Syfoner: (A Dark Bully Romance) (Gods and Monsters Book 4)

by Klarissa King

  Syfoner

  Book 4 of Gods and Monsters.

  Copyright © 2019 by Klarissa King

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission—this includes scanning and/or unauthorised distribution—except in case of brief quotations used in reviews and/or academic articles, in which case quotations are permitted.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Names, characters, incidents, and places are all products of the author’s imagination.

  Imprint: Independently published.

  GLOSSARY

  SUMMARY

  CONTENT WARNINGS

  SYFONER

  Gods and Monsters

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  GLOSSARY

  Malis—A malevolent God.

  Beniyn—A benevolent God.

  Aniel—A hand-crafted ‘offspring’ of one God.

  Avksy—An abomination.

  Vilas—A mortal

  Balneum—Brothel and gambling den.

  Chevki—A cheap alcoholic spirit

  Scocie—Land of the Gods.

  Capital—Scocie’s City

  Zwayk—A Farther Isle

  Commos—Isles of the Common Vilas.

  SUMMARY

  Valissa's death toll keeps climbing and her sanity unwinding.

  After she uncovers the true reason that Prince Poison keeps her like a caged bird, and she uncovers his terrible secret, Valissa faces her greatest and deadliest challenge yet. Betray her closest friend, Ava, who is lost into the arms of a devil or stay by the Prince's side.

  Problem is, Valissa doesn't sacrifice herself for anyone, especially when escape comes in the tempting package of Damianos, her mysterious night-time visitor.

  Valissa is on her own, but that doesn't mean she won't tear everything down on her way to freedom.

  The Prince made a mistake in training her up to withstand his poison. Now, Valissa is stronger than ever ... as strong as a God.

  What is worse than living as a pet of a God?

  Becoming his enemy...

  CONTENT WARNINGS

  Gods and Monsters is a 6-book series, with each book ranging from 20k to 50k words.

  The series itself is inspired by a range of gods from various ancient cultures.

  Prominent themes throughout the series include violence, kidnapping, imprisonment, toxic relationships and abuse. There will be some erotic scenes throughout the series and torture scenes also.

  This is a dark ‘romance’ with all the bells and whistles that come with the genre.

  Please bear these themes and the episodic nature of the series in mind.

  SYFONER

  †

  GODS AND MONSTERS

  BOOK 4

  Gods and Monsters

  Our creators make no secret of why they created us: For entertainment. Fun.

  What fun is to them, torture is to us. But we worship them, because the alternative is far worse. They are our Gods, our monsters, our masters. We will never be equals in their cold, distant hearts.

  All we can do with our pitiful lives is to choose a God to worship from afar, and pray we never meet our makers, for there is no worse fate than to catch the eye of a God.

  It’s never a story with a happy ending. So in this world, we hide from the ones we worship. Because our worship is fear.

  In the world of Gods and Monsters, we are mortals just trying to survive.

  1

  Living the dull parts of my life on Zwayk made me as tough as iron against damp coldness.

  Always on that isle, I dealt with winds so enraged that one time a window in the cabin cracked, and I lived in a constant dewy air. Never would my hairstyles last longer than five minutes before the seawater in the air attacked it and turned every strand into a frizzy mess, and forget ever wearing bone-dry clothes.

  Impossible dreams.

  Until I came here, to Scocie, where it was so dry that the heat felt like the crisp kind that came from controlled fires.

  Now, that was taken away from me along with everything else I'd come to love.

  In the wet dungeons, there were no breakfasts piled high with new, tasty meats and filling drinks made of puréed fruits that fuelled me throughout the days. No feathery pillows or cloud-like blankets that moulded to my shape.

  Luxuries lost and mourned.

  I was left with only the cold and the miserable dampness that I'd known my whole life. Oh, and pruned fingertips that were stained black.

  At first I thought the stains were smudges of ink from the letter I’d found under the blanket, but after three days of rubbing the black spots, a vague memory sprouted in my mind. Poison. Traces of the Prince’s poison were blotted along my fingertips, not as remains but as reminders.

  Need more. Need more now.

  How much longer I could last without the familiar bitter honey of his poison, I didn’t know. I was already suffering withdrawals.

  Three days of a heavy pulse in my skull, dizzying waves that crashed over me and forced me to retch into the metal bucket, and a constant fatigue that kept me bound to the scruffy blanket in the corner.

  Faintly, I was aware of a young man’s voice grumbling through the dungeons. His voice was rough and throaty, telling of how little water we’d been given since our imprisonments.

  He was my only companion down here, and I didn’t so much as know his name.

  Mind, he only joined me in the cells two days ago.

  He talked sometimes.

  This morning, he was chattier than usual, and talked about his God, Mistress Mad.

