The Myths of Ophelia (The Curse of Ophelia #4)

Chapter 46

Chapter Forty-Six

Malakai

Following Mila through the web of the pleasure house without ripping her clothes off was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Spirits, I was half tempted to pull her through the next open door, even if I had to spend all the money to my name to rent it for the night.

Her leathers hugged her body perfectly as she wandered ahead, and my cock hardened at the memory of what it felt like to sink into her. She disappeared around the next turn, and I paused, pressing a hand to the stone wall and shaking my head to clear it.

We had answers to find tonight.

“Get off of me.” Mila’s low threat sliced through my thoughts and I raced around the corner.

A barely-dressed man, muscled skin gleaming with oil, pressed her up against the wall, grinning sleazily.

“I paid lavishly for an evening with anyone I want,” he said, looking Mila over, oblivious to how she kicked at him.

“Let go.” She tugged at where he gripped her wrists against the wall—right over her gold cuffs—and rage blurred my vision.

“I’m not used to the leathers, but we can play.” He leaned further down. “Pretend you’re an active warrior.”

“Who do you want to pretend I am?” I growled.

He barely looked up before my fist slammed into his jaw.

The man went sprawling to the tile floor with a loud smack, the thin scarf wrapped around his waist falling. With him completely naked, I dragged him up by his hair and threw him against the wall, my arm pinning his throat.

Blood trailed down his chin. Fucking satisfying.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“What do you ?”

He pushed at me. “Getting what I paid for.”

“Think again.” I threw another punch to his jaw. “She’s not a worker here, and frankly, I don’t think any of them would deign to touch you—no matter how much coin you spent.”

A small crowd had formed behind me, spilling out of the nearby rooms—many half-dressed—but I didn’t pay them any attention. If this got us thrown out, so be it.

Among them, I found Mila. Hair in disarray, but pure fire in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded, jaw tight.

“You’re lucky, then,” I said to the piece of filth. “Oh, and you missed one crucial piece. She’s not just any active warrior. She’s a general of the Mystique armies.” Fuck, it was gratifying when his face paled. “And if I hadn’t been here, I’m sure she would’ve been happy to show you how she earned that title.” I shoved him down the hall, his bare ass nearly crashing back to the tile. “Now get out. Of the entire house.”

Once he was gone, I spun toward Mila, taking her face between my hands. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

She nodded again. The silence rattled my chest. Last time she’d stopped speaking was in the Labyrinth when the cave-in had triggered memories of her captivity.

“Words, Mila.” I dropped my forehead to hers. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m okay,” she swore, voice containing more steel than I’d expected. Her fortress solidified. “Shaken, but okay. I could’ve handled him on my own.”

“You don’t have to,” I told her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m happy I don’t,” she admitted. And she didn’t seem to feel weak for confessing that she wanted someone to help her. Mila never found weakness in that sort of vulnerability. It made her even stronger.

Made me love her more.

Slipping my hand around the back of her neck, I tilted her head and kissed her hard enough to forget that prick. Sealed the fact that I was the only one kissing or touching her tonight. Ever again.

“Excuse me?” a soft voice asked beside us.

Without turning, I grumbled, “I swear on Damien’s grave if another one of you tries to approach us.”

But Mila kissed me once more and looked around my arm. “Yes?”

A Soulguider with golden skin bedecked in dusty purple scarves and bronze jewelry stood a few feet away. “I only wanted to apologize for the patron and make sure you know we’ve escorted him out. You’re welcome and safe here, and if there’s anything we can do, let us know.”

I exchanged a glance with Mila, trying to shove away the rage still burning through me. “Actually, there is,” I said. The woman’s head tilted. “Do you know where we can find a Storyteller?”

She smiled. “Come with me.” Her scarves whipped around her frame as she turned.

I took a step to follow, but Mila grabbed my wrist and whispered, “I have to say—jealousy looks great on you, Warrior Prince.”

“You ask after the stars?” The Storyteller before us was incredulous, twisting a long braid around her hand. “Surely you know my gift of legends is not about the Fates.”

“Technically,” Mila argued kindly, “Storyteller magic is about relaying history, correct?”

The Storyteller—Parrille, her name was—straightened. “That is correct.”

The worker who had led us here found her walking with two of her comrades, sharing some tale the wind had whispered to her—or whatever the fuck the explanation for their magic was—and pulled her aside in this stretch of hall, abstract tapestries and orbs of shaded mystlight dulling the chill from the stone walls.

We started by asking her about the Angelcurse, but the Storyteller claimed there was no such information in their cult’s history. I was skeptical—Ophelia would certainly be discouraged by that—but once we’d asked a number of different questions that we thought could unravel some tale in her mind, Mila and I had moved on.

“We don’t need to know of the Fates exactly,” I said. “But I was wondering if you are able to speak of fates of those who had passed?”

“Since that is deemed historical fact,” Mila explained.

The Storyteller pursed her lips, locking her arms across her ample chest. The teal scarves wrapped intricately around her body bunched with the movement. “Who is it you ask after?”

Ophelia came into tonight with questions about the Angels and the emblems. But Mila and I had been talking, and we kept coming back to one person—one story he’d written.

The damn gates would not let me in but legend spoke of them and the ones who tell tales of legends whispered of it too so this must be it.

Anything could help. “What about gates?”

“Gates?” Parrille perked up.

“Are there gates that are…I don’t know, special? Where someone would go to worship the Angel maybe?”

