Page 43 of Angel in Absentia (Light Locked #2)

Negotiation

LEA RATTLED HER chains against the bedpost, gritting her teeth as the iron cuffs cut into her wrists.

The room was silent but for her shallow breathing and the faint whistle of wind against the cracked windows.

She had counted the hours by the fading of the light and the settling cold.

No guards. No footsteps. Only silence and solitude—and the slow throb of fury beneath her skin.

That negotiation had been a game to him, giving power to take it away and give it again.

It was a fun and simple throw of a ball only to see if she could hit it back to him.

It only further cemented his position, though she supposed it was more gracious than outright making her beg him, unless that was next.

That wasn’t Ryson. It was a version of him, a charade, playing on her feelings until he grew bored with the game and was ready to slit her throat.

She had to get out, to find some way to get the upper hand.

Her mind sorted through every vulnerability she could imagine, and after several hours, she settled on a rather odd one.

She closed her eyes, reaching into the quiet of her thoughts. She wasn’t sure if it would work, but it was worth a try. It had worked before.

Prince.

The word wasn’t spoken aloud, only shaped softly in her mind. A ripple passed through the air, and when she opened her eyes, he was there.

The figure drifted into view, pale and translucent with a painted white mask. He hovered above the floor, the edges of his spidery form fraying into mist.

You called , Prince said with obvious delight.

Clea stared at him, willing herself not to shudder. Prince was a bizarre creature, a mixture of courtesy and a hidden hunger beneath it, but there was also a childlike innocence to him, and feeling the slightest pang of guilt, she tested it, first with a simple question.

“Is it true?” she asked first. “Ryson is the Warlord of Shambelin?”

Prince tilted his head. His mask was expressionless, but the space behind it seemed oddly alive, shifting somehow. Yes .

Confirmation of the answer hurt a bit more than she was expecting. Clea squeezed her eyes shut, muttering a curse under her breath. She forced herself to think, to plan, not to collapse into the roaring chaos inside her chest.

“You control bodies,” she said, and he nodded. “So, your vice is what? That you want one?”

He nodded again.

“And Alina. Her vice? Her weakness?” Clea ventured, wondering if he’d actually answer.

Her obsession is terror. She can sense it and must always produce it , Prince said, but she is an ugly soul. Vain in her appearance but always destined to terrify .

“I see,” Clea said, and very politely added, “Thank you, Prince. You are very helpful.”

Prince’s mask shuddered in a kind of odd delight, and he reminded her a bit of a dog, eager to be petted. Unlike Ryson, he seemed intent on interacting with the living world.

“And Ryson. He has a vice,” she pointed out, realizing that they had never discussed this on their journey. Vices were irresistible. Anything irresistible was a weakness. This was where every powerful Venennin could be felled, and Prince was about to tell her outright.

“Oh, yes,” Prince said. “He is most a slave to his vice, more so, perhaps, than Alina or I.”

Even better.

“What is it?” she asked. She’d heard stories. The Warlord of Shambelin—the Venennin of illusion. He could cultivate illusions, but what did that even mean? What vice was that tied to? She was suddenly eager, feeling that the answer to her problem was about to be spilled right before her.

Illusion , Prince replied.

She waited for him to say more.

“Illusion,” she repeated.

Yes , Prince replied.

“I don’t understand,” Clea continued.

In the Belgears, the illusions descended like a fog.

The Belgearian Lord was wrought with paranoia, dreams of glory, desires, and hatreds.

Alkerrai presented himself as a conquered foe, fitting perfectly into the Belgearian Lord’s desires, and then the man was so haunted by illusion that he ignored all evidence otherwise and did not see the threat for what it was.

When he fell for the illusion, tortured Alkerrai, and brought him into the kingdom, Alkerrai executed him.

Alkerrai’s ability is an uncanny sense of the illusions others cast over the world and how to manipulate them .

“So, he sets traps, traps specially designed for people based on their weaknesses?” Clea whispered.

Yes. I am afraid no one has ever defeated Alkerrai’s power , Prince replied, but you have a chance. You have his heart and he has yours.

“You’re saying his feelings for me are real?” Clea asked.

