Chapter Six
Viola tiptoed through the fortress, her stomach in knots. Of course, her stomach was never not in knots nowadays. Brochan had been absent for an endless eternity! Six days of wretched despair, unrelenting loneliness and frantic worry. Basically, her worst nightmares come to life. Everything she’d battled as a child, times ten.
She’d searched the palace for anyone living or dead and found nothing. Absolutely nothing! As a goddess of the Afterlife, she could do things most other deities could not. Feed on souls. Well, she used to feed on souls, before her possession. But she could still traverse any plane, see spirits of the dead and communicate with ghosts. To her horror, even the spirits had vacated this realm. No other worlds existed around it, as if the land had been cursed. As if the planet itself had been severed from the highways of the galaxies and left to float across an endless void.
A metaphor for her host’s existence?
Or her own?
Tears gathered, blurring her vision. Lonely beyond reason, she’d resorted to uncovering the portraits hanging on the walls just to have people to speak to. Her audience consisted of the stern, painted faces of long-deceased warlocks and witches of old, known by the faint, swirling lines etched across their foreheads.
Viola pulled at the metal cuff Brochan had secured around her wrist. As usual, it didn’t budge. Just then, she loathed Brochan with the heat of a thousand suns. How dare he do this to her!? She had no one to speak to but herself. And even though she was stellar company—the best—she couldn’t rally her customary confidence. Self-loathing bombarded her daily. And okay, yes, maybe she didn’t hate Brochan with the heat of a thousand suns. Maybe only a few hundred.
In a secret part of her heart, however, she suspected she only loathed herself.
What if she was the worst person ever born? What if the worlds would be better off without her?
Would she die alone as she deserved? Would anyone but Fluffy remember her fondly?
Her friend Cameo might entertain a few delightful recollections about her. The first and only friend Viola had made outside of Fluffy. A woman once oppressed by Misery, a demon almost as horrid as Narcissism. Cameo was newly wed to the love of her life, Lazarus, and finally living her happily ever after.
Where’s my happily ever after? Viola swallowed a sob. She missed her baby so much. Sadness had become an ache in her bones. The perfect complement to the thorn of concern in her brain.
Why hadn’t Fluffy flashed to her? The agony of waiting and not knowing. The helplessness of entertaining countless questions without answers. The toll exacted by every rise and crash of emotion.
Her tears spilled down her cheek. She sniffled. Did Brochan feel this way all the time? Wondering when death might sink its claws into his brother. Flayed raw by what could have—should have—been.
Sniffling, she swiped at her damp eyes with a shaky hand. Fact: Brochan treasured his brother. Fact: The beast saw Viola as the cherished male’s cruel executioner. Fact: He wasn’t exactly wrong.
How could she blame him for treating her poorly? She’d dished much worse to others who’d wronged her. Except, she did blame him. She’d done the beast a favor. McCadden had been headed to the front line, where he would have died, losing his immortality without Viola’s interference. And his life. Her actions had granted him extra time. As a mortal, yes, but extra was extra. He’d never set foot on the battlefield, so he’d avoided a destined death. She should be rewarded for her heroism. Something she’d explained to McCadden. Not that he’d believed her. His mouth-wateringly delicious older brother would be no different.
If her baby suffered…
“Fluffy,” she called, her throat wobbly. “Come to Momma.” She prayed her words carried to other realms, and he remained strong enough to reach her. I’ll hold him, and everything will be all right.
She turned a corner, entering another hallway. Sunlight streamed through colored glass, illuminating forgotten side tables and a vase filled with dried, drooping flowers. More portraits covered with dusty cloths hung on the walls. With the change of direction, her thoughts shifted too, sliding from her pet to her captor yet again.
To offer Brochan the use of her beloved body…to enjoy herself with a male who didn’t like or respect her, a jailer who intended to steal from her… Did she care nothing for her future self?
A magnificent goddess of the Afterlife did not succumb to desire for others—others succumbed to their desires for her!
Okay, she was back to hating him. And maybe kinda, sorta sympathizing with him too? Even though Brochan blamed her for his brother’s future demise, he’d brought her a new basket of goodies each morning. Fresh breads and cheeses. Jams and honey. Wine. Feasts fit for a queen. Which she didn’t understand. Why did he offer gifts at the same time he antagonized her?
Is he as torn as I am?
No, he couldn’t be. The rogue had also delivered cleaning supplies and clothing: T-shirts and sweatpants she’d rather die than wear, as well as a French maid costume. The cruel beast obviously taunted her.
She was right the first time. Definitely hate him.
When next she caught sight of him, she would tell him. During every delivery, he had somehow remained hidden, as if he’d known when she slumbered, the coast clear. Even though she didn’t have a set schedule or know when she would succumb to the need for rest. Did he ever ponder their kiss? Or crave more of her?
A fresh tide of anger frothed. He’d gifted her with the best kiss of her life, the truth of his adoration drowning out the demon’s lies. Then he had rejected her. Abandoned her.
He must know what separation from an adoring public did to her. He’d followed her for months. But still, he stayed away?
That settled it. No more kisses for him!
Tremors shook her as she motored forward. When her knees almost buckled, she whimpered. The weakened demon was feeding, weakening her. The heartless fiend had even begun revealing those long-buried memories, the terrible truth now so clear…
As she’d smiled and chatted in those recollections, she’d destroyed people with her words. Males and females, mortals and immortals, had withered under her praises. Because her praises were insults!
Scraping noises halted her. Her ears twitched. Did she detect huffing too?
Someone was here!
Gasping, she pressed herself against the nearest wall, hiding in a shadowy corner. Though she was brave—the bravest!—she knew there were times to be leery. This was one such time. She had little strength and few weapons at her disposal.
Had the Forsaken found her? Maybe Brochan had returned for good. Perhaps a stranger had stumbled upon the realm. What if Fluffy had arrived?
Please be Fluffy.
More scraping and huffing, followed by a man’s curse. “Just kill me already!”
Definitely not Fluffy. Or Brochan. And yet, she recognized the timbre.
Viola threw a vase to the floor, cringing as the tinkle of shattering glass rang out. After swiping up the largest shard, she raced forward, snaked around another corner and… What?!
“Fluffy!” Relief swamped her as the fur-baby dragged a protesting wolfshifter behind him, teeth clamped firmly around the male’s ankle. The one from the bar. “My sweet baby,” she cried, lurching closer, bursting with joy.
Her small, wire-haired devampire released his prize. Making the most adorable squeaking sounds, he rushed over and threw himself into her waiting arms.