Dark Harmony by Laura Thalassa
Chapter 11
I stare at the crevice in the ground. “This is where your king lives?” I say skeptically.
Just another hole in the earth.
“You’ll see …” Des’s prisoner says ominously.
Since directing us here, a flight that covered miles of arid, lifeless territory, this fairy has gained a lot more confidence.
We’re probably about to get shanked.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. “So, what, are we just supposed to wait around …” My words die off as someone blows a horn.
Just as my eyes scour the landscape for the fairy, the sound of dozens of footfalls echo from the hole. Not a minute later, armed fairies come pouring out of the opening, pointing their weapons at us and shouting orders.
“Hands at your backs! Hands at your backs!”
Des does as instructed, looking ever the compliant captive. Taking a cue from him, I move my own hands to my back.
The fairies clamor in close to us, all while ignoring our former prisoner. Not that I’m that surprised. His clothes are tattered and homespun and he looks like he’s been on the wrong end of one too many fists, which is about how these soldiers’ look. Des and I, however, are clothed in fine silks and we’re (relatively) clean.
“Found these two wandering around the plains,” Des’s former captive says. “King Henbane will want to see them. They’ve got magic in spades.”
The soldiers grunt, eyeing us appreciatively. “You’ll get your finder’s fee.”
“I look forward to it.”
I narrow my eyes at our former prisoner.
He gives me a toothy smile and a two-fingered salute. “Enjoy your stay,” he says, backing away. The fairy leaves us there, descending into the crevice until the earth swallows him completely.
The soldiers move to shackle us, their metal restraints clanging together. The sound fills me with no little amount of dread. For a split second, I’m vividly back in Karnon’s prison.
“Cuff her with iron, and you’ll lose your balls,” Des says, pulling me back into the present.
One of the soldiers hesitates, then squints at Des, a mean look in his eye. “Is that a threat?”
“Naw, he’s just reciting poetry to you,” I say.
The fairy’s glare moves from the Bargainer to me, his lips pressed together like he’s tasted something bad. All at once, he swings the back of his palm at me.
He never lands the blow. His hand freezes inches from my face.
“Ah, ah, ah. Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite to hit a girl?” the Bargainer’s voice is beguiling, but at his back his wings have appeared. They spread out menacingly.
The display is so obviously a warning, but the soldiers close in on him anyway.
In an instant, Des’s magic lashes out, knocking the fairies to the ground. With another pulse of his power, the soldiers’ weapons are yanked from them, the swords and cudgels turned on their owners. They lay pinned in place, held hostage by their weapons.
The only one not held up by their weapons is the soldier who tried to hit me. He lays on the ground, his eyes wide as his arm rises in front of him. As he watches, his fingers begin to curl into a fist.
He stammers out, “W-what in all the—”
His fist strikes out, slamming into his face with a meaty slap. It pulls away only to land a second blow—then a third, fourth, fifth. The soldier cries out as blood begins to drip from his nose.
“Aye, you fools,” one of the fallen soldiers says. He’s staring at Des’s wings, “that’s the Night King!”
The Bargainer’s eyes sweep over them. “I’m done playing games.” His voice drips with menace. “Take us to your king.”
The Banished Lands actually has a society. You can almost call it a civilization, except civil has no business being in the name.
Since descending into the Otherworld’s buttcrack—a.k.a., the crevice in the ground—I’ve gotten a quick and thorough introduction into Maltira, the City of the Banished.
So far, I’ve seen six fights break out, four passed out fairies, three couples going at it (seven if you count the very questionable dancing we walked by) and dozens of people wearing jewelry made from fae bones.
Apparently bone necklaces are a thing.
Early on, a few fairies catcalled me and another grabbed his crotch. That all came to a fun little end when the catcallers mysteriously started confessing to having grandma fetishes and venereal diseases, and the crotch-grabber began squeezing his bits until he was begging for mercy.
The entire time Des’s face remained pleasantly passive, but through our bond I could feel the cool breath of his magic, stirred to agitation.
Don’t piss off my boyfriend, yo.
When he catches me staring, he drops the façade to flash me a devilish little smile. Then the façade is back up and he’s the cool but implacable Bargainer once more.
Around us, our guards walk stiffly, their spears and knives out and their expressions menacing. None of them, however, get too close to me or Des, lest they tempt the Night King’s anger again.
I glance at the cavern ceiling high above me. All those stories about fairies living Under the Hill were true, after all.
