A Strange Hymn (The Bargainer Book 2)

by Laura Thalassa

  I give his hand a skeptical look before taking it, half thinking this is another trick. But it isn’t. Apparently, I get to finish training early if I make progress. Score.

  “Aww, you guys are done already?” Temper asks, sauntering over with Malaki.

  As if she even cares about me ending practice. She’s just bummed that her impromptu date with the Lord of Dreams is coming to a swift end.

  “Don’t look so sad, Temperance,” Des says. “I have plans for the both of you.”

  The both of us?

  I flash him a quizzical look, my belly squeezing uncomfortably.

  “You two are going to spend the day getting ready for Solstice.”

  “Fuck this shit,” Temper says to me.

  The two of us are locked away in the royal dressmaker’s shop, a series of fairies taking our measurements and holding swatches of cloth up to our faces. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and burning oil.

  We’ve already gotten our nails (or, in my case, claws) filed and our hair trimmed.

  “I mean, seriously, fuck it.”

  The fairy measuring her sniffs.

  I only barely manage to contain my smile at Temper’s utter disdain.

  “I thought you liked getting primped up?” I say. Lord knows Temper’s always going on about improvements I could be making to my own wardrobe.

  “Yeah, I like it when I do it myself. It only takes five minutes, and most importantly, I don’t have to strip down to my lacy bits while some random fairy paws at me.

  “Ow!” Temper yelps as said random fairy sticks her with a pin. “Bitch, did you do that on purpose?” She gives the fairy the evil eye.

  “Perhaps if you stopped moving …” the woman says.

  “I’ve been holding still for an hour. I’m not a goddamn statue.”

  Another fairy intercedes. “My lady, we are terribly sorry for the inconvenience. We’re working as fast as we can.”

  Ignoring the second fairy, Temper says to the first, “Prick me again and I’m smite your little pixie ass.”

  The tailor working on me pats my arm. “All finished,” he whispers, letting me step off the pedestal I’ve been standing on.

  “Aw, hell no,” Temper squawks when she sees I’m done. “Really? You’re done before me? How is that fair? I’m not even an important part of this Solstice shin-dig.”

  “Calm down, Temper,” I say, heading over to our things. “You’ll be done soon enough, and I’ll be right here.”

  “Actually, my lady,” the tailor interrupts, “the king has asked that you join him once you’re finished.”

  “You are not leaving me,” Temper demands.

  I shrug my shoulders, gathering my things. “King’s orders,” I say. “I can’t disobey them.” I head for the door.

  “Callie—”

  I slip out of the dressmaker’s shop before she can finish making her demands.

  Do I feel bad running out on Temper?

  Not nearly as bad as I do for the fairies that have to finish attending her. She can be a dragon when she wants to be.

  Outside, a soldier waits for me. “My lady.” He bows. “I’m here to escort you to the king.”

  I nearly roll my eyes. Of all the pomp.

  The two of us wind our way through the palace grounds, heading to one of the towers. The soldier stops at an ornately carved wooden door that’s braced with bronze fittings.

  He knocks twice on the door, then, bowing again to me, moves into formation against the hallway wall.

  Silently, the door swings open, and I step inside. It’s another library—a tower library, judging by the curving walls of books. Several tables take up the center of the room, and on one is a stack of tomes, a partially painted canvas, an abandoned set of paints, and a paintbrush.

  But no Night King.

  I head over to the table, my footfalls echoing throughout the room.

  Curious, I pick up the canvas. At first, all I make out is the curve of a waist, the indent of a bellybutton and the beginnings of a dusky nipple. But then I notice the forearm laying languorously near the corner of the painting, distinct for its rows and rows of golden scales.

  I nearly drop the painting.

  This is me. Naked. Sure, it doesn’t show my face, but it doesn’t need to. There’s only one person I know of who has scales on their forearm—me.

  This is so obviously Des’s doing.

  I take in the painting again, and, oh my god, there’s my nipple! My nipple. He’d been in the midst of painting it in when he was called away from his work.

