Page 91 of Curse of Darkness
“And yet, she kept asking for you to deliver the dispatches. Did you never wonder why?” I muse as we stroll through a courtyard overgrown with flowers.
He’s silent for long moments.
“I think she wanted to see you,” I add. “Maybe it was all she could bring herself to ask for. Maybe she never spoke of anything other than troop movements or supply lines. But don’t dismiss those moments. Maybe they were the brightest spark of her day. Her chance to see the son she couldn’t publicly acknowledge.”
“Five hundred years,” he admits, his voice like roughened gravel. “And it still hurts. But sometimes, you make me see it all in a different light.” Our eyes meet. “Thank you, Vi. Now…. Why don’t you tell me what the past few weeks have been like for you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way my garden is stalking us.”
“Your garden, is it?” Vine tendrils have tracked us over the lawn, one of them daring to curl around my ankle. “It’s… a thing that happens now.”
“Since you bound yourself to the lands?”
“Yes. Though your loss exacerbated the situation.”
“It did?”
I caress a rose bush, feeling the flush of power bubble through my veins. It’s becoming as simple as breathing. “I finally discovered what was holding me back from my magic.”
“And?”
It’s a confession from deep within my soul. We’ve spent years working on my mental blocks, and while they’re crumbling—while I think I’m almost there—this level of soul-searching can be painful. “I’ve been thinking about my blocks, of late, and I believe it all goes back to the night I set my mother’s castle on fire. I remember it now. I remember it all. The look on her face….” The memory conjures itself. Horror. That was horror I saw. That was fear. That was disgust. And in some ways, I internalized all of it.
“We both knew in that moment that the fire that burned within me didn’t come from her gifts. Mother could not love the power within me and I could not contain it. She twisted my thoughts, twisted my memories, until the mere remnant of my magic scalded me. I have hated my magic. I have yearned for it. I have fought to control it, to twist it into some semblance of her power… when it was clearly not. And even when you found me—even when you loved me for all the twisted darkness inside me, I… I could not.”
I hold my palm up and flames flicker to life mere inches above my hand. My magic has never burned orange. It’s gold. Amber. A fluorescent whiteness that burns to look at, and the violence of its light gilds Thiago’s dark eyes and illuminates his face, stripping away the soft curve of his cheeks and mouth and replacing them with sinister edges.
“I’m not truly fae.” They’re words I never thought I’d ever admit out loud. “I am theleanabh an dàn.The child of destiny. A melding of two worlds. Fae. And otherkin.
“And when I lost you, I stopped caring what my mother thought of me, and suddenly some of the barriers that had been restricting my magic crumbled. In some secret, stupid part of myself I wanted… to prove myself to her.” I caress another deadened husk and this time blood red rose petals burst to life. The entire bush starts to bloom as if my magic runs through the bush’s sap, bringing life to wizened old buds. “But those were the fears and desires of a hurt little girl. Now, I have nothing to prove. My magic is mine. And sheshouldfear it.”
All around us, the garden bursts to life.
Red roses. Pink. White.
Tiny little demi-fey flutter out of the heart of a glowing lily as if to chide me for giving up their hiding spot. Thalia’s, no doubt. I shoot them a stern look. She’s only watching out for us, but this is our moment.
Shaking off the somber mood, I gesture around us. “And maybe it all fits my grand renovation scheme. If I can cut costs on the garden, then maybe I can convince you to let me give the façade of the palace an overhaul.”
Thiago stares at me for long seconds, and then he bursts into laughter.
It’s a shock of a sound, perhaps because it’s been so long since I’ve heard it.
Slinging an arm around my waist, he hauls me into his arms. “How do you do this?”
“What?”
“Make me smile when I’ve been having the worst day I’ve had in years. Or smile yourself, when you’ve just finished telling me such a horrible story.”
“Magic,” I tell him, bopping my finger on his nose.
Thiago captures my finger between his teeth, and everything changes.
Suddenly, I’m aware of how alone we are. And the mood—whilst previously one of confession—shifts, becoming thicker with want, intimate with the knowledge that last night was barely enough to slake the demons between us.
His hands roughen on my hips, his eyes darkening. The ravenous hunger I see reflected there makes my stomach twirl with butterflies, my sex clenching.
It’s just a look, but it steals my breath each and every time. “How do you dothis?”
“Do what?” The silkiness of his voice is merely another weapon in his arsenal.