Our armed escorts lead us past buildings that rise from the earth into the air, looking as though they’d been formed from a single lump of clay. We pass rows and rows of these buildings, each one occupied by cagey fairies who’ve carved out some life for themselves.
Just like the land above, the air here is parched of magic. But it’s not just magic that’s missing from this place. I’ve come to expect a certain fae elegance with the Otherworld, yet most of the buildings are devoid of decoration; no one’s attempted to carve designs on lintels, or paint on adornments. Just as noticeable as the lack of aesthetics is the careless disrepair of the place. There are bits of litter here and graffiti there. The building across the way is stained and partially collapsed. The one next to it has been crudely patched up with mud and hide. It’s all so very un-fae like.
We leave this city-center through a corridor cut into the rock. Already we’ve descended hundreds of feet, but judging by the passage’s downward slope, we’re about to head even deeper into the ground.
I glance at the wall sconces where flames flicker; the scent wafting from them closes up my windpipes. It smells like burning hair and rotting flesh, and I’m seriously concerned that’s what the odd candles are made from.
After a dizzying number of switchbacks and a few flights of stairs, our group comes upon two armed fairies who block the passageway. One of them is a Fauna fae, his soft fox’s ears poking from between his red hair. The other could be from any of the other kingdoms, his hair a bright blond and his eyes the color of moss. Both wear the same patchy, homemade uniforms.
“The King of the Night and his mate request an audience with the king,” one of our escorts now says to the fae standing guard.
The one with the fox ears grunts, taking a nice long perusal of me, his gaze lingering on my tits, hips, and legs because apparently every criminal here has to act like a fucking cliché.
His attention moves to Des, and his lip curls. “If the king can’t drain them, he doesn’t want to see them.”
For a beat, nothing happens.
But then Des’s magic rips across the room, throwing the banished fairies against the dank, earthen walls.
Not going to lie, it’s been a real rough day for this group.
The Night King’s power pins them there, and it’s so obvious that if we so wanted to, we could waltz right in to see this king, and none of his lackeys could stop us.
“You have to forgive your fellow soldier,” Des says, stepping up to Fox Ears. “He didn’t word our demands correctly. This isn’t a request. It’s an order. But go ahead, defy it. I do so love to hear fairies scream.” He touches Fox Ear’s cheek.
The fairy shakes his head back and forth, whimpering as though he can feel the first tendrils of pain.
Des assesses him for a moment, then with a flick of his wrist, he releases all the men.
They crumple to the floor, rubbing their formerly pinned limbs.
The fairies’ posturing appears to be over, but before any of them can pick themselves up, Des looms over Fox Ears. “Oh, and a word of warning: look at my mate again with anything other than respect and benevolence, and you’ll lose your eyes.”
Damn.
Fox Ears bows his head, his ears drooping, his posture turning submissive. He nods, and with that, he and the other guard step aside and let our entourage pass by.
“Got to threaten every damn grain of sand in this place …” Des mutters under his breath.
I can’t help but agree with him. The only thing anyone seems to respect around here is power.
We pass three more sets of guards (two of which also need to be threatened) and descend deeper into the mountain before we finally arrive at a massive stone door.
This far beneath the earth, where the sky is only a distant memory, I can feel the barest breath of magic.
So the Banished Lands haven’t been reaped of all power. Just the vast, vast majority of it. And now I understand why the citizens of the Banished Lands built down. Because the lower you go, the closer to magic you get. And in a world where everyone’s suffocating in its absence, even the barest hint of it is precious.
The stone door is pushed open, and I get my first good look at the king’s inner sanctum.
The vaulted room is packed to the brim with fairies in loincloths and bandeaus, leather pants and body paint. It’s all so primal, and oddly—savagely—sensual.
The fairies pin us in from all sides, making our trip down the aisle slow and claustrophobic.
I take in the hordes of them, their exotic faces ranging from curious to bloodthirsty. Beyond them, I catch sight of the top of the makeshift throne, carved from rock and fitted with bone and steel. But it’s not until we’re nearly at the end of the aisle that the crowd parts, and I finally see him.
The king.
He lounges on the stone throne, his legs splayed out. In place of a shirt, he wears dozens of bleached bone necklaces, each one strung with a dizzying number of teeth and bones. His brown leather trousers hang low on his tan hips, and strapped to them are several blades, some made from stone, others steel.