  And the fiend isn’t even here for me to confront him.

  My eyes move to the pots of paints. On a whim, I grab the paintbrush and dip it into a pot containing black paint. Once I’ve coated the brush, I begin systematically blacking out the painting.

  Do I feel guilty about ruining good art?

  Not as guilty as I feel about walking out on Temper—which is to say, not guilty at all.

  After I finish, I set the wet canvas aside, my hands now covered in smudges of black paint.

  Satisfied at my own form of payback, I move on from the canvas to the stack of books. A note sits on top of the stack.

  Callypso,

  In case you wanted a little extra knowledge on Solstice.

  —Jerome

  It takes me a moment to place the name, but finally I do. Jerome was the librarian I met a week ago.

  Curious about the books he pulled for me, I take the first one from the stack and set it on the table. Pulling up a chair, I open the cover.

  Before I can look at the title page or the table of contents, the pages begin to flip themselves, settling on a chapter titled “Solstice.”

  My eyes skim the first page, and then the next … and the next. I lose myself in the words, my curiosity about the festival only growing the more I absorb.

  From what this chapter says, Solstice is a gathering of all four of the major kingdoms—Night, Day, Flora, and Fauna—which occurs on the week surrounding the longest day of the year. It’s a renewal celebration hosted in the Kingdom of Flora, and its whole purpose is to celebrate the regeneration of life. Bitter rivalries and old enmity is set aside during this week so that all four kingdoms can meet, discuss issues of the realms, and revel together.

  Apparently, from a side note I found in one of the books, not attending Solstice is a pretty big taboo, hence why Malaki hounded Des so doggedly to attend.

  As soon as I finish the chapter, the book snaps shut.

  Alriiight.

  I grab the next book in the pile, this one on the Kingdom of Flora. Like the last book, this one flips to a specific page. On it is a painting of a beautiful woman with curling, flame red hair and green eyes, vines of blood red poppies coiling up her arm.

  Mara Verdana, the description beneath reads, Queen of Flora, and her consort king, the Green Man.

  My eyes flick back to the image, surprise coating my features. There’s a second person in the photo?

  But now that I look, there is, he just happens to blend with the green foliage in the background. Off to the Flora Queen’s side is literally a green man, his skin a soft shade of the color, his hair and beard a darker, wilder hue. His eyes sparkle with mischief.

  I stare at the image for a long time. Mara Verdana is all bright, blooming colors, like a flower in its prime, and the Green Man is the thicket of shrubs and the soft downy of wild grass; he’s all the bits of plants that go overlooked and underappreciated.

  These are the rulers who’ll host Solstice. The same ones who enslave humans.

  The thought unsettles me greatly, particularly because these two rulers don’t look evil or unjust. Just like my father didn’t seem like a man who’d abuse his daughter.

  I push the book away.

  Where is Des?

  I realize I’ve been waiting for nearly half an hour and he still hasn’t shown up. Absently, I wind my bracelet round and round my wrist. My eyes move to the beads as a thought
comes to me.

  I don’t need to wait for him if I don’t want to. He has a calling card that’s particularly effective.

  “Bargainer,” I call out to the empty room, “I would like to make—”

  “—love?” Des’s voice is like smooth Scotch, his breath fanning against my cheek.

  I look over my shoulder at him. His body is a wall of very appealing muscle, blocking out the rows of books behind us.

  He leans a heavy arm against my desk, his eyes dipping to my mouth. “Because if that’s what you wish, cherub, I’d be happy to arrange that.”

  He looks so thrilled to see me, his eyes twinkling. I almost feel bad for being impatient.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, glancing around the room.

  “I assumed you’d want to know more about Solstice.”

  I stare at him a beat longer. “It’s sometimes uncanny how well you know me.”

  “I am the Lord of Secrets.”

  His eyes flick to the remaining stack of books. “Oh, you haven’t even gotten to the books with the really juicy information,” he notes.

