawer liner was actually a manila folder. I used a fingernail to lift it up and pull it out. It was thicker than I expected and as soon as I got it free, papers and photos spilled out across the floor.
Photos of me.
I gaped down at the collage of myself. I smiled up at Cerberus in one. I glowered at Jago in another. My hand reached out beseechingly toward Tessa's cell as Jago escorted me by. Every day I'd been there had been chronicled. But that first picture—the one of Cer and me—that hadn't been taken in the arena.
I got down on the floor and pushed the pictures around. There were several that had been taken before Cerberus and I were captured. There were even pictures of me with my lovers. I ran a fingertip gently over Banning's face; stroking his cheek adoringly. My breath caught. He was so damn handsome. Those eyes like green fire. That fucking jawline. And there was Torin looking stern; his sapphire stare spearing out at the camera as if he knew it was there. Over there was Gage; hazel eyes laughing as he stared down at me. Then Declan; a slash of auburn hair the color of dried blood falling across my cheek as he kissed me. And finally, Darc; looking larger than life; a wet dream come true.
I wanted to snatch all of those pictures up and take them back to my room with me. Then sit there and hold them to my chest like a heartbroken teenager. I missed them desperately. But instead of giving in to the urge, I took a deep breath and tried to work this out. Why did Slate have pictures of me from before he knew me? Who took the pictures? More importantly; who gave them to him?
I pushed the photos into a pile and then gathered the papers. It was information on me; my name, date of birth, my parents, where I lived in Hawaii. I gaped at my life laid out in black and white. My friends were listed there and even some of the jobs I'd done for Cerberus. Not a lot of them—Cer was too good for that info to get out—but enough that I was impressed. Impressed and confused.
This was good investigative work but there were big chunks missing. Nothing was mentioned about the Witch Relic. It was noted that I was Queen of Kyanite and that the stone had increased my spellsinging abilities, but nothing about how I had won my crown. And nothing about Darc and I; who we really were.
Darcraxis was noted as a “significant other” but not as a god. No mention was made of Faenestra or the things I'd done as her. This report, for all of its detail in some areas, was seriously lacking in others. They'd left out the worst bits. Why? On purpose or an accident? I couldn't understand how they could find all this other stuff and not everything else.
Another photograph caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the pile. It was just me; a close-up of my face. And it wasn't a good one. I looked broken; eyes haunted and nose red from crying. I recognized the wall behind my head. It was my old cell; the one I had stayed in when I'd first arrived.
I gasped in shock. I knew exactly when that picture had been taken. It was the night I'd first had dinner with Slate. The night I'd sat in my cell and accepted what I had been becoming before Faenestra showed up and what I could still become if I wasn't careful. That was a rough evening and it was hard to look at the evidence of it. But all of that faded away when I saw what lay on the surface of the glossy photo; smudges. Fingerprints nearly covered the picture; long streaks of them over my face and full prints at the sides.
My stomach clenched and my heart raced. An image of Slate—laying in bed, stroking my picture—flashed in my mind. Had my pain touched him when my words couldn't? Had he seen the truth; that I was fighting the monster inside me? Did he feel closer to me because of it? Pity me? Pine for me? Surely not. That man did not pine over women. Maybe he had simply enjoyed my suffering. There was no way Slate could actually feel something for me...
I traced the tracks of his fingers; my hand stroking my own cheek. A glance over at Banning's picture—the one I'd touched so adoringly—showed similar smudges. Sweet stones; this had to be a spell.
It didn't matter. None of this mattered. Five days and I'd be free; of the Zone and its lord. Why was that thought so unsettling?
I heard something; the creak of a door. I bolted up; gathering the pictures and papers and shoving them back in their folder. Then I tucked it beneath the random drawer detritus. I slid the drawer closed, turned off the lamp, and sprang across the room on my toes. A few more steps and I was in my bedroom. I shut the door just as I heard Slate come down the hallway. One leap and I was on the bed; laying across it as if I'd been taking a nap.
A soft knock came at the door, and then Slate opened it. I sighed and rolled over. That's right; the academy award goes to Elaria Tanager. We stared at each other. Something was different about him.
“What is it?” I sat up.
“I'll tell you what it isn't.” He moved into the room and immediately filled it with his frustration and in-your-face masculinity. “It's not the Aaruns, nor is it either of the two who I thought it might be.”
“What isn't?” I asked in confusion. What the hell? It didn't sound like he was talking about the monster. What else was there for him to investigate? I had a flash of him covering my body with his as shots rang out. Oh. Yeah; that probably wasn't something he thought himself capable of. He had protected me even though my immortality was stronger than his. It had been an unnecessary risk, and Slate didn't take those. “Are you talking about the magic between us?”
“Of course, I am. The magic between us,” Slate mimicked as he tossed himself into a chair.
