The Emperor of Evening Stars (The Bargainer Book 3)

by Laura Thalassa

  It’s loving Callie’s heart and mind over her face and body.

  I’ve known for a while now that I’ve been in love with her, but I never acknowledged it, not until now. I didn’t even realize that those three words people throw around so casually were created to explain this deep and unending emotion.

  Dear gods, I love her.

  Chapter 16

  A Crown of Fireflies

  December, 8 years ago

  The winds off the coast of the Isle of Man whip at me and Callie as we stand at the edge of her campus grounds. Beyond the low wall next to us, the land drops off, and the storm-tossed sea crashes against it over and over again.

  Callie glances across the lawn, taking in her peers as they move between Peel Academy’s dormitories and the castle proper.

  “They can’t see us,” I say, stepping in close. I have to mask my presence as a precaution. I run in dangerous circles; I can't have an angry client bearing down on Callie because I was spotted with her. “But it wouldn’t matter anyway, would it?” I ask.

  I’ve seen the way these little assholes treat her. She’s too pretty to blend in, but the students here do a fairly good job pretending she doesn’t exist.

  She takes a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I move in closer.

  “Poor Callie,” I give her a pout. “Always on the outside, always looking in.” I know full well I’m taunting her.

  “Tell me, cherub,” I continue, “how does someone like you end up being an outcast?” For me, it was obvious. I was thought to be a powerless fae; the Otherworld scorns such creatures. But Callie is fun and engaging. I don’t have to be in love with her to know she’s the type of girl who should have a flock of friends.

  “Why are we even talking about me?” she asks, self-consciously slipping a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Because sometimes you fascinate me.”

  … more than sometimes …

  She swallows, casting her gaze back over the lawn. “It’s not them, it’s me.” Biting the inside of her cheek, she kicks at a tuft of grass. “It’s hard pretending to be normal after … you know.”

  I want to tell her that it’s foolish to feel remorse over her stepfather’s death, but perhaps that’s the fae in me. I haven’t lost sleep over killing my own father. Gods know the world is better off without him.

  “I think I have to put myself back together before I make friends,” she continues. “Real friends.”

  That bit of honesty levels me. Why the fuck does the world have to be cruel to her? She shouldn’t have to suffer because some monster hurt her. That’s not how the world should work.

  I tilt her chin up, studying her face. If I could, I’d syphon her pain away. But there are things not even my magic can touch.

  “How about I make you a queen for a night?” I say.

  Before she has a chance to respond, I let my magic loose, coaxing fireflies from the darkness. One by one they fly over my shoulder, heading straight for a very confused Callie.

  The fireflies circle her before landing on her head.

  “I have bugs in my hair,” she states.

  “You have a crown.” I grin and lean against the stone wall.

  You’ll wear a different crown one day …

  One of the fireflies slips from her hair, tumbling down her scarf before making its way beneath her shirt.

  “Oh my God!” Her eyes grow as big as saucers, and it’s all I can do not to laugh.

  “Naughty bugs,” I cluck, “stay away from the pretty human boobs.”

  I scoop the bug up, forcing myself to ignore a slew of inappropriate thoughts when my knuckles brush Callie’s soft skin. I release the firefly a moment later, and together, the two of us watch it bop and dip its way back into her hair.

  Across from me, Callie begins to laugh.

  She’s going to break me. I fell in love with this woman’s darkness, with her pain and vulnerability. That had been enough. But when she laughs—when she laughs, that’s when I realize I’m a ruined man.

  “Des, are you trying to cheer me up?” she says.

  I take Callie’s hand. “Let’s get out of here. You hungry?” I ask. “Dinner’s on me.”

  “Dinner’s on you?” she says. “Now that sounds interesting …”

  Gods’ bones, if I didn’t already love her, I would now.

  “Cherub, I may make a fairy out of you yet.”

  Chapter 17

  A Marked Man

  January, 7 years ago

  Before I even appear in Callie’s room, I know something’s off. Maybe it’s the way her voice wavers when she calls out to me, maybe it’s our ephemeral bond, and maybe it’s the darkness, whispering secrets that aren’t theirs to tell.

  But knowing something’s off and seeing it are two entirely different things.

  Callie sits among a pile of used tissues, her eyes puffy and red.

  … a man held her down …

  … touched her against her will …

  I need to skullfuck someone.

  I cross my arms. “Who do I have to hurt?” This, I’m going to enjoy, I can already tell.

  She shakes her head, her gaze dropping.

  “Give me a name, cherub.” I can’t give her love—yet—but I can give her vengeance.

  She wipes her face, then glances up at me. “He’s an instructor,” she whispers.

  Kill him.

  The need to destroy human flesh is almost physical. I have to tamp it down because I’m doing this all wrong. I’m too much anger, not enough affection. But instinct is driving me to prove to my mate that she’s untouchable because she’s mine.

  I set those drives aside. Later, I promise myself.

  So I force myself to stop fantasizing about flaying some human alive and instead sit next to Callie. I pull her into me and close my eyes.

  She’s right here, in my arms, I tell myself. It helps with the frenzied anger still coiling up inside of me.