His chestnut hair is plaited back from his face, and it hangs in ropes over his shoulders. A crown made out of metal and bone perches high on his head. The thing is fashioned crudely, and I’m surprised that a fae would wear such a thing. It looks like something I made in art class when I was five.
His glittering green eyes fall first on Des before skipping over to me. Here, they take their time, moving from my face to my chest, hips, and legs. Then they make a slow climb back up. As he assesses me, his fingers tap against an armrest.
I would’ve said he was bored, except there’s far too much interest sparking in his eyes.
The fairies in front of us stop and kneel. “Your Majesty,” they murmur.
“I see we have visitors.” The king says this like Des and I are offending his sensibilities. His sensibilities. The man sitting in the I-was-drunk-when-I-made-this chair.
The kneeling fairies now stand, turning to us.
“Bow before His Eminence, Lord of the Banished, Master of the Forgotten, Protector of the Maligned, King Typhus Henbane,” one of our escorts commands, though he looks a little ill while he says it.
The Bargainer saunters forward a few steps. “You have titles? How charming.”
King Henbane stands, his chestnut hair gleaming under the torchlight and his necklaces rustling. “Forced your way into my presence without even a bow to show for it. Can’t say I’m surprised at your impetuousness, Desmond Flynn.”
So he knows who Des is. I also notice that he dropped my mate’s title. Definitely a snub there. And today is really not the day. The Bargainer seems particularly prickly.
Typhus’s gaze slides to me, and again he assesses me. This time, however, there’s more than a touch of scorn in them. “But for your slave lover to not show me respect …” He clicks his tongue. “Last time I endured such a grave insult, I impaled the fairy for it.”
Down our bond, I feel a flash of white hot anger. But looking at Des, you would never know it.
The King of Night gives the Typhus a mocking smile. “Last time I saw a jester pretending to be a king, I actually laughed.”
Oooooh, burn.
The room goes deathly silent.
Welp, that got their attention.
This king’s wings flicker behind his back, and his face ticks. “If you came here to curry my favor, oh great king, then you might want to start over.”
“You are an exiled criminal still serving out your sentence. In what world would I seek out your favor?”
Typhus laughs in the face of that, the crowd echoing the sentiment.
When the room quiets down he says, “Do you know how I came to be?” The king sits back down on his throne. “I was already strong before I was ever sent here some hundred and fifty years ago. And I have since imbibed countless men’s magic.”
Even a day here has left me with what feels like a mild hangover. I can’t imagine years, decades, centuries of this. Typhus must be powerful, to live here for this long and still have so much magic.
“Thousands have gifted me their powers,” he continues, “all in return for my protection … protection which you are now threatening.”
Des raises his eyebrows. “Is that right?”
“We’re not in your kingdom anymore. We’re in mine.”
He doesn’t say it, but he’s implying that Des and I are bound by loi du royaume—that we must submit to Typhus’s rule and the laws of his land.
The Bargainers eyes sweep over the room. “So this is your kingdom now?” A surprised little chuckle escapes him.
King Henbane tightens his grip on his armrests.
“Forgive me,” Des says, “but this is the first I’ve heard of anyone wanting this shithole.”
Henbane rises to his feet again, his face flushing with anger. At his back, angular, iridescent wings begin to form.
Awww, did my boyfriend piss someone off?
The king motions to someone in the crowd, and in response, a fairy steps away from the gathered masses, a pair of thick iron shackles in his gloved hands. Several of the soldiers in our entourage now hesitantly grab Des. They might not want to get in another skirmish with the King of Night, but they also don’t want to betray their loyalties.
They move my mate’s hands in front of him, and Des just lets them. I make a move to intercede, but two of our escorts cut me off, holding me in place.
The King of the Night flashes me a look, and unlike all his playful words, the expression is serious, though I’m not sure what unspoken message he’s trying to beam at me.
The fairy with the iron manacles steps up to the Bargainer. I don’t care that Des is powerful and unyielding as the fairy moves them to his wrists; I struggle at the sight of them. During my time as Karnon’s prisoner, I saw exactly what iron did to the fae.
With an ominous clink, the soldier cuffs Des. They’re only on his wrists for an instant before the iron shackles slide uselessly off, landing on the dirt floor in front of Des.
The Bargainer raises his eyebrows. “That was not supposed to happen, I take it?” he asks.
Up on the throne, the king fists one of his hands, but otherwise continues to watch impassively.
