by Lucy Smoke
"Another time," he replies, urging all of us except Luca inside. Luca circles the ground outside the door before slowly descending into a lazy sprawl. To anyone else, he looks like a dog bathing in the moonlight. No true dog would ever choose a place like this, though. The outside is unkempt and dirty as though this section is barely used. Inside, however, the halls are immaculate, although a bit run down. The stone walls are chipped, but clean. No cobwebs litter the ground or corners as Holden leads Titus and me through their depths.
"There were no guards," I say. "Why were there no guards?"
Titus clamps a hand over my mouth as a light down a separate hall appears and we all dive for the nearest alcove. I'm sandwiched between Holden and Titus with Titus' hand still over my mouth. I close my eyes, feeling their heat seeping into my bones. Holden pokes his head around the corner and his lips turn down. When the light is gone, Titus slips his hand away, fingers lingering over my lips.
"They're inside," Holden says. "Remain quiet."
I nod as we start down a new hallway. I don't know how Holden knows where he's going, but he's confident with every step. His eyes are focused and I know we're going in the right direction when my heart rate picks up and I can feel a tugging in my chest. It's something not wholly physical, but also spiritual. Coen is nearby. I almost pull away from Titus in my excitement, but he stops me.
"Wait," he whispers. There is a line of doors coming up. All wooden like the outside door had been. Most bear small windows with bars over them and small cutouts at the bottom for food trays to be slid through. There is one single door at the very end, against the back wall, that has neither a food tray cut out nor a window. I feel the tug strongest there. When Holden tries looking through the window of several of the rooms, I shake my head and reach for his hand. I tug him toward the correct door.
"This one," I say. I gesture to the lock. "He's in this one."
Holden looks at me as if gauging my seriousness. He doesn't have to wonder long because I urge him to the lock, wanting him to hurry. My bones are practically vibrating with the knowledge that Coen is behind this door. I need to see him, to hold him, to reassure myself that he's still here. Titus has to keep me still while Holden works. With every click of his instruments inside the lock, I want to shove him away and kick down the door myself. This is taking way too long. I need to see Coen now. I pull away from Titus and—the door clicks open, swinging inward. There's silence on the other side. Titus and Holden share a look that I can't see. I move towards the door, pushing it further inward and walk inside the cold room.
All I see is darkness. It's all-encompassing. I put my hands out before me and move slowly. Titus opens the door wider and holds it, allowing some of the light from the hallway lamps to cast into the room. Most of the room is still shadowed. My foot touches chains, and I look down. There, on the floor, I see a dirty boot. I fall to the ground and crawl forward, reaching for the man there. It's Coen. I would know his body like my own. It's the body I fought with as a child, the body that held me when I cried, and hugged me when I was happy. I feel over his naked chest, realizing he's been stripped bare from the waist up. He’s lying on his side, so I reach forward, relief flowing through me when I feel the slight rise of his chest. He’s breathing. My fingers hit something else, a pucker in his skin. I touch the wound, and Holden moves closer to me, helping me move Coen over onto his front. I gasp and feel bile rise in my throat.
His back is a mess of whip marks. Tears prick my eyelids. My mouth dries. "Shit," Holden curses. I sit back as Holden's hand moves over the chains on his ankles. They're on Coen's wrists too and it takes Holden several moments with his instruments to unlock them all. Once he has, I crawl up to his head, touching his face, feeling his breath against my hands. All the while, he doesn't wake. That, most of all, terrifies me. I look to Holden and Titus.
"We need to get him out of here," Titus says. "The longer we stay, the more danger we're all in."
I nod and slowly rest Coen’s head back on the ground as Titus and Holden come forward. Despite being held captive for a number of days, Coen’s still a big guy. He’s lost some weight since the last time we saw him, but Holden and Titus both have to lift him in order to bear the brunt of his massive frame. I go to the door, looking out quickly to determine if we’re safe to leave. This feels too easy, but there’s no one hiding in the hallways waiting to catch us. I hold the door open as Titus lifts Coen’s upper body and Holden grabs his legs.
