“At least until we figure out what to do,” Tarcyll adds, his inked fingers turning the crystal whisky glass. “I have a safe house near Varadero. He will not be able to track us there unless we use magic. And it will take Cyrell a while to find us. So, rest now, and we will figure something out after.”
“There was that… angry spirit in the sewers. She was asking about her baby. Was it a trick of this Dreadful One?” My voice still trembles when I remember the ghost.
Both Fae exchange looks, and I feel there is more to my question, something they don’t wish to discuss.
“Since the Siphons attacked and we’ve started our hunt here, we have noticed that magic in your world grows more abundant. Paranormal activities are not as seldom as decades ago.” I narrow my eyes in suspicion. Are they taking me for a fool?
“You mean that ghosts and the stuff of legends are becoming real?” Why am I so surprised? I saw what I saw.
“They’ve always been real, Celeste. There are just more of them now. Your world is changing. But we should all get some sleep now.” Tarcyll wraps up the conversation.
I turn my face to the clouds, reflecting the sunlight like mother-of-pearl. With a demon after me and a mysterious sewer-dweller who wants to drain my magic by attaching me to an unknown torture device, the idea of flying to a tropical island for a spontaneous vacation with these two doesn’t sound too bad.
The lights dim, and both men withdraw to the bottom of the cabin. I pull the window blind down and snuggle in the blankets. My tired mind is lulled into restless sleep by the alcohol and the monotonous roar of the engine.
The pull of the jet brakes wakes me up.
We climb into a massive SUV with dark windows that is expecting us on the tarmac. Tarcyll chivalrously covers my shoulders with his jacket, yet the hot concrete scorches my bare feet. It seems like an eternity since I last had shoes on.
The driver pauses for an instant when he sees me, but the sunglasses conceal his reaction. I can imagine his disapproving frown, but he doesn’t ask questions and treats us respectfully.
He speeds up on poorly maintained streets surrounded by dusty tropical vegetation, and in a couple of hours, he pulls off onto an inconspicuous black road. The SUV halts before a concrete wall with an automatic portal.
The tall walls and the unblinking eyes of multiple cameras make it appear like a fortress. Or more like a prison.
Tarcyll’s business must be running great, I conclude, admiring the colonial-style mansion hidden among a lush, well-maintained garden.
I get a room with a pool view and forget the mess I’m in for a few blissful minutes.
Dinner is served in the garden, next to the pool. I haven’t seen any staff and wonder if my host is doing all the cooking and serving by himself.
Lanterns glow warmly among the fuchsia splendor of the bougainvillea branches, forming a canopy above my head.
Candlelight makes the red wine sparkle like ruby, and the piles of cheese, appetizers, fruits, and pastries glimmer in the tropical night like some Renaissance cornucopia.
The dancing shadows carve the angles of the Fae faces even sharper. Both men interrupt their muffled conversation and look up at me. Two sets of eyes that glimmer predatorily in the tropical twilight take in my white cotton dress. The wardrobe in my bedroom is full of designer clothes, all in a casual holiday style, and I try not to ponder whom they belong to.
Two sudden flashes of movement, and they loom over me, dwarfing me with their presence. Something savage glimmers in their eyes, and I lick my lips, fascinated and terrified.
Mouth-watering visions of Diaphonus clearing off the table with a single sweep while Tarcyll bends me over it flood my mind, and I feel a tug of desire between my legs. Have they just glamoured me again?
My dark-eyed host seems to notice it, too, as his nostrils flare, and he smirks, pulling a chair for me, “I hope everything is to your taste, Celeste.”
That emphasis on “everything” is dubious and makes me steal another glimpse of their open shirts, displaying the rugged curves of their chests, the promising curls of their lips, and their muscular thighs as both retreat to their seats.
Diaphonus poorly conceals a grin and grabs an empty glass. “Wine?”
I spread the napkin over my knees, looking down to hide my blush. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m an open book to these two, that they have somehow sensed my arousal.
“Do you have something stronger?” I blurt. I don’t drink alcohol to relax or soothe my thoughts. Just like my mother, I drink to black out and escape. And vodka or tequila is the shortcut to getting wasted.
“Rum?” He raises a brow, and I nod.
They watch me fill my plate in silence. The soft bubbling of the pool pump and the orchestra of crickets are the only sounds in the warm night. We eat in silence.
Diaphonus clears his throat when I fill my second plate with Piccadillo. “Tarcyll and I have come to terms,” he starts, and the latter nods in agreement, “to offer you a deal.” He pauses, and both stare at me. I force myself to continue chewing, though the lump stuck in my throat makes swallowing difficult. A deal with Faeries? Isn’t it what all fairy tales warn us about? I put the fork down hesitantly. “Oh, okay. Let’s hear it, then.”
“We will work together,” he points at Tarcyll with his head, “to harvest your magic without harming you. We will find a way. Together. You will stay with us here, and we will protect you with our lives. And when we are done, you are free to go.”
