The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

10

Pandora

I wake up expecting the familiar darkness of Madman’s lair but lurch up in bed at the sight of a window. The same one back in Andromeda House.

A gasp rips out of me, and not long after, frantic footsteps come padding down the hall.

What time was it? Did I startle Andie? And where is—

“Morning, princess,” Kit grunts.

In a rush of realization, I’m reminded of the clothing—or lack thereof—on my body right now, and quickly leap out of bed and tear a knitted shawl off its hanger in my armoire. I weave my arms into it, thanking the Saints for not allowing Kit to see me get stuck in the fabric.

“Forgive me,” I say anxiously. “I would never intentionally oversleep, nor would I want to disrespect you by not showing face sooner in the day—”

“I’m not concerned about your sleeping habits. That tonic in your system will probably have you out of sorts for the next week or so anyways.”

The moment he says so, the weight of whatever measly hours of sleep I got start to flood my system. My limbs ache, but nowhere near to the extent my eyes do. Daylight or not, if Kit left the room, it would likely take me no more than three minutes to fall back to sleep. But he looks far from finished, inching further into the room. “Can I . . . help you with something?”

He sucks on the inside of his cheek for a moment before settling an internal argument by brandishing a pocketknife. “Yes. I need your blood.”

“Come again?” I say as mild-mannered as humanly possible.

Next, Kit reaches for something inside his jacket, revealing a rolled-up piece of parchment tied off by a blue ribbon so dark it looks black. He unfurls the page, and the split-second glimpse I have at the text tells me that its message is no larger than two, brief paragraphs.

“I’m sending your family a message. It seems your captor did an extraordinary job at extracting you to where not a trace of you was left to be discovered. I need to alert them that you’re still alive.”

I wonder if my mother has already assumed the worst and begun grieving me.

“Give me your hand,” he orders.

“Like hell.”

Kit exhales in a way that hints at exhaustion. “Princess, I need you to cooperate with me.”

“How do I know you won’t slit my throat if I step closer?”

The question falls out of me on instinct, and the words may as well have struck Kit Andromeda upside the face.

An expression of clear insult replaces any previous congeniality. “I’m appalled that you assume so low of my character.” He extends the knife to me, and in the same second that I transfer it into my full possession, Kit unfurls the note once more. “Have it your way, but if you have any wish to see your family again, you’ll bleed .”

The way Kit’s voice raises doesn’t intimidate me like it should. There were times when Jericho spoke softer than that and I felt genuinely sick with dread. Kit thinks that because he owns a nice estate, he owns me. I only decide to play along for the sake of not setting off any alarms.

Angling the pocketknife over the heel of my palm, I look down in time to see the beginnings of the ransom letter, continuing across the page line by line. The text makes my stomach clench, and while I expect Kit to yank the letter away from my sight, he doesn’t move. No, he lets me trace each traitorous letter—lets me fully assess the vivid threat on my life and the implicit threat on theirs.

I eventually slice the blade across my skin to help dampen the pain in my chest.

My senses burn and tingle as Kit takes up my bleeding hand and squeezes it tight, welling more of it to the surface before smearing the open wound across the page. He dots it in other sporadic spots for good measure, smiling once he is satisfied with his handiwork. “I’ll have this sent off momentarily.”

Kit turns to leave, and I mouth the word prick when his back is turned. Assuming he’s left me to my own devices, I check up on the cut I made, smoothing out the reforming drop with the pad of my other fingertips. I look up, however, and see that Kit has paused just shy of the hall, his hand braced against the doorframe.

“All morning,” he says, his tone shifting into something tender, something cautious, “I felt as though I was a bit harsh yesterday. You had no control over your presence on the Isle, but I did have control over how I could’ve spoken to you.”

No kidding.

Still, I keep my face calm and collected.

“Please accept this as my formal apology. Your family may not be my favorite people in the world, but you deserve the opportunity to prove that you’re not like them.”

“Alright, then. I appreciate you saying so.”

“Suppose we get to know each other a little better over lunch,” he says, more of a suggestion than an actual question. I’m about to insist that lunch is not necessary if it’s coming from an apologetic standpoint, but he’s already rambling on. “Freshen up, dress for the day, and I’ll meet you on the back patio.”