I realized then that my room was a feminine version of his; poster bed, dresser, side table, and chair. But the chair was upholstered in dusty rose velvet instead of sexy leather and the furniture had a lighter feel. Slate managed to look powerful even against the girly color. Powerful and annoyed. He set his elbow on the armrest and his chin on his fist; glaring into the air before him.
I laughed. His gaze shot to mine.
“This really fucks you up,” I observed. “Caring about a woman.”
“I care about people,” he snapped. “I love my brothers. I loved our parents.”
Loved; past tense. Okay, that answers that question.
“And women?” I asked. “Have you ever loved a woman? Someone you weren't related to?”
“I've already told you that I've never felt anything like this,” he sounded petulant. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
“We were talking about the magic, not emotions,” I reminded him. “You've never loved a woman? How about a man?”
Slate grimaced at me, and I laughed again.
“You never know.” I shrugged. “I don't judge. Love is love.”
“Oh, please. You heard me with those women that... day...” Slate trailed off when he noticed my blush. He cleared his throat. “I think you know I'm straight.”
“What about friends? Do you have friends you love?”
“Why are you pestering me about love?” Slate stood up abruptly. “It's a weakness; something for others to use against you. You say that Rooster Spell gave you and your men strength? Well, that's the only strength you'll get from loving someone and it took magic to make it happen. Now that it's dead, you're just a liability to each other.”
“Wow,” I whispered. “You have loved someone, and they fucked you over. Royally. Or were they used against you?”
“Don't confuse me with fiction. I'm not a hero in a movie; the hard man with a soft heart beneath it all.” Slate smirked at me. “Some men are just born smarter than others. I don't need nor want that kind of love. I've never felt and don't wish to. I'm perfectly happy as I am.”
“Ending the night with a meaningless fuck?” I asked sweetly.
“That was an act for Binx.”
“Why don't you trust him?”
“Excuse me?” Slate blinked; taken aback by the twist in the conversation.
“You told Aaro about the magic but not Binx,” I pointed out. “Why not?”
“Binx is a battering ram.” Slate rolled his eyes. “He'd run around the
Zone beating on anyone who's ever looked at me wrong until he either got to the truth or I stopped him. He'd be a hindrance, not a help.”
“Fair enough.” Yeah; that went with my impression of him. “You know; there's a very simple solution to this.”
Slate looked at me askance.
“Let me go.” I waved a hand at the collar. “Take this thing off and let me walk away. You won't have to worry about unwanted feelings anymore. I won't have to worry about being assassinated. Out of sight, out of mind.”
Slate went from calm to chaos in three seconds flat. He whirled up and over me; sending us both falling back onto the bed. His breath struck my face with hot slaps as he covered me; hands fisted to either side of my head, heavy legs pinning mine down.
“You're not going anywhere, Spellsinger,” he growled. “Not until we figure this out. Maybe not ever.” He looked down at my cleavage; his chest had pushed it up toward my chin. The look wasn't predatory, it was possessive. “You're my property; caught fair and square.”
I glared at him and started to speak, but he cut me off.
“What?” Slate smirked. “Are you going to tell me how unfair it is?”
“No; I know better than most how unfair life is,” I said tightly. “I was going to say that you don't have what it takes to hold onto me forever.”
Slate laughed; low and wicked. “If there's any man who does; it's me.”
I saw that photograph again; the lines made by adoring hands smeared over it. I was so fucked.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Later that night, I dreamed of the men I loved. They all stood around me; smiling. They held each other's hands in an unbreakable circle around me. Protecting me. Loving me. Nothing would get past them. I spun slowly; letting my heart overflow with my love for them.
Then I froze.
Slate was there; clasping hands with Torin and Darc. I gaped at him.
“You don't belong here.”
“Don't I?” Slate asked with his twisted smile. “I chose you, and you chose me.”
“No; I didn't!” I snapped. “I don't even like you; you're an arrogant dick.”
“I have my reasons.” Slate's eyes went soft; the color of antique silver. “Look deeper, sweetheart.”
“I don't want to look deeper!”
Then I appeared between Slate and me. Yes; I did. Another me stood before me; smirking at me. That was one too many mes in the room.
“You already have,” I said to myself. “You feel him; you know him. He's a diamond covered in dirt; waiting to be polished and cut. There's beauty inside him; sparkling magic within his heart. A primal being whose loyalty, once given, will never falter. He will make us stronger. He's just what we need for the battles to come.”
“I have more than enough love,” I argued. “More than enough strength for any battle.”
“More than enough?” The other me laughed. “You are an immortal. What is enough for us? We can never be powerful enough, nor can we love enough.”
“My lovers will argue that they are enough.”
“No; they won't.” She smirked at me. “Not after they are made to understand.”
“You don't know shit, fake-me!” I slapped her.
She laughed harder.
“It's too late.” She chortled. All the men laughed with her. “You're already his.”
I woke up in a tangle of sheets and a cold sweat. My heart was racing as if I'd run for miles. I breathed deeply and slowly to calm it.