  But then she begins to truly unleash her grief, her entire body heaving with her cries, and it’s breaking my cold, fickle heart.

  I will fucking slaughter whoever did this very, very slowly.

  I hold her close, and each second that passes fuels my retribution. Eventually her crying tapers off. She pushes away from me, and only reluctantly do I let her go.

  Her face is a mess of tears, and my stomach clenches at the sight. Frowning, I wipe them away. Feeling this helpless draws on all those old memories of when I was young and life preyed upon me the way it has her.

  My hands slide across the soft skin of her cheeks until I’m cupping her face.

  “Tell me what happened.” I will be your vengeance, cherub.

  She draws in a shaky breath. “His name is Mr. Whitechapel. He—he tried to touch me …”

  Whitechapel. Of all the last names, this asshole had to have a sacrosanct one. The world has a sense of humor.

  The story pours out of her, her voice too calm and her eyes a little distant, a little empty. It’s a frightening expression, like she’s drifting away from me. But once Callie’s finished, that flush of life snaps back into her features, and she begins crying again.

  There is no justice powerful enough to fix what this man did to Callie—just like there’s not enough justice to right her stepfather’s wrongs—though in the end, he came as close as one can to paying.

  I remind myself that this time Callie used her glamour and got away. She bested her instructor. It doesn’t erase the trauma, but it’s something.

  I pull her against me once more, resting my chin on the crown of her head. “Cherub, I’m proud of you using your power like that,” I say.

  I already knew when I first met her, bloody and desperate, that she wouldn’t be some idle victim; she wasn’t then and she isn’t now.

  Beneath me, her body shakes harder.

  “Want to know a secret?” I smooth down her hair. “People like him were born to fear people like us,” I say. I can
sense it even in this moment, when she’s at her lowest; her tragedies are hardening her into something stronger, fiercer, darker.

  “That’s a shitty secret,” she says against my chest.

  I bring my lips to her ear. “It’s the truth. Eventually you’ll understand. And eventually you’ll embrace it.”

  She will. I’m sure it’s hard to see that now, when life seems like it keeps kicking her while she’s down, but one day things will change for Callie, just as they did for me.

  She continues to cry long, hard sobs that shake her entire body. My clothes are stained with her tears.

  I don’t know how much time passes before I decide to move us to Callie’s bed, still holding her close. Fuck my moral compass; I dare anyone to try to pry me away from this girl.

  Softly I begin to hum a lullaby my mother used to sing to me, breathing in my mate’s essence as I do so. I’m here, I’ve got you, I want to say. But that is one line I won’t cross. So I let the melody and my embrace do the talking for me.

  It seems to work. First Callie’s crying tapers off, and then her breathing evens. When I glance down at her next, she’s out cold. Her eyes are still swollen and her cheeks are still blotchy, and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t love her more, which only makes the pain and anger inside me more acute.

  I wipe away a stray tear with my thumb. I have to go. If I don’t, I might do something reckless, like stay the night.

  “One day I won’t have to leave you,” I say softly.

  Gingerly I slide out from under her, and then I do something I’ve never done to another women—I tuck her in.

  Love is … not how I imagined it to be. I never anticipated these little gestures of kindness that she brings out in me. There’s something about them that disturbs me, like I’m losing a bit of my edge.

  But then I remember that there’s a teacher out there who needs to be taught a lesson, and suddenly, my edge is back.

  With one final look at Callie’s sleeping form, I slip out of the room and into the night.

  Time for vengeance.

  January, 7 years ago

  It doesn’t take long to find Mr. Whitechapel. I lurk in the shadows, watching him as he heads out of a local pub.

  Callie’s instructor is tall and lanky, his thin brown hair mostly absent from the top of his head. He has a trustworthy look about him—non-threatening. It probably has something to do with his mousy features. Even his magic tastes unassuming and subservient.

  His shoes tap against the rain-slicked pavement as he walks down the street, his hands in his pockets. He has no idea the night stalks him.

  Halfway down the road he begins to whistle like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The fucker scarred my mate earlier today and he has the gall to whistle.

  That’s the straw that breaks me.

  I manifest in front of him, darkness billowing about me like smoke. He startles, taking a step back. It takes him a second to recover.

  “Whoa there,” he says, “you scared me.”

  I stride towards him, making no move to placate his fears, the darkness rushing forward with me. It could consume him in seconds, but that would be too easy an end.

  His eyes widen.

  Yes, now he realizes that I’m no benign stranger.

  He raises his hands. “My wallet is in my back left pocket. Take it, it’s yours.”

  I don’t stop stalking towards him. If I gave two fucks about a wallet, it would’ve disappeared long before now.

  When he realizes that he can’t just talk it out, he begins to back up.

  But it’s too late.

  I grab him by the throat and shove him against a nearby wall.

  “What do you want?” he asks, the first note of fear entering his voice.

  To make you bleed.

  “Do you believe you’re a good person?” I ask.

  He chokes rather than answering.

  I squeeze his throat tighter, my magic leaking out of me, forcing him to give up the truth even though he barely has air to do so.

