Page 73 of Void of Endings
“Take her down.”
Gromede reached up and dislodged the rope from the hook. He held her by the elbows and she lolled against him, unable to keep herself upright on her own.
Parisa bent over, curving one long nail under Maeve’s chin, forcing her to look up. “I know what you’re thinking. You imagine yourself to be so brave by not giving me the gratification of a scream or a sob. You are strong, I’ll give you that, but your weakness lies in those you hold most dear.”
Her nail scraped along Maeve’s jaw, drawing blood. “They will come for you. They will try and save you. Trust when I say I will kill each of them, slowly, as you look on, helpless to do anything but watch. I will break you, Maeve. Be it your mind or your heart, and when this is all over, there will be nothing left of you but the shattered remains of your soul.”
Maeve slumped against Gromede, the fight draining.
“Clean her up. I can’t have my most prized possession looking like such a mess when she makes her grand entrance.” Parisa whirled away from her, then stalked out of the torture chamber completely.
Gromede deposited her in a chair, retreating to the opposite side of the room as the Spring fae slowly treaded toward Maeve once more. This time, she carried a salve and some ointment for healing, but there was a heavy sorrow in her eyes.
Maeve cooperated, allowing the fae to tend her devastating wounds. Her lips pressed together, and she winced as the salve was spread across the lacerations littering her back. It smelled lightly of fresh earth and rainfall, and a sigh escaped her. The fae was gentle, her small hands thorough and capable as she did her best to ease Maeve’s torment. Gradually the pain ebbed, though she didn’t dare ask about the state of her skin. The scarring would be horrendous, of that she had no doubt.
Fatigue tugged at Maeve. Numb to everything around her, she didn’t protest when the fae dressed her in a beige linen shirt, or when she stripped her bloodied leathers from her legs, and helped her into a pair of plain brown leggings instead.
But when the Spring fae bent down to apply some of the ointment to her broken jaw, Maeve found the courage to whisper a hesitant plea.
“Help me.” She swallowed, her voice hoarse. “If you can get me out of here, I can save you. I will rid this land of Parisa once and for all.”
The Spring fae looked up at her then, her golden brown eyes reflecting a lifetime of suffering. She patted Maeve’s hand. “It’s too late for us. Just as it’s too late for you.”
Maeve sagged in the chair.
The fae’s spirit was broken. There would be no saving her unless Maeve could save herself.
Gromede’s giant frame came into focus. Bending down, he scooped Maeve up and tossed her over his shoulder.
Maeve didn’t fight the dark fae. She was too tired, too weary, and the last thing she wanted was for him to punch her in the face again. So, she remained compliant, allowing him to carryher all the way back to her cell, deep within the mountain below the palace of Suvarese.
He dumped her unceremoniously onto the ground, then secured the locks of her chain.
She watched his uneven gait slowly disappear down the corridor of the dungeon until the amber faerie fire in the lantern sputtered out completely.
At once, the cell was engulfed in a swath of all-encompassing darkness.
Alone and cold, Maeve leaned back against the slimy wall and closed her eyes.
I will not yield.
I will not break.
Chapter Nineteen
Tiernanfadedinto the Autumn Court.
Leaves of ruby and citron fluttered around him on the cool breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and mulled spices. Hollowed-out logs were hidden beneath thick brushes dotted with tiny berries, and woodland creatures scampered across the sodden ground. Before him was the Black Lake, its smooth surface glinting like obsidian against the slashes of moonlight breaking through the trees. Even in the pitch of night, the forest looked set on fire with its shimmering jeweled hues.
He took one step forward and froze, a barely detectable undercurrent of pain sweeping through him, pulsing from the witch thread marking him.
Tiernan clutched his wrist, wincing.
Sinewy shadows churned to his left, building to a mass of darkness before fanning out to reveal Rowan. The Nightweaver took one look at him, and his brow furrowed. “Hurt yourself already?”
“No. Something happened.” Tiernan peeled back the leather of his armor, staring down at his wrist. The witch thread was still there, but a dull ache throbbed just beneath the surface of his skin. He tugged the sleeve down. “She’s hurt.”
Rowan flinched, his gaze sharpening. “How bad?”
