The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

29

Pandora

I ’ve been tiptoeing around Kit regarding Marzipan since the moment I snuck away from our hostel and learned the truth about Urovia’s origins. I had played off my horror as lingering nausea, which Kit tried to treat in kind—and while the ruse has been simple enough, it all started to crumble when Marzipan showed up to our front door and invited me on an evening walk.

To his credit, Kit doesn’t fight her on it. Instead, he gives Marzipan another investigative glance over—the same eerie assessment he sported when I first arrived at Andromeda House nearly three months ago. In return, Marzipan reveals two, cloth-bound editions of old texts. “As requested, Mr. Andromeda,” she says wryly, extending the books to him. “These should keep you occupied until I bring her back here.”

Kit’s fortified exterior lifts for a moment, and against what looks to be his better nature, he simply instructs me to be careful and not to roam too far.

“He’s scared that I’ll take you past the gates,” Marzipan explains, waiting to create a four-block berth before piping up about him again.

I rub at a crick in my neck. “Not sure why. I’m totally capable of taking you in a physical altercation if you tried.”

Marzipan oohs at that, as if happily uncovering a different side to me. “I forget sometimes that you’re still a Deragon.”

I don’t let the negative, unspoken implication of what all being a Deragon means in this hypothetical instance. “It’s not even that. It’s just you’re . . . well . . .”

“What?” she asks stubbornly, crossing her arms in defiance.

My grin is taunting. “Tiny.”

Marzipan glares at me, but her ferocious expression doesn’t hold out long before we’re both laughing far too unladylike for our own good. When we finally start to calm down, I find myself saying through bated breaths, “I still don’t understand why Kit thinks you’re some sort of bad influence on me.”

“He just doesn’t like when his girl has her eyes on anyone else.”

I nearly lurch at the response. It’s said so nonchalantly, like there’s no denying it.

His girl.

“And not to be nosy,” Marzipan adds with almost comedic timing, “but you don’t seem too fond of the association. Care to talk about it?”

I toss a look at her over my shoulder that clues her in on the fact that it’s complicated, but Marzipan doesn’t balk. She makes a slashing movement with her hands, crossing her heart. “You can tell me. I’m a vault.”

“I don’t think you’ll believe me if I do.”

Marzipan grins at that, accepting my remark as a challenge. She raises her brows as if to say go on . And so, releasing a breathy sigh, I put words to what I haven’t let Kit uncover, and what I haven’t let myself stew on much since arriving in Vesta.

“Kit may have brought me here, but somebody else brought me to him . . . and I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Marzipan’s face stretches in surprise, but not in a horrified way. No, her mouth puckers, as if trying to bottle up an elated smile or even a laugh. “No way!”

“It gets worse.”

The responding look on her face is pure exhilaration.

“I don’t know his true name. He goes by Madman.” It takes all my strength to choke out the words, “And was hired by Kit to kill Venus.”

“ Pandora —”

“Only he didn’t. Obviously. Instead, Madman defied orders and brought me as his live consolation captive instead.” The words tumble out of me in a panicked frenzy. It only registers now how desperately I’ve been meaning to talk to someone about this rather than keeping it locked up tight. “To say that Kit was displeased is a royal understatement. In fact, there were times when I half expected him to finish me off while I slept over how miffed this new arrangement made him—and when the thought of Kit doing just that kept me from sleeping . . . it’s like Madman knew. He’d come and find me at night and let me sleep in his secret abode beneath one of the Isle’s cliffs.”

Marzipan isn’t smiling anymore. “Oh?”

I dare not mention the intimacy Madman and I experience when we sing together, nor do I mention the kiss that transformed mere curiosity into a soul-hunger that I struggle to fully stomach in his absence. It all feels too hallowed to comment on publicly. So I tuck it away, deep into my heart, as we round a corner and stroll towards the culinary district. Boutique eateries and bake shoppes line the streets and fill the air with sweetness, but when I shut my eyes for a moment, attempting to reset the pace of my quickening heartbeat, the memory of Madman leers in the darkness there.