They could not be more real , Prince said. But he is a slave to his vice, and rest assured, he has set his trap.

She stopped. “You just told me his feelings were real.”

Well. Yes. He hopes you don’t fall for it.

“But wants me to?”

We all have our little…inclinations.

Clea sighed. “How do I defeat him?” she asked, hoping Prince might actually give her the answer.

If the Belgearian Lord had not attacked Alkerrai in pursuit of power, it’s likely he’d still be alive , Prince replied as if explaining something simple to a child.

But I suppose the illusion is especially crafted for you, so for you it may not be simple.

Just don’t fall for it or it will lead to your destruction.

She stared.

If you don’t fall for it, then you will both be free.

I will be free. You will set the entire world free , he replied dreamily.

For it is Alkerrai’s vice that binds us all, and all this time, he’s been looking only to be defeated.

That is his illusion. He aches for redemption from his vice and cannot defeat it on his own, though he is damned to try for all eternity, systematically destroying all that resists him in the process.

His vice is the light and the illusions it creates .

“So…” She paused. “What you’re saying, and let me make sure I’m understanding”—she emphasized the words—“is that he loves me, and at the same time, he is systematically trying to destroy me because he can’t help it, and is ultimately hoping I will defeat him, even though the way to defeat him is incredibly obscure and all along, I’m walking along a trap and if I make one stray move, I will be destroyed by my own weaknesses and doom the world? ”

Yes.

Clea stopped short, opened her mouth, and then closed it. “You’re joking,” she said. Prince didn’t reply, and she stopped talking and considered who she was speaking to. “Have you been lying this entire time? Prince?” she urged when he didn’t reply.

You’re the one that fell in love with him, not me , Prince replied. Though I am convinced he fell in love with you because you may very well be the one to free us all. You must simply avoid falling into your own illusions, and you will be fine .

“Prince,” a voice called clearly and coolly from the door. She jolted, and Prince evaporated into smoke.

Clea turned toward the door to see Ryson standing there, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“Prince tells a lot of epic tales,” Ryson said, unfolding his arms as he walked into the room. He walked to the windowsill where she’d spent so many evenings and looked out at the city. It was strange seeing him in this room where she’d spent so much of her life.

“He’ll go on and on if you don’t stop him,” he said.

“Mostly nonsense. It usually leads to him talking about getting his body back, which, trust me, isn’t the exciting triumph you think it could be.

” He looked over his shoulder and then faced her as he eyed the room.

“How do you like your prison? I thought you’d be accustomed to it after so many years.

Odd, it’s where they kept you locked, and with plenty of other rooms, you still prefer to sleep here. ”

She glared obstinately. Ryson approached her until they were face-to-face.

For the first time, it was just the two of them.

Clea swallowed, holding onto the chains around her wrists above her.

Her armor had been removed, but she stiffened in the clothes beneath as if she were still going to war.

Her shirt and pants were still tinged in dirt and sweat from the battle.

Her hair was still fastened in its braid, strands hanging loose around her face.

He assessed her in her disheveled state. She assessed him in his refined one.

“Hello, Princess,” he said as if truly greeting her for the first time, and the greeting felt so familiar that her heart twisted. She momentarily glanced away.

“Let me go,” she whispered, pushing herself to maintain his gaze.

He was close to her face, and her legs were tired, but she stood straight in front of him.

“You aren’t actually trapped,” he whispered and then smiled. “But you’d know that if you weren’t so intent to play pretend.”

“These,” she snapped, jerking on the chains above her head, “feel rather real.”

“Oh, yes, but you wouldn’t have asked for them and dared me to kill you if you actually knew your city was on the line,” he whispered. “Ethics are rather predictable, you know. Yours especially.”

“You claimed you cared. I simply put those claims to the test,” she whispered back angrily. “If only to prove your savagery.”

“In testing them with such high stakes, you only demonstrated how much you believed them. You, Princess, showed your hand,” he said, lifting a hand to grasp the chain above her shackles.

“You know exactly who I am. You always have, and as soon as you’re prepared to surrender this little charade—which, by the way, I am rather enjoying”—he tugged once on the chain, which shook her abruptly—“then you and I can at last be truly reacquainted after our long and agonizing season apart.”