A Strange Hymn
Page 19
I furrow my brows. “He makes bargains here? In the Otherworld?”
“Oh, aye. All the ferking time. Less now of course—because he’s king. But back when he still lived here, he could rob the green from grass, he was that good.”
I know just how good Des can be.
“I think he already had plenty of leverage over me.” I hold up my wrist, showing Phaedron the rows and rows of my black beads. “Each one of these represents a favor I owe Des.”
He squints at the bracelet. “So that’s how he caught you. Sly devil.”
I lean forward, laying my hands flat on the table. “That’s how I caught him,” I correct.
Phaedron barks out a laugh. “Desmond is more of a scoundrel than I give him credit for if he let you believe that. No way in hell he’d let so many favors go unpaid unless he planned on keeping you—either with your consent or against your will.”
Against my will?
My thoughts must be written on my face because Phaedron explains. “You must not know much about fairies,” he says. “No fairy would let his mate get away just because she put up a little protest.”
That’s more than a little horrifying.
“Des isn’t like that.”
Phaedron snorts. “The King of the Night?” Our eyes move to where Des sits, laughing and slapping the back of some fae with several tattoos on his face. “He’s the worst of them.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say. There have been a few times where Des’s fae side got the better of him, but he always snapped out of it, and always for my sake.
Phaedron eyes me up and down. “Maybe you just haven’t resisted him enough to push him to the edge.”
That shuts me up. I never was one for playing hard to get when it came to the Bargainer. It had always been Des for me, and he and I both knew that.
“Trust me,” Phaedron continues, “the man is desperate for you. He might not say it, but …” His eyes return to Des, whose own gaze has inadvertently found mine. The Bargainer gives me a wink when he notices me staring. “Put up some true resistance,” Phaedron says, “and you’ll see. He won’t let you go.”
How is it that one sentence can fill you both with such satisfaction and such dread? More than anything I love the idea that Des wants to be mine every bit as much as I want to be his. But to think that he’d force me to stay at his side—that there’s a part of him that would cast aside my own wants and needs—that’s frightening.
That’s not Des. It’s not. But I decide I don’t want to argue Phaedron on this point all evening.
“How do you and Des know each other?” I ask, changing the subject.
Phaedron takes a swig of his mead before responding. “He joined the Angels of Small Death when I was its leader.”
My eyebrows hike up. It’s not like I’m surprised Phaedron was the leader of a gang, or that Des became close with him. I think I’m most surprised about the fact that Des, a fae king, and I are here in this bar on Barbos, hanging out with Phaedron, who is probably a career criminal.
Hell, I’m probably sitting in a room full of criminals. And the King of the Night isn’t punishing them, he’s catching up with them.
Phaedron leans forward. “Now tell me: do you have a sister—?”
Someone screams, thankfully interrupting us. The table in the corner topples over, mead splashes everywhere, and the previously seated fairies now lunge at each other.
Everyone who’s not in the fight swivels their gaze to Des.
In response to the growing eyes on him, Des raises his glass in a silent toast to the room.
A triumphant shout goes up, and suddenly, it’s not just the corner table of fairies who are fighting. Fae from nearby tables get involved. Glass shatters, tables break, and fists fly.
Those involved in Barbos’s skin trade scream, slipping off of laps to move to the outside edges of the room.
“It’s not a truly successful night until at least one fight breaks out,” Phaedron notes, grabbing his drink as he stands.
Des comes over. “Time to go, cherub.”
“You both are welcome to come over to my place. I’ll be heading over there in another hour or so,” Phaedron says.
“We’ve got plans, but thanks, my brother.”
“You take care of your little mate,” Phaedron says to Des, winking my way. “Don’t give me a reason to come after you. I can still kick your ass. And for Gods’ sakes man, next time stay for a bit longer. I barely had enough time to start corrupting your girl.”
“Fair enough,” Des says, clasping his hand. “Take care of yourself.”
We part ways with the redheaded fairy to the sounds of breaking glass and shouting.