  His eyes move from the stack to his now blacked-out canvas.

  He sucks in a breath. “You naughty, naughty thing,” he says, his lips curving up. He flicks his fingers, beckoning the canvas forward.

  He snatches it from midair, studying the tarnished image. “Trying your hand at painting?” he asks raising an eyebrow.

  “You were painting me,” I accuse.

  Had I hoped to make him feel guilty? If so, I’m barking up the wrong tree.

  He sets the painting down. “Censorship, you know, is the death of creativity.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Des levels his face close to mine. “Oh, but if your moans last night were anything to go by, then I think you do care about creativity—in all its forms.”

  I feel myself flush.

  I glance at the pile of books again. “When are we leaving for Solstice?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow.”

  I nearly fall out of my seat. “Tomorrow?”

  Now Malaki’s insistence really makes sense. Talk about coming down to the wire with a decision.

  Des pulls up a chair next to me, sliding into it and kicking his heels up on the table.

  He folds his arms over his chest, his war bands catching the light. “If you had read the books, you wouldn’t be so surprised.”

  “I don’t even know what day it is,” I say. It’s not like the Night Kingdom had calendars posted throughout the palace. “Or, for that matter,” I continue, “how many days are in an Otherworld year.”

  “The exact same number as yours.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s June seventeenth,” Des says.

  “That’s also not the point.”

  He gives me an indulgent look. Flicking his wrist, one of the books slides off the stack, drifting through the air and settling into Des’s waiting hands.

  I look at him quizzically. “What are you doing?”

  “Storytime, cherub,” he says. “You want answers, and I’m feeling particularly indulgent, so for today, I’ll spoon-feed them into that sinful little mouth of yours.”

  I purse lips, which only causes Des to grab my jaw and kiss me returning his attention to the book.

  He opens the first cover, and the pages begin to rapidly flip. “Ah, yes,” he says when the pages settle, “‘A Brief History of the Four Kingdoms,’” he reads.

  He begins to narrate the chapter to me, his voice taking on a cockney accent just for the hell of it as he explains the old rivalries between Flora and Fauna, Night and Day. I stare at him, utterly mesmerized by his voice and charisma.

  “‘… each fights for the borderland they believe is theirs, even though the Great Mother and Father spoke of the earth, sea, and sky belonging to all fae creatures. Greed was seeded at the dawn of time, and with the cycle of the seasons, it has grown in fairy hearts.’”

  What should’ve been a dull read is enlivened by Des’s narration. One by one, he moves through the remaining books, taking on various accents as he does so—sometimes it’s an Irish or Russian accent, other times it’s German or French, and once (to my utter delight) he impersonates a Valley girl.

  Des was right; some of the later books he reads to me don’t need fanciful narration at all; they are quite a bit more engaging than the earlier reads.

  From these later tomes I learn that the Day King’s father had a harem full of men; that it was considered a miracle at all that he fathered Janus, the current King of Day, and his now deceased twin brother, Julios.

  Or that Mara Verdana, Queen of Flora, wasn’t heir apparent, her older sister, Thalia, was. However, before she ascended to the throne, Thalia fell in love with a traveling enchanter posing as a minstrel. He bewitched Thalia into believing the two were mates, and she gladly gave him most of her power. It nearly tore the kingdom apart. Eventually, the enchanter was put to death, and Thalia, never recovering from the heartache, fell on her own sword.

  I stiffen when the text moves onto tales from the Kingdom of Fauna, and more specifically, Karnon. Apparently, according to the author of the text, he was a “soft-hearted” youth.

  “‘Fear stirred in the kingdom’s breast. Kind souls make for poor rulers, especially in a realm of beasts,’” Des reads.

  Absently, my thumb moves over the scales of my forearms.

  “But Karnon grew to be both soft and strong, the way a bear might be tender with her young, but vicious to outsiders. Under his rule, he brought true harmony to a realm that had waged many civil wars throughout the long centuries.”