  “—gifted me a blue silk cravat,” he rambled on. “Not a ribbon, but far from jewels. It’s too easy for a God to give jewels to their vilas. Most of the time, it’s the aniels who pick out the gifts on behalf of the Gods. But a cravat? That means something, don’t you think?”

  Wearing the sweats of withdrawal, I huddled against the mossy wall beneath the barred window where a breeze invaded from. I studied my bruised fingertips under the flickering light of the sparse candles bolted to the stone walls.

  “Like I said, it’s no ribbon.” His voice deflated. “Perhaps I read too much into it—”

  I cut him off. “Why did she put you in here?”

  I was only mildly curious, and that was since he gushed about her so feverishly for a man whose only thoughts should be when his next meal would come, if it ever did.

  I heard him snort in answer, but then the choked sound suddenly turned into a body-jutting cough that hacked through the cells and bounced off the slimy walls.

  I cringed against the wall, desperate to avoid whatever fever he might carry.

  “Who knows,” he eventually said, catching his wheezy breath. “I could have looked at her the wrong way,” he went on. “I might have looked at a woman, or blinked when I should have smiled. I don’t know—I just woke up to one of her aniels dragging me out of bed and, well, here I am.”

  I picked at an ant whose corpse remained from the other day when I’d squished it. “She sounds delightful.”

  His response was a stretched and still silence that lasted long enough for me to look over my shoulder and squint through the dusty light in the dungeons. He was at le
ast five cells away from me, too far away to easily spot him among the shadows clinging to the dungeons.

  “What did you do?” He cracked the silence with his accusing tone. “It must have been something big to land you in here. Everyone knows the Prince wore your ribbon.”

  “Wasn’t my ribbon.”

  I wiped the ant’s remains on the hem of my filthy skirt. Days spent in the bowels of the palace had done little to preserve the sparkle of my gown.

  “The Prince wore a ribbon to match my dress,” I muttered, “but he didn’t wear my ribbon because I didn’t have one to give.”

  I doubted I would have given him a ribbon if I’d had one of my own to begin with. Not then, and especially not now. The only thing I wanted to give the Prince was a broken neck.

  “Stars and moons,” he said dismissively. I thought I saw his hand flourish through the darkness, as if waving away my words. “What’s the difference? He wore a ribbon to match you—so he wore your ribbon.”

  “If you like.” I was so tired and hungry and flooded with cravings that I couldn’t be bothered arguing with a stranger over ribbons.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I added quietly. But voices carried far in this bare chamber. “He caught me climbing into my room through the window. That’s why I’m in here.”

  The silence that followed with wrought with tension.

  I swallowed back air thicker than doughy bread and turned my back to the wall. I slumped against it, feeling the chill creep into my spine, and watched the shadowy darkness through the bars.

  Vaguely, I could see his slender silhouette shift around to face me. His hands gripped onto the cold bars.

  “Why were you climbing into your room?” Disbelief clung to him, but beneath the shrill tone he wore, I sensed traces of outrage. “You didn’t sneak out, did you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. During the festival. The Prince was in my bedchamber when I got back. Bad timing for a visit.”

  “And he didn’t kill you?”

  I shot his silhouette a scathing look.

  “Obviously not, since I’m talking to you right now.” My voice was searing. “Mistress Mad didn’t kill you, did she?”

  He barked a disbelieving sound. “She would if I tried to creep around the palace or sneak behind her back. I’m in here for something small compared to what you did.” His hands slipped away from the cell and his shadow shook its head. “I’ve seen favourites be slaughtered for less.”

  He paused for a few flickers of candle-flames, then added as an afterthought, “There are too many problems with a God’s affections. But one always stood out to me.”

  I raised my brow. “And that is?”

  “No matter what we are, it always ends in death.”

  A stony look settled on my grimy face. “We’re not dead yet.”

  “Aren’t we?” he whispered.

  I could feel the haunting silence crawl over me like thousands of spiders in the dark.

  I shuddered and drew my knees up to my chest.

  I knew what he meant. Our fates felt undecided down here, but really—what came after? Death sentences. Mistrust. Even if I was released from this cell, it would be into the suspicious gaze of the Prince. If I didn’t die today or tomorrow, I would soon.

  “My fate won’t be the same as yours,” I argued, but I wasn’t sure who I was arguing with—him or myself. “You’re a vilas.”

  You’re less important. Insignificant.

  You aren’t worthy.

  But I am.

  He was unfazed. “Never forget that while you might not be a true vilas, you’re not one of them. Prince Poison won’t forget that.”

  So strikingly similar to the words I’d heard before, from all over, even in the way aniels looked at me. As if they all knew what I couldn’t accept.

  I’ll never belong.

  2

  The vilas fell silent not long after we ate.

  It was a surprisingly large meal for our time in the dungeons: a rock-hard lump of bread that I suspected had been left out all night and day before being tossed onto our grimy tin plates, cold soup that had grown a layer of wrinkly skin over its top, and a half-glass of water.