The streets of Barbos are just as rowdy. More fairies in the flesh trade are out, flirting with disreputable men and women. There are a few more fights on the street, a group of fairies catcalling to a woman that blows them a kiss, and another who’s standing on a rooftop, breathing fire from his lips, the inferno taking the shape of a dragon. And then there’s everyone else—fairies dancing on balconies, flying drunkenly from building to building, or passed out on the city streets.
We pass by tiki torches—the closest thing this city has to gaslights—and the flickering firelight dances along Des’s face, making me feel like I’m in another time as well as another place.
Des takes a deep breath of air. “There’s nothing quite like Barbos,” he says, sounding invigorated.
What had Phaedron said earlier? That Des used to live here? I could easily imagine the Bargainer haunting these streets, making deals with drunks, thriving in the night. If Des were a city, he’d be Barbos. The lights, the chaos, the criminality, the sexuality, the excitement. It’s all a part of who he is.
Most of the stores we pass are bars, brothels or gambling halls. On the sidewalks in front of them are street vendors selling their wares. Des stops us in front of one.
I glance down at the items laid out.
“Knives?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.
“Daggers, swords, maces, axes,” he corrects, pointing to each different weapon. Like there’s some sort of difference to them. “I figure now that I’m teaching you how to fight, you should carry your own weapon.”
My eyes slide from him back to the blades. I’ve never exactly been a weapons kind of lady—that’s more Temper’s thing—and looking at all those sharp objects now, I find I’m still not really one.
The woman selling the weapons begins explaining the pros and cons of different grips and blade lengths. It all turns into background noise. When I look at them, I see blood and violence and memories I’ve been running from.
Des leans in close. “You are no victim, cherub,” he reminds me. “Not even here in the Otherworld. Pick a weapon. Make the next person that crosses you regret it.”
Those are the devil’s words, wicked words, but the siren in me rallies at them. Hell, the broken girl in me rallies at them.
I am no one’s victim.
I begin studying the weapons in earnest, comparing the leather handles to the metal ones, the curving blades to those with jagged edges.
“Move your hand over them,” the fairy behind the table suggests. “The right one will call out to you.”
I shake my head, ready to tell her I’m not a fairy and that their magic will be useless on me, but Des takes my hand and steadies it over the table, my palm facing down towards the weapons.
“Oh, aye. All the ferking time. Less now of course—because he’s king. But back when he still lived here, he could rob the green from grass, he was that good.”
I know just how good Des can be.
“I think he already had plenty of leverage over me.” I hold up my wrist, showing Phaedron the rows and rows of my black beads. “Each one of these represents a favor I owe Des.”
He squints at the bracelet. “So that’s how he caught you. Sly devil.”
I lean forward, laying my hands flat on the table. “That’s how I caught him,” I correct.
Phaedron barks out a laugh. “Desmond is more of a scoundrel than I give him credit for if he let you believe that. No way in hell he’d let so many favors go unpaid unless he planned on keeping you—either with your consent or against your will.”
Against my will?
My thoughts must be written on my face because Phaedron explains. “You must not know much about fairies,” he says. “No fairy would let his mate get away just because she put up a little protest.”
That’s more than a little horrifying.
“Des isn’t like that.”
Phaedron snorts. “The King of the Night?” Our eyes move to where Des sits, laughing and slapping the back of some fae with several tattoos on his face. “He’s the worst of them.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say. There have been a few times where Des’s fae side got the better of him, but he always snapped out of it, and always for my sake.
Phaedron eyes me up and down. “Maybe you just haven’t resisted him enough to push him to the edge.”
That shuts me up. I never was one for playing hard to get when it came to the Bargainer. It had always been Des for me, and he and I both knew that.
“Trust me,” Phaedron continues, “the man is desperate for you. He might not say it, but …” His eyes return to Des, whose own gaze has inadvertently found mine. The Bargainer gives me a wink when he notices me staring. “Put up some true resistance,” Phaedron says, “and you’ll see. He won’t let you go.”
How is it that one sentence can fill you both with such satisfaction and such dread? More than anything I love the idea that Des wants to be mine every bit as much as I want to be his. But to think that he’d force me to stay at his side—that there’s a part of him that would cast aside my own wants and needs—that’s frightening.
That’s not Des. It’s not. But I decide I don’t want to argue Phaedron on this point all evening.