“I left him on bad terms, and before I could make amends, Kit . . .” I swallow hard. “He boarded me up and prepared to take me to the tribunal.”

Truth be told, I don’t enjoy holding it over on him—that he had full intentions to sell me out to the highest bidder—but he did.

And maybe, there’s a part of me that’s still hung up on that. Maybe, twistedly, that is the real reason I haven’t fully been able to transition my romantic focus from Madman to him. Even after he tended to me when I was sick, after he took control of our spiraling situation. The guilt I feel over it has become inescapable.

“I said some things in haste,” I resume, not proud of what I say next. “I thought I’d be long gone before I could see another sunset, and he . . . he thought those words were for him. But they weren’t.”

Marzipan’s expression saddens, and it leeches color from the once vibrant, evening sun. “They were for your Madman.”

Your Madman.

This distinction doesn’t carry the phantom burn that his girl did, and I damn myself for it.

I barely manage a nod. “And now, in concealing me here, Kit’s put his life on the line, too. The minute we leave this city, anyone can come after us. They could drag us both to the courts and have us killed. He endangered himself for a woman who wants someone else, someone who undermined him. And . . . oh Saints . . . if he figures it out—”

“Well, what’s a worse fate to endure?” she asks so matter-of-factly. “A life masquerading as a lovesick fool for a man who wants to butcher your family, or a death knowing you won’t waste your days unable to be with the man you want most in the world?”

The question stuns me, even though the answer is so simple.

I see him in my dreams , I think, as if the very words might corrupt the sacred aura of the city engulfing us. I wonder if Marzipan’s blessing can make out the silent, internal confession. I hear his voice in the back of my mind when the world goes quiet. I don’t know his name or even his face—but I know his heart. And I know mine, too.

My throat is on fire. “I don’t want to live a lie . . . but to die without having the chance—”

“Stop,” Marzipan snaps. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. Saints, the look on your face is excruciating, Pan.”

Something in my chest unfurls at the familiar nickname, sounding far better in Marzipan’s voice than it ever did in Flora’s. Even so, I tell her, “Lies of omission are still lies, and I don’t know how much longer I can live like that.”

“Then tell the truth somewhere Kit can’t find.”

I almost think Marzipan is trying to blow me off, but then, an idea sparks in her crystal blue eyes. She’s moving in an instant, rummaging through the messenger bag she has slung across her body, the one that drapes over her left hip. She pulls out two textbooks—translation manuals, I realize—and distributes one to me before tucking one for herself underneath her arm. Then, she offers me a small, leatherbound journal.

“The book is yours to keep. Every word in your language is arranged alphabetically, and there are several translations for each word you want to look up. Forewarning, it doesn’t include conjugations, so if you try conversing with strangers solely based on whatever words you strand together, you might come across bizarrely at first, but they’ll understand. I can help with that, though, if you’re ever interested.”

I study the weight of the book in my hand. Saints, Marzipan was just casually toting two copies of this cinder block around town?

“And the journal?”

Marzipan smiles at that. “To pen your soul into words. Write what you feel in your language, and if it interests you at all, I can translate it into any dialect you wish. We’d tear out the original pages before Kit gets his hands on it. A coded collection of letters to your Madman.”

“You’d . . .” I swallow, overwhelmed with sudden emotion. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would. It may feel like you’re fawning over someone,” Marzipan says. “But to me, your feelings are the first Urovian story I’ll get to record for history. This is way bigger than you and me, Pandora.”

I nod as we turn a few more street corners, and we approach a food and beverage cart manned by a vendor who reminds me so much of Ardian it stings. Weathered face, wrinkled forehead that creases deeper as he smiles at us in greeting. He hasn’t spoken aloud, but he radiates kindness.

Marzipan approaches the cart and indicates her two preferred options. “Sweet or savory?”

Assuming Kit will forage for supper without me, I decide, “Savory.”

