by Emma Hamm
This was home. This was safe. She was safe.
A deep breath shuddered out of her body as she walked forward to grab a glass. The door squeaked softly and the clink of glass sounded jarring. They were normal sounds, though. These were the sounds of a home, not a prison or a dungeon. Or even worse, a home that wasn’t hers at all.
She filled her glass from the tap and drank deeply. Long trails of water slid down her neck and pooled in her collarbone.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just saw a ghost.” A silvery voice drifted out of the darkness.
She paused, holding the frigid water against her tongue before turning to find the owner of the voice. She knew who it was. That voice was far too recognizable for anyone to mistake its owner.
Lyra leaned her hip against the countertop. “Pitch. How did you get in here?”
He was seated at the island. His lean frame stretched past the stool so he appeared like a vulture surveying his prey. Unnaturally dark eyes stared at her from shadows that clung to his form like a lover’s fingers.
“I have my ways.”
“Ways that include sneaking into a heavily secured compound personally surveyed by the strongest creatures on this planet,” she commented sarcastically.
He shrugged in response. A lock of raven hair fell into his eyes as he moved.
“Wren’s not here,” Lyra said as she crossed her arms. The condensation on the side of the glass was cold against her sternum. “She’s probably in bed. Like any sane person would be at this hour.”
Pitch arched a brow. “Yet you are awake.”
She shrugged off the shroud of fear and replaced it with anger. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. Breaking and entering.”
“I think you’re trying to divert my attention by becoming angry about something foolish. Now back to my original statement; you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Her lips pursed. “Like I said, Wren’s probably asleep. Unless you want to go knock on her and Burke’s door to find out.”
The words seemed to give him pause. His brow furrowed with what Lyra interpreted as anger before his flawless features smoothed once more. “So they’re doing well then.”
“Like two peas in a pod,” she replied. “Though you seem to be more angry about that then you have any right to be.”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“Now we are.” Lyra hopped up onto the counter and wiggled to get comfortable. “I know what you did for her, you know. The Elixir of Life, just whipped out of your pocket like it’s an everyday item. How curious.”
“Indeed.” Now he looked uncomfortable. The raven dark man slowly stood to place his palms firmly against the table.
She refused to be intimidated. Lyra didn’t care how mysterious this man was; he was in her home, and he was a distraction. “An Elixir from a fountain that has long since been dried up in a dimension that no longer exists. We did not have bodies when we came to this dimension, so it’s entirely impossible for you to have that liquid at all.”
“You’ve already thought this over, I see.”
“Yes, I have. You have done the impossible.”
He arched a finely pointed brow. “I have been known to be an impossible man.”
“How did you do it?”
“That is a secret I intend to keep.”
“Oh, you have many secrets, don’t you?” she asked as she crossed her arms firmly over her chest. “More secrets than any man deserves to have.”
“You are one to talk.” He moved. His strides were smooth as his predatory gait ate up the distance between them until he could stand between her legs and frame her body with his wiry arms. “Secrets are what you were created on.”
“You know nothing of my secrets,” she spat at him as she glared.
“Oh, I do indeed. The rich girl who found herself in the Black Market. The Siren with unusually strong powers. The girl who knows far too much about everyone around her.”
Lyra’s hands curled around his wrists as she held him in place. “Strange how you know so much about me. One might think you’ve become fascinated.”
“I have use for you.”
“Am I supposed to care?”
“I need you to speak with the Graverobber.”
She froze. There could be nothing good from Pitch wanting to speak with such a powerful man. “No.”
“No?” He arched a brow. “Why is that?”
“I know you’re a death dealer, and I am not foolish enough to peddle your words.”
“How would you know that little secret?”
“Black Market,” she murmured.
Their conversation was done. She would speak no more of shadows that lurked in the corners of her mind. Sliding off of the counter, she dodged around him when he tried to grab at her arms.
She had nearly reached the door before she heard his next soft words.
“How is Bones?”
Instantly, the fear that she had buried came lurching to the front of her mind. She was nearly sick as the emotion caused a violent reaction. One of her feet tripped the other, and she fell against the doorframe. In the dark, she shivered.
“How do you know that name?”
“I told you, I know many things.”
“You will not utter those words again tonight. How do you know that name?”
She could hear him shifting as he seemed to settle himself in a seat again. Her hands were shaking as they held onto the door frame.
“Many know the names of the Lords. I have never particularly liked Bones very much, but I have heard that he has an interest in you.”
As she heard those words, she quivered for another reason. Water leaked from her ears as she tried to control her anger. “I promise you now, I will dig your secrets out of whatever grave you keep them in. I will find them, and I will destroy you.”
“Like you destroyed Bones in your room? You don’t know how to destroy creatures like me or him.”
If he had meant to goad her, those were the correct words. Growling, she spun around and launched herself towards him. She would claw out his eyes. She would punch her fist into his chest and revel in the feeling of breaking ribs and gore.