Look deeper, sweetheart. The words echoed inside me. You're already his.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I spent the day fuming. I felt powerless and frustrated; two things that pissed me off to no end. Slate's childish back and forth treatment was taking its toll. It didn't matter that I was treating him the same way. I had reasons to deny what I felt. What I was starting to feel, I mean. Five reasons. He had no one. No reasons besides being an asshole.
Slate had all this pent-up passion inside him and would only release it with women he didn't care about. I didn't believe for one second that there was something deeper worth digging for; that he was a diamond in the dirt. Fuck that; he was a dick in the dirt. He was a dick and a dictator; a dick-tator. He ran his world with a hot head and a cold heart. He demanded and controlled and dominated but never let anyone close enough to see what was beneath all that. I was tired of getting glimpses; he needed to keep that shit to himself and leave me the fuck out of his neurosis.
And I was going to make that clear to him in the only way I could.
I put on black leather; skintight pants and a corset top that displayed my breasts dangerously. Just another weapon in my arsenal. Over the top of the corset, I slipped on a ragged chainmail tank; links draping around my hips. My hair was pulled into a severe ponytail; straightened into a blade down my back. I looked deadly, and I felt it too.
Slate kept shooting sideways glances at me all the way to the club, but I kept my gaze fixed ahead; out the window. He didn't say anything until we arrived and then it was his usual. I was to wait upstairs, have my dinner, and then go backstage to go over things with Eli. He didn't escort me back. He seemed to always know where I was, and he also knew that I wasn't going anywhere. The prick.
When I finally got onstage, I was ready to rumble. Locked and loaded with lyrics and venom even if I didn't have magic to back them. I had fury to back them and that would be more than enough. I also had a list of songs specially geared toward telling Slate off. Yes; I realized that this was getting obsessive, but the point of my performance that night was to—once again—show Slate exactly where I stood. Up there, I could get it all out before he stopped me with his scathing comments. It was cathartic.
I started subtle, with “Black Sea” by Natasha Blume. At first, the message was hazy. Was it a love song? Could be. Its sexy, rolling beats grabbed me by the hips and rocked me gently. Then I was undulating to words that become more combative than romantic. Commands. Imprisonment. Fire. This was intimate warfare. An invitation to drown in a dark sea; burn in an inferno of rage and lust. Every emotion, every sensation was the same; they all blended together. Rage, lust, pain, pleasure, and even love. There was no difference when you sank that deep.
To anyone else, it looked as if Slate were too busy working to notice what I sang. But I saw his shoulders tighten; the flash of silver when he glanced at me. Quick, like a gunshot. He barked out orders and slashed his hands through the air; trying to block me out. But he couldn't ignore me.
And this was just the start.
Next, came my battle cry; “American Woman” by Muddy Magnolias. This was as clear as it could get. I'm not going to take your shit. I'm not a fucking doormat, asshole. Slate could bark and bite all he wanted, but when it came down to it; I was more woman than he could handle. I was a chained beast just waiting for him to slip up. One thin piece of metal was holding me back. Without it, the Quarry would resemble its name. I'd fucking bring it crashing down around his smug face.
There it was; that smirk. Slate had finally turned to face me. He couldn't find anything else to distract him; everyone was focused on me and the stir my music was causing. Every woman in the place was shouting and pumping her fists into the air. The female power rising around me was breathtaking. Men roamed through the inflamed women; admiring as they kept their distance. No one wanted to mess with a roomful of Beneather ladies getting their fierce on.
Slate glanced around the club and then back at me. Finally, he gave up all pretense and returned to his lookout. He set a chair before the window, propped his feet on the bench beneath it, and sipped a glass of golden liquid. He looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying the show.
Oh, just you wait, Devon.
It went on and on; slap after lyrical slap. All Slate could do was listen. He took it well, I have to admit. His smirk disappeared after the crowd roared for my rendition of Lily Allen's “Hard Out Here,” and he actually chuckled. But his amusement faded when I reached the end of my set and slowed it
all down with Bishop Brigg's “Dead Man's Arms.”
Maybe I went too personal with that one. If my other songs had been slaps in Slate's face, this one was a punch. The melody was macabre; a slow, twisted grind of bones and brutality. I sneered at his empty heart; called him a coward for locking it away and leaving it to grow cold. Denied that he could possibly feel anything for me. And then came the greatest insult of all; I told him that the dead had more love to offer than he did.
Slate's eyes burned, but not with passion. I started to shiver. He started to twitch. I accused him of being heartless; that useless organ transformed into something black and bloodless. His eyes narrowed. I swayed across the stage; stealing sideways glances at him before belting out the accusation over and over. The crowd began to look back at Slate; the exact reaction that I was going for. The Zone Lord had started this whole charade to protect his pride. Well, screw that. I was done being his perfect actress. Let's lay this shit out for everyone to see. Deal with it, fucker, or let me go!