Rhapsodic (The Bargainer Book 1)

  Ahead of us, the door creaks open, and the two of us step into a cavernous, windowless warehouse.

  The Bargainer nods to a guard on the far side of the room who appears to be keeping vigil.

  Without a word, the guard exits a far door, giving us privacy.

  I glance around. Like many of the rooms in the palace, someone’s used magic to depict the night sky on the ceiling. Tiny starbursts of light shine softly from scones set into the wall, but they do very little to ease away the darkness that gathers in this room.

  That’s all I notice of the warehouse itself because—

  All of those coffins.

  There are hundreds of them—maybe thousands. Rows and rows of glass caskets. My eyes sweep over them.

  “So many,” I breathe.

  Next to me the Bargainer frowns. “Almost twice this number of women are still missing from my kingdom alone.”

  I suck in a breath of air. Practically a city’s worth. Albeit, a small city, but still.

  Such staggering numbers.

  Inside each casket, I catch glimpses of the women, their hands folded over their chests. So eerie.

  “Each one had a child with her?” I ask.

  The Bargainer nods, running a thumb over his lower lip. Those lips that were all over me not an hour ago.

  He catches my eye, and whatever look I wear, it causes his nostrils to flare.

  I have to rip my gaze away. I don’t really want to have a moment with this man while we stand inside what’s essentially a morgue.

  “Where are all the children?” I ask. There were no more than two dozen in the royal nursery.

  “They’re living with their remaining family.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Hundreds of those odd children are now living in fae households?

  “Have there been any complaints?” I ask.

  Des nods. “But more than that, there’s been a steep increase in infanticide in the last few years.”

  It takes me a second to actually connect the dots.

  I suck in a breath. “They kill the kids?”

  He sees my horrified expression. “Are you really so surprised, cherub? Even on earth we have a reputation for being ruthless.”

  Of course I’m surprised. Children are children are children. No matter how disconcerting they are, you don’t just … kill them.

  “Before you judge my people, you should know that there have been cases of caregivers falling into the same … sleep as these women. And in plenty of these cases of infanticide, these children aren’t the victims, they’re the perpetrators.”

  The thought of it all makes me queasy. I don’t envy Des his job as king. I can’t imagine any of this.

  “Have any of the servants working in the nursery fallen into this same sleep?” I ask, looking out across the room.

  “A couple,” he admits, casting a glance back over the coffins, “the fae ones. Humans seem to be somewhat immune, so now they’re the only ones that have direct contact with the children inside the palace.”

  Des jerks his chin towards the caskets. “Go ahead, cherub,” he says, changing the subject, “have a look at them.”

  I drag my gaze back over the room. Just the sight of all those women lying so still has the hair on my forearms rising.

  Warily, I leave Des’s side, my footsteps echoing inside the cavernous room. I walk towards the closest row of coffins, almost afraid to peer down into them.

  The glass glints under the low lighting, making the caskets shimmer in the near darkness.

  I step up next to one of the caskets and force myself to look down at the woman. She has raven-dark hair and a heart-shaped face. A sweet face, one that you wouldn’t imagine would be on the body of a warrior. Her pointed ears peek between her locks of hair.

  I swallow, staring down at her. Last time I saw a body this still, it was my stepfather’s.

  Blood on my hands, blood in my hair … never be free.

  I force my gaze away from her face. She wears a black tunic and fitted breeches that are tucked into suede boots. Her hands are folded across her chest, resting on the pommel of a sword that lies down her torso.

  She’s so still, so serene, and yet a part of me expects her to open her eyes, and use that sword to break free of the coffin.

  The vision is so realistic that I force myself to move on to another, before I chicken out and leave prematurely.

  This one has hair that looks like spun silver and it’s bluntly cropped just past her chin. Despite her silver hair, she looks young, her smooth skin taut over her high cheekbones and square jaw. This woman is all soldier; even at rest I can tell her personality is all hard edges. But not even that saved her. Clutched beneath her hands is a bow, and next to her feet is a quiver filled with arrows.

  Another warrior. But not just a warrior. This one has a silver band on her upper arm. A medaled warrior.

  I begin to wind my way through the coffins. All the women wear the same black attire, and each carry a weapon. Warriors who are now victims.

  The whole thing is putting me on edge. Some of the strongest women in Des’s kingdom lie inside these coffins. How did this happen to so many who were so capable?

  And if this monster could do this to these women, what could he do to an average person? What could he do to me?

  I begin to hum to alleviate my growing anxiety.

  I touch a casket here and there, noticing that the glass feels warm.

  My skin prickles. This situation is … is unnatural—wrong at its most basic level.

  Without thinking, my humming shifts to singing.

  Wake from your slumber,

  Rise from your sleep,

  Tell me your secrets,

  They’re mine to keep.

