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“Aside from the eyes, he looks just like his father did as a baby.”
At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, I spun around, dagger at the ready, and found a man with blond hair, dressed in regal clothes fitting for another century.
An inexplicable tremble of fear moved through me, though the man certainly didn’t look anywhere near as threatening as some of the creatures I’d already encountered. Something about him stirred a cold sensation in my chest.
“Who are you?” I asked, studying his jawline and eyes, which held a hint of recognition.
He glanced quickly down at the blade pointed at him. “You know who I am.”
“Lord Van Croix,” I answered automatically, though I didn’t know what had compelled me to call him Lord, except that it felt somewhat natural.
“Lord Eradye these days, but no need for formalities, my dear. You’re welcome to call me Claudius.”
Jericho’s father. “You’re the one who owns my soul.”
Hands behind his back, he strode toward the window. “No. I do not. I cannot possess the soul of the Met’Lazan.”
“Then, why am I here?”
He looked around my room and pointed toward the wall through which I’d walked into the corridor. “Did you not come of your own volition?”
“I heard a baby crying.”
“Yes.” His gaze lowered toward the cradle and back to me. “He cries for you every night.”
I forced myself not to look at the baby. He’s not real. Just an illusion.
“If you can’t possess my soul, am I free to go?”
“You’re back at the center of the labyrinth. Of course.” The smile on his face faded. “The baby cannot, though.”
I dared myself to look at the baby again. I wanted to touch him, just to see if he would fade into a dream, but I kept my hands at my sides, blade captured in my palm.
“You could choose to stay, however. I know it’s quite drab in this place, but I could make it comfortable for you. And your baby.” He stepped closer, and on instinct, I stepped around the cradle, guarding the child. “Go ahead. Pick him up. I know you’re dying to see how he feels in your arms.”
Tears shimmered in my eyes once again, as I glanced over my shoulder at the tiny version of Jericho lying in the cradle. Bundled in a blanket, I couldn’t see much more of him, but he squirmed in his swaddling, and when he cried, the sound tugged at my heart. I curled my hands into a fist, anxious to lift him up, but I knew in my heart it was nothing more than an illusion. He wasn’t real.
“He cries for you,” Claudius said behind me. “Holdhim.”
I set the blade down at the foot of the cradle’s mattress and slid my palms beneath the baby, awkwardly lifting him up into my arms. I’d never held a baby in my life, and nothing about holding that one felt natural to me, but at the same time, it felt right. As I pulled him to my chest, I took in the weight of him, how perfect he felt in the crook of my arm. A tearful laugh escaped as I stared down at him. My baby.
His cries settled, and those curious eyes stared up at me as if studying me.
“Tell me that doesn’t feel like heaven.”
Tears wavered my view, as I buried my nose into his tiny curled tufts of hair that I imagined one day looking like his father’s. Eyes closed, I breathed in the sweet baby scent and kissed his head. “I can only keep him if I stay?”
“I’m afraid that is the only way. Do not leave him alone here.”
“What do you want from me?” I whispered, and a tear slid down my cheek.
“The same thing I’ve yearned for, for centuries.”
The sound of his footfalls getting closer shot a nervous shiver down my spine, and I glanced to the dismissed blade.
“Freedom,” he continued. “The weight of this place is too much to bear sometimes. It is like chains at my throat. But you--you can loosen those chains. You are the Met’Lazan, and only you can set me free.”
“How?”
