The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

20

Pandora

M adman hasn’t kissed me since the night he gifted me my Pandora’s Box, likely because I’ve expressed no interest in opening the dreaded container—and I’m inclined to pick a fight about it.

At first, Madman appeared well and fine with my choice to avoid the box and the horrors within. “You deserve the necessary time to brace for the emotional impact. It’s a lot to handle, so I wouldn’t want you jumping into its contents unprepared,” he had told me, generosity and patience practically dripping from his mouth. It was all so swoon worthy . . .

Until I realized that any chance for a romantic reprise was contingent on forward progress towards opening the box.

Madman hadn’t outright told me that, though—that he would pull away in the hopes that I’d focus my attention on strengthening my heart rather than strengthening our connection. But had I known his coy act of pretending we never kissed would go on this long, I would’ve made a stink about it sooner. Because nearly two weeks later, I’m not sure what’s worse. Replaying the moment in my sleep and waking up in Andromeda House out of his reach, longing to make it real, or going along with the fake normalcy that Madman silently insists on upholding. I’ve only kept going back to his lair every night in the hopes that we can at least discuss it.

The way the universe halted at the first press of our lips.

How Madman devoured me until my body, my very soul , trembled.

The silken softness of his hair between my fingers, and the way our hands frantically clutched for more of one another.

The taste of his tongue brushing over mine, and the way his breathless sounds of uncaged joy nearly made me set the cavern ablaze.

How my body felt electrically supercharged—even after Madman released his grip on me and said through gritted teeth, “It’s late. You should get some rest.” Madman may as well have doused me in ice-cold water and then spit on me. Shame put me to sleep out of self-preservation.

The only thing that’s gotten me through it, oddly enough, has been Kit’s gradual change of heart regarding sharing his collection. Once he granted me permission to read his copy of Mosacian Ideologies and Stories of Old , he started making conversation over breakfast about what I’d read. Sure, it felt somewhat akin to the literature comprehension assessments my Broadcove tutors used to put me through, but rather than receiving a test score at the end, Kit Andromeda would stew on what parts of the stories intrigued me most and recommend me something in a similar subject field. Even Andie seemed keen on asking me about how I felt regarding their territory’s history, to which I’d always ensured a polite response.

Andie’s been a surprising delight as well. She never mentioned anything about my birthday or the U. Herald to Kit, and whenever he decides to leave on temporary business, she makes for surprisingly good company. She sits right around Aunt Calliope’s age, if I had to guess, but speaks in a manner that drops her age by a few years. It makes her more approachable, to the point where, a week ago, I asked her to teach me how to cook a few basic meals. Andie never pestered me about why, deducting that Broadcove Castle had troves of chefs that made everything for us, and made it enjoyable. Even on the nights when Kit was away, Andie and I had no trouble entertaining ourselves, swept up in the fun of messing up a simple recipe or kicking each other’s asses in board games.

But tonight, Kit is still away doing . . . whatever he slips off the Isle for, and Andie’s been particularly quiet all evening, retiring to her rooms the moment we finished cleaning our dishes. As if Madman anticipated it, too, I find him waiting for me just beyond the dark depths of Andromeda House’s underbelly.

“Good to see you again, angel.”

I try to grant him a congenial smile, but it doesn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah. You, too.”

I don’t take his hand tonight. I see myself into his boat without so much as a passing glance.

Madman blows out a breath as he steps into the boat and rows us away from the rock-laden berth. “Did I do something to offend you?”

His cluelessness does me in this time, and I decide to hell with it. I’m picking a fight.

“You’ve been ignoring me.”

Madman’s brows crinkle in bemused disagreement. “I didn’t realize spending nearly every night with you for the past month was considered ignoring you.”

“You know what I mean, Madman.”

“Why don’t you spell it out for me, just in case I’m mistaken?” he challenges.

I cross my arms over my chest, knowing damn well Madman could see the movement as defiant and childish. I don’t care. “We kissed, and rather than acknowledge how it felt for either of us, you’ve insisted on avoiding it. Talking about anything else as opposed to owning up to all those beautiful, moving things you said.”

Madman appears genuinely thrown that I chose to speak out about it. “Pandora.”

“Do you know how stupid I felt this last week, singing harmonies at the pianoforte with you when there were several other things I wanted our mouths to do? How silly I feel now just thinking about it, about how badly I still want to—”

“ Pandora .”

The breath I loosen then is near guttural. “Is there something wrong with me? Or did something in that kiss make you realize that, maybe, all that time you spent watching me from afar was overhyped. That I was more fun to look at than to finally connect with. To touch—”

“That’s enough ,” he growls.

“Hardly,” I sneer, standing up with a rush of jilted rage, unphased as the boat rocks on the indigo waves. “You embarrassed me, Madman, and you know it. Are you at least going to take accountability for that?”

He’s as stubborn as I am. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You kissed me like that , and then told me to go to sleep ?”

