Page 23 of Enchantra (Wicked Games #2)

22

brUTAL

Genevieve and Rowin didn’t speak a word the entire way down to the kitchen, escaping the little hidden room in the library through the trap door and along the dusty secret passage. Nor did they speak a word while he scrounged together enough food to make them each a semblance of a meal or in the hour that followed. And they definitely did not say a single word when Wellington Silver came bursting into the kitchen.

Rowin cursed as Wells slammed into one of the marble islands that sat in the center of the room, black blood smearing across its white surface from his hands as he steadied himself. Genevieve saw that one of his arms was hanging strangely, like it had been pulled out of its socket, but when she stepped forward to ask if he needed help, Rowin grabbed the back of her dress and tugged her into him.

“Get in the dumbwaiter,” he ordered as he pushed her toward a small opening in the wall to their left.

She scoffed. “There is absolutely no way?—”

“Now is not the time for arguing, Genevieve,” he bit out.

Genevieve had opened her mouth to give a retort when the sight of Wells coughing up blood mixed with the sudden warmth of the signet on her finger made her pause. Without another protest she let Rowin boost her up toward the lift, wedging herself all the way to one end in order to make room for Rowin next to her. He dragged down the metal door seconds before Grave erupted through the kitchen door himself.

Genevieve pressed forward, squinting as she peeked through the sliver of open space around the dumbwaiter’s door. She watched as Wells grabbed a glass bowl from atop the island and smashed it across Grave’s face. Grave barely flinched. Blood spurted from his nose and glass crumbled to the floor. A grin spread over Grave’s expression as defeat began to take over his brother’s.

When the dagger came down, and the grunts of pain began to beat against the door of the hollow shaft, Genevieve pulled back. She could only watch as Rowin closed his eyes and clenched his fists until his knuckles were stark white, as if he could imagine away the sounds of his brothers fighting to the death. Wells’s death.

Sitting there, helpless, was brutal.

That was when she really understood. Enchantra was a different sort of horror than Phantasma. More intimate. There might have been no hauntings here, or tubs of blood, or the wailings of strangers. But the death of people you loved was infinitely worse.

Glancing over at Rowin, Genevieve slowly reached out her hand to give his a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sorry…” That you have to endure this. That your family has to endure this. Year after year.

“ Don’t ,” he snarled quietly.

She swallowed. When she began to pull her hand away, however, he gripped onto it tighter.

Her heart began thundering in her chest as she let him continue to hold on to her. At some point, Genevieve dozed off, her head against the too-hard steel walls of the tiny box they were confined in. When a metallic rattling echoed around her as someone lifted the dumbwaiter from above, however, she snapped awake in a second.

Rowin let out a string of curses as he lunged for the door, trying to slide it open so they could jump out. But the platform moved too quickly, and their window of opportunity disappeared.

“Scoot over,” Rowin ordered as he tried to shift in front of her, positioning himself to be nearest to the exit.

There was a moment of stillness as the lift finally stopped. Then the door slid open and Grave’s solemn, pallid face came into view. Sweat dripped down his temples, and the single strand of black in his hair was pasted to his forehead. Blood covered the front of his shirt.

“Get out,” he ordered Rowin, the hollowness in his voice sending a shiver down Genevieve’s spine.

The dumbwaiter had brought them back into the library, right beside the fireplace. A room with access to books and snacks. Under different circumstances, she imagined her sister would love to visit Enchantra.

“I’m not just going to let you have her,” Rowin told his brother.

Grave grinned. “Then I’ll kill you both. Like stabbing fish in a barrel.”

The dagger was between Rowin’s ribs a second later, and he grunted in pain as Grave moved to wrench him out of the lift by the front of his shirt. Genevieve scrambled out after them, but the moment her feet hit the floor, Grave slammed his fist into Rowin’s temple.

Grave spun for her next, and if he expected she’d be intimidated by the fact that he’d just knocked Rowin out cold, he was wrong.

“You could stab him right now and win, but you still want me ?”

“I’ve killed him plenty of times,” Grave told her. “Plus, killing you could help me win Favored.”

He lunged. She dodged.

“Let me do it quickly,” he seethed.

She had the urge to roll her eyes. She was not going to let him do anything. Genevieve was absolutely not going to win this fight. Not without her magic. But winning didn’t matter if she could just run out the clock, and according to the one on the wall behind him, she had to make it only six more minutes without dying and her magic would be back.

An idea struck.

I should let him take a free shot.

There was the risk that any blow he landed would be instantly fatal, of course. Rowin could handle a dagger in his side, but that was not how things worked for mortals. Even paranormal ones. She and her sister had always been able to sleep off bad injuries. Broken ribs, arms, that one time Genevieve got bitten by a water moccasin. All healed overnight or with a few days of rest. But she knew whatever Grave did to her wouldn’t be so tame that she’d be able to sleep it off.

