“Don’t shout at it.” I lean down in front of the cart. “You don’t have any control over the food, do you?” The cart wobbles. I think that’s a no. “So Sapphire was making all our meals. Maybe they’re in trouble?”
The cart does one more frightened lap around the room, then zooms back out the door, which seals back up behind it. Thelia says nothing and goes to sit in front of the fire, curling up in a chair with her arms around her knees. With frigid winter winds beating the side of the castle, the fire burns all day long now.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I did this.”
I shake my head. “I should be apologizing for how I reacted. You were simply trying to get us out of here, and I threw a tantrum.”
She hides her face between her knees. “Th-there was more to it, Percy. Yes, I want to escape. With all my soul I miss riding, I miss the sky, I miss grass.” I hear her swallow a few times. “But that kiss was more. I needed it.”
“So?” I ask. Thelia stares at me. “There’s no shame in following your desire where it takes you. I feel it too, you know.”
Her voice chokes up. “You?”
I squeeze her shoulder. “Me.”
“But we should hate Sapphire. Once, I wanted nothing more than to kill them. But touching them felt . . . amazing.” She looks disgusted. “More. I’m still thinking about more.”
“Please don’t berate yourself, Theels,” I say. “We’re prisoners here, and Sapphire is our only connection to the outside—to a hope of escaping here alive. It’s all tied up together. All three of us are contorted and stretched to impossible positions to fit our roles. There are no right decisions, only decisions that we choose to make.” I squeeze her shoulders and she lets me. “Perhaps someday, when we’re free, we can try to untangle the damned knot this has made of us.”
She nods and swallows, letting her head sink against mine.
When. I said it with a confidence I don’t feel, but in this moment, I need her to feel it.
Bayled
We’re on the third day of constant snowfall when Captain Tarkness brings her horse to a halt. “We’re here.”
Ahead, the trees thin out into a clearing paved with untouched white snow. Sasel does a sweep with one hand for anyone who might be hiding. “There’s a biylar bear,” she says, pointing to the other side of the meadow. “That’s all.”
I visited Antonin Bellisare’s brick mansion a few times when we were younger, for fancy parties with egregious amounts of imported wine. Then Antonin’s money ran out and Parsifal spent all his time at Four Halls, so we had no reason to visit the estate.
The roads and carriage circle are all buried by deep snow, and it’s slow going as our horses pick through it. Standing before the outer wall, Captain Tarkness raises her hand and focuses. A small ball of glittering energy forms in her hand. She peers at Sasel. “Do you feel that?” she asks.
Sasel nods. “It’s thick here.”
The ball swells and, after a moment, bursts into flame. The captain reels one arm back and hurls the ball of fire into the wall—tearing a massive hole through the middle.
So this is what real Magic looks like.
“That was amazing,” says Harged.
We climb through the hole and into the courtyard. The mansion’s front doors are locked, too, as a final annoyance. Hopefully Antonin won’t discover that we blew them apart to get in.
Inside, the high-ceilinged rooms are filled with ghosts. Portraits on the walls. Granite busts. Sculptures depicting legends I never learned about. We take the hallway under the main stairs past room after room.
There it is—the inset door with the rubbed bronze knob. I twist the doorknob, but the door doesn’t budge. Captain Tarkness prepares to blow it open, but Red raises a hand to stop her “Don’t want to risk damaging what’s inside.” He pulls a hairpin out of his ponytail, jams one end into the keyhole, and fiddles with it.
The door groans as it opens, and a wave of dust greets us. We both cough before we can move forward into the darkness. I find a torch and light it to reveal stairs.
We descend into a familiar cellar, where the passage opens up into a sprawling room: the Museum. A chariot stands against one wall, propped up by fake horses made from steel and gold. Four Frefoisian nobles, their wax faces astonishingly lifelike, wear old eastern clothes—high breeches, billowing necklines, long-tailed coats, and enormous wigs. Jewelry that must be worth as much as the mansion itself hangs from their necks, wrists, and ears. I know all about the sculptures and vases and masks now, from when I desperately hoped to impress Thelia and Parsifal—not realizing it was impossible.