Frowning, the fairy picks up the iron manacles with a gloved hand and again tries to cuff Des.
And again the shackles slip off him, falling once more to the ground. This time, when the guard stoops to grab them, the Bargainer kicks them away.
“Whoops.”
Typhus settles into his seat, his sharp green eyes flicking over me. “Since our lord king won’t cooperate, put a pair on the bitch he’s with.”
In response, the room gets a hint darker.
Once more, the fairy bends down and picks up the shackles. Only, as soon as he touches them, the cuffs clamp themselves on his wrist. His gloves slide off, exposing his bare skin to the iron. It only takes a few seconds for his screams to start up.
And that right there is proof that this whole kingdom is nothing but fool’s gold. I was imprisoned next to enough real soldiers to know that no matter how badly iron burned them, they wouldn’t give their captors the benefit of their screams. Badassery at its finest.
That was how hardened those soldiers were. These fairies are nothing but boys and girls role-playing at being soldiers.
Des takes several steps forward, his magic thickening in the air. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
That’s all the warning he gives. In the next instant, power explodes out of him, tearing through the room. It blasts back the crowd of fairies, knocking them down like bowling pins. Even Typhus is thrown back against his seat, the stone trembling under the force of Des’s magic.
The king looks utterly shell-shocked for a moment, and I can’t decide whether he’s blown away by Des’s power or his audacity.
When he recovers, magic begins to form in his fist, bending the light as it takes the shape of a spear. He throws the bolt like a javelin, aiming straight for Des.
The Bargainer doesn’t move, though he has time to sidestep the throw. Instead, he takes the full brunt of it as it slams into his chest.
He grunts at the impact, then touches his chest with mild interest. “I am impressed. How many of your subjects have you drained to amass this sort of power? Hundreds? Thousands? You must be cobound to damn near everyone to wield this level of magic.”
Another spear begins to form in Typhus’s hand. “They’ve bequeathed their power willingly,”—uh huh. And cake has no calories—“so I could defend them from men like you.”
Des waves a hand, and King Henbane is thrown back in his seat, his magic disintegrating in an instant.
“Enough.” The King of the Night says it with such finality that the room full of hardened criminals now stills.
Des steps forward. “I was told you could give me answers, and I will have them, one way or another.”
Typhus grimaces in his seat, his body slightly contorted. It takes a moment for me to realize that’s because the Bargainer’s magic has him pinned in place. Around us, the fairies crowding the room seem to be held back by invisible hands.
For the first time since exiting Galleghar Nyx’s tomb, the air is thick with power. It slips over my arms and curls around my ankles, caressing my skin. But unlike the magic in Galleghar’s tomb, Des’s power is familiar and inviting; it drapes itself over me like a shawl.
Des closes in on the dais, each careful step echoing across the quiet room. He’s struck us all dumb.
“There’s a grave in the southwestern territory of the Banished Lands,” he says, his gaze trained on Typhus. “It’s marked by several large boulders. The body inside it was impervious to damage. And now, it’s missing. I want to know how that came to be.”
Typhus narrows his eyes, a calculative gleam in them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, his words ringing false.
I fibbed better when I was in diapers.
“But even if I did,” he continues, “why should I tell you? You don’t recognize my rule.”
Des studies the fairy, his head cocked to the side.
My body tenses, expecting some reaction with a good dose of panache.
But that’s not what I get.
Des’s expression becomes almost contemplative. He nods, like Typhus didn’t just feed him a load of horseshit.
Around the room, the Bargainer’s magic lifts, and the air tastes parched once more. Cautiously, fairies begin to get to their feet.
Typhus doesn’t move, instead pretending that he deliberately chose to sit like a folded up Pretzel.
“There is one other matter I must attend to before we head back to my kingdom,” the Bargainer says, waiting until he’s sure he has the room’s undivided attention. “You know as well as I do that I can’t leave here with you as you are,” Des says. “So either you give them,” He jerks his head to the desperate hordes that bracket us in, “back their magic, or I’ll do it for you.”
I’m thinking that I’ll do it for you involves sharp weapons and a dead body.
Typhus rises from his throne, his face darkening and his hands trembling with his rising anger.
The scent of the banished king’s borrowed magic saturates the air; it smells just how you’d imagine it would—like that time you idiotically sampled too many perfumes on yourself and now all those strong, potent smells are clashing and giving you a mother of a headache.
