Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

A va became aware of herself standing in Serrik’s grand library. She was wearing her own clothes once more, and her hair was dry—and back to its curly ridiculousness that she both loved and hated. She was in her dreaming state.

And she was listening to a moody harpsichord melody being deftly executed by someone who clearly had a great deal of practice. Turning, she found the source—and shouldn’t have been surprised to see who it was.

Serrik.

Seated at the keys, a golden candelabra perched atop the black lacquered instrument. It was inlaid with ivory in the pattern of spiderwebs in a detailing she had never seen before—and it was her job as a historical architect to recognize these kinds of things.

But she wasn’t in Kansas anymore, she had to remember that. Or Massachusetts. Or Earth, for that matter. He had an open bottle of wine on a mirrored tray beside the lit candelabra, with two crystal goblets next to it. One was half empty. The other, full.

He was waiting for her.

It was…fascinating to watch him play. His fingers were long, accentuated by his pointed fingernails. She was amazed, as she slowly walked up to him, staying out of his line of sight, that he didn’t click his nails on the black and white keys.

God, he was good. She supposed being locked up in prison would give him nothing else to do. But she felt like she was in the presence of a true master of the instrument. She was sucked up into the piece, and the otherworldly beauty of him as his hands moved over the keys.

His expression was impassive. Expressionless. Whatever emotions were in the piece didn’t seem to affect him at all. His long, wild green hair flowed around his features and down around his tailored, eccentric, and antiquated black tailored clothing. Black lace dangled from the cuffs of his coat. His shirt was black silk, but over it dangled gold necklace after gold necklace, each one delicate and ancient.

Golden earrings swayed with his movements as he moved his way through the music. She noticed the jewelry he wore was etched with symbols in a language she didn’t recognize. Magic, she assumed.

He was a wild animal, dressed up in the trappings of a gentleman.

When he finished the piece, she stood there in awkward silence, not sure if she was supposed to applaud, or announce herself, or if he even knew she was there.

That was until he loudly pounded out the opening notes of Toccata in Fugue in D Minor.

She laughed without meaning to. “I know that one.”

“I am not without recognition of my own melodrama.” He quieted his keystrokes, but kept playing. “Hello, butterfly.”

“Hello, Serrik.” She walked up beside the harpsichord, and gestured to the full wine goblet. “For me?”

“Of course.” He did not take his glowing yellow-gold eyes from the keys.

She took the glass and sipped it. She was going to get spoiled by his extremely expensive wine. The cost of the bottle he had—which was entirely in French and hand-written—was probably more than she would see in a bank account in her lifetime.

If she lived.

And got a job.

She listened to him for a little while longer before she had to start the conversation. As tempting as it was to just stand and listen to the concert. “Were they lying to me?”

“About what, specifically?” His deep voice carried over the music without much effort. God, he was gorgeous. She knew she shouldn’t think so. But he was like a painting come to life. He was too much to be real, and yet there he was.

“Your…desire to kill all the fae in existence.”

“Hm.” It seemed he had no problem playing and talking at the same time. “And what if they were speaking the truth? We have hardly been kind to you.”

“I don’t exactly have the big picture view. I’m not exactly in a position where I feel capable of judging the situation fairly.” She sipped the wine again. She didn’t know if she could get drunk in a dream, but fuck it. She liked the flavor, and she figured she’d earned it.

Those glowing eyes flicked up to her briefly before returning to the keys. “And you would think yourself qualified to be both judge and jury.” It was so hard to get a read on his mood. Namely, because there weren’t any moods. He was as passionate as a rock. Or a statue.

“No, I’m not saying that, I’m saying that if I’m expected to take part in the genocide of an entire race , I would like to know why they deserve to die.” She rubbed a hand over her face. He was making her feel like she was insane for even asking that much. “Besides, aren’t you fae? Aren’t you on the list of people who would die?”

“I accept my death, should it happen. Indeed, I look forward to it.”

“That—” She stared at him, shocked. “Wait. What?”

“Look around you, Ava. This library, this room, is the only home I have known for nigh on eighteen-hundred years. Imagine that, if you can.” Still, he played the music as though he were doing nothing else in the world. “And tell me if you would not embrace death with willing and grateful arms.” For the first time that night, a flash of emotion crossed his features.

Hatred.

Pure, total, and all-consuming.