The Baron quirks an eyebrow as we pass. “This whole place is obscene. They wouldn’t have been poor if they sold any of this.”
I snort. “I wouldn’t dare suggest that to Antonin’s face.”
The Baron stops in his tracks and laughs. “This must be what we’re here for.”
Another set of mannequins stands on a pedestal. They’re dressed in the familiar crimson reds, deep blues, and shimmering golds the Northern Republic prefers. Behind them stands an old Northern carriage—the fancy kind studded with copper that the Prime Minister or her family would use when traveling.
I begin stripping the mannequins. First I slide the long red coat over my own shoulders. It’s an older style, one that not even my father would have worn. It has quite a lot of tassels but it fits me perfectly. We have five more outfits—some brown women’s trousers, a wooly gold shirt, and even more coats and hats.
“This idea of yours may work after all.” Red puts on one of the short blue vests rimmed with embroidered gold, and it fits his chest snugly. He glances at one of the many mirrors hanging on the wall. “I look fantastic in this.”
I chuckle. “Everyone should wear Northern fashion.”
Sapphire
Every time I close my eyes, I can see Parsifal’s face collapsing. The memory is seared into my skin. I did not mean to come between them, to hurt them. My warm heart of Magic aches.
Jealousy. I know its name, but never before has it had a face. If only I could wish away that moment, undo the damage I did. At least apologize—but I cannot return.
Ellze was right. I should have stayed away. I said so many things I should not have, and my involvement has worsened everything.
There is so much else to do as our troops set out for the new settlement site to begin building. Others erect shelters in the nearby woods for the elephants and orkuks. The fresh wave of Magickers are put to work siphoning off the Magic flooding out of the well. With the relocation site in motion, we begin to clean. For the first time, I believe we can regain control of this spiraling disaster.
A disaster for which, I am loath to admit, we are partially responsible.
I let the horses out into the paddock and watch as they run and run, thrilled to stretch their legs. Zylion and Ferah find me there after Ferah has done her stint on the castle wall, burning off Magic—but there is more than we could ever burn. Zylion’s pulled his long purple hair back in a high ponytail, and Ferah stands with her arms crossed, light from the window making her white hair look like a shimmering halo. “The Commander wants to see us,” Zylion says.
With the main host’s squadron leaders in attendance, there are too many of us to fit into the temple, so the Commander assembles us in the banquet hall. The newcomers are easy to spot because they refuse to sit in any chairs or touch any objects that humans might have touched. They will grow tired of the effort this takes soon enough.
Commander Valya sits in the wine-stained purple chair that once belonged to the King. He looks at home in it, hands spread out across the cushioned arms. “Our operation faces yet another hurdle,” he says. His voice is unusually weak, and we all lean in to hear. “When we arrived, we severely underestimated how much Magic had pervaded the humans’ bodies.”
Ferah steps forward. “We must be rid of the corpses somehow. The longer we leave them in the dungeon, the more powerful they grow. Mag
ic has animated them, and Magic can free them.”
Commander Valya nods. “Indeed. We must burn them.”
“But Commander,” Zylion says, shaking his head, “they are so drenched in Magic that the last one we burned proceeded to explode. A jail cell is gone.”
Before the Commander can respond, Ellze says, “Then take them somewhere the explosion cannot do any damage.” Commander Valya does not reprimand him, as I would have expected. Instead, he nods.
At the end of the meeting, Ellze leans down to whisper something in his uncle’s ear, and they both chuckle. This Ellze is different from my childhood friend. Perhaps I am jealous—perhaps not. But I do not think I like him anymore.
Thelia
Parsifal sits in front of the fire, silently reading. Neither of us has the energy to do much else. Even talking makes me tired, so I just look—mostly at Parsifal. At his soft, milky human skin. The wrinkles at the side of his mouth and nostrils that make his dimples move as he scans the page. His nose is flat, of course. The thick eyebrows high above his eyes crease as he thinks.
