Dark Harmony
Page 33

“Callie,” Des says, prying my hands off the bars. The room’s nearly pitch black. That’s the first I sense of the Bargainer’s dark mood.
“Aren’t I a poet?” I taunt the soldier as Des drags me away. My hands are smoking, but I can barely feel them over my rising fury.
Des pulls me away, and that’s about when I realize that my wings have come out, the tips of them now dragging along the cool floor as the Bargainer carts me back the way we came.
“Not a poet,” says one of the soldiers we pass by, “a marked woman.”
He’s barely gotten the words out when suddenly, the darkness closes in on him. In the next moment, Des vanishes from my side. I hear the sound of steel slicing flesh and a choked cry, then nothing more.
By the time the shadows dissipate, Des is back at my side, his hand on my back.
I stare at the spot where the fairy stood a moment before. Now he lays in a puddle of his own blood, his eyes glassy.
Oh shit.
The Bargainer lifts his chin, his own wings arching over his shoulders. “Not in my house, Thief. Not in my house.”
Des wraps linen bandages around my hands, his own trembling as he does so. At his back, his wings are still out, and the room we sit in is mostly cast in shadow. His face is placid, but every so often his upper lip ticks.
Down our bond I can feel his immense rage. This is about the time where the Bargainer begins breaking bones and making his victims beg for mercy.
Only, the Thief is hiding somewhere not even Des, Lord of Secrets, knows.
My own rage, by contrast, fled some time ago.
I stare at my blistered fingertips. “Can’t I just heal these with my magic?” Expedited healing was supposed to be one of the perks of fae power.
Des finishes wrapping one of my hands and sets it in my lap. “Iron doesn’t—” He takes a deep breath, then starts again. “Iron wounds take extra magic to heal. But you could.”
“Will you show me how?” I ask.
The Bargainer cups my injured hand between his. I can still feel him trembling with his anger.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
“Is this—are you showing me how to—”
“Close your eyes.”
Reluctantly, mine flutter closed.
“Now, breathe in and out. In and out.”
My breath whooshes into my lungs, my chest expanding as I hold it in. Then I exhale, and the air rushes out of me.
“Yes, just like that,” Des says.
I sense him taking his own advice, his hands steadying as they hold mine.
“Now,” he says, “quiet your thoughts and focus them inward.”
I’m as introspective as the next person, but I’ve never done this, never searched for the source of my magic. It’s always just been there, and I’ve spent close to a decade trying to leash it, not to go hunting it down.
“Where is your power?”
It takes looking for my magic to truly notice where it lays within me.
“It’s in the pit of my stomach.” My core really. It simmers there, right at my very center. This is where the siren slumbers when she’s not busy terrorizing the world. “And it’s in my heart.” Right where my connection to Des is anchored.
“Focus on that magic,” Des says. “And now, pull on it. Pretend it’s a ball of yarn and you’re tugging a thread of it loose.”
This is so weird.
“Okay,” I say.
“Now, pull that thread up through your chest. Imagine it traveling past your ribcage and across your shoulders. Direct it down your arms and into your hands.”
I do as he says, visualizing this power of mine as though it were a physical thing. I imagine it moving through me. When it gets to my hands, they heat like I’m holding them close to the fire.
My eyes flutter open, even as I continue directing my magic to my palms. Des releases my hand and, unwinding the bandages, shows it to me. I stare at my fingertips. Before my eyes, the angry swelling diminishes.
“Holy crap.” It’s working. I’m healing myself.
As the pulsing pain of my wounds lessens, my energy drains away. My siren is still there, but trying to rouse her into action would be difficult.
I release my magic, letting it retreat back to my core. The worst of my injuries have healed, but my palm is still red and angry.
My gaze moves from my hand to the Bargainer. His wings are now hidden, and the shadows that cloaked the room have lifted. I glance around, surprised to see that we’re sitting on a veranda of sorts, a room that’s not quite inside and not quite out. A row of enormous archways look out over the city of Somnia.
Des takes my hand once more. “You did good there, cherub,” he says, beginning to re-bandage it. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
The Bargainer nods, wrapping the linen before tying it off. He brings my fingers to his lips, kissing the tip of each one. “Then we best get you to bed.”
If the look in his eye is anything to go by, I’m not going to be doing much sleeping.
Before I have a chance to drag him out of there so that he can properly tuck me in, chittering sounds come from beyond the archways.
The pleasant night air blows in through them, and riding on the draft of wind are several pixies, all of them chattering away. They zip across the veranda on the gust of air, only stopping when they get to me and Des. One of them hovers right in front of Des. The others end up sitting on his shoulders … and mine, like they have front row seats to a show.
“Evening, Aura,” he says to the little fae.
She says something back to him, her voice high and sweet.
“Is that right?” Des says, his eyes narrowing. “Where is he?”
Aura chatters away, gesturing wildly.
The Bargainer looks at me. “Temper and Malaki have found out where Galleghar is hiding.”
Chapter 19
I lean forward, even as the pixies on my shoulders begin playing in my hair. (Seriously, what is with these creatures and my hair?)
“Where is he?”
The Night King’s face is menacing. “Memnos.” He says the word like it tastes bad coming out.
Memnos, the one island Des never took me to. The Land of Nightmares.
“Wait,” I say, glancing at the pixie. “How does Aura—” She curtsies at the mention of her name, and I nod to her. “How does Aura know this?”
The little pixies all begin chattering at once.
“Pixies are my royal messengers,” Des says.
One of the pixies playing in my hair stops and says something else, her little voice demanding.
The Bargainer raises his eyebrows. “Forgive me—pixies are royal messengers and spies.”
I raise my eyebrows. “That sounds like an important job.”
My words must’ve been the right ones because the pixies start to excitedly chitter. One of them flits in front of my face and studies my features before lovingly patting my cheek.
Another one starts speaking animatedly to Des.
“I’m not going to go to Memnos or Barbos right now. You can tell Malaki he’ll just have to wait.”
Angry chittering.
“My mate is tired.”
Another pixie comes over and begins to inspect my eyes, as though looking for signs of my sleepiness.
The other pixie, meanwhile, is still arguing with Des. Eventually, she simply grabs Des’s pointer finger and tugs, trying to rally him into action. It’s an adorably pitiful sight. I’m pretty sure my mate shares the sentiment because the corner of his mouth lifts.