  Des closes the book. My eyes flick between it and my mate. “Wait, that’s it?” I say. “That’s all it says about him? Nothing about his madness?”

  “His madness is too recent to be included in such an old book.”

  “How could they say he was a gentle ruler?” I ask. He raped and imprisoned women.

  “Callie,” Des says softly, “you and I both know monsters aren’t born, they’re nurtured into existence.”

  I know that’s true, but right now there’s a bitter taste at the back of my throat. “History should remember him how he was.” I pick at one of my scales, the book’s words getting under my skin.

  “It will.”

  The heat of my anger dies down a little at Des’s words, but I can’t get the image of Karnon’s mad eyes out of my head.

  Pretty, pretty bird, his voice echoes in my memory.

  Now that I think about him, the mystery I’m supposed to be solving comes bubbling back up.

  Karnon isn’t solely to blame; there’s someone else out there doing who knows what to the missing men.

  And as for the King of Fauna, what of him and his blackened heart? Where had his death gotten anyone?

  The women still slept, and their children still terrorized other fairies. Whatever dark spell Karnon had cast, his death hadn’t broken it.

  “Death undoes enchantments?” I ask Des.

  He searches my face, probably trying to figure out just where my mind is at. Only seconds ago I might as well have been carrying a torch and a pitchfork.

  “It does,” he finally says.

  “Karnon’s death hasn’t undone the enchantment.”

  “It hasn’t,” he agrees.

  We’re back to where we were over a week ago, when I stared into those casket children’s eyes and saw no evidence of Karnon’s paternity in them.

  Only now, knowing there’s more than one perpetrator out there, and hearing about the Fauna King’s gentle disposition …

  What if Karnon wasn’t behind the dark spell?

  Just the thought of lifting any of the blame from Karnon’s shoulders has me nauseous.

  I push past all my hatred and all my twisted memories of my time as captive, and I try to see it through a clearer lens.

  When I visited the Fauna King, there seemed to always be two Karnons, on
e who was wild and strangely gentle, and another who was calculating and sinister. The former liked to pet my skin and whisper promises about wings and scales, the latter would force dark magic down my throat. Karnon could slip from one version of himself to the other in an instant, like putting on or taking off a coat.

  I might’ve been disturbed by the wild Karnon, the oddly tender ruler who was still very much insane, but I feared the sinister Karnon; he was both cruel and lucid.

  I’d always assumed these sides of him were two aspects of the same man, but perhaps … perhaps there was something more going on here. Could it be possible that Karnon wasn’t two different personalities residing within the same flesh, but two different beings taking up space within one body? Maybe Des killed the primal, wild man who gave me scales and claws, but not the man who was trying to subdue me with his dark magic …

  I can barely follow my own thoughts, mostly because the idea of two different beings residing in one body is so impossible to me.

  But impossible is not a term fairies subscribe to.

  I stare down at my scales and claws. Hell, these features should be impossible. People don’t just transmutate the way I did.

  The longer I stare at my animalistic features, the more another traitorous thought bubbles its way up. Scales, claws, and wings are sirenic features. Even when I hated them, my siren hadn’t. She’d felt more powerful than ever. And the man who brought these features out in me wasn’t the king who was trying to suck me under with his magic, he was the one who’d pet my skin and mutter nonsense about my latent wings.

  I feel my breathing slow.

  “What is it?” Des asks, reading my expression.

  I look up at him. “What if … what if Karnon hadn’t been trying to punish me that day in his throne room? What if”—I can’t believe I’m about to say this—“he was trying to save me?”

  It’s a wild thought.

  Des leans forward, kicking his feet off the table to brace his forearms on his thighs. “Explain,” he commands.

  “I was about to die that day. I could sense it.”

  The whole day is rearranging itself to fit this new possibility.

  “Karnon transformed me, and it did nearly kill me—but it also brought you to him.

  “What if he knew what he was doing? What if he knew something was wrong with him? What if he deliberately baited you?”