He caught her against his chest. They both slammed back against the refrigerator, which rattled at the impact. His hands flexed against her spine as he held her against his body.
The hug was not welcome. She did not need it. Yet, she found herself folding into the strength he offered her. Tears flooded her eyes until the gasping breaths of fear became loud sobs that made her entire body shake.
“Easy there, Siren,” he murmured. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m not. I’m not going to be fine.” Her hands rose to clutch at his finely pressed shirt.
“I need you to go to the Graverobber. I need you to repeat these words exactly.”
She laughed. It was a grating sound that hurt even her own ears. “I thought for a moment you might have a kind bone in your body, Pitch. I was obviously wrong.”
As she started to pull away, he caught her with one arm. His hand rose to brush away a tear on her smooth cheek.
“Repeat these words to me, Lyra. Pitch asked me to speak to you to repay a debt he owes. He wants you to know that a contract can be broken.”
She froze.
“What?” Her voice wobbled.
“Repeat the words.”
“A contract can be broken.”
The grin that spread across his statuesque features made him appear almost human for a brief moment. His full lips hid perfectly smooth cheeks, which dimpled in his happiness. She would have found him handsome if not for the darkness that slowly swallowed his eyes whole.
“Good. Now, go to the Graverobber and be certain he knows this.”
Pitch stepped away from her to walk towards the shadows in the corner of the kitchen.
“Pitch, wait.”
He paused just long enough for her to gather her thoug
hts. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, this time with hope.
“Why?” she asked. “Why are you helping me? Why did you help Wren?”
“That is another secret.” He turned just enough for her to see his dark eyes once more. “Did you not say you were going to find out my secrets?”
She should have known he wouldn’t answer the question. There was no reason for him to do so when he knew she would never understand.
A small smile broke across her face. “Right. I look forward to digging in those graves.”
The shadows reached out from the corner and pulled. One moment he stood before her; the next, he was gone.
She swallowed hard. Perhaps her life wasn’t over. Maybe she could pull herself back together and find a cure for her affliction. But hope was a dangerous drug that she could easily overdose on. One thing was certain, however.
She was going to meet the Graverobber.
Chapter 6
The crunching sound of her boots echoed as she made her way through the crushed stones that littered the ground before the cemetery gates. Lyra had always thought it strange to decorate a place where only the dead lived. She didn’t care what they did with her body once her soul was gone.
Her Siren hadn’t cared either before it had merged with her. Of course, that could be part of the reason why she didn’t care. A considerable amount of the creature’s personality had been gifted to her just before the voice had disappeared forever.
Cold air dug through the seams of her jacket. She had yet to find the gate into the graveyard. Her breath fogged in front of her as she exhaled and stared up at the delicately curled metal fence that circled the graves. It had clearly been made by magic. Delicate vines arched in curves that were woven far too tightly for any creature to make naturally.
Lyra had always found such magical things beautiful. How could she not? They were all made of magic, humans and nature alike. It flowed through her veins just as much as blood.
Her hand raised to press against the cool metal. A sizzling sound was her warning before she flinched back with a hiss.
“Iron?” she whispered as she held her hand tight against her ribs. Violent red marks burned against her flesh for a few moments more before steam stopped rising from her palm.
“Who actually uses iron anymore?”
It was an important question. Only Red Bloods were capable of touching Iron. Magical creatures couldn’t stand the feel of the metal. The pain that resulted in even the smallest of glances was worse than a knife.
Most, if not all, creatures had taken to using silver instead. The metal was softer, but it would function in mostly the same way. It was too soft to create reliable locking mechanisms, however. Magic had taken the place of a lock and key. If one had items that needed to be protected, one would use magic to keep it safe.
Anyone could pick a lock. Very few could unravel a well made spell.
This was another piece in her puzzle. However, Lyra found that all the puzzle pieces didn’t fit together. When it came to the Graverobber, she felt as though each puzzle piece went to an entirely different picture.
She let out a huff of breath that bloomed in front of her face.
“Strange,” she whispered. The air in front of her seemed odd. Her breath should fog in the air; it was cold after all. But the resulting fog shouldn’t last that long.
Lyra leaned forward slightly and exhaled long and slow. She could still see her breath, but the white mist before her only continued to grow. Slowly, it became a wall she could not see past.
She chuckled as her lips twisted in a wry grin. “Magic.”
Two could play at that game. The Graverobber obviously didn’t know her very well if he thought he could confuse her with a small spell like this. Mist was the first thing that any Illusionist learned.
Lyra had firsthand experience with Illusionists. She tried to forget the memory of Bones that burned bright in her mind.
She reached into a pocket hidden at the small of her back. There were many small orbs tucked against the curve of her spine. They bulged and appeared to be extremely pronounced bones to the unwise eye.
One small orb dropped out of its sleeve. Another rolled down her back and settled into the recently vacated pocket with pin pricking cold.