+

Lunch, despite my best efforts, was dreadful.

For starters, I felt gummy and greasy and drew my own bath in an attempt to wash off. Once I was fully submerged, though, it dawned on me that Kit probably wasn’t the kind of man who waited around. Worried that his offer to keep the peace between us would dwindle, I rushed through my bath and half-heartedly dried myself off before scrambling into a daygown Andie had set aside for me.

By the time I scurried through the kitchen and out the glass, double doors onto the deck, Kit didn’t have a plate of food in front of him, and the food on mine looked like the outdoor temperature was stealing its warmth. Andie hastily threw something together from what remained of breakfast, plus whatever meager beginnings of supper she could find around the kitchen. That consisted of lukewarm eggs, sliced fruit, a tin of vegetable soup, and Kit Andromeda practically breathing down my neck as I ate—the latter of which I could have done without. The air outside nipped at the parts of my skin still fighting to dry off from my bath, and between that and Kit’s persistent line of questioning, it took every facet of my will not to shiver and chatter my teeth.

Still, I did get the chance to gather some much-desired information about Kit. Before lunch, all I knew about him was that he owned Andromeda House, his mother still lived with him to provide adequate help, and at one point, he had a sister. I didn’t wish to be disrespectful and irreverent bringing up his deceased sibling, so instead, I asked about his interests.

Turns out, Kit loves to read. Specifically, he devours anthologies of natural history and of what my country , he noted pointedly, calls the Myths of Mosacian Past . “I’m shocked you know nothing of the sort considering your namesake,” he had said. But when I asked for further explanation, he avoided my question altogether, insisting I explore the grounds of Andromeda House for myself once the afternoon sun fell in line with the gardens.

Eventually, the atmosphere remained silent apart from my chewing and the scraping of my silverware. At one point, I might have even contemplated jamming the utensils in my eye.

Now, not as hungry anymore and having dried and combed through my curls, I don a shawl and begin a self-guided perusal of the House. My rooms reside on the left-most point of the first floor, conveniently far from the front door. No doubt, Kit believes I’ll try and make a break for it, but even if I did, what would I do next? Swim my way back to Urovia when I don’t even know how many hours away it is by motorized boat? I don’t think so.

I start on the ground floor, strolling through the wide halls and examining the art on the wall. The pathways are nowhere near the size of Broadcove’s, but for a private estate, the space proves to be rather impressive. Paintings of all styles and subjects litter the space in a way that makes me wonder if there’s a cream-toned wall beneath them at all. Creatures of ancient lore, tragic portraits of star-crossed lovers, heavenly landscapes that transport me into another universe. Reality crashes over me in the form of Andie dropping a plate in the sink two rooms away, though, and I continue onward.

Hands clasped behind my back, I stroll past the kitchen and veer towards the sitting room instead. Back home, Calliope convinced Venus and Jericho to let her have a grand piano and a pair of viewing couches put on display. Alongside the palace pianist—another one of her fervent requests—Calliope regularly entertained visitors or members of the King’s Guard that cared for a tune before their designated shifts. Andromeda House’s sitting room, however, acts as a private library. My fingers dance over the leather spines of what remind me of storybook anthologies, encyclopedias, scattered reference atlases, and perhaps even some fine art catalogs. Three gray-toned chairs in the shape of clamshells christen each of the corners of the room, and I make a mental note to return here when Kit or Andie have the time to tell me more about this nook of their estate.

I skim through most of the downstairs. A butler’s pantry, a living room with more couches than guests, a billiards room that smells like previously smoked cigars, a formal dining area, the breezeway that gives way to the other side of the back patio, and two rooms that I don’t bother disturbing. One of which has Andie’s fresh batch of clean laundry, and the other belonging to Andie’s deceased daughter. Once I return to the entryway, the stairs splinter off into sections of six steps each before shifting directions, where an ornate carpet with blue and purple detailing cuts through the middle of its winding path. Afraid of tracking footprints through the textured flooring, I remove my slippers and glide barefoot up to the second floor, hand grazing the smooth, oak railing. At the top lies a sculpture of a woman who I’d otherwise consider beautiful save for the snakes streaming from her scalp, mid-hiss and provoked. The sight of her startles me enough to turn away and continue down the hall.

