Page 8 of Fangs & Freaks
“He was taken by the Obsidian Circle.” My eyes light up and I lean forward in my chair. This just got interesting. Warrick knows he has my attention and continues. “But that’s not even the best part.”
“What could be better than fucking with that band of crazies? They make me look sane, and that's not an easy feat.” I’m so excited about the news I can barely sit still, bouncing around in my seat like a kid in a toy store.
“The guy that was kidnapped? He’s a fucking unicorn.”
My eyebrows arch in surprise, my eyes wide as I attempt to process the bombshell my brother and Prez just hit me with. I let out an uncharacteristic gasp as my mouth falls open. For the first time in my life, I’m momentarily at a loss for words, but my brain reboots, and I remember how to talk.
“You fucking with me? What’s the real story?” I ask him, knowing he has to be yanking my chain.
“That’s it. Bonus, as payment, we’re getting a pint of the sister’s blood for nine months. Collected the first one today.”
“Seriously? No way! A fucking unicorn. I thought they were a story, a fairytale for kids. I mean, there were rumors they were real, but no one has seen one in fucking thousands of years.” My mind slowly catches up with the wealth of emotions coursing through my immortal body.
Warrick clears his throat and when I glance up at him, his lips are pressed tightly together as he glares at me. “Blackwell, I know you’ve been dying for this encounter with the Obsidian Circle, but you need to keep it together. This is a paying job and a chance to get our hands on a rare creature’s blood. We also don’t need a repeat of what happened last time we met them. You know the headache it was to cover up your killing spree.”
“I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.” I hold my fingers up, giving him my best Boy Scout salute. What he doesn’t see is that, on my other hand, I have my fingers crossed. So, technically, when this goes south, I’m not a liar. But I’ll do my best to uphold my promise.
Chapter Three
Varys
The airin the cell reeks of mildew and piss. I sit on the cold stone floor, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the faint cracks that spider web across the ceiling. It’s been days—weeks maybe. Time lost meaning after the first few injections. Each one left me disoriented, my body shaking uncontrollably, my mind a whirlwind of confusion. They want me to shift, to become something I’ve spent my entire life hiding, and they’ll stop at nothing to see it happen.
My hands tremble as I clutch the flimsy blanket, barely enough to stop the bone-deep cold that penetrates my body. The metal door screeches open, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves. They come in like clockwork, black hoods masking their faces, their movements practiced and cold.
A tray clatters to the ground just inside the door. The slop they’ve deemed food, a grayish mush, is splattered across the floor, leaving a sticky, gray residue that sinks into the cracks. My stomach growls involuntarily, but the insult stings more than the hunger.
The hooded person doesn’t speak. They never do. Just a silent figure in the dark who watches me with disdain before retreating, leaving me alone with the mess. This time, though, there’s something different. The tray itself is metal, gleaming under the dim, flickering bulb in the hallway. Usually, it’s just a plastic bowl and cup, shoved in with as much care as one might toss scraps to a dog.
I crawl forward, careful not to spill more of the muck as I pick up the tray. My reflection stares back at me from the scratched, distorted surface. Hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, a wild tangle of hair that barely resembles the person I used to be. I run a hand over my jaw, my breath hitching. They’ve stripped me down to a shadow of myself.
My mind is filled with old stories that I can’t seem to shake. My grandmother’s voice echoes, warm and smooth, as she told me tales of the magic and power that ran through our veins.
If you’re ever desperate, Varys, if you’ve nothing left to lose, call her. Bloody Mary. She’s not kind, but she listens to the broken-hearted.
It’s ridiculous. Childish. But here, in this cell, stripped of everything I know, the absurdity is a lifeline. I grip the tray tighter, the edges biting into my fingers. What else do I have?
I drag the tray to the back of the cell, the furthest point from the door, and crouch down, my heart pounding. The air feels heavier now, as if the stories themselves are watching, waiting.
“Bloody Mary,” I whisper, the name feeling sinful on my tongue. My reflection stares back at me, unblinking, as if daring me to continue. “Bloody Mary.” Louder this time, my voice trembling but resolute.
The third time, I say it with everything I have left. “Bloody Mary.”
For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the fluorescent light and the distant drip of water somewhere downthe hall. I’m about to laugh at myself, to curse my desperation, when the air shifts. It’s subtle at first, like the temperature dropping a few degrees, but then it deepens, thickens, pressing against my skin.
The surface of the tray ripples, my reflection warping. The scratches and dents seem to disappear, replaced by something smoother, darker. Her face appears, pale and sharp, with eyes that are as dark as coal. Her lips curl into a smile that is anything but comforting.
“Varys,” she says, her voice like shattered glass and honey. “You called?”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I need help.”
Her laugh echoes in the small cell, a sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Oh, I can see that. You’ve made quite a mess of things, haven’t you?” She leans closer, her face dominating the tray, as if she might crawl through it at any moment. “And why should I help you, little unicorn?”
The word hits me like a blow. She knows. Of course, she knows.
“They’ll kill me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “They’ve tried everything to force me to shift, and now... now they’re planning something worse.”
Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think she might mock me. But then she tilts her head, considering. “Desperation suits you, Varys. But magic always has a cost. Are you willing to pay it?”