He’s beautiful, in his way. Familiar. The one who’s always been by my side. I used to think that person was Corene, but that fantasy is gone.
The elves must have found her, and that’s why Sapphire doesn’t need us anymore. I can’t decide if I should feel relieved or angry or grateful. I’m too jumbled up, like Parsifal said. Attempting to untangle that knot might kill me.
Corene. I hope she’s not still starving in the dark. Mother would be ashamed of me, pitying her—but no one deserves to die in a hole in the wall.
“What?” asks Parsifal. I didn’t realize I was staring at him again. Parsifal—the only one who never betrayed me, not once. No lies stand between us.
I don’t speak, just reach out to touch the side of his face. At first, he jerks away. I don’t move my hand, and slowly, he lets me rest my fingers on the parts of him that have made him the subject of endless mockery. I wouldn’t be here without Parsifal at my side, keeping my feet on the ground.
His brown eyes are riveted to mine. “Thelia,” he whispers, and the sound of my name on his lips stirs something I’ve never felt before—a seeping warmth at the base of me. “Can I kiss you?”
I breathe the word “yes” before I think about it, and he presses his lips to mine.
It’s something I’ve thought about only in my wildest, most guilty fantasies. Now that it’s here, I feel . . . awake. I kissed Red, of course. Well, he kissed me. It felt nice, but it wasn’t like this. I’ve been lit on fire.
My tongue presses at Parsifal’s lips of its own accord. Wanting. Asking for more. I could eat him, and thank Melidia, he lets me in.
It’s an entire new world. My arms wind around his neck, and his around my middle. I feel contained, like my unruly, escaping edges are finally tucked in and I’m no longer spilling out across the floor, drip-drip-drip, until there’s nothing left. I’m staying right here.
I don’t know what comes next, but Parsifal does. One of his hands takes mine, our fingers laced together. But the spaces between his fingers are too tight and it hurts my hand, so I pull it back.
Parsifal withdraws, his face collapsing with anguish as he reads my reaction completely wrong. “I’m so sorry.” He looks like he’s been hit across the face. “I didn’t . . .”
“Percy.” I crawl closer. It’s my turn to kiss him now. I know I’m sloppy and drooling, but he kisses me back anyway, and I can taste his relief. He takes my hands back and holds them inside his palms this time.
I press my body against his. Through my thin nightgown, I can feel everything—and he can certainly feel all of me. We pull away, both of us breathing hard. His pants are straining. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to cover it.
I’ll admit the bulge in his purple trousers is frightening—I don’t know what’s underneath. I’ve heard words like snake, whip, dragon, rod. Hard things, frightening things with teeth lie between a man’s legs, or so Mother said. I’ve never wanted anything to do with the snakes or rods.
My chest is hot as the fire in the hearth, and it burns all the way to the space between my own legs. I want to know what’s in those trousers, begging to escape.
“Show me,” I say, pushing the confidence into my voice.
Parsifal grins. But instead of reaching for his trousers, he lifts his shirt up over his head. Underneath, he’s bare. He flinches when my cold hand touches his warm flesh, and he presses his hands to mine.
We slide across the floor closer to the fire, and he points at me with his chin. “Your turn.”
Oh, I suppose it is. I slide my nightgown off my shoulders, my exposed nipples poking up like tiny caps on a tower roof. He leans forward and wraps his lips around one and it’s the most wonderful feeling. I lean back and can’t help the sound I make.
“Good?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He laughs and goes for the other one, but I stop him. “Your turn.”
The trousers, at last, are gone. Feeling first is a lot easier than seeing. He’s soft—the dense, curly hair below is plush and welcoming. And below that, his erect penis is soft, too. A nice kind of soft—not awkward or wrinkled. How does it do that? Be hard and soft at the same time?
The rug underneath us is coarse against my bare skin, but Parsifal draws me into his arms, as close as he’s ever been before, and I forget all about it. He licks one of his fingers, and then his hand finds its way down between my legs, where no hand has ever been but my own. I must look terrified, because Parsifal chuckles a little. “It will feel good. Promise.”