“Kill him where he stands!” It’s an open order, and I’m pretty sure this idiot expects all of the fairies in this room to answer to it.
“No.”
I feel the power of that one word ripple through the enclosed space. But it’s not Des who says it.
I step away from the Bargainer, my skin illuminating.
I’ve had enough of this place, where the air itself feels like it’s trying to squeeze your magic out of you, and I’ve had enough of this man, who for all his years of life, has learned nothing except how to be a brutish A-hole.
In response to my magic, the crowd around us begins to press in, none so close as our guards. As soon as their eyes fall on me, they forget they are self-respecting fairies who have duties. They move towards me, ready to touch my skin, stroke my hair, drink me up and consume me whole. It’s the way it always has been, only here, in this magicless place, my glamour is all the more alluring.
“Get out of my way,” I order, my power filling my voice.
The fairies do as I say—albeit, a little reluctantly.
“What are you fools doing?” this king shouts at them, despite the fact that he can’t rip his gaze off of me.
“Shut up,” I order.
His mouth clicks closed.
The sheer outrage on his face! I savor every last drop of it.
“No one move—except to breathe,” I order, my voice echoing in the cavern. “Oh, and Des, ignore my commands. You can do whatever you want.”
Around us, the room seems to freeze in place. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was in a hall of statues.
The Bargainer folds his arms and leans against the nearest frozen fairy, using him like he would a wall. Des has a good deal of mirth in his eyes, and it’s clear he’s eager to let me steal the show.
I begin to walk down the aisle, towards Typhus’s throne, my hips swaying.
I head up to the dais, Typhus’s gaze pinned in place. “You can move your eyes,” I allow.
Immediately they snap to me. It’s hard to read his emotions, since the rest of him is still frozen in place, but I’d definitely say that I’m getting some strong anger vibes coming from him.
“I really shouldn’t let you do this,” Des says behind me. He sounds gleeful.
I reach Typhus’s throne, and God, his chair is even uglier up close. His crudely made crown rests right there, within reach, and I just can’t help myself. I reach out and lift the thing off of his head, then settle it onto mine. “Look at that,” I breathe. “The slave you wanted to shackle is now your queen.”
Now I can see Typhus’s anger bubbling in his eyes. Still, he’s powerless.
On a whim, I command him, “Stand, Typhus.”
Robotically, he rises from his chair.
“Now, oh great king, bow before me.” Typhus dips low, his nose nearly touching his knees as he’s forced to follow my command.
As a PI, I’ve seen my fair share of pissed off looks when someone is caught in the web of my glamour. King Henbane is no exception. He stares at me like he’s cursing my very existence with his eyes.
I lap it up like a cat does cream. “Sit.”
He sits.
He won’t recover from this. Not now that his subjects have seen how easily I took his crown and bent his will.
I tilt my head at the sight of him, sullen and powerless. There is just something about a felled man that gets to me in the most twisted way.
Giving in to my baser nature, I move forward, climbing onto the king’s lap, straddling his thighs.
I feel just the thinnest thread of jealousy through my connection. That, too, I lap up.
I am something to envy.
Lifting a hand, I reach for one of his necklaces, enjoying the sick way the bones and teeth shiver as they brush each other.
My gaze flicks to him, and Typhus’s green eyes seem to darken. There’s still plenty of anger in them, but now there’s lust there too.
I smile. Someone probably wants to hate-bang me.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I readjust myself on his lap, shaking my hair out.
Why did I think glamouring him was important … ?
Oh, right.
“You will answer all my questions fully and honestly,” I command. “Now, how long ago was the tomb opened?” I ask.
His upper lip twitches in distaste. “A few weeks ago.”
Recent. Part of me had assumed the tomb was opened years ago.
I glance over my shoulder at Des, a self-satisfied smirk on my face. He stares back at me, and his expression is amused, but his eyes are stormy.
Swiveling forward again, I lean into this idiot king, petting his cheek. In response, the room dims a little. Apparently, my mate has some objections to me petting other men.
“And who opened the tomb?” I breathe.
“I don’t know,” he growls.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean it wasn’t a who at all.”
Losing patience.
“Explain,” I command.
Again, he hesitates. How precious. As if he can fight the hold I have on him.
After two short seconds, he gives up. “On the night the dead man rose—the night Galleghar rose—” he clarifies, making it clear that he knows exactly who lay buried in that grave, “it was a shadow that retrieved him.”