As the guys maneuver him out of the dungeon room—the stone walls encased in a lifetime of scratches made by only the Gods know who—my mind is awash with startling anger. I watch them attempt gentle movements, but it’s almost no use. No matter what they do, Coen’s sides scrape against the doorway as they move him through. I’m thrown into my internal thoughts, asking myself Why? Why did this have to happen? Why do I have to be a daimon? Why did Coen do this?
It was his choice, Nerys. I close my eyes as the guys make it through the doorway and Obidian’s voice filters into my mind, calm and soothing. I don’t want to be soothed right now. I want to punch something. I have to temper myself not to slam the door when I step away. Instead, I close it gently, so that anyone passing through will just automatically assume that nothing is amiss and Coen is still inside.
"This isn't working," Titus says. Holden looks up as he struggles under balancing the weight of Coen's legs to keep him from dragging on the ground. "Hold on," Titus stops. "Put him down for a second. Up against the wall. Feet on the floor."
"He won't stay up," Holden protests. I follow behind, my eyes glued to Coen's face. He doesn't flinch when Holden drops his feet anyway. He doesn't wake when Titus takes ahold of Coen's wrist and folds his other arm between Coen's legs and wraps it around one of his thighs. Titus brings Coen's upper body over his back. In one smooth move, Titus lifts and Coen's face remains as cool and impassive as though he were sleeping and not dangling from the back of another man. He never wakes and that continues to worry me. Holden watches with widened eyes as Titus grunts quietly under Coen's weight but bears it surprisingly well.
"Let's go," he says gruffly, making his way back the way we came. Holden urges me to move forward, in front, so that I can act as lookout and get to the door for Titus while he stays back and watches our backs. I feel like we're speeding through this process. It's going too quickly. Someone is going to catch us. Every corner we come to, I pause and glance around. There's never anyone there and it's unnerving.
The door comes into view and I have to keep myself from rushing for it. I pause on one side and crack it open to glance out and Luca is there, sprawled in the same place. As the door creaks open, he rises and greets us with quiet snuffling around my pants, as though he wants to make sure I'm okay. I widen the door and hold it open as Titus gently eases through.
"The shack," I say. "It's farther from here than from where we were." I look to Titus, seeing the grimace on his lips and the tightness of his muscles. "Can you make it?" I ask.
He nods sharply, readjusting his hold slightly to clamp down on Coen's limp form tighter. "Lead the way."
The streets are just as eerie as they were before, more so now because we're carting Coen around on Titus' back. I don't mean to and I don't even realize I've done it, but unconsciously, as we move through the city, I reach out to Coen. My mind finds his and wraps around it as if holding it close, but I cannot intrude. I can't get in. I can't hear him. I start to tremble, my feet slipping on the stones beneath me.
"Are you okay?" Holden asks. "Do you need to stop?"
I shake my head and keep going, glancing over at Coen as I do. "No, I'm fine," I say. "We have to hurry."
"Nerys—"
"No."
I pick up the pace, urging my feet to move faster. I feel so heavy, my arms are like bricks, my legs like anchors. Every step is harder and harder to make, but I urge them to anyway. My head bobs and eventually I do have to stop because suddenly all I see is a tunnel with a dim light at the very end. So
mething is very wrong, I realize. My heart rate has slowed, sluggish and muddy in my veins. I force one foot forward and nearly fall face first into the gutter.
"Nerys!" Holden whisper-hisses as he dives for me, catching me before I can land. "What's wrong?"
Nerys, Obidian calls. Nerys can you hear me?
It's hard to reply, so very hard. I try and nothing comes to mind. It's as if the moment I open my internal archives and start searching for the words, I've come to find that none exist. They're all gone and the pages are blank. My limbs are weak in Holden's arms. I can feel them around me, but I can't see them. Because I've closed my eyes, I realize. I struggle to open them again.
Nerys, Obidian says again. It's not you. It's...
I see Holden's face—his dark worried, brown eyes, and everything disappears. His eyes are the last thing I see as I'm sucked into a vortex of darkness, into nothingness, and into the very abyss. He calls for me again—him and then Obidian—and their voices echo in my mind as I descend into my very unconscious state.