Grave slashed at her again, regaining her focus as the tip of the blade grazed her arm. Blood trickled down her bicep, but her eyes never left him. She darted over to one of the bookshelves, grabbing an armful of tomes and whipping them at his head. The strength of her throws surprised even her, especially when one of the spines hit him square down the middle of his face and more black blood spilled over his mouth and down his chin.

It didn’t make him falter.

He slammed her back into the shelf with a hand wrapped around her throat. Her head cracked against the wood, and little spots of black filled her vision.

“You’re slowing down, pal,” Grave taunted. “Ready to give up?”

“ Fine ,” she whimpered dramatically, though her head was truly pounding from the hit. “But…the least you could do is let me breathe long enough to give you a message for my family.”

He didn’t protest the request, simply let go of her neck so she could suck in a deep breath.

When she was recovered enough, she looked up at him, chin raised, and stated, “I’d like them to know I loved them. Ophelia is to burn my diaries immediately . And I want to be buried in something pink, holding Mr. Daisy.”

Grave lifted a brow at the last bit, though his expression remained tight.

“My childhood stuffy,” she explained. “A teddy bear with a daisy in his ear.”

In reality, Mr. Daisy had met his untimely end when she was ten and she threw him in the Mississippi River to go for a swim. May he rest in peace.

Grave dipped his chin in a nod of acknowledgment and then said, “You might want to close your eyes.”

She shook her head.

There was a glint of respect in his gaze as he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He raised the dagger. She braced. And when his swing came down, she jerked to the left as hard as she could. The dagger pierced right through her, just beneath her right clavicle, and out of her back. Pinning her to the solid wood shelf.

She let out a ragged scream of pain as bright-red blood spilled down the front of her dress, her throat becoming hoarse with tears while Grave tried to yank the blade out of the wood. His strength had been a little too forceful, however, because he found himself struggling to recover the dagger from where it was now stuck in the molding.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he growled.

Her vision was growing blurry.

“Who makes up a stuffed animal named Mr. Daisy?” He grunted as he finally managed to get enough leverage on the knife to rip it out of her.

“Mr. Daisy was very real ,” she slurred as she began to slump toward the floor. Her entire body felt like it was on fire.

Grave poised himself to strike once more. “Let’s try this one last time.”

But when the knife came down, however, Genevieve completely disappeared. And so did the Hunting Blade in Grave’s hand.

His fist passed harmlessly through her.

She’d made it. Six minutes.

Genevieve held on to her returned magic just long enough to step past him, and then solidified once more. Before she could hit the ground, Rowin was suddenly there, scooping her up to cradle her against his chest. It seemed his wounds had healed entirely in the last few minutes.

“Must be nice,” she whispered, but the words came out garbled and incoherent.

There was a crash somewhere behind her and a long string of curses that she assumed was coming from Grave, but she was too weak to keep her eyes open any longer.

“Sleep,” she muttered into Rowin’s neck. That was the only way she was going to heal these wounds. If she even could.

“ Not yet ,” he ordered.

As usual, she didn’t listen.

“Why?” she pleaded. “Why?”

“You’re a creature from Hell,” Farrow told her. “And you deserve to burn like one.”

When Genevieve woke, it wasn’t to the smell of smoke but the smell of mint. She bolted straight up in the bed, her heart thundering as she glanced around, trying to figure out where she was, what had happened?—

“Careful.”

At the sound of his irritated voice, she focused on Rowin standing by the armchair in the corner, Umbra hopping from his lap as he walked up to the foot of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. His bare chest. Uninvited butterflies erupted in her stomach.

Genevieve wasn’t sure what was sexier—his perfectly sculpted abdominals, the tattoos swirling across his skin that disappeared below the waistline of his trousers, or the golden hoops pierced through his nipples and belly button.

She realized she wanted to bite him again. Badly.

“What happened?” she questioned, her voice hoarse.

“What happened is that you almost fucking died,” he said, tone clipped. “I had to bribe Ellin to heal you.”

“What did you bribe her with?” She touched her hands to her throbbing temples. “And why are you complaining? I survived the first round, didn’t I? Shouldn’t we be celebrating?”

He shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. “Get dressed. We’re missing dinner.”

It occurred to her then that the only thing she was wearing was an ill-fitting black button-down.

Her cheeks heated as she asked, “What happened to my dress?”

“It was covered in blood,” he said.

“You stripped me?”

She had meant for the question to sound annoyed but, unfortunately, with the current huskiness of her voice, it came out much sultrier than she had intended.

Still no smile, but there was a slight glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he said, “Don’t get too excited, my sister stripped you when she was healing you and cleaning you up. I only provided the shirt.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but before she could argue, her stomach growled.

“If you want dinner, everyone will be in the dining room,” he told her as he headed toward the door. “Or I can bring something back?—”

“No, I’ll come,” she told him as she waved for him to leave. “I want everyone who bet against me to see my face until they’re sick of it.”