  The siren in me likes to string together rhymes, much the same way a witch does spells. I’m sure it has something to do with how effective my glamour is, but to my ears it’s simply pleasing.

  Open your eyes,

  Breathe in the fresh air,

  Tell me your secrets,

  They’re ours to share.

  I throw a glance over my shoulder at Des. Arms folded, feet planted apart, and wings out—he looks like he’s channeling something between rock star and fallen angel. The leather pants and the sleeve of tats don’t help. His eyes move over the coffins, almost as if he expects someone to move …

  I follow his gaze, instantly tense, but nope, the women are as still as they were when I walked in.

  Turning my body back towards the rows of women, I resume my song.

  Rouse from your rest,

  Shake off this dark spell,

  Open your mouth,

  You have secrets to tell.

  I knew before walking in here that my glamour couldn’t rouse these women. They were all fairies. And yet, I still hold out an inkling of hope that I can help them.

  A minute goes by, then another. I wait for any sign of life, but no one moves. And now I feel silly. Singing to a room full of fae that haven’t stirred since they were brought here.

  I begin walking back to the Bargainer, my footsteps echoing.

  A tinkling laugh rises from behind me.

  I pause, glancing over my shoulder. There’s no one there—at least, no one walking or talking.

  I begin to move again, my muscles now tense. I’m spooked and imagining things.

  “Slave …”

  I pause midstep, my eyes going wide as they meet Des’s.

  He puts a finger to his lips. A split second later he evaporates into smoke.

  Shit. Where’d he go?

  A spectral breath tickles my cheek, laughing softly, and I realize right about now that I might have bigger problems.

 
I twist around, sure I will find someone standing next to me. But no one’s there.

  Another laugh rises from the depths of the room, followed by a hum. The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere. It’s all around me, multiplying on itself.

  Sleep fair one,

  Or are you afraid?

  This is a game in which,

  You are far outplayed.

  I glance around for the singer, but I already know this is some sort of magic beyond my comprehension.

  A phantom hand strokes my hair.

  You ask us to wake,

  When we want you to sleep,

  Secrets are meant,

  For one soul to keep.

  So sing your songs,

  And rhyme your rhymes,

  He’s coming for you,

  These are dark times.

  The singing dies away until the room is quiet once more.

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe.

  Time to get the hell out of this place.

  I eye the coffins as I pass row after row of them, expecting any second for these women to attack me.

  Just had to stir up trouble, didn’t you, Callie?

  Ahead of me the shadows swirl together, coalescing into a winged man.

  Des.

  The Bargainer’s wings are spread threateningly, and his face is unreadable, which means Des the killer has come out to play.

  Someone’s losing their shit.

  “Oh, so nice of you to join me,” I say, my voice high. I’m about to lose my shit too.

  “I never left you,” he says.

  I’m not going to think about that comment. This situation is weird enough as it is.

  He stares out at the coffins. “If I were any crueler, I would burn this room down, women and all.”

  Normally, a statement like that would shock me, but right now, when I can still feel those phantom fingers trailing down my skin, I’m thinking that leaving these women here, in the core of Des’s capitol, is a very bad idea.

  Chapter 20

  April, seven years ago

  My dorm room has become a collage of me and Des. A string of prayer flags hang across my ceiling, courtesy of a trip to Tibet. The lantern perched on my shelf is from Morocco. The painted gourd on my desk is from Peru. And the striped blanket at the foot of my bed is from Nairobi.

  The man’s taken me around the world, mostly on business trips, but sometimes just for the hell of it. I think he likes seeing my excitement. And out of all these trips, I’ve collected a room full of souvenirs.

  Pinned to my walls, between my trinkets, are the Bargainer’s sketches. A couple of them are of me, but once I noticed I was a recurring theme in his art, I asked him if he could draw me pictures of the Otherworld. Originally, my intent had been to minimize portraits of me, but once he began drawing images of his world, I was ensnared by them.

  Now my walls are covered with sketches of cities built on giant trees and dance halls nestled beneath mountains, monsters both terrifying and strange, and beings so beautiful they beckoned me closer.

  “Callie,” Des says, pulling me back to the present. He’s sprawled across my bed, the edge of his shirt hitched up just enough to give me a glimpse of his abs.

  “Hmmm?” I say, twisting my computer chair back and forth.

  He hesitates. “If I asked you something right this instant, would you answer me honestly?”

  Up until now, our conversation had been lighthearted, humorous, so I think of nothing when I say, “Of course.”

  Des pauses, then says, “What really happened that night?”

  I freeze, my chair coming to a stop.

  He doesn’t need to elaborate just which night he’s speaking of. We both know it’s the night he met me.

  The night I killed a man.

  I’m shaking my head.

  “You need to talk about it,” he says, tucking his hands behind his head.

  “Are you suddenly a shrink now?” There’s a lot more venom in my voice than I intended. I can’t go back to that night.

