Tarcyll notices it, too, and tries to prolong Celeste´s pleasure, brushing his calloused knuckles over her nub. Barely recovered from my climax, I quickly utter a spell.
I absorb all the arcane energy this time, and no drop is wasted. That sensation of power roaring in my veins is as intoxicating as our games with the human. She shimmers faintly, and her eyes close, my seed still dripping from her half-open lips, when the other Hunter growls and fills Celeste up with one final, brutal thrust. Then he leans over her and places a soft kiss on her breast.
“It worked,” I mutter as I stumble away to find something to clean the mess up.
Tarcyll gently places her in the aromatic bath I have drawn for her. The soothing scent relaxes her, and my friend takes a towel and carefully cleans her face. I raise a brow, stunned. Never have I expected such tenderness from a ruffian like him. I join in his efforts and cast some mild restoration spells. Our human must be sore. I see how the furrow between her brows smooths, and I head to the kitchen to prepare her favorite tea.
I find them in the bedroom when I return. Celeste is sound asleep, spooned against Tarcyll´s large frame. I put the steaming cup on the nightstand and lay down, too, and when I feel her arm over my chest, I surrender to the sweet fatigue.
Celeste- The Anchor
I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and waffles. Memories of last night flood my brain, and I bury my face under the fluffy pillow. How would I look these males in the eye again? Yet hunger gets the best of me, and I sneak into the kitchen. I’m grateful to find it deserted and throw myself over the steaming pile of food.
After washing the last waffle down with coffee, I head to the library.
There, I spot the athletic silhouette of Tarcyll, bent over a book. His short, dark hair is messy, with some longer strands framing his defined jawline. His thick brows are furrowed, and he appears deeply invested in his lecture. My memories of last night are still fresh, so I retreat a step, blushing.
Yet it is too late. The spy whips his head, and his gaze softens when he sees me.
“Good morning, beautiful. I hope you liked my breakfast.” He smiles and invites me to the chair opposite with a gesture.
“Where is Diaphonus?” I mumble, sinking into the soft embrace of the chair.
His brow arches at my question, and I wonder if I see a spark of jealousy. “Out somewhere, doing weird high-priestly stuff. What brings you here? Maybe I can help you, too.” The mischief in his tone heats my core, but I discipline myself. It’s so rare to speak to him alone. Maybe I could get some helpful information. Or see if Diaphonus is hiding something.
“I was hoping to learn more about your world,” I blurt. Tarcyll’s gaze lights up. It seems like I have found the soft spot of the roguish spymaster.
He disappears into the depths of the bookshelf labyrinth that fades into the gloom. How big is this room, actually? I ponder. And is space determinable when you dwell in an illusion floating somewhere between the realms?
Tarcyll emerges, holding a heavy tome bound in soft white leather. He slams it on the reading table, and I pull my chair closer, peeking over his shoulder curiously.
The old paper cracks under his slender, tattooed fingers. Artfully drawn maps grace the pages, followed by text passages in an unknown language. I roll my eyes in frustration. How can I investigate other possibilities to defeat the Siphons when I can’t even read Fae language?
He shows me pictures and explanations about each of the four realms, yet just like Diaphonus, he hastily flips the scarce pages dedicated to the Underworld. Is the Kingdom of the Dreadful One so despicable? Is the Dark Prince so terrifying that they avoid the topic even in books?
“What do you know about the Underworld and the Dreadful One?” I ask, and he curiously cocks his head.
“Well, this is an odd question. Why are you suddenly interested in that?” He shuts the tome and leans back in his chair.
“All I hear about the Dreadful One is that he is, well, dreadful, yet nobody seems to know anything about him or his kingdom. He hasn’t harmed any of you Hunters, though he could have done it countless times. What if he wants to share something? What if he has some information we don’t? Something that could help us save all Faëheim, not just parts of it…” The last words slipped out too fast. He tenses up. My speculation has set him off.
“I forgive you for saying this, Celeste, as you are a stranger to our world. He is a beast. A demon. The most powerful sorcerer in our world, yet using his god-like magic only to kill and destroy. He is the one who brought this evil upon us. And the only reason he is after you is, I am afraid, utterly selfish.”
His knuckles are white, and a vein throbs across his forehead. I have struck a sensitive nerve. He and Diaphonus are obviously not entertained by the idea of involving other Fae in our arrangement.
“And yet he has never hurt anyone, though he had the chance twice—at the nightclub and in Cuba,” I insist, for a reason I cannot comprehend. Am I defending an otherworldly demon? That deeply-rooted sense of justice inside me got me in trouble at school and work often. It’s what Jasmin admires about me, yet I would gladly trade it for more practical qualities.
“Only a human can be so naïve and look for goodwill where there is none.” He rises and heads to the door, “You, me, and the priest—we have a good plan, Celeste. Diaphonus is getting stronger with each…” he grins as he searches for the right word, “session. I believe you are not suffering, either. When we are powerful enough, we will return to Faëheim and retake our homeland.” His tone suddenly darkens, “Please do not fail us now.” Then he abruptly leaves, slamming the door behind his back, his words hanging ominously in the air, and I suddenly realize I am a prisoner.
The bookshelves spin around me and tighten like cage bars, and I start hyperventilating. I haven’t had an episode in a while, which my therapist would chalk it up to abandoning my obsession to control everything and shifting the focus from my mother’s poor parenting and years of bullying at school to my actual life.
I have no time to lose and no medication in my pocket, so I open the heavy book he left on the table, desperately trying to distract myself.
The Underworld. My eyes cross when I struggle to decipher the thin lines of strange letters. It is impossible, so I focus on the scarce maps and pictures instead. They are painted with incredible detail, sparkling in beautiful colors, outlined with golden ink.
I leaf through cryptic maps that cannot tell me much, but a vivid painting follows, stretching over two pages. It shows the Underworld as a lush, green woodland, where thick vines intertwine and strive toward the arches of the rock vaults, piercing them and heading to the surface. Magical lights dance among the thick green leaves, clusters of crystals, and eerie glowing vegetation, making the landscape appear mysterious yet somehow dreamy. My finger traces the vines´ deep roots digging through the rocky soil, reaching down like bony fingers to an unseen light source.
What lies below the Underworld?
