I expected that my sister would be in rough shape, but I hadn’t thought it would be as bad as what I see now before me. She has never looked so much like our father before, and it hits me so hard, I nearly stumble back out of the room. Only the way my fingers curl around the doorframe keeps me in place, and even then, I swear the metal groans under my hand.
Wild eyes meet mine. Dark circles make her eyes look sunken into her face, and even the shadows under her cheekbones are more prominent. Bruises. Thousands and thousands of bruises from shades of blue to yellow streak every inch of visible skin. Smokey clouds of onyx gather at her back. They outline her in stark comparison to the pallor of her skin.
I can feel my pulse within my veins burning like a brilliant flame that burns all the way into my lungs. I lock my knees to keep them from buckling under the intensity of her gaze. Madness. That’s what I see in front of me. A terrible madness far too similar to our father’s.
My sister... she is beautiful and she is utterly frightening. There’s a monster under her skin, lurking, begging, biding its time before it’s released.
Violence takes a step, and the shadows at her back disperse as if blown away by a sudden gust of wind. She casts a single look over her shoulder, her mouth falling into a deep frown. Could she feel the magic at her beck and call?
“Merrick?” she says on a fragile-sounding whisper. Her muscles relax one by one as she deflates and lowers herself to her thin mattress.
Her room is little more than a simple bed and a single toilet set at the farthest end of the room. No sink for water. No mirror for her to see what she’s becoming. Nothing to entertain her. Another way to make the hysteria creep in.
Fae can get their powers in one of two ways. They can be born with it, though it’s rare. It does happen as Violence was gifted. Or it can be passed down from mother to daughter, father to son, when the parent yields to death. Which is how I’ll receive the dark magic my father now carries. I’ll gain a crown and powers that leave even the most daring Fae shaking.
I have to wonder what sort of toll her lifelong magic has taken on her. What sort of trauma she is having to endure while locked away in this terrible place. No windows. No sunshine. My father is ruining her.
My throat constricts. Worry lodges itself in my windpipe, making it hard to breathe. I force myself to gently close the door. I lean into it, still too chickenshit to take a step closer.
Violence cradles her head in her hands for a moment. When she looks back up, she’s just a little girl again. The sister who poked fun at me, who planned pranks with Casimir and Trill. The child who didn’t have to grow up until she was forced to as she was banished to the Wild Hunt.
“Violence.” My voice cracks.
Save her. Save her. Fucking save her!my mind yells at me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I peel myself from the door. When I blink them back open, she scoots over on the bed, allowing me space to sit next to her.
“Have you come to take me back to him?”
Him. She says it like the word is poison on her lips. She spits it.
“No.” We both breathe out a long sigh, though hers is tinged with relief while mine is full of heavy frustration. I lower my voice. “What is he doing to you?”
Her gaze snaps to mine. Father’s image is long gone, now replaced with our mother’s in the depths of her wide sparkling gaze. Another wave. Another moment where I’m drowning in emotions. Mourning comes in and goes, crashing down on you when you least expect it.
“You don’t know?” She flinches but moves to face me further. I can’t even begin to understand what sort of pain she’s in. I shake my head in response, and she continues. “I—I can’t remember what happens.”
“Shit.” I hiss, my hands folding as though I’m about to enter into prayer. I probably should be praying or sacrificing virgins,something. My knuckles brush my forehead as I try to think. “Listen.” I take her hands in mine. “I’m going to get you out of here. I swear it.”
She breathes a laugh. “Don’t make me promises you can’t keep.”
My thumb runs over her slender hands, and I count the bruises in silence. Too many. Even one bruise would be too much, but this has crossed a whole other line.
“I have a plan, and Father has already agreed.”
She stiffens.
“I’ve offered Prince Dalziel your hand in marriage.”
I thought her face had been pale before, but somehow, it drains of color even further. She’s white as a damn ghost. Her hands trembling in mine. I swear darkness gathers in the corner of the room in response.
“You did what?” She gasps.
“Listen—”
“No.” Her voice rises a little, emotion thick within the one word.
“Violence, if you’ll just—”
“Merrick,” she snaps, “I don’t want to marry Prince Dalziel.” Her attention shifts to the space in her room where she’d been standing minutes ago. Those beautiful eyes are haunted.
