The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

7

Pandora

M adman is nowhere to be found when I wake, but judging by the steadiness in my head and stomach, we’re no longer at sea.

The room has a distinct smell that I can’t place, like there is a vague presence of unknown chemicals, and a steady dripping noise sounds off from somewhere in the hall. Another passing glance around the room reveals that the only light source in sight is a rusted lantern, the flame within slowly dwindling. The bed I’m lying on is no more than a flimsy cot, and the walls caging me in are made of aged stone.

“Madman?” I find myself calling out, though the sound of his name is only whispered.

I almost expect him to be sitting in the shadowy corner of my room—which, come to think of it, feels akin to a prison cell. No furniture, no windows, no way out. I’m entirely alone, shivering at the sudden realization that the cot I wound up in did not come with a blanket to keep me warm. Or a pillow, for that matter.

Yet the tonic Madman gave me worked like magic. Near dreamless sleep took hold of my faculties and carried me through a river of beautiful, fragmented thoughts—Madman’s confession of how long he’d been watching me, the piercing gray of his wary eyes, his voice . Most of what kept me company in that unconscious realm was the sound of our voices intertwined in a strange duet. A collage of minor-keyed melodies that never sounded quite right when I would perform them solo suddenly made perfect sense with his harmony coursing beneath. Flashes of memories crept over me, too. The voice that called for my encore at Queen’s Feast. The lilting voice that drifted into my mind while I warmed up in my rooms.

It was him .

And I have a sinking feeling that countless other moments throughout my life have been observed in secret by Madman—far more intimate ones than those that I spent making music.

A knock sounds at the door, and my heartrate gallops on instinct.

Considering Madman is the only soul I know within a reach of hundreds of miles, the last figure I expect to walk into my cell is a woman . A fair and lovely one at that, with chestnut hair slowly fading to fine silver tied in a knot at the base of her neck. Crow’s feet frame soft, brown eyes—cueing me in on the fact that her life has been either consumed with smiles or filled with concern—and she startles when she finds me clutching myself on the cot.

“You poor thing!” she gasps. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” I answer, even though I have no concept of time regarding how long the tonic transpired. “I just . . .” don’t know where I am, or what time it is or how far from home I am.

“I understand,” she says reassuringly. However, her eyes glimmer with a similar sentiment of unease. “Still, I must confess, I’m rather confused. No one forewarned me that I might stumble upon . . . well, you . Or anyone else for that matter.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. “How did I get here?”

Her bright disposition falters. “I’m afraid I don’t know, dear. Worse, I doubt the master knows you’re here either.”

The use of master makes me feel queasy. “You’re not . . . his slave, are you?”

“Heavens, no!” she exclaims. “I simply help tend to all those who occupy Andromeda House. I’m Maia, but with the estate bearing my family name, most people call me Andie.”

As kind as Andie proves to be, I do not extend my hand in greeting, still shaken up by my surroundings. “I’m Pandora. It’s nice to meet you.”

“What a lovely name!”

“Thank you. My aunt named me, but my mother adored it.”

“Your aunt must be fond of the history behind it.” Andie sighs sweetly.

I try not to let my blatant confusion show. “The history?”

“Yes, dear. The maiden Pandora and her ill-fated box!”

I’ve never heard of another Pandora in my life. Its uniqueness always made me stand out, and it carried an unknown elegance when people would reference my future reign. But the fact that there’s a Pandora who stands as a prominent historical figure outside of Urovia . . . I’m intrigued, as well as inclined to ask for the full story.

“Is she still alive today?”

Andie laughs at that, the sound deep and hard to overcome before she says, “Is she alive ? You must be pulling my leg right now—of course not! Pandora lived hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. Gods above, had I known any better I’d say you sounded—”

She stops mid-phrase, as if the air gets ripped from her lungs. The hand she raises over her lips trembles slightly.

“Andie?” I ask, unsettled by her fearful gaze and trembling hands.

Urovian , she didn’t say. I’d say you sounded Urovian.

And that’s when Andie starts to look at me— really look at me. I see her assess the shape of my eyes, the tone of my skin. I see the way her eyes track the length of my limbs and how she mentally replays whatever compartmentalized knowledge she has about me in the few moments I’ve gotten to know her—and I dread it. The emotion takes over me like an unrelenting itch, and in efforts to keep the silence from becoming downright unbearable, I try to change the subject.

“I still don’t understand why the master of the house wouldn’t inform you about my presence after going to the trouble of bringing me here.”

Obviously, I seem to have said the wrong thing. Again.

“I can assure you, Kit has not left the estate in four days. In fact, he’s—”

“Kit?”

Andie stops moving altogether, catching her breath and smothering whatever drawn out explanation she was about to give me.

“Is that his real name?”

She stares at me in utter bewilderment. “ Whose name?”

“Madman’s,” I reply, wondering if the woman standing before me has a screw loose. I heave a sigh and cast out my hands in pent up aggravation. They slap against my bare thighs. “What is going on? Am I missing something here?”

“Am I ?” Andie returns, raising her voice ever so slightly. “Who are you? How do you not know the stories behind your namesake? And who is Madman ?”

Oh shit.

Madman is not the Master of Andromeda House. He’s not even a member of it.

I am utterly alone, and, given the look of grave understanding on her face, at her mercy.

“I must alert Kit of your presence,” she says quietly, regretfully.

“No . . .” I begin, and in a flash of movement, Andie bolts from the room, leaving the door wide open as she disappears. “No! Please !” I scream. “Madman promised he wouldn’t hurt me!”

Deafening silence.

I’m a fool. Of course I shouldn’t have trusted a masked assassin that told me his original intentions were to murder my aunt. I shouldn’t have banked my odds for survival on nothing more than his word. I shouldn’t have taken his hand or kept quiet or, hell, even kicked Heath out of my rooms to begin with.

In this moment of complete panic and desperation, I start to think that I should’ve let that guard take my virginity, because at least he wouldn’t have taken my life.

Oh Saints, now I’m really crying. The ugly kind that even the prettiest of women cannot pull off. I’m mouth breathing, and I can feel the snot building up in my nose before it loosens from the center of my head. Spit gathers in my mouth. I’m about to claw at the concrete to feel physical pain more tangible than the trepidation in my soul until footsteps sound from down the hall.

I close my mouth, crying in petrified silence, my head bowed towards the floor.

From his shoes alone, I know for certain that my cries for Madman were in vain—that the master of Andromeda House stands above me, now.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muses. “You’re not some babbling, stranded damsel. You’re a Deragon .”

The way his words carry an air of wrath only magnifies my distress. But I dare a glance upwards, tears drenching my face, and my heart stops beating. Instantly, I begin to understand why Madman urged me to trust him.

Because I look in this man’s eyes, and all I see is hatred.