“How do you and Des know each other?” I ask, changing the subject.
Phaedron takes a swig of his mead before responding. “He joined the Angels of Small Death when I was its leader.”
My eyebrows hike up. It’s not like I’m surprised Phaedron was the leader of a gang, or that Des became close with him. I think I’m most surprised about the fact that Des, a fae king, and I are here in this bar on Barbos, hanging out with Phaedron, who is probably a career criminal.
Hell, I’m probably sitting in a room full of criminals. And the King of the Night isn’t punishing them, he’s catching up with them.
Phaedron leans forward. “Now tell me: do you have a sister—?”
Someone screams, thankfully interrupting us. The table in the corner topples over, mead splashes everywhere, and the previously seated fairies now lunge at each other.
Everyone who’s not in the fight swivels their gaze to Des.
In response to the growing eyes on him, Des raises his glass in a silent toast to the room.
A triumphant shout goes up, and suddenly, it’s not just the corner table of fairies who are fighting. Fae from nearby tables get involved. Glass shatters, tables break, and fists fly.
Those involved in Barbos’s skin trade scream, slipping off of laps to move to the outside edges of the room.
“It’s not a truly successful night until at least one fight breaks out,” Phaedron notes, grabbing his drink as he stands.
Des comes over. “Time to go, cherub.”
“You both are welcome to come over to my place. I’ll be heading over there in another hour or so,” Phaedron says.
“We’ve got plans, but thanks, my brother.”
“You take care of your little mate,” Phaedron says to Des, winking my way. “Don’t give me a reason to come after you. I can still kick your ass. And for Gods’ sakes man, next time stay for a bit longer. I barely had enough time to start corrupting your girl.”
“Fair enough,” Des says, clasping his hand. “Take care of yourself.”
We part ways with the redheaded fairy to the sounds of breaking glass and shouting.
The streets of Barbos are just as rowdy. More fairies in the flesh trade are out, flirting with disreputable men and women. There are a few more fights on the street, a group of fairies catcalling to a woman that blows them a kiss, and another who’s standing on a rooftop, breathing fire from his lips, the inferno taking the shape of a dragon. And then there’s everyone else—fairies dancing on balconies, flying drunkenly from building to building, or passed out on the city streets.
We pass by tiki torches—the closest thing this city has to gaslights—and the flickering firelight dances along Des’s face, making me feel like I’m in another time as well as another place.
Des takes a deep breath of air. “There’s nothing quite like Barbos,” he says, sounding invigorated.
What had Phaedron said earlier? That Des used to live here? I could easily imagine the Bargainer haunting these streets, making deals with drunks, thriving in the night. If Des were a city, he’d be Barbos. The lights, the chaos, the criminality, the sexuality, the excitement. It’s all a part of who he is.
Most of the stores we pass are bars, brothels or gambling halls. On the sidewalks in front of them are street vendors selling their wares. Des stops us in front of one.
I glance down at the items laid out.
“Knives?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.
“Daggers, swords, maces, axes,” he corrects, pointing to each different weapon. Like there’s some sort of difference to them. “I figure now that I’m teaching you how to fight, you should carry your own weapon.”
My eyes slide from him back to the blades. I’ve never exactly been a weapons kind of lady—that’s more Temper’s thing—and looking at all those sharp objects now, I find I’m still not really one.
The woman selling the weapons begins explaining the pros and cons of different grips and blade lengths. It all turns into background noise. When I look at them, I see blood and violence and memories I’ve been running from.
Des leans in close. “You are no victim, cherub,” he reminds me. “Not even here in the Otherworld. Pick a weapon. Make the next person that crosses you regret it.”
Those are the devil’s words, wicked words, but the siren in me rallies at them. Hell, the broken girl in me rallies at them.
I am no one’s victim.
I begin studying the weapons in earnest, comparing the leather handles to the metal ones, the curving blades to those with jagged edges.
“Move your hand over them,” the fairy behind the table suggests. “The right one will call out to you.”
I shake my head, ready to tell her I’m not a fairy and that their magic will be useless on me, but Des takes my hand and steadies it over the table, my palm facing down towards the weapons.
