The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

9

Pandora

J ust when Andromeda House couldn’t possibly have gotten more peculiar, Madman proves me very wrong.

He crawls beneath the bed frame, his torso dragging across the floor, and rather than nosediving into the darkness, he careens backwards so that his feet dangle forward, into the drop-off. Carefully, he lowers himself inside.

“There’s a set of stairs underneath,” he whispers. “Keep your steps light, or he’ll wake up.”

It’s not that I’m scared of Kit. It’s more so that we’re about to venture off to Madman’s best-kept secret—and Kit might just kill us both if he uncovers it in his own home.

A week ago, I never would have dreamt up a universe where I’d be out of Urovia, let alone clambering towards a hidden vault in enemy territory alongside a man who abducted me. I bet the Saints themselves are shaking their heads at the sight, but it doesn’t matter. My gut tells me following Madman into the darkness below is a fate more favorable than staring aimlessly out the window and waiting for sleep . . . somehow.

Sliding along the floor as seamlessly as I can manage, I drape my legs out in front of me and my feet find purchase on a ledge, then another one a few inches lower. I slink into the inky depths behind Madman, the last of the moonlight outside catching on the upper rim of his mask along his forehead. It gets me thinking about what Madman may look like beneath his disguise. Thick brows or thin? Strong nose or narrow? Does he have crease lines from his years of anger? Is his face soft to the touch?

While caught up in the last question, I push past more than one step and begin to tumble. I smack hard against a wall, coming to a stop, and as I try to use the stiff surface as leverage to sit upright, the wall turns out to be Madman himself. He picks me up off the ground despite not being able to see his own hand in front of his face, and files down the final five or so steps needed to get on solid ground.

“This way,” he instructs quietly, dutifully.

Together, we hang a right towards what I anticipate being a labyrinthine path, much like the tunnels beneath Broadcove. Instead, I hear him faintly twist the iron knob of a door somewhere in front of us, and at the first crack of light shining through from the other side, my blood thrums with anticipation.

A singular, blue dock light casts a mystical hue over the cave we drift into, and a few yards away, the shadowy path fades down into the sea. Floating on top of the dark waters, however, lies a boat with abstract etchings and a tall, black oar.

“All aboard,” Madman says.

“Last time I agreed to get on a boat with you—”

“If you’re about to finish that sentence how I think you’re going to, let me stop you right now. Why don’t we save ourselves the bickering and you just get in.”

Had he not cracked a small smile after the fact, I probably would’ve balked at the statement. But I humor him, letting Madman guide me to the ledge so that I can avoid the splashing waves as I step inside. I only recognize the way his gloved hands warm my fingers after he releases them, and I hide the wince that threatens to show across my face. A plush bench awaits me as I sit down fully, sinking into the cushions, and I watch as Madman sweeps his cloak upwards before dropping into the boat himself. The boat rocks for a moment as it registers our combined weight, and Madman takes up the oar.

“Am I allowed to ask you about the secret passage?”

Madman unfurls the rope that keeps the boat tethered to the cave, then casts a confused look in my direction. “Allowed?”

“Lady Andromeda was a bit protective over what answers she gave to my questions. Then again, I suppose she knows as little about this as Kit does.”

He studies my face for a minute, as if noticing a hair out of place that I cannot spot myself. Then, he says, “You have free reign to ask me anything you wish to know, but I will only answer with whatever truth I believe serves a purpose.”

“Serves a purpose?” I parrot.

Madman continues to chop at the water with the oar, and I feel the late evening wind bring goosebumps along my skin. The lantern at the front of the ship, which I hadn’t caught sight of until now, creaks and swings as we cross into the clearing where the current is stronger. “I don’t wish to overwhelm you all at once.”

The answer feels surface level, and I bite back. “Considering you killed someone in front of me and stole me from my home without the chance to say goodbye to anyone, I’m not exactly inclined to believe you.”

“Yet here you are,” Madman says, his voice stern. “Alive. In my boat. Trusting me.”