In turn, Marzipan greets the worker and says, “ Kebabo por la sinjorino kaj torteto por mi, mi petas .” The language I cannot identify sails off her tongue in a smooth, seamless glide, and before I get the chance to fetch the coins from my pocket, the vendor is already passing our choices over the counter. Four kinds of meat samples skewered vertically are paired with varying peppers between them—reminding me vaguely of the homemade beaded bracelets I’d make with Mother in my early childhood—while Marzipan accepts a small, take-away dish with three miniature tarts, each adorned with blackberries.

We park ourselves on one of the street curbs and eat in silence. In a matter of minutes, all that remains of my kebab is a chunk of glazed pork, and as I bite into it, I trace the ascending path to the historic, sacred temple. “What’s it like there, in the shrine?”

Marzipan stares out towards the high sloping hill with equal enchantment. “Something rather close to magic.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.” She chuckles. “Even though I know the Saints are real and every one of those deities don’t compare, there’s something . . . supernatural about that place. It’s hard for me to stay away for too long.”

“What do you see?”

“Something new every time. Although, each deity specializes in different domains.”

Marzipan cracks open her volume of historical accounts straight down the middle, as if she’s read the book thousands of times over and knows exactly where her intended subject matter is located. A photo spreads across the two, open pages. Mosacian deities immortalized in stone stand in a proud lineup, and Marzipan poises her finger over a statute of a lovely woman. Her body, bare save for a sash lazily draped across one arm, is soft in a way that one might right off as maternal, but I see as rather sensual. Delicate yet alluring. “Who is that?”

“That’s Venus,” Marzipan says.

I nearly lurch at the name, but then, I cast my gaze down to her finger where Marzipan points at the woman’s descriptor.

Goddess of Love, Beauty, Desire, Sex, Fertility, Prosperity, and Victory.

“You know what I think?” Marzipan proposes. “You should go to her.”

“To Venus ?”

“To her shrine, yes,” she specifies. “I don’t know what you’ll perceive versus what I’ve seen before—”

“What have you seen in there?”

Marzipan’s smile turns sinister, even as her laughter remains childlike. “Each person who enters Venus’s shrine experiences a different pillar each time. I’ve only been in there once, but that’s because I doubt anything could top waltzing in there and being seduced by a devastatingly handsome ghost.”

“ Marzipan ,” I bark out.

She shrugs like it’s nothing, even though she likely thinks about the encounter more than she’ll admit to verbally. “All I’m saying is, maybe you’ll find some clarity on all things Kit and Madman in there.”

I gnaw at the last of my kebab, suddenly not hungry anymore. My mouth dries out.

I might see Madman in there.

+

When I arrive back at my hostel, the journal Marzipan gave me is hidden behind the translation manual I clutch to me like a flotation device that might save me from the Damocles waves. Kit sits upright in bed, reading one of the volumes Marzipan gifted him that did, in fact, keep him busy. He doesn’t stir at my presence.

“Glad you’re back.”

Safe is the word Kit doesn’t need to add. His tone articulates it enough.

“Did you eat?” I say, side-stepping any discussion about Marzipan, or what we discussed.

“At the hall, yes.”

“I see.”

We’re both silent for a beat before Kit shuts his book with a thunk . “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He drapes his legs over the side of the bed and finally makes his way towards me. “I don’t know, for being . . . untrusting? I don’t actually think that girl would hurt you, and I know that you need someone here in the city besides me to bond with. But when you walked out that door, I knew I couldn’t protect you if something happened—”

I don’t realize that he’s trembling until my hands grip him by both of his shoulders. “Kit,” I rasp, suddenly flooded with the same frantic energy he’s fighting to keep at bay. “Marzipan would never— Saints ,” I almost snarl. My hands finally register the fact that his skin is clammy and cold. “Are you feeling okay?”

“ No , I’m not okay,” he bursts out. “I feel like we’ve been here in Vesta for almost a month, and we haven’t had a proper discussion about what’s going on between us. You were sick for a spell, so that’s excused. But the rest? I’m racked with all this guilt and confusion and longing . . . and I just need you to talk to me. Please —”

“Longing?” The word sounds almost accusatory when I say it aloud.

Kit scrunches his eyes shut. “Yes, princess. Longing.”

“But you told me that you hated what I’ve become, Kit. Why would you long for something you loathe so deeply?”