  Des reaches for my hand and holds it tightly in his own. The same trick that I’ve used dozens of times on him he now turns on me: touch.

  I stare down at our joined hands, and damn but his warm grip makes me feel safe.

  “Cherub, I’m not going to judge you.”

  I drag my gaze up to his. I’m about to beg him to not push me any further. My demons batter against the walls of their cages. He’s asking me to unleash them him, and I don’t know if I can.

  But when I meet his eyes, which stare at me with so much patience and affection, I say something else entirely.

  “He came at me like he always did when he drank too much.” I swallow.

  Shit, I’m really doing this.

  And I’m not ready, but I am, and my mind makes no sense right now, but my heart is speaking through my mouth and I’m not sure my mind has anything to do with it. I’ve carried this particular secret with me for years. I’m ready to unburden myself.

  My eyes move back to our joined hands, and I take a strange sort of strength from his presence.

  “That evening was a long time in coming. It began several years before then.” Long before my siren ever had a chance to defend me.

  To know the story, I have to go back to the beginning. Des had only asked me to explain a single night, but that’s impossible without knowing all the hundreds of nights that preceded it.

  “My stepfather … raped me … for years.”

  I drag myself back to that dark place, and I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done: I tell him. All the gory details. Because there really is no such thing as dipping a toe into this discussion.

  I talk about the way I used to stare at my closed door, that I came close to wetting my bed watching that knob turn. How I can still smell the bite of his cologne and the sour spirits on his breath.

  That I used to cry and sometimes beg. That despite my best efforts, it never changed anything. That eventually, I became complacent, and that’s perhaps the detail that hurts the most.

  Will the fear and disgust ever go away? Will the shame? Intellectually I know what he did to me wasn’t my fault. But emotionally, I’ve never been able to believe it. And God, have I tried.

  My knuckles are white from how tightly I grip his hand. In this moment, he’s my anchor, and I’m afraid when I let him go, he’ll drift away from me.

  I’m a dirty, tarnished thing, and if he couldn’t see that before, now he will.

  “That night, the night he died, I couldn’t take it anymore.” It was him or me in the end, and to be honest, I didn’t really care which. “Killing him wasn’t premeditated. He came at me in the kitchen, and he set that bottle on the counter. When I got the chance, I grabbed it, and held it out like a weapon.”

  What are you going to do with that? Hit your father with it?

  “I smashed it against the wall.” My eyes go distant, remembering that encounter. “He laughed at that.” A mean laugh, one that promised pain. Lots of it. “And then he lunged at me.

  “I didn’t think. I swung the broken bottle at him.” It felt good to fight back. It felt like madness, and I gave myself over to it. “I must’ve nicked an artery.” My body’s shaking, and the Bargainer squeezes my hand tighter.

  “He bled out so fast,” I whisper.

  And the look in my stepfather’s eyes when he realized he was going to die. Mostly shock but also a healthy dose of betrayal. Like after all he’d done to hurt me, he assumed I’d never hurt him back.

  I swallow thickly, blinking back the memories. “The rest you know.”

  I expect a million terrible reactions, but not the one the Bargainer gives me. His releases my hand only to wrap his arms a
round me and pull me out of the computer chair and into his embrace. And I’m so, so thankful he’s touching me, holding me, giving me this physical comfort right when I thought I was incapable of being cherished.

  I crawl the rest of the way onto the tiny twin bed we now share, and as the moon sets, I cry in his arms. I let myself be weak because this may be the only time I’ll ever get this.

  A weight lifts from my chest. The pain is still there, but the dam’s been broken, and all that pressure that existed within me now rushes out.

  Finally I understand why the Bargainer is so alluring to me. He’s seen Callie the victim, Callie the killer, Callie the broken girl who can barely keep her life together. He’s seen all this, and yet he’s still here, stroking my hair and murmuring softly to me. “It’s alright, cherub. He’s gone, you’re safe.”

  I fall asleep like that, locked in the strong arms of Desmond Flynn, one of the scariest, most dangerous men in the supernatural world.

  And he’s right. In his arms, I feel absolutely safe.

  Present

  Back in Des’s Otherworld chambers, I pace, my skirt floating behind me.

  He’s coming for you.

  The Thief of Souls.

  Des warned me it would get worse. I just hadn’t really understood.

  “Have those sleeping women ever done that before?” I ask, glancing over at Des.

  The fae king watches me from a side chair, his fingers steepled over his mouth.

  “No.”

  He doesn’t even try to dodge the question like he’s usually so fond of doing.

  “And you heard everything they said?”

  “You mean their little rhymes?” he says. “Yes, I did.”

  He’s been uncharacteristically somber since we left the chamber of sleeping warriors. His wings only disappeared a few minutes ago, but I know better than to assume he’s unaffected by what we heard.