My gaze tracks the perimeter of Andromeda House as we coast away towards an unknown location. Ivy crawls up the sides of the building, the reflections of overhead stars speckle across the window panes, and not a single light remains lit on either floor. Normally, I’d be consumed by panic—my fear of the dark as irrational as it is unrelenting—but it’s starting to feel as though there is a shield of protection around me when daring to remain with darkness himself.

“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “Don’t make me come to regret it.”

+

The silence is a blissful reprieve, but the noise inside my head returns the moment Madman fastens our vessel to the mounting posts. Countless questions buzz about like unrelenting gnats, and before I go to swat away their invisible presence, I find enough of a voice to ask him, “How did you know?”

“Know what, angel?” he returns casually.

“Where I was,” I say. “What I was feeling.”

He hops out of the boat with effortless grace, even as the water rocks us off balance and I nearly tumble overboard. Madman catches me in his firm grip, lifting me over the seawater and setting me securely on the stone-paved deck. I nod my thanks, my gaze falling over the secret, subterranean hideaway guarded by another wrought-iron door. Not ominous at all .

“The Isle holds more mysteries than the entire continent of Mosacia,” Madman says with a particular twinkle in his eye that would normally unsettle me, but in this case, quietly thrills me. “That sort of wonder, though, has the tendency to intimidate newcomers. That, and I knew that the tonic had likely worn off while I was away, and you’d have questions.”

I stumble over uneven ground but catch myself before Madman deems it necessary to throw me over his shoulder and carry me the rest of the way. “How did you cross paths with Kit anyway, let alone agree to do his murderous bidding?”

“You’re not going to like my answer.”

“We’re well past whether or not I’ll like what comes out of your mouth, Madman,” I say bitterly. “Not even an hour ago, I up and told you that you were the only one I can remotely put my trust in, so make good on your word and just tell me .”

Weaker men would recoil from the force of my tone, but not Madman. His mask hides most of the way his face contorts, but the crooked smile below its border tweaks with subdued pride. “I owe him a life debt.”

“He mentioned that.” He walks us towards the cave’s entrance. “You don’t mean to tell me that Kit saved your life, though, do you?”

“ No ,” Madman barks, insulted by the idea of ever needing Kit’s salvation. “I consider it a life debt because the only thing that would fully settle the score between him and I would be a life payment—whether by me or by another. He may be the head of a sizable estate, but I have no interest in playing his indentured servant, nor dying. So he named his price—your aunt’s proof of death—and I was well on my way to granting him just that.”

“Until you found me,” I say dismally.

“Precisely. And now that I have chosen to forsake our deal, he can’t find me.”

I know better than to taunt him about why Kit cannot uncover his secret hiding place, to insult him with the assumption that Madman fears a man like Kit. Instead, knowing the grave consequences for his choices, I dare to ask him, “Was it worth it? Was I worth it?”

Madman’s smile slackens. “More than you know.”

My heart awkwardly stirs at the response, and I thank the Saints Madman looks to the door and fumbles with the lock long enough for me to choke down my surprise and the unfamiliar fluttering that starts low in my gut and bleeds upwards. I hear a faint jingle as Madman pockets a single, silver key and pushes the door inwards.

Scattered flecks of golden light float above cylindrical, cream candlesticks, casting an otherworldly, phantasmal sparkle across the inky expanse. The sight steals my breath away the longer I look at it, the rippling water from behind us toying with the remaining shadows within, and Madman leads us inside. I follow with cautious steps, doing my best to smother the urge to bolt from the darkness. He senses it, and he turns to me with a puzzled expression. “You’re afraid of the dark.”

Bitterness becomes me. “I’m shocked you’re only discovering that now.”

Madman shrugs. “Too busy memorizing the structure of your face and the sound of your voice to think twice about the fact that you sleep with exactly six candles lit at night.”

Yet that he remembers.

If Madman has anything more to say, I tune him out, continuing my initial assessment of his mystical lair. The stone slopes upwards, giving way to a lavish bed with dark quilting and black pillows. Hung in a systematic pattern, the dispersed, padded squares along the walls remind me of an insane asylum, yet it softens the hard interior of the space. I’m not sure what to make of that particular choice in decoration at first, but I finally recognize them as acoustic panels when the lighting sways towards the left side of the den.

