Page 72 of Grotesque
Selfishly, I hoped he’d changed his mind, and that this adoration was his way of showing me that he would stay.
“I love you,” he had said. I hadn’t been able to shake those three little words. Over and over they played inside my head. He’d been so wild and desperate when he said them. His eyes as raw and open as I had ever seen them.
My heart and head worked actively against each other. Part of me wanted to return the words, say them right back to him, but the other was afraid that him saying what he did was just another play in one of his twisted games.
I don’t know what happened to the sketchbook and diary. When I finally worked up the courage to ask about them Corban had looked through me with cold, flat eyes. “What books?” As if they had never existed.
Whether he kept them hidden or destroyed them, I never saw them again. It made the matter of his affections more unnerving. Within the week he had become softer, kinder, gentle in the moments when he was not buried between my legs. It was so out of the ordinary that I daresay I missed his darker nature. At least I knew what to expect of him that way.
It made it all the stranger that he no longer hid himself from me. The wings, horns, red eyes and stone-grey skin were there to stay. Even the shadows had started to move with him. Every time he entered the room they would gather at his back, his feet, as writhing tendrils between his fingers. Any time he left me alone, they too would retreat.
Corban was up to something, and it was only a matter of time before I found myself trapped in another one of his games. I could feel it like an electric crackle in the air. Something powerful and dangerous was building.
I reclined in the rocking chair I’d moved from the front porch to the upper balcony. My feet were perched on the railing between two of the gargoyles. They both looked over the frontdrive. One’s ear was broken off and the other had a great gash carved down its back. I had tried speaking to them but if they heard me, if they were even alive, they never answered.
The sun was making its slow descent behind the trees. Dark orange painted the sky with luminescent strokes of color. It really was beautiful here. Magical even.
I scratched the back of my neck, ran my hand into my hair and sighed. Corban had created quite the haven within his prison.
If this is what he could do with magic while bound, what could he do in Under? I’d been toying with the idea all week, what it would be like to leave everything behind and run away with him to the fae realm.
I thought to my books. To the one I’d read where the mortal girl was turned fae and married a High Lord. Or the other who was given a crown and a throne. Would I be granted immortality? Power? Did I want that?
I’d be an idiot to refuse Corban. Right?
CorbanwasGlamis. Without him, what would the manor even look like? Could I let a being as otherworldly as him slip through my fingers, and go on with my life alone, in order to hold onto something materialistic?
Something caught the corner of my eye. I looked over my shoulder to the parlor behind me. It had appeared so barren and dusty a moment ago, hadn’t it?Another one of his tricks probably.
My phone buzzed.
Mom:Are you going to stay angry at me forever or are you going to grow up?
I rolled my eyes. Of courseIwas still the problem.
Me:I’m not selling anything. Drop it.
I hated matching her energy, but I was tired of being walked over. Being with Corban had given me a little bit more of a backbone. A little.
My phone buzzed.
Incoming call:Mom
“Who are you texting?” Corban’s silent presence never failed to startle me.
“My mom,” I said, bumping her call. I tipped my head back to look at him.
Corban leaned against the doorframe, taking up the entirety of the entryway.He was dressed in charcoal linen pants, belted, and a fitted short-sleeved sweater top. He spun a ring on his finger, one he had recently acquired that matched the chain around his neck. It looked like a signet ring, with a moth stamped into its face in sterling silver. Though I couldn’t see the skull in its wings, I assumed it was a death’s-head.
The scar above my tattoo itched. I ran my hand over it absentmindedly as he watched me with a tilted head.
“Do you miss her?” The aloofness didn’t match the glint in his eyes.
“I told you I’m not going anywhere if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into an almost-smile before it jerked away. “You couldn’t if you wanted to.”
I sucked the back of my teeth. He swept around me and leaned against the railing, where he casually placed his hand atop the broken head of the gargoyle. He stroked his claws through the granite, chipping off flakes with each strike.