I unclench the iron grip of my thighs and his wet finger dives between them. And demons, he’s right. I’m biting the flesh of his neck before I can stop myself, because otherwise, who knows what I’d sound like?
“Good?” he asks, and I can feel his face smiling against my throat.
I bite harder and whisper, “Good.”
I go to touch him again, but he shakes his head. “I think it would make me let off too soon.” So I don’t, as much as I want to feel that soft, wonderful thing under my hand again. It’s not a snake. It’s just Parsifal.
He nudges my knees and I let my legs open. He tries to push inside me, but immediately it feels tense and awkward. I want it, though. I can feel how ready I am, but for some reason, my body won’t cooperate. My face gets flaming hot.
“Here.” Parsifal shifts me around so he’s lying behind me, our bodies flush together, looking into the fire. I don’t like that I can’t see his face, but his arms wrap around me. He touches me again down there, lathering me up the way I do with my hair in the bath.
It takes more tries than I can count before I feel him nudge into me and it works. Finally, we’re there. Together. I finally let myself make a sound. “That’s a good noise,” he breathes into my ear. He doesn’t move for a long time, his hands stroking my flesh, playing quietly with me. Distracting me from the discomfort.
The pressure there breathes, pulses. Somehow it’s so good. When I’ve relaxed again, he moves. Slowly. So slowly.
I stop holding my voice back.
Chapter 15
Sapphire
I descend back into the dungeon with Ferah, Zylion, and Ellze. We open the first cell where a former human waits, covered in dried blood, howling and raking his nails against the metal.
First, Ferah binds him with threads of Magic. Once he’s restrained, she taps him three times on the temple—but he doesn’t collapse. Tearing his way out of his bindings, the corpse lunges at us, and Ferah leaps back.
Ellze hurls the mindless creature against the stone wall. Bones break with a snap, crack. Ellze laughs at Ferah’s horrified face before he kicks in the creature’s skull. It falls over, stunned but still functioning, even with a new concave head shape.
I have never seen him exhibit such cruelty, and I have a feeling he will not reserve it for only the undead.
We each drag a corpse up the stairs, avoiding the teeth. They
recoil from the light streaming in through the windows, but only momentarily, before they strain their ropes and tear their rotting flesh.
More Jaguars appear, rolling decrepit barrels we found in the courtyard. We shove one of the risen inside each barrel, and Ferah seals the tops closed. Inside, the creatures bang and screech.
Together we roll them through the courtyard, out the front gate of the castle, through Ferah’s Magic shield, and down the abandoned main road—until we reach the outer walls of the city. Off in the distance lie abandoned houses and farms; but here it’s empty save for grass and mud.
Ferah kicks one of the barrels away, and the monster inside howls. The rest of us step back as she begins gathering great shining ropes of Magic, curling them and looping them and bundling them up until her arms are full of glowing, pulsing energy.
“Stand back!” she shouts, and we duck behind the high city walls. We’re peering out through the gate as she hurls the sparking ball of Magic toward the first barrel.
The explosion rocks the ground. Pieces of stone crumble off the wall and fall onto our heads. Ferah slaps her hands together. “Bring me the next one.”
I am ready to hurl my guts out a window again by the time we finish. Sleep does not find me easily as I remember the bleeding, skeletal faces of the inmates as we blew them to bits. In my nightmares I find Thelia and Parsifal among them.
The next day, Commander Valya hands down a new edict: no human may die from now on. The density of Magic in and around them makes them too volatile. We are expected to keep our distance, even from the living. Should they experience any powerful stimulus, any sudden upset, the results could be disastrous. If this operation goes astray, risen humans may not be the only thing that explodes in ash and dust.
I am too afraid to return to my humans. The fear is new and strange and tastes like something rotten. Even if they do not hate me now—which they surely do—I cannot see them become those things. I imagine Thelia stuffed into a barrel, and Parsifal’s eyes rupturing as the Magic inside him ignites, unable to bear the confines of his flesh. I would rather die than watch them burst.
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