A gleaming pianoforte with a matching performance stool graces the ground level. The top casing has been propped up at a slant, revealing polished strings that keep the monstrous beauty tuned and up to date. Beyond that, along a higher level of stone shelving, hordes of sheet music and writing utensils litter whatever open space it is afforded. Canisters of black and blue ink sit in neatly arranged rows, waiting to mark up any of the fresh pages with what I now realize are original opuses.

Madman doesn’t just sing. He’s a composer .

“I got something for you, too,” he says when he notices my blatant fascination, his gloved hand gently guiding my head towards the right side of his secret hideaway.

Just as I start to register a newfound warmth stirring inside of me at Madman’s touch, my eyes behold an exquisite, silver-coated harp.

“Holy Saints ,” I say breathily, a gravitational pull drawing me towards the masterful craftsmanship.

A soft hum of appreciation trickles out of him. “I heard once that learning the harp is like turning the pianoforte on its side, but I never had the chance to see if the rumors held any truth to them. Even so, when I first came upon the harp, I knew that no one ought to try their hand at it before you got to play it for yourself. Not even me.”

I creep towards the beautiful instrument, my finger tracing the curvature of the tinted wood in time for him to say, “Will you do me the honor of a song?”

Something about sitting before the strings at Madman’s request makes my heart flutter with newfound nerves, far more than I felt before performing at Queen’s Feast.

“Do you have any requests?”

“Anything in a minor key that you can sing to.”

Due to the influx of inner excitement and slight terror building beneath the surface, I file through my mental repertoire in search of something simplistic. Something I’ve played hundreds of times before that requires minimal vocal acrobatics. I’m not here to show off—I’m merely here to please him. I settle in along the bench, scooting my way towards the angled body. My left foot settles near the three pedals, fingers hovering over the coiled strings until, finally, I channel enough serenity to begin playing.

The song that first comes to mind is one that has always been a private favorite of mine. I remember the first time I ever heard it. A musician had been singing in the streets when Mother, both of my aunts, and I visited the Makers District a few years back. His cap had been turned upwards to collect any spare coins onlookers would gift him, and while most had continued onwards amidst his performance, the lyrics of what he was singing had struck a chord within me.

I admired you more than your mirror

Looked longingly after you more than the moon

But now the truth of it couldn’t be clearer

Love’s bruise won’t heal over anytime soon

It was such a lilting, melodic pattern, and the conventional rhyme scheme gave each stanza a bitter tinge of sadness. As he plucked his dilapidated guitar, the stranger sang with such soul that I couldn’t tell which emotion ruled over him most: heartbreak or all-consuming love.

Purple demeanor, indigo smile

Eyes so lovely they wound

Beautiful misery I’ll embrace for a while

‘Cause love’s bruise won’t heal over anytime soon

Lovely as poison flooding my veins

You were a sickness, and I, far from immune

Surely you’ll haunt me for all my days

Love’s bruise won’t heal over anytime soon

I try not to think about it—how it must feel to love someone so much that suffering is bliss, that sickness is comforting. Especially not when the one person I could potentially fixate that idea on is a man whose face I’ve never seen and whose secrets aren’t mine to know.

You could water your flowers with all my tears

I’d sleep in the snow if you asked me to,

I’m bewitched by your memory, and so I fear

Love’s bruise won’t heal over anytime soon

When Death hovers close, I’ll embrace her the way

I used to cling to you

‘Til then this heartbreak with me shall stay

For love’s bruise won’t heal over anytime soon

Slowly, I diminish the lingering sound of the strings, letting their vibrations faintly rumble against my fingertips until they draw to a close. I wait for Madman’s response, but nothing returns. I doubted that he’d applaud, but . . . utter silence?

Turning my body from the harp and spinning along the smooth bench, I prepare for whatever horrible expectations I have churning in my head. Criticism I can handle, but if he doesn’t say something soon, I think I might wilt—

“I could listen to you sing for hours on end.”

Madman looks utterly entranced by my performance, even though his eyes still carry that serious, no-nonsense weight to them. Too caught up in making sure I don’t stutter or fumble over the compliment, I find myself asking him, “How did you afford all of this?”