“You search for where the legends rest?” I was silent, because I didn’t fucking know what she meant. “I cannot tell you of that.” She spun, her waist-length twin braids nearly hitting us with the movement, and took a step down the hallway.

I groaned. This was useless. But I’d saved one last card to pull, and Spirits, I didn’t want to, but I had to try. “There’s someone else. Another name.”

The Storyteller flicked a judgmental look over her shoulder. “Stop wasting my time, warrior.”

“I promise,” I said with a swallow, “you will know of this one.”

Parrille turned back fully, gesturing to me to continue. The Angelcurse had somehow been absent in her histories. An alarming development, sure, but one to worry about later.

Mila nodded, encouraging me to voice the question I’d only shared with her.

“Lucidius Blastwood.” My father’s name hung in the air between us. “I want to know about Lucidius Blastwood.”

Parrille lifted her chin, eyes drooping over me. “I see it now. He is your father, no?”

I reared back. “How do you know that?”

“When you are born with the gift of speaking to the winds—when you sacrifice your connections to your clan and family to practice—you learn a great many things.” Apparently not about Angelcurses, though. She tilted her head as if listening. “I know of the man you ask after. Have seen him with my sisters and brothers. Have heard tales of him. He was a tainted, tainted man.”

“Trust me, I know.” My fingers curled at my sides, the scar along my jaw tingling. “But I think he died with secrets. Ones that are becoming more and more imperative to our lives. Can you tell me anything about him?”

“I take it you know much already?” When I nodded, she continued, “Ask a particular question. Telling stories of one’s entire life can take years.”

I ground my jaw, choosing my words carefully. I didn’t have time to start her on a random tangent. “He was looking for something across the continent. What was it?”

Parrille closed her eyes, seeming to search the archive of her mind. After a moment, her lips popped open, and her voice became that rhythmic tone of a Storyteller again. “The former Mystique Revered was curious about the seven Primes. He spent long decades of his life roving the continent, in search of power that may have been left in their wake.”

My eyes cut to Mila. The emblems . Lucidius had known about them. We’d suspected, based on the locations his journals referenced and the fascination with the Angels, but a part of me had always thought—or maybe hoped—it was a coincidence.

So much for denial. The scars across my back ached with the realization.

“He was successful in finding what he sought, though he was unaware. He did not possess whatever vital source it required. And in the process, he lost pieces of himself to the attempts.”

Lucidius found the emblems but didn’t have Angelblood. I didn’t have Angelblood. Why, then, was I able to feel the emblems beat?

“Lucidius drove himself toward the edge of insanity on this desperate mission.”

I dragged my tongue over my teeth, letting what I already knew sink in. As if sensing that mounting wave of turmoil, Mila slid her hand into mine, lacing our fingers together, and I calmed.

It gave me the strength to organize my thoughts. “How did he know of this lingering power if he wasn’t meant to find it?”

“He learned of them from a female of a different clan.” Kakias . She cared enough about Lucidius to share what Bant’s original plan was when he shed his angelic Spirit into her. “But neither of the two were ever fully honest with each other. A bond of true love, warped by desperation for power.”

“I guess that means Kakias and Lucidius had loved each other at one point,” I whispered to Mila. “Even with her soul tarnished and sacrificed to immortality, she’d loved him.”

“Or he’d loved her,” Mila said. “Unrequitedly.”

“A waste of emotion if so,” I sighed. Regardless, it still didn’t answer the most important question. “Why?” I asked, voice breaking. “Why did he want them?”

It couldn’t only have been for Kakias. The queen knew of the emblems because of Bant, but had not cared about them before she learned Ophelia could use them against her.

The Storyteller shook her head. “I cannot know that.”

“What do you mean ?” I argued.

“The winds only whispered the story of what unfolded. Lucidius was clear that he sought these remnants of magic, but he never shared with anyone why. That remained buried within his soul, a secret he took into the Spirit Volcano with him.”

“Can you tell me anything else? A—I don’t know—a reason? What was wrong with him that made him do such horrific things?”

Ophelia was searching for the emblems, too, and she was not Lucidius. She did not have the cruel, twisted heart he bore at death.

And Lucidius wasn’t a chosen. Why look in the first place?

Parrille’s stare softened. “Sometimes, it is best to let the dead rest and forge your own path through the hottest fires of the continent, Warrior Prince.”

I fidgeted, fingers aching to touch the scars on my back.

“We’re going,” Mila snapped. She laced her fingers through mine, a solid reassurance, her voice thick with sarcasm when she added, “Thank you for being oh-so-helpful.”

Parrille dipped her head, and glided away down the corridor, twirling that long braid around her hand.

As we rounded the corner, we slammed straight into Lyria. The commander’s eyes were wide and harried, gaze darting around the corridor.

“Oh,” she exhaled. “It’s you.”

“Are you okay?” Mila asked with a step toward her.

“Fine,” Lyria snapped, flinching.

Mila eyed her. “Lyr, what happened?”

My hand drifted toward my sword as I looked over Lyria’s shoulder, but the hall was empty, the sounds of the Storytellers’ low conversations drifting from adjacent rooms.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” Lyria nodded too enthusiastically, running a hand through her long hair, taming the disorder. “I don’t like it here.”

“Come on,” I said, shaking off the remaining chill from the Storyteller. I fished the Seawatcher communication shell out of my pocket as it started to heat with a warning from the others. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mila’s narrowed eyes stayed on her friend the entire walk out.