  Really, the glass itself was a half. It was cut in jagged lines over the rim to make it all the more uncomfortable to drink from, and it caused too many spills down our already damp clothes.

  I lost more water to my ballgown than I actually managed to drink.

  And I’m the monster?

  Please.

  I waited for two moments to come. For the aniel guard to take away our dishes, and for the other prisoner to be still and silent for longer than an hour. Only when those two assurances came did I finally peel back the blanket and slip out my small bundles of things.

  I tucked the phial of blood back into my cleavage for safe-keeping, then lifted Phantom’s portrait from the slimy floor. It made a horrid peeling sound and I was careful to only touch the corners as I studied it.

  Damianos’ face made my heart flip.

  A dreadful feeling brewed in my gut, like moths were captives inside of me and trying to break free. It was a truly awful feeling.

  Even though the painting was clearly old in its fading colours, I saw Damianos. Not Phantom, not the banished God who was so loathed by the others. I saw the smirking, handsome and gut-twisting man who snuck into my bedchamber at night, teased me, and stole kisses from my cheek under black willow trees.

  I saw all of that in his eyes, so blue that I ran my fingertips over the painting, half-expecting to feel the rough cut of sea-diamonds.

  In the delicate brushstrokes, the strength of his chin and the dimples on his cheeks were so exact that it looked as though he was forever clenching his jaw. Something that echoed into reality.

  My stained fingertips dragged up the ridges of the paint texture to the slight curls of his pitch-black hair. Even in the image, it looked lustrous, and I had the sudden urge to run my fingers through his hair in real life.

  With a quiet sigh, I set the painting aside then reached for the parchments.

  I unfurled one of the scrolls.

  In three days, I’d only managed to read snippets of the scrolls. The lights from the candles dimmed too often, and I had to be sure of the guards’ schedules so I wouldn’t be caught with items that would land me on the executioner’s block.

  The candle-flames closest to my cell were at the right brightness that I could stay on the blankets and read just fine. But my reading skills weren’t all that great, so it took me a while to make my way through the scrolls.

  They read like stiff skriptas rather than the notes I’d expected. These, I realised, were written by Moskas, whose sole purpose was to preserve the words of the Gods, the stories of the Gods, and send out the messages of the Gods to the vilas who lived in their world.

  Only fragments of these scrolls survived.

  Tears and burn marks ruined the thick beige paper in too many spots. Some pieces even had horrible words written over them, words much worse than avsky.

  Still, I read what I could.

  It started midway through a striking sentence that reminded me so much of myself.

  ‘…an abomination among Gods.

  Not a First God, not a Second God, a mockery of them both.

  Phantom remains the only God to date born of Godly flesh and human essence. The product of a most despraved union—God and vilas.

  This strain of God has never repeated since.

  Divine laws prevent such unions from procreation. Before Phantom’s birth, procreation between God and vilas was presumed impossible.

  Many Moskas and scholars believe that, due to the mother of Phantom possessing God essence with a divine connection to nature, his creation was not only a fluke. It was a mistake never to be repeated by any other God, given that no other God has the ability to create life within their bodies…’

  For a while, I was still and reread the fragmented essay.

  Ava’s voice whispered in my mind, a
memory refusing to stay buried.

  ‘Gods don’t bleed…’

  And neither did I.

  Gods couldn’t cause pregnancy or be pregnant.

  Neither could I. My body simply didn’t work that way. And according to this, only one God could do what no other could.

  ‘Divine connection to nature...’

  That could mean Gaia, the First God of nature and life, or Aphrodite, the Second God of birth and love, was his mother.

  Aphrodite was a small note in the skriptas, and since I knew so little about the divine words, I only recalled two things about her. She was the first of the Second Gods to be created by the world, and she was most prayed to for a safe journey by pregnant women.

  Snubbing the heavy pull on my heart, I traded the scroll for the next on the pile.

  After I smoothed out its creases and wrinkles, I angled the parchment towards the candle whose flame was beginning to fade.

  I squinted at the blurry words.

  Fuelled by his vilas ancestry, Phantom craved greatness through his murderous ambition.

  As a God of the lowest possible creation, Phantom felt starved of equality in the eyes of the Gods surrounding him. He thought himself magnificent, a miracle born of a God and a vilas, but was one of few who saw himself this way.

  While Phantom’s essence was indisputably grand—some going as far as to claim his power was parallel to that of a First God—his inherent weakness was revealed after he created his first and only aniel.

  Of powers and tricks, Phantom had plenty.

  His abilities stretched as far as mind-influence over mortals. Also no stranger to Phantom was a range of delicate powers that, before him, were exclusive to the First Gods.

  These powers include apparition, ability to fold space and shift himself between places, influence over dreams, and—most threatening of all—ability to contain power and essence that does not belong to him. This last-mentioned ability was assisted greatly by Syfon.