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No one moves. Even Warrose looks back and forth between us like we’re missing something.
“I have what you need for what you plan.”
Warrose leans into Dessin. “He’s one of the Naiadales. The Emerald Lake people.”
But Dessin already knows this. He starts to approach the man, so I follow. One hand stops me. “Stay here. I’ll hear what he has to say alone.”
I want to argue, but the man said for what you plan. Meaning I’m not supposed to know. I give a reluctant nod as he joins Forest Boy behind a cluster of trees and vines. It’s only a few minutes before he’s walking back to me, tucking something into his pack.
“We meet again when you are ready,” the Naiadales man says to me before disappearing into the forest.
I open my mouth to speak to Dessin.
“Don’t ask because you know I can’t tell you.”
Warrose nudges me with his bulky shoulder. “He’s so sweet in the mornings, isn’t he?”
Dessin and I lead the group through the gates that lead to a hallway underground, with antique chandelier light fixtures lit by candles, rosewood walls, and rib vault ceilings. The vintage northwest rug runner cushions our steps from echoing. With the waft the air vents bring, I catch hints of pink pepper, ginger, and sandalwood, much like the aroma of a wealthy man. Spicy and loaded with wealth.
“We’re going to be fine,” Dessin assures me. I’m sure he can practically smell my fear, like an extra sense he might not quite understand. “I have something to trade. Something that will ensure everyone’s safety.” His confidence gives me more comfort than I thought it would. I trust in his judgment more than that spike of fear prickling under my skin. He touches the small of my back with his finger, and I can’t hold the shiver from breaking out across my body.
“You leave the talking to me. We’ll get him back. I promise you. We’ll get him back.”
I nod, unable to respond with my voice. It’s tucked away for the moment. Scared to come out and mess up any part of his plans. I don’t know who we’re meeting or if we’ll even be able to see the leader of Demechnef. Someone Albatross and Absinthe feared. He probably smells like this hallway, like old money and expensive booze.
I glance behind me and notice my friends walking awkwardly close together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, like knives might shoot out from the walls and impale them at any given moment. And no one wants to be left at the back of the line. Except Warrose, who is keeping his pace slow and predatory, daring a threat to attack the group. Ready for a fight. Itching for the violence.
Like a magnetic pull, my hand wants to reach for Dessin. The fear that holds me down is becoming lighter and less prominent as I watch him walk like an undefeated warrior. Owning everything. Time stopping at his convenience. The cloak of confidence drags behind him. I can’t help but succumb to my mesmerization by this man that stands tall and walks proudly into a chamber of powerful people and dangerous weapons. A territory of conspiracy and pain.
A few minutes later and we’re walking through a common area of soldiers, businessmen, savants. All men. No women. No surprise. They look at me like I’m breathing underwater or flying without wings.
The hallway grows wider, opening up into a common area, with the same rib vaults, cherrywood floors and no runner rug. At first I think the eyes are on me, gawking like they’d been shot by a poisonous arrow. Alarmed and unsure if they should run, fight, or hide. I follow their petrified stares, pointed at Dessin. They look at him like… the king has returned home. I didn’t notice it at first, but once you see it, you can’t unsee it. He’s either an idol or a raging mad tyrant that no one dares to stand up to. Some men step out of the way as we pass, some fall against the glossy walls like they never expected in their lifetime that they’d ever live to see the day he’d come back.
He’s a walking plague, and every inch of this vicinity holds its breath.
An important member of this organization leads us into a private room. Oily face, cleanly shaved, sleepy eyes, and thickly built. He doesn’t seem as afraid of Dessin as the rest of them, but he certainly isn’t wanting to stick around us much longer.
We wait inside a private room, a single walnut ball and claw desk. It has a dark-brown leather top, and gold antique-colored tooling. There’s an antique oil lamp on the left corner, a scotch-filled crystal decanter with three matching glasses. The rest of the room is gently lit by oil lamps mounted on the surrounding walls. The soft light reflects through Dessin’s eyes like two tiny glowing orbs floating in his pupils. No windows because we’re buried inside a mountain. I take in a controlled breath and am stunned by the smell of coffee, scotch, and cigarettes. All very potent, mixed together in the air to concoct something stale and old.
“I can’t believe how much I did not miss this place.” Warrose leans against the back wall, toying with a knife.
“There’s something we haven’t told you yet,” Dessin says delicately, placing the sentence an inch under his breath.
“What is it?”
Dessin closes his eyes slowly. “Because we wanted you to see it for yourself…”
The second door to the left of the desk cracks open, only showing a sliver of darkness and a hand resting on its handle. My peripherals catch Dessin raising his chin in reaction to the hand, challenging the dominant shift. And there’s a sinking feeling in the bed of my stomach, a nausea wave that inches up my throat. It’s that feeling that you’re about to catch someone in a lie, about to swing open a door to expose a personal betrayal.
Dessin’s body is tense as if he’s preparing himself for an explosion or spontaneous combustion. As tangible as a cloud of thick smoke, I can practically breathe in his anticipation. My heart begins to rattle, clench, bang under the bone wall in my chest.
The door suddenly opens the rest of the way, and a tall man emerges from the slither of darkness, followed by three other men. But I don’t waste another moment looking at them. Dessin turns his head completely to face me, watching for my reaction with discomfort. My eyes flicker in panic from Dessin to the first man. And like a bolt of lightning shooting down from a massive thunderstorm directly into my chest, I fall to my knees with a bunk. My lips are separated and drying up as I suck in oxygen like the air is running thin. I choke on my own harsh gasp.
No fucking way.
“You’re back. I was worried I might have scared you away.” That voice. That familiar, horrible voice. And those pale-blue eyes topped with black, perfectly arched eyebrows. The angelic porcelain face. The face that was once my friend. My only resource to starting my life over.
“What are—you doing—here?!” I stutter, clutching my hands to the cold hardwood floor.
“Skylenna…” Dessin’s voice comes from above me. His hand squeezing the cap of my shoulder. “This is the leader of our country.”
Silence. Cold claws cut into my spine and drag down my back. This isn’t real.
Dessin clears his throat with disgust.
“This is Aurick Demechnef.”