  “Y—yes, I guess.”

  I feel my upper lip tick. “Wrong answer.”

  I release him, letting his body drop to the wet concrete. He sucks in several raspy breaths, then scrambles back, trying to get his feet under him. He doesn’t quite manage it; his shaky feet keep folding.

  I prowl after him, my heavy boots clinking against the concrete.

  “Seriously, what do you want?” he says, his voice high and thin.

  “Two words: Callypso. Lillis.”

  January, 7 years ago

  “For the thousandth time, I didn’t do anything to her!”

  Mr. Whitechapel and I are in an abandoned building in Balti, Moldova. The ground is littered with old plastic wrappers, a few used condoms, and some broken beer bottles. The windows have long since been boarded up, and the only light that trickles in comes from a section of the roof that’s caved in. The place smells like urine, vermin, and mildew. Oh, and blood. It’s beginning to smell like blood.

  Other than a little teenage revelry, this is a forgotten building in the poor section of a city and country most people are not even aware exists. Whitechapel might as well be invisible.

  I circle Callie’s teacher. “What should I do next? Take a finger or break another bone?”

  The man begins to openly weep.

  A few of his toes I’ve already taken. I’m considering threading a string through them and making them into a necklace. Perhaps I’ll give it to Callie …

  … too gruesome …

  No one asked you. I swear the shadows only freely talk when I don’t want to listen to them.

  “Please,” Whitechapel weeps.

  I’d like to say this is painful to watch. I’d like to say that there’s something soft in me that shies away from this, but then I wouldn’t be the Night King.

  I crouch in front of the teacher. “Are you ready to tell me why you targeted Callypso Lillis?”

  He’s been denying any wrongdoing up until now.

  He takes a few deep breaths. “She liked me.” His voice quavers. “She wanted to get to know me better.”

  My anger roils within me. She liked me.

  I pull my knife out and flip it in my hand, then grab for his leg. His foot is already bloody.

  “I think I should take two toes for that lie,” I say, my voice even.

  “Wait—wait!”

  He begins to scream. It only gets louder as I make good on my threat.

  He cries for a long time after that, and I patiently wait it out.

  “The truth,” I demand once I feel he’s ready to talk again. This time I force my magic on him.

  He chokes for several seconds, fighting whatever answer he’s about to say. Placidly, I watch him struggle.

  “She was a loner,” he finally says. “I’m not good with women, and I—she … I’m not a bad guy,” he pleads. “She would’ve liked it. She did want me.”

  I almost lose it then. Only my long-practiced control stops me from smashing his face in over and over again until it’s nothing more than meaty pulp.

  His body slumps as my magic leaves him.

  “How many others?” I ask, steadying my rage.

  Predators don’t just wake up one day with these urges. They grow and build over time.

  He looks at me dazedly, sweat dotting his face.

  I force my magic on him. “How. Many.”

  He begins to cry again. “I don’t know …”

  I move my knife to one of his fingers. “Want me to jog your memory?”

  “No—no!” He sucks in several thin breaths. “S-seven. Seven others.”

  I consider castrating him there and then. Seven victims. This is no temporary slip of judgment. This man is a serial rapist. And all his victims, what about them? They have to carry the emotional scars for their entire lives, all so that this fuckface could get his sick jollies on.

  Coldly, I break his femur. While he’s still screaming, I crush his kneeca
p.

  His shrieks are the sweetest music.

  I’m sure Whitechapel studied his victims, I’m sure he identified those individuals who didn’t have much family, whose reputations were tarnished, those who were social outcasts.

  I’m sure he never imagined that one of his victims would have a nightmare like me to contend with.

  “Names,” I demand.

  He lists all seven of them to me. Seven women with dreams and interests. Seven women who were just trying to make it through the hellhole that mortal high school can be.

  I circle him, wanting to take him back to the Otherworld with me. There are creatures there that can continue to make him pay. But a bigger part of me wants Callie to know what happened to him.

  “You made a mistake going after Callypso Lillis. And you made a mistake going after those other girls, and you’re going to pay for it for the rest of your life, starting now.”

  He whimpers.

  “You’re going to sustain eight more injuries, one for each girl. I’m a gentleman, so for each one I’ll let you choose whether you’d rather have a bone broken or an appendage sawed off.”

  The next hour is a blur of screams and injuries. By the time I’m done delivering the wounds, Whitechapel’s breathing is shallow and his eyelids are drooping. There’s only so much pain a human can endure, and he’s getting close to his upper limit for the day.

  I wipe off my knife and sheath it.

  “You do realize you’re at a fork in the road,” I tell him. “You have two options: I can either subject you to more of this, or you can turn yourself in—you can confess, repent, and live your life as the law deems fit, or you can live your life as I deem it fit. I can already tell you which option is better for you.”

  So can Whitechapel.

  “I’ll turn myself in,” he whispers.

  My eyes move over him. “I’m going to magically bind you to your word. If you break it—hell, if you do anything that displeases me—I’ll know.”

  I don’t need to elaborate on that threat. The thickening smell of ammonia lets me know just what Whitechapel thinks of it.

  I straighten.