She lifted it to her lips. Pressed against her lips, she whispered magical words against its surface. The imprint of her lips remained in a red bow as she drew it away from the warmth of her skin.
“I have no time for petty magic tricks,” she said loudly.
Her eyes scanned the area around her, but she could see nothing. The Graverobber knew what he was doing. She’d give him that. The mist around her was so thick that she could hardly see her own hand if she held it straight out in front of her.
“Too bad he’s not more original,” she snorted. “As if a little bit of moving fog was going to startle me.”
The fog seemed to roil as if it was insulted that she didn’t find it intimidating. Lyra didn’t have time for this. She rolled her eyes for good measure and crushed the glass orb in her fist.
Bright sparkles of magic erupted from her palm and stabbed at the mist around her. Swirls of light reflecting ribbons whirled in the air before her until it was clear once more.
She flicked her fingers to rid herself of any lingering glitter. Lyra had no use for magic when it wasn’t working. The nasty stuff tended to try and hang onto people like a child needing reassurance. It wanted a purpose. She wasn’t about to give it anything to do. The damned substance could find a new master for all she cared.
“Seems a little like something a rookie would do,” she commented into the darkness. “You invited me here, albeit reluctantly. I will not beg.”
The iron gate in front of her creaked. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation as it began to move on its own. Slowly, it heaved its hefty weight backwards until her path into the graveyard was clear.
That was new. She hadn’t seen something like that done before, and Lyra had seen quite a bit of magic in her day. There weren’t many creatures she knew of that could control iron.
She could think that it was all an illusion if it weren’t for the burns on her palms. Her fingers curled into her hand to reassure herself that the pain was still there. If he was an Illusionist and this all wasn’t real then he was the strongest Illusionist in existence.
The thought wasn’t much of a stretch for one of the Lords. Lyra shivered as she considered the possibilities. This man could be more powerful than Bones. He could be more powerful than all of them.
The graveyard was eerily silent. Headstones decorated the ground and cast shadows as the moonlight brightened the darkness. Some had fallen to the ground and were crumbling as time aged them beyond saving.
Her eyes lingered upon the etched numbers on one of the remaining headstones that still stood. The number nearly made her breath catch as she realized the graveyard she stood in was very old. Hundreds of years old, in fact.
“1992,” she whispered.
Somehow, being in this place made her feel as though she needed to be quiet. There was so much power in such a small place. There weren’t nearly as many graves here as in many other places. Yet there was a taste on her tongue that warned her that magic was heavy in the air.
“Pull yourself together, Lyra.”
She wouldn’t have this reverence or fear dictating what moves she made. She knew how to be strong. She knew how to control other people.
She was a Siren, damnit. This was just another man who needed to fall under her spell.
Turning on her heel, she cast a glance around her to see if she could find any anomaly that would give her a hint as to where he was. There were none. The air didn’t have any rips or tears, there was no smell or cologne, there wasn’t even the sound of another person moving.
“Graverobber!” she shouted. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
A gust of hot air blew from behind her. Tendrils of her dark hair escaped from its h
igh ponytail and lashed against her cheeks. Apparently, she had managed to catch his attention.
“It’s about time!” she yelled.
She heard a large clanking sound behind her and managed to turn fast enough to see two stone doors open. They led down into the ground, where the moonlight did not banish the shadows. It was going to be a long night.
Sighing, she turned and walked in the direction he obviously wanted her to go. All the while, she wondered, why the theatrics? It seemed more likely that the Graverobber didn’t want to hold up on his end of the bargain.
Lyra hesitated only a moment at the top of the stairs that disappeared into the darkness. Her boots clicked hard against the stone steps. The sound echoed around her until it sounded like the ticking of a clock. Danger likely lurked around the corner, but she couldn’t find any way to convince herself to be nervous.
The Graverobber was an enigma she was so close to figuring out. She had sent out messages to her contacts before here. Anyone that still lived in the Black Market had been trying to find out information for her.
All of them had come up empty handed. No one had seen the Graverobber before. And if they had, they weren’t giving up any details about the illusive man. He was a secret that no one had managed to peel the edges away from. Lyra was good at picking. She would know everything about him as soon as she could.
The doors rose on their own and crashed shut. Yet another attempt to scare her. She refused to flinch at the sound.
A light sparked to life ahead of her. Candles lit the stairs with a spark that should have been warm. Instead, the yellowed color slowly turned red. More magic.
“Wow,” she muttered. “You’re really going all out to try and make this so romantic for me.”
The light seemed to sputter for a moment. Lyra smirked at the response. Obviously the Graverobber hadn’t been prepared for her reaction. Or lack thereof. He certainly hadn’t been expecting her to throw it back in his face.
Cold air hitting her face made her realize how deep she was traveling. She had assumed that this was some kind of morgue. Seconds passed, then minutes, and still she was walking down the steps.