Like a crack of lighting, it was gone as fast as it had arrived.

But its echoes remained. “More so, if my death is merely the cost of ridding the universe of the blight that is the fae.”

Yikes.

“If it aids you in your choice,” Serrik continued. “Assisting me saves your kind from impending war and eventual extinction at the hands of the Unseelie tyrant king, Valroy.”

“Hold on.” Downing half a glass of her wine, she coughed, and then downed the rest of it before pouring herself a new glass. “Okay. What? ”

That earned her the barest hint of a maybe smile. But it was gone by the time she tried to see if it was really there. “The Unseelie King Valroy. Kept at bay by the tireless efforts of his wife, the Seelie Queen Abigail. He has vowed to subjugate her people, rule over all Tir n’Aill, invade Earth, and leave it a smoldering ruin in his wake. As for the human race? Well. You see how much my kind respect yours.”

“You’re on that list. Again. I repeat. You dragged me here. You put me into this mess.”

“I am aware. I had no choice but to try again.”

“Save the human race and commit genocide against a group of people you claim should be wiped out…or?” She took another swallow of her wine. “What’s option two? Be trapped in the Web until something terrible happens to me like Gregor and all the people before him?”

“Precisely.”

“How long did Gregor last, before he got trapped turning into…a living corpse?”

“Before the curse befell him? Longer than most. Six years, two months, one week, and three days.” Serrik finished the piece of music. That time, he seemed done, and did not start another. Resting his hands in his lap, his golden eyes fixed on her.

It was unnerving. She wished he’d go back to playing. It kept the pressure off.

“Six years?” Ava choked on her wine. “Some immortality. That’s what you call longer than most?”

Serrik’s golden eyes didn’t waver. “For someone trapped in the Web, bound to a book of spells they cannot wield? Yes. But he has spent another hundred and fifty years rotting since.”

She paced the library, wine glass dangling between her fingers. The library was a sea of detail. Strange things tucked into every corner. She could lose months of her life exploring the place. Too bad she was liable to lose her life before she had the chance.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, her voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that could strip paint. “I’ve got two choices. Option one—help you commit magical genocide. Option two—be hunted by monsters, go mad trapped in this supernatural spiderweb, or be mutilated until the book decides I’m no use to it anymore and…what? Somebody else comes along and you try again with them anyway? ”

“Essentially.”

“You’re a real motivational speaker, you know that?”

The barest hint of something—was it amusement?—crossed Serrik’s face. But it vanished faster than a candle flame in a hurricane.

“I do not require motivation. I require action. Earlier, I told you that I would require your decision next we spoke.”

Ava stopped pacing. Turned. Looked directly into those impossible golden eyes. “And what exactly makes you think I’m going to choose either of those spectacularly awful options?”

Serrik stood. For the first time, he moved away from the harpsichord. Each step was calculated, predatory. Like a cat deciding whether to play with its prey or simply devour it whole.

“Because,” he said, drawing out the words like he drew out his steps, “you have no other choice. Inaction is the same as the first choice. Humans have a remarkable capacity for survival. You adapt. You persist. Even when logic suggests you should not.”

She wanted to melt into the floor. Disappear into the aether. Be anywhere but where she was, as he stepped up to her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No. Merely an observation.” He was close now. Close enough that she could see the intricate gold symbols etched into his jewelry. Close enough to smell something that wasn’t quite wind, wasn’t quite lightning, mixed with the scent of citrus and herbs. “As we speak, your new…hosts…are scheming as to what to do with you. Nos wishes to trade you to a more powerful resident of the Web in exchange for influence and to erase old debts.”

“And…what about Ibin?” She fought the urge to take a step back.

He looked off, as if he could actually see them. “She seeks to aid you, for she does not wish to die. Her foolish view is the same as her queen’s and suffers the same fatal flaw.”

“Which is?”

“Queen Abigail has relied upon convincing those bound to the grimoire that the fae should continue to exist, rolling the dice time and time again.” His gaze returned to her. “Eventually, no matter how diligent she is, no matter how pure the intentions, she will fail.”

“Can Valroy honestly destroy the world?”

“Yes.”

A statement of fact. She had no reason to not believe him. Then again, he had every reason to lie. “And why should I believe you?”