Hands curled into fists around the boat’s oar, Madman finally comes loose. “Because had you not, I would’ve gotten carried away—”

“I wanted you to,” I cry out in a moment of personal boldness. I dare not let any timidity overtake me. Not this time. “Don’t you get it? I was already in your bed. Every night. What difference would it have made if I was sleeping in it or sleeping in it?”

“ So many things, Pandora !” he roars, dropping the oar entirely, now. He rises to his feet in a rush of fiery movement, face contorting in such anger that his mask moves against the muscles below. “I’ve known you for years , but you’ve only known me for what? A month?”

“And you get to decide when and how I act on the feelings I have for you?”

“I wasn’t finished,” he cuts in, eyes darkening with fury and tone dripping with unexpected venom. Storm clouds roll in the depths of eyes I’d once considered soothing. “You don’t know me, Pandora. Not the way that I know you.”

“ Then let me the hell in !”

Rage curdles my blood like sour milk, and the intensity of my voice shocks us both.

“You know what? You’re right,” I say, wrath quieting my overall demeanor. “I don’t know you. All I know about you are the scraps you’re willing to give me. You sing. You compose music. You hunt your prey. You hide from the light. But did you ever consider the depth of my understanding about each of those things? Because when you sing, something in my heart soars. Because when you spend hours at the pianoforte, you’re not just creating something, you’re casting a spell. Because even with that gun on you at all times,” I say, pointing to the inky depths of his cloak, “you don’t have the stomach to take life as flippantly as you pretend to. And when you spend years in the dark, altering your very way of life to become some sort of nocturnal being . . .” I say, and the realization of it all is so sad. “You convince yourself that even a morsel of light will ruin you forever.”

Madman looks at me as if I had just ripped his mask off his face and stared into his very soul.

“Of course, that’s not enough for me to truly understand you, right? Let alone be with you. Seeing the best in you doesn’t cut it. I get it. But don’t punish me because you refuse to be honest with me, or with yourself.”

He goes ghastly still, and I’m half inclined to end my tirade there . . . for all of five seconds.

“Tell me, like a man, that you’re too scared to let yourself give in to me,” I seethe, my anger making me feel ten inches taller than him, even as I must raise my chin to meet his glowering stare.

Madman does nothing of the sort.

“ Tell me ,” I repeat, sharper this time. “Or you can forget about me.”

It’s a threat. A blatant one. And I think, for the sole sake of seeing if I mean the words, Madman merely crosses his arms across his strong chest and waits. Waits for me to redact my statement.

Like hell I will.

“Fine, then,” I stiffen. “You’ll be sorry.”

I take two careful steps backwards, with the last dregs of hope that Madman will reach out for me and pull me close—capture my mouth in his own. But he remains fixed to his current spot, eyes cold and devoid of any kindness.

“I hope that kiss curdles your blood and rots your very bones,” I tell him on a whisper that is barely audible over the night breeze. “I hope my voice haunts you for the rest of your days, and that you never find another pretty dame who can sing their way into your soul like I did.”

I don’t bother waiting for Madman to steer me back to shore, I simply dive into the water.

The currents sense my presence, though, and before I can scramble to the surface, the water pulls me toward its icy depths.

+

I’m going to drown, but at least my last words were fiercely spoken. Venus and Jericho would be proud.

Even as I prepare for the high likelihood of my watery demise, I kick my feet, trying to propel myself away from the vicious current that threatens to tear me away from any chance of oxygen. Out of pure spite and rage, though, I fight my way further from the direction of Madman’s boat. Closer to shore, yes, but further from him.

It only takes another few seconds for the burning in my lungs to begin, pain unlike I’ve ever known starting to bloom beneath my sternum and in my throat. Panic forms along with it, and for the first time in my life, I must decide what will hurt worse: holding my breath longer or breathing in the sea.

My body makes the choice for me, lungs desperately sucking in any chance of fresh air—but the Damocles water feels like unending misery in my lungs, and as my system tries to eject the water by force, it only draws more in.

I’d heard stories about how death by water feels peaceful at the very end—that the world and all sound and all of one’s being goes completely still—and knowing that, I choose to cherish the agony of my present circumstances. It means there’s still time. Not much, but enough to keep my body moving. My hands slash through the water, pounding towards higher ground.

There’s no sense in wasting breath forming the words aloud for only the sea to hear, so I shut my eyes in surrender. My heart weeps knowing I’ll die like this—in the darkness I’ve always been so fearful of, whether below the surface or behind my closed eyes—and I pray to whatever Saints care to listen.

Tell my mother I love her.

The bleak serenity I’d been warned about falls over me, and I sense what’s left of my weary existence floating through the dark blue water. I must’ve fought my way past the current after all, but with all the seawater in my lungs, I’m just . . . so . . . tired . . .

A strong hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me skyward, but it’s not enough to wake me from what must be death’s eternal slumber.