Page 29 of Hell-Bound (Pacts of the Infernal #1)

Renata

Renata woke up with a start, head pounding. She was in bed with the same familiar sheets she had bought at her favorite market.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting all morning for you to get up!”

came a pleasant voice.

Across the room, sitting in a small wooden chair, was Nephele. His smile was so wide that his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I woke up this morning to your letter!”

he said excitedly.

Renata matched his grin and scrambled to the end of her bed.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

she asked, flinging her hands around his neck and crawling into his lap.

He smelled of home and the nutty scent of fall.

Nephele wrapped two strong arms around her, and she heard him stifle a sniffle. She pulled back.

“What’s the matter?”

she asked, a crease appearing between her eyes.

Nephele’s cheeks were pink, and his eyes were welling with emotion.

“You remember,”

his voice broke.

Renata squinted at her partner.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your letter said that you found a cure in Ataria. That you arrived last night. I’m so…”

he sniffled.

“thankful you’re back.”

She laughed.

“What are you saying? I’ve never even been to Ataria.”

Nephele smoothed silver hair out of her face.

“Oh, songbird, your letter said you might still be missing some pieces—that the side effects of the healing would return your old memories, but you couldn’t keep all of your new ones,”

Nephele explained to her how she had woken up almost a year before and how she had been summoned to Ataria to regain what she had lost.

“And it was…an illness? I’ve…never heard of such a thing.”

Nephele shrugged.

“Me neither. We thought it was the trauma of the war, at first.”

She shivered abruptly as a chill made its way down her spine.

The Great Fae War—scenes of her sitting around a camp covered in gore, visions of hard conversations with generals about compromises and collateral damage—the shine of a blade in her hand all flashed quickly in front of her vision. But they were just that—small flashes. Disjointed with little connection between.

“What’s wrong, little songbird?”

“I…don’t know,”

she said.

“This is all very strange.”

She reached up to touch her forehead—Nephele gasped.

“Renata! What happened to your hand!?”

He grabbed it and cupped it gently.

She saw with a shock that her hand was covered in unfamiliar red scars like splashes of discolored ink.

“Wha—?”

she said, with a start, reeling back so quickly that she almost fell to the floor.

“Shh shhh,”

Nephele comforted.

“Don’t worry, my love. I know they’re…uncomely, but we can fix them. You must have gotten them on your journey.”

He bent his head to kiss her palm.

“I…”

she said, unable to grasp the right response.

She felt unexpectedly defensive of her scars but said nothing.

Nephele didn’t like them—and that was that. He had harped on her for months to get rid of the scar on her arm—but she couldn’t. She had gotten it and kept it as a reminder of when she failed to…failed to what? She couldn’t recall at the moment. No matter, surely all of her memories would return soon enough. No use in harping on the past, as he often reminded her.

When she came back to herself, she saw Nephele, the softest of looks on his face. The look of pure love and contentment. He drew a finger down her jaw and leaned in to kiss her, nuttiness filling her nostrils.

His lips, so familiar and usually so comforting, moved quickly and desperately. She could feel his wet tears on her cheeks and suddenly felt…embarrassed. She knew these lips, had kissed them hundreds of times, but it felt…awkward. Like she didn’t know how to keep the correct pace.

She felt Nephele begin to coil his arms more tightly around her body, his kiss roughened as he started to squeeze her breasts.

Her body jerked back, and she stood up and took two hesitant steps back.

“What’s wrong, songbird? We haven’t…I haven’t…gotten to touch you in so long. I was hoping—”

“Yes. I think I just need some time. I’m feeling a bit—”

“Out of sorts,”

he finished, standing and taking her good hand.

“I am sure you need a—some time.”

He cleared his throat, trying to hide his displeasure.

“Erm, perhaps we should go to Jamal’s? I am positive he would love to see you. Perhaps you can play for him tonight?”

Renata’s eyes lit up.

“Yes! That’s exactly what I need.”

Worry dissipating, she spun around to search for her piccolo. She bent to look over the bed and pushed aside some tattered travel leathers. Her room was small, barely big enough for her two pieces of furniture.

“Nephele…where is Calliope?

Nephele went rigid.

“Your…piccolo?”

he asked, voice raspy.

She giggled.

“Who else would I be talking about?”

Nephele sucked in air sharply.

“Songbird, I was hoping you remembered.”

From under the chair, he produced a small box, barely the size of Renata’s hand, and passed it carefully to her. She hesitated—a ringing beginning in her ears. The last thing she remembered before opening the box was the soft texture of its lid, the last pleasant sensation she would have for the rest of the day.

Renata screamed.

Inside were what looked like jagged and misshapen splinters from a fallen tree. She tipped the pitiful remnants of her instrument into her shaking arms.

“What happened to her? When did this—”

Her voice caught in her throat, choking off her next words.

“I don’t know,”

he said hurriedly.

“I found it that way last night….”

She clutched the pieces to her face, feeling the wetness of her tears as her body shook with sobs.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

Nephele moved to her side.

“I know you enjoyed it.”

“Her—not it.”

Renata could barely get the words across her lips as she gasped for air.

Nephele grabbed her arms gruffly.

“Renata, no. Don’t spiral—you are stronger than that,”

he said, shaking her slightly.

“You will get through this. You should be over these little spells.”

He let go of her arm and turned to walk into the small living area. When he returned, he held out a violin—newly shined and restrung.

“When I found the box with your letter, I decided to get you something to help you forget the pain. Do you like it?”

She swallowed, trying to look grateful and keep her breathing even. It wouldn’t do to show her weakness in front of Nephele. After all, he was so kind to her today.

“I know it’s not your piccolo. But you used to love the violin as a child. I remember you playing for the other children at school. Perhaps you could love it again?”

She recalled the images of the happy round faces of her classmates. Indeed, it seemed like everyone preferred it when she played the violin. She had only been playing the piccolo since Calliope came to her during the war. She was certainly better at the violin—more used to it. She looked at its shining exterior and flawless finish. She couldn’t deny that it was such an attractive instrument. Perhaps she was just being dramatic, as Nephele said—she was being weak, and there was so much to love about the violin, wasn’t there?

She loved it once. She could grow to love it again.