“What choice do you have, little butterfly?” He lifted a finger and crooked it under her chin. His expression was as kind as a cemetery statue’s. “I am offering you power and freedom—access to my magic, and through it, the grimoire. They are offering you slavery to a fae. To be at best their pet , at worst their plaything. Which would you prefer?”

Now she took a step back. His touch sent a shiver through her of something she didn’t know what to do with. “You’re ignoring the whole genocide thing.”

“The eventual destruction of your kind, or the immediate death of mine. One or the other is inevitable, mark my words.”

“Okay, let’s just say—let’s just assume you’re right.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t believe she was actually even considering this. “And I go along with your psychotic genocide plan. What happens to me, when you get loose, go on some kind of serial killer spree, murder your entire people, rip Tirg no-Ale?—”

“Tir n’Aill,” he interjected. That time, he really did smile. Slightly.

“Whatever. You rip it off of Earth. Yay. Human race saved. What happens? ”

“All those with magical connections to the fae will lose their source of power. Witches will find their gifts missing.” He shrugged. “But the Earth and the rest of humanity will be spared demolishment at the hands of a tyrant. I assume that would be the priority.”

“Including me? I would lose my ‘magic’ too, yes?”

“In this hypothetical situation, as you would be using my power, you would lose access to it as I would be gone, yes.” He turned his back to fetch his wine from the edge of the harpsichord.

“Right.” She let out a breath and started counting off on her fingers. “Be homeless. Get abducted. Turn into a witch. Commit genocide. Get un-witched. Get sent back to Earth. Still be homeless. Probably be batshit crazy. Maybe be mutilated. Fucking awesome.”

Serrik rolled his eyes. “If you are concerned for your livelihood after all this business has concluded, I am certain something can be arranged.” He gestured at the artifacts strewn about on his table. “We are not found wanting for treasures.”

Side with Serrik. Agree to help him escape in order to commit goddamn genocide.

Or…die in a horrible, horrible way at the hands of the fae.

The memory of Gregor lingered. The sight of him, the sound of his rasping death rattle. He was alive in there for years. Decades. Trapped in the shell of his own corpse.

That was going to be her.

Or worse.

The fae were terrible.

“Promise me you’re not lying to me.”

“About what, precisely?” Serrik watched her from beside the harpsichord. He was giving her space to think. She appreciated that.

“That the fae are dangerous monsters. That they all deserve to die.” The tears were coming back. She felt them stinging her eyes. “What you’re asking me to help you do…”

Placing his goblet back onto the mirror with a clink, he walked back up to her. There was the hint of empathy in his expression as he carefully reached up and rested his palm against her cheek. “Yes, little butterfly. We are a rot. A poison. And we should have been expelled long, long ago.”

What was she supposed to do?

Rock and a hard place.

Fae pet or…fae executioner.

Shutting her eyes, a tear escaped.

He gently wiped it away with his thumb. “I do not do this task with joy.”

Ava couldn’t help herself. “Do you do anything with joy?” she muttered.

If she wasn’t mistaken, that earned her a nearly silent chuckle. “Your razor tongue will be the death of you. You must be careful.”

“Noted.” Taking a breath, she held it, and let it out in a wavering exhale. “I don’t…I don’t want to stay here. And if what you’re saying is true, then…all right. I agree. I’ll help you.”

That earned her a real smile from Serrik.

And it wasn’t a kind one.

A shiver of fear ran down her spine.

“Very good, little butterfly…” The hand on her cheek snapped to the back of her neck. He yanked her toward him, nearly knocking her off balance. She had to grab hold of his coat’s lapels to keep from falling over. “Let us seal our contract, shall we?”

“What—”

Serrik lifted his other hand. Crawling between his fingers was an ornate, golden spider. Set into its back was a series of emeralds. If it weren’t moving, she wouldn’t have known it was alive and mistaken it for a beautiful and delicate sculpture or piece of jewelery. Its body alone was the size of a quarter, before she included the legs.

Ava hated spiders.

She screamed.

That was a very bad idea.

As Serrik pressed the spider into her mouth.

It was the legs she felt.

The legs as it crawled down her throat.

The sliding rasp of it as the spider wriggled and squirmed and forced its way into her body with its stabbing, skinny legs.

She tried to scream again.

But no sound came.

Darkness was closing in around her.

Lips pressed to her temple, and words, rumbling like thunder on the horizon, were close to her ear. “This has only just begun…”