The second story of Andromeda House carries a different air about it, one of sophistication and intrigue. On my immediate left lies a conservatory—a room I’d expect to find on the ground floor. What would’ve been walls are windows now, and the early afternoon sunlight from the front of the House streams into the room, illuminating it with a soft green hue. The monochromatic, tiled floor gives the room a vintage touch that feels posh yet heartwarming, but I don’t linger long. I’ve never had much of a green thumb, and every time I wandered my way through North Star back home, I’d get the eerie sense that I might taint the stunning collection of colored blooms.

Hanging a right, I stumble upon the largest space on the second floor, and perhaps even the House itself: a gentlemen’s lounge. The room is washed in mahogany browns and sleek couches. As I drift into it fully, my bare feet pad along flooring that reminds me of our grand ballroom back home, and I take note of the massive wine cellar glassed within a crystal cage. Perking up at the presence of alcohol amidst this sobering setting, I dash over to the latticed collection of wines and read the various labels, and after a few minutes of in-depth assessment, I note that not a single Urovian grape is stored here. Figures.

I try to imagine Kit of all people throwing a party here. He’d have to have friends to host something, and then, that road of thinking makes me wonder . . . does Kit have companions? What would Kit be like in a social setting that doesn’t involve his political enemy? I haven’t known the man for long, but I struggle to imagine the kind of man he’d be in conversation. Would he surrender the floor if someone interrupted him? Would he be pleasant-mannered, or would he raise his voice, insisting he be heard by everyone?

And that’s Kit sober . I can only imagine Kit with several drinks under his belt, laughing at something smart aleck I’ve said . . . a tipsy smile blooming across his mouth—

I shake the thought out of my head and move onward, abandoning the lounge and the cellar as quickly as my two feet can carry me. Along this wall, the rooms face the back of the house, which overlooks the rocky hillside before the choppy Damocles water, which I suppose make complete sense. The lounge has an aura of exclusivity and perhaps even coldness, and the subsequent two rooms—a lavatory and a private study—are similarly inclined. It’s only once I approach the final room that I physically feel the temperature drop towards this end of the House.

Just as I poke my head inside, I promptly snake away from it—dodging the sight of Kit sprawled out on his bed.

Saints, did he see me?

I brace myself for him to call after me on an amused yet irritated drawl, but it never comes. In fact, a different sound greets me. Not my name, but . . . a soft rumbling?

I dare a second glance into Kit’s suite and find him fast asleep.

Like most people, sleep softens all of Kit’s hardened features. His jaw rests lax against his pillow, chest rising and falling in a slow pattern. He snores . Nothing obnoxious or overbearingly noisy, but the gesture is oddly human. Though, not enough to keep me from crossing my arms before my chest and rolling my eyes. Was my conversation over lunch so exhausting that Kit had to take a nap at —I glance towards the grandfather clock in the neighboring hall— one in the afternoon?

Suddenly, a new and slightly dangerous thought occurs to me as I tiptoe away from the scene on silent feet. I pad down the stairs in a hushed hurry, keeping an ear out for any sudden movement from Andie, and when the coast appears clear, I creep back into my room and shut the door. Turn the lock etched into the knob.

As I go to drape my shawl over the edge of my bed, I look down at my feet—having abandoned my slippers back at the base of the stairs—and see half of a page of parchment, the bottom of it appearing torn in haste.

I have some necessary business to attend to, so I trust that you will stay out of trouble for a few days. Do not look for me. I will seek you out when I return.

There’s no signature, but the dark blue ink is reminiscent of the jars I beheld in Madman’s lair the night before.

Jericho and Venus always taught me to burn secret correspondences, but I don’t have a match and my rooms do not have their own hearth. For the time being, I lift my mattress and shove the scrap of paper as far into the center as I can possibly reach. I make a mental note to insist that I wash my own sheets no matter how much Andie may persist.

Then—and only once the coast is clear—I snag a lantern buried in my armoire, clutching it tightly in my grasp, and shimmy beneath the skirts of my bed, descending once more into the dark pit that Madman led me down last night.