“Aren’t there more interesting questions swarming in that pretty little head of yours?”

“Oh, plenty. But I want to know. A criminal nomad like yourself likely doesn’t have troves of money on your person. So where does it all sit, and where did you get it from?”

He weighs the consequences of telling me the truth about his visible wealth, and as he does, I try to calm the nerves that course through me.

He’s killed people. You’ve seen it happen once before. But that doesn’t mean he’s some sort of bounty hunter who kills for the highest bidder. If that were the case, he would’ve killed Venus and Jericho both before circling back to destroy me too.

“Well?” I ask when my inner thoughts begin to get the better of me.

His lips thin into a line. “Inheritance.”

The gravelly sound of Madman’s voice at the single word tells me not to push further. He’s an orphan. He lost someone dear to him, and if the money was all he had to remember them by, he put it to use. Sheltered himself within the monetary memory of their existence.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “For what it’s worth, I bet they would have found this place as captivating as I do.” It’s the truth, and I only hope it neutralizes the defeated look in his storm-ridden eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what they would’ve thought,” Madman states.

Something tells me that hanging in the air between us are the missing words, The only opinion that matters to me is yours.

“Now, let’s hear some of those other burning questions, angel,” he whispers, beginning to pace about the room. “Go on.”

“Despite your limitations on what you allow yourself to answer, you seem rather eager and open to the idea of me getting to know more about you. Why is that? I mean, wouldn’t someone who spends his life hiding beneath a mask and going by Madman want to remain hidden in the shadows?”

“Not from you.”

I fight to ignore the zing of heat that starts to fizzle deep in my core.

“Pandora, I do all this because I want to establish a line of trust between us. You’re an outsider here, and I . . . well, I’ve allowed myself to wind up alone. We need each other. I knew it even before you confessed to it on your part.”

We need each other.

Not just me needing him—but him needing me, too.

Then, something dangerous occurs to me. If he’s been studying me for Saints know how long, what exactly does his needs imply . . . and why am I dying to find out?

“I do trust you,” I tell him.

“In part, yes,” Madman nitpicks, “but not completely. I think you want to trust me, but you’re not all the way there, yet.”

All I know is that I cannot find peace apart from you. You’re the only one I trust.

The admission had burned me like a live flame, and now, Madman has the gall to tell me that I didn’t mean the most painful words I’ve ever choked out. It makes me want to kick in one of the legs on his pianoforte.

“What makes you think that I’m not fully convinced?”

“Because I don’t think you have fully come to terms with the fact that your aunt is alive— you are alive—because of me.”

“Okay, then,” I continue, recalling our brief discussion regarding Kit. “Name your price.”

“Pardon?”

I try not to smile all giddy at the way my words surprise him. “I’m alive because of you. You said so yourself. So, considering my very existence is in your clutches, that would mean that I owe you a life debt. Correct?”

His eyes tell me yes, but his words . . . “I’m not looking to cash it in.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re already here on the isle, angel. You already have no way to get back to your family or call for help, so all I ask of you is that you not torture yourself over it and try and find some semblance of comfort here. From what I saw back in Broadcove Castle, you were never truly relaxed.”

His words nail me to the wall.

“Perhaps, being here could be a good thing.”

With me , he doesn’t need to say for me to understand.

I risk stepping closer to him, and Madman tracks the step intently. “Tell me what it takes, then, for you to believe otherwise. Tell me what it will cost to convince you of my trust.”

I faintly see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, the surrounding shadows nearly hiding the movement altogether. I know with absolute certainty that I’m going to deeply regret giving Madman the chance to speak his mind, but I wait for his reply anyways.

He crosses the distance between us, gloved hands slowly tracing the outline of my arms and settling along my ribs. “Tell me what you desire most in this world, and then, instead of running from me and from your answer, I want you to get in my bed,” he whispers, now, pointing to the exact spot in reference, “and sleep.”

I feel the color leech out of my face, but not necessarily in dread. “Why?”