When I wake, there is nothing there. I'm simply floating. I almost expect to be wet because it feels like my back rests on a surface of water, but as I raise my hand I notice that I'm dry—very dry. My throat is parched. My skin clammy, but not sweat-slickened. I knew it was too easy. Did I dream it? Did I dream that we had rescued Coen?
No, a voice says. I start and glance around, sitting up slowly in the darkness. I have no use for him anymore. I gave him back to you.
Who are you? I call. My voice evaporates and disappears into the surrounding emptiness, but I know whoever is out there can hear me. So, I wait. I wait so long that I'm about to ask again when they answer me. And even when they do, it's with another question.
Do you not feel my presence?
I don't reply immediately. I can't stop my head from turning to either side, looking, searching. I do feel them or, at least, I feel something. Over my flesh, I sense a shadow of air, a wisp of smoke, a curl of danger. A flutter of sound in my ear, a whisper, a breath, a warning. Signs that urge me to turn away, that tell me whatever is out there isn't right. It isn't natural. I take a step back, my feet falling on nothing—no ground, no air. Where is this place?
The sanctuary of limbo, the man answers. I start because before there was nothing to pair with this voice in my head. But I can feel him coming closer and it is definitely a him. A raw masculine power exudes from the figment in my mind. Fear skitters down my spine, over the ridges of my bones, and sinks deep into my being. I shiver and curl my arms around myself, stepping back again. To what end, though? Because there's nowhere to run in here. He knows it and so do I. It's natural to be afraid of a predator and that's what this being is—whatever he is.
I still attempt to scan my surroundings, seeing nothing but darkness and emptiness. A shockingly terrifying thought comes to mind. Am I alone? Where are the guys? Are they safe? Are they dead? Coen? Booker? Titus? Holden? Luca? Where are they? Where is Obidian?
Nerys, the man calls.
No, I say. No. Tell me who you are.
I am your savior, he says. His voice is becoming clearer. He's coming closer to me. I don't want that. I don't want him near me at all. I close my eyes, blocking out the darkness and descend further. Where is my mind palace? Where is my safe haven? I can't find it! Where's the door?!
Nerys. This is further than that place, the man says. He speaks and he's right in front of me. I open my eyes as wide as they can go, but I still see nothing. He keeps talking. You need not fear that you will be hunted, Nerys. Together, we can do great things, you and I.
No. No. No. No. No. Whatever this man wants, I am sure it's not anything I can agree to. Beneath his benevolent tone, there's something wrong. It's uncanny. Predatory. I shake my head as hard as I can. Stop, I say.
Why? he asks. Do you fear what you feel? Do you fear what you see?
I don't see anything, I say. There is nothing but emptiness.
And you fear that? Shall I turn on the light? The moment he asks, it appears. The light is bright—so bright that I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut, but still from behind my eyelids, it burns into the back of my skull. Heavy. White. Oppressive.
It's alright, he says. You may open your eyes now. The light dims, just a bit, and I'm finally able to squint my eyes open.
I swallow around a pressure in my throat. There's still no one in front of me. The room is similar to my mind palace, but it's swept clean of all relics that reflect me—who I am. There is nothing that reminds me of the guys. There is nothing that reminds me of me. He talks on as though he's standing right next to me. I turn my head. Again, there's no one there. He still hasn't answered me.
Who. Are. You? I repeat.
I am your friend, Nerys. That is what you would call an ally, yes?
Allies show their faces, I reply.
"Is that what you want?" He speaks and suddenly, I hear his voice not in my head, but aloud—behind me. I whirl around and a familiar face watches me from cold eyes.
"Y-you’re the prince."
He smiles, but it is distinctly not friendly. He smiles as if it's a forced expression—one he has had to learn his entire life but has never truly mastered. "I believe I would be considered a king now," he replies.
I shake my head in disbelief. "H-how—what...?"
Thankfully, he drops his smile and moves away from me, pacing towards the side as if circling me—as if circling his prey. I move so that he's never behind me. He notices and stops. "Have you ever heard of Judas?" he asks.
