Page 2 of Owned By the Fae
It’s as if it’s gained a sentience, and I don’t know what to make of that. Has it taken pieces of me to make itself …more? Or has it been sitting in the back of my mind for the past decade, listening and learning as a child would from its parents?
No words come through, just fleeting impressions, and I’ve been thinking about it on and off since I recognized the change in it. Is it even real? I’m scared and tired. I’m friendless and in the hands of my enemies. Maybe I’m just imagining all of this, trying to create an ally because I have none here. I almost laugh at how ridiculous that would be.
After the orcs, I convinced myself quickly that it hadn’t happened the way I thought, but then I began to notice a persistent pressure in the back of my mind … whereitresides, as if it was trying to speak to me but couldn’t find a way to make me hear it.
Not that I want to listen to its false words. I’ve had enough of being told lies lately. I already know that it wants me alive. It has an instinct that lends itself to self-preservation. Perhaps it learned that from me as well. I keep it safe by breathing, by existing. It’s in its best interests to keep me that way. And that’s how I know, too, that it doesn’t really care about me. How could it? It’s not alive. It’s just a Skill, a potent one, but nothing more than that. The Harbinger is a tool for Varrik to make me use. That’s all.
I hear purposeful footsteps coming down the hallway, and I forget about the Harbinger as I realize I have more urgent problems.
I rise from the bed, turning my attention to the tangible. Whoever it is has a quick pace with a slight shuffle. Dread fills me as I recall that gait. I know who’s coming, and I haven’t felt this brand of terror since I was a young girl.
‘I’m not a child anymore,’ I say to myself, vowing that I won’t let him make me feel as helpless as he did back then.
I don’t know how long I’ve been back, but it must be two or three days by now at least. The bread and water were brought by servants I didn’t recognize from before, but they knew what I am. They came with a guard and left quickly, never looking at menor getting too close despite the new binding conjure that should make them feel safe.
I can feel it covering me in addition to the four that were already there. Varrik’s original spell, the one I paid for in Alcana before I knew it would make no difference, and the two that Dane put on me while we were traveling. But the bindings don’t work. They haven’t in a long time. Though I can still feel them like weights on my shoulders.
I thought Grey would have mentioned how useless they are to Varrik. He knows, after all. He’s seen the Harbinger at work despite it being impossible, at least according to the fae lord.
I hear my door unlocking, and I let out a calming breath as the enemy I expect enters my room with an anticipatory smile on his face.
Grith.
Even knowing it would be him, my body still locks up for a moment with the memories of his hair brushing against me as he leaned over me, of his fingers touching me … that sometimes pretended tenderness which was so much worse than his fists.
He looks older. Weathered. As if more than seven years have passed. I never knew his age other than he must be at least twenty years older than me. But the gap seems to have widened considerably in his appearance. He’s still quite broad in the shoulders, but his dark clothes seem very slightly too big. They hang off him as if he’s lost muscle and hasn’t realized. His hair is thinner, too, and there’s even a bald patch on the crown that wasn’t there before.
The years have taken their toll on him.
Good.
He doesn’t speak; just walks around the room with a nonchalance that’s meant to terrify me. I hate to admit that it does. He’s always at his cruelest in the moments he seems calmest.
‘It’s been a long time,’ he finally says, scratching at the short, grey beard he’s begun to keep.
His rasping voice sounds the same and yet somehow more wizened.
I don’t reply to him. Anything I say will be used against me somehow. Instead, I put all of my energy into appearing as if I’m not afraid … and keeping all my emotions down where they can’t be seen or made to benefit him.
His eyes move over my dress, the clothes that marked me as a slave in Rondorai, and I see the amusement lurking in his eyes.
The sick cunt enjoys it. He’s not even trying to hide it. He likes what he thinks it means ... that I’ve endured innumerable horrors outside Varrik’s keep and the fold as a humanand a female.
‘I wondered how you fared out there beyond the safety of our borders,’ he says, moving closer, stalking me now.
Safety?
I almost scoff at his choice of word. This place was never a shelter for me.
But Idon’tscoff. I don’t make a sound as my eyes track the steps that bring him closer and closer. I try not to panic. I want to run, but that would be as big a mistake as when I began to trust the Cunty Betrayers.
Never move.
That was one of the first lessons I learned when dealing with Grith.
‘Varrik assured me you were alive.’ He chuckles. ‘But when no one could find you after the first year, I began to have my doubts.’
His eyes linger on the linen dress.