“Because back on the boat, I had to drug you for you to finally rest. You want to prove that you feel safe with me? Shut your eyes on your own will and trust that you’ll wake up unharmed after laying by my side all night.”

Maybe it’s the emotions I’ve been wrestling with as of late, but I haven’t pictured sleeping with a man as anything other than being physical. So consumed with the idea of passion and romance and tension, I forgot that the quiet moments with someone also exist in bed. Only now that I begin to dwell on it, I wonder if the act of settling in next to him is far more precarious than letting him put his hands on me.

I seem to be asking for trouble because I dare to whisper, “And the other part?”

Madman chortles. “Mere curiosity.”

We stand in silence, my eyes unable to meet his own without the strength in my legs depleting. I don’t allow myself to second guess his proposition before I stroll towards Madman’s bed. He follows, slowly trailing behind me like I’ve never had my own shadow—like it’s always been him.

Already dressed for bed—so desperate to escape my appointed room in Andromeda House that I fled without shoes on—I peel back the quilted comforter, then the sheet. The candlelight casts rippling shadows over Madman’s frame, hiding the bare skin that escapes my nightgown as I drape my legs into his bed. I fight the impulse to retract it, to straighten out the soft material and make sure I’m not revealing too much.

But the look on Madman’s face is pained. It sucks all the warmth out of the room, and I’d do anything to restore it—including pat the spot beside me, inviting him to my side.

Madman unfastens his cloak, draping it over the pianoforte before removing his boots. He works the laces in a hurry, setting the heavy footwear far away when his feet finally break free. The mattress shifts towards his side when his full weight sinks onto the bed. Over the covers.

I gather my hair, draping it to cover my exposed shoulders and concealing the goosebumps there that rose just from looking at him. I watch Madman’s gaze trace the path of one of my curls beneath his mask, and in the stillness between us, I examine the skeletal outline of it. No string circles around his head to keep it secure, which means it must be some kind of mold. Formed to his exact features. Suctioned to his skin.

I contemplate whether it would hurt him if I pried it away.

“What do you desire, angel?” Madman asks me once more.

I don’t have to think long and hard about it, but it takes me a minute to steady my voice. “I feel like it alternates between the same two concepts. Some days, I don’t want to be their Princess. I just want to be Pandora . . . even if apart from the crown, I don’t exactly know who that is. Other days, however,” I say, swallowing in an attempt to loosen the knot in my throat, “I start to believe that I could live with all the pressure that being their heir comes with if I was offered the right outlet to decompress.”

Madman elicits a soft groan at the implication, and the sound makes the nerves all throughout my body go haywire.

Stay. Strong.

“Unfortunately, that outlet has a high likelihood of landing me in quite a bit of trouble. I’m pathetically romantic, so if my defenses fall and I give in, I’ll dissect every part of the encounter in hope of uncovering even a fragment of love. I know that passion can be a worthwhile distraction, but I’ve never been able to separate the emotions from it. I probably never will. Deep down, I think it’s how I cope with the knowledge that people don’t seem to understand how to separate the Crown Princess from Pandora.”

Madman’s voice is raspy when he tells me, “Waiting for love, for the right person, is not such a bad thing.”

“Not for any regular person. But it’s never been my choice to deem someone worthy enough to love me.” I laugh bitterly at the faraway reality. “The love that waits for me in Broadcove, if I ever go back there . . . it may not be cold, but it will certainly contain strategy. Even if I grow to love them, the root of their presence in my life will always stem back to the people that plan to pass me their crown. You’d think Venus and Jericho would’ve allowed me to figure out my love life without their interference knowing how they found their way to each other, but no. I’ll live and die by their decisions, and I’ll be forced to love by them, too.”

I do not know what’s worse: the silence that follows, or the prospect of turning to face Madman and finding pity in his eyes.

I almost think I’m imagining things when I hear Madman whisper, “So which is it today?”

“What?”

His tone is gentle. “Which desire holds dominance?”

“There’s no need to ask when you already know the answer,” I dare to speak into the dark.

I don’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking. “I can help with that.”

Without saying goodnight, I shut my eyes and feign sleep before Madman gets any ideas or I act on my treacherous urges.