A memory surfaces. Madam Armaita. Her face appears in my mind's eye. His smile returns. "I see that you have," he says.
Shock rips through my core. "You can read my mind?" The very notion is terrifying.
He shakes his head. "Not quite, but you have a very expressive face. I can see that even if you don't know the whole story of Judas, you have, at least, heard of him." His smile is a cold, dead thing. It looks unnatural on his handsome face—and he is handsome, classically so. “You, Nerys, will be my Judas.”
“What?” What is that supposed to mean?
"My father didn't understand the commodity you would be," he states. There's no grief in his tone. His father—King Matric—is dead, but there's no flicker of emotion as he speaks about him. It alerts something inside of me, sending off signals that something about him is very wrong. "But I understand, Nerys. I do apologize for how he acted. If I could have intervened sooner, I would have."
It clicks. "You’re the one who killed him," I say. It's a statement, a fact. I'm standing before my savior, as he called himself, but somehow, I don't feel saved. I feel like I've been taken out of one prison and placed in a decidedly more dangerous one. A cavernous abyss, filled with monsters and creatures of darkness, and I'm standing before the most dangerous one of all.
"I did," Prince—now King—Edwin says. "It was time for you to stop running." He moves closer, and I feel frozen to the spot because I want to back away. I stop myself from doing so. Something tells me I shouldn't show fear towards this man—if he even is a man.
"How did you know Coen wasn't a daimon?" I ask. It's clear they figured it out. Otherwise—and I hate to think this—he would have been dead long before the guys and I had been able to make it back to Euron.
"Because you and I are very similar," he says, that icy smile remaining in place. My gaze moves past him to the rest of the empty space. It feels like it goes on forever. If there is any sort of landscape, I can't make it out.
That's the difference between this place and my mind palace. It's completely empty here. A barren wasteland. I wonder if this is his sanctuary—his mind. It's so...hollow. I turn back to him. He's so close, I can see the darkness in his eyes, the swirling embers of something deeper...darker. Desolate coals that can suck me down and swallow me whole. I can't stop the shudder that rolls through me.
"How are we similar?" I demand, hardening my voice and finally taking a step back.
He tilts his head to the side a
nd the smile slips. His face goes from forced pleasantness to cold detachment. That—the detachment—seems more appropriate for him. "We are cut from the cloth of the Gods," he says. "You see, Nerys." I hate it when he says my name. It sounds disgusting coming from his lips. I want to cover my ears every time he says it, but I need him to spit out what he wants. I need to search for a way out, a way back to the others. "I know a lot of the future. It's one of my gifts, you could say." The smile returns when he says the word gifts. It's more natural now but still edged with something that isn't quite human.
"What are you?" I blurt.
His face is in front of mine, the smile back, full and blooming. Dark and dangerous. He grins at me. "Now you're asking the right questions, Nerys. I am something far more precious and intriguing than a Prince, than a King." He backs away and I release a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding. "Though being both served me and will serve me still, for a time. I have something larger planned for both of us. Something the Gods may already be aware of. You were hunted as I am hunted. Together, neither of us will be hunted again."
I don't trust this man. Whatever it is that he wants from me, I know that if I give it to him, it won't mean good things. Though my insides are trembling with fear and my palms shake with uncertainty, I close my fingers and ball my hands into fists. I step away slowly, deliberately. He watches me, curious.
I shake my head. "Tell me what you brought me here for." I'm proud at how strong my voice comes out. I feel like a dragon's fire backs my voice—Obidian's spirit rising within me, though I can't hear his voice, I feel him. "What do you want?" I demand.
King Edwin inhales and when he exhales the brightness of the room dims, the space darkening, the ground trembling. Ice forms up along the walls. My breath puffs out in front of my face in short, small, white clouds. Shivers dance up and down my arms and the temperature plummets.
"Daimons," he says, "are very much like lesser Gods." I glance around, feeling the sudden change all the way deep into my bones. "You have a power within you that hasn't happened since Judas—the power to take from others."