“Because they’re one in the same for me. Don’t you get it? I’m fucked in the head for you!” he shouts, and somewhere amidst the outburst, my hands drop to my sides and Kit’s got me pinned against the door. “I risk my neck for you, and I don’t ask for anything in return. I sleep at your side every night; I take care of you. I’m so treacherously close to you, and yet, there’s still this invisible wall you have up. Like you’re afraid to let me in. I don’t want to pry, but I’m . . . I’m dying in here without you,” Kit moans, removing one hand to point to his head. His mind.

Why does it strike me so deeply that he’s not pointing to his heart?

“What’s keeping you away from me, princess?”

I stiffen under his smoldering gaze—like I, too, might catch fire. But I offer Kit the truth, just this once, and say on a horse breath, “ That is.”

“What is?”

“The fact that you can’t call me by my name.”

Kit blanches, preparing to say more, only I hold out a hand to him. “I know, no doubt, that it’s hard to differentiate me from the sins of my family, but you need to figure it out, Kit. Because when I look at you, I don’t see your hatred for them. I just see you . And maybe that’s another thing that scares me—that every day we’re here, I’m really starting to look at you. Meanwhile, you still can’t seem to stomach the sound of any part of my name on your lips. Which is a real slap in the face, considering—”

I wince recalling the memory—the same one that Madman pointed out so vividly when he came to collect me. I force it out all the same.

“. . . Considering that was the exact issue I left behind in Urovia. Anytime I ever tried to be with someone, they couldn’t see past my bloodline, my role in society. Everything about our interactions—their words, their mannerisms, their touches—all of it was catered to curry favor rather than bestow any true affections towards me. And I did not get dragged across the Damocles just for those same issues to chase me down such a great distance.”

Kit looks at me as if my words physically struck him, but he stands still. Unflinching. He’s waiting for me to tell him that I’m done, not wanting to interject—and despite the decency of it, it reminds me all too well of a Urovian subject staying silent out of forced respect.

“I know I’ve yet to perform for you,” I tell him weakly, and I hear just how mousy my voice has become. It sickens me. “For a long time, I’ve told myself that it was because I’ve seen the kind of sway my musical talent has on people—the way my voice and my harp can pluck at one’s corresponding heartstrings—and I didn’t want to maliciously garner control of you. But I think I realize now, I haven’t shown you that side of me because it’s the most sacred aspect of myself. If you can’t say my name, why should I even consider giving that to you?”

“Pandora,” Kit grates, attempting to make the effort. “ Please .”

But it’s not enough, not when I can hear the hurt that he can’t quite push past.

“On stage, people’s expectations of me are what I’m most skilled at, most prepared for. The challenge of maintaining my renown excites me. It’s off that stage, however, when the real performance begins. When I am forced to play the part of Venus and Jericho’s cutthroat circus monkey heir. When I am quizzed on old war correspondents and active military tactics as opposed to spending my mornings reading something for the sole purpose of leisure. When I’m not allowed to be myself —”

Kit’s words are soaked in despair. “I’m sorry—”

“You look at me, and you see a burden,” I say, and I taste a salty tear falling into the corner of my mouth before I realize I’ve begun crying. My words burn in my throat like liquor. “And as indebted as I am to you for bringing me here and sparing me from that tribunal, I will not settle for someone who says my name only when he feels cornered.”

It’s a low blow, and I force the guilt I feel because of it to stay back until I can be alone again.

“I deserve someone who looks at me with the kind of reverence that has nothing to do with where I come from. I need that. I need someone who sees me and doesn’t get hung up on the fact that I’m a Deragon. Someone who looks at me and just . . . just . . .”

Kit reaches out a hand, but I can’t bring myself to accept it. The choice wounds us both.

“Someone who looks at me and understands their fate is sealed,” I finish. “And that the realization of it fills them with assurance, not dread.”

I don’t mean to bash Kit over the head with his misgivings, but it’s time I stop pretending. If I can’t give him true affection, he deserves my honesty. I just wish it didn’t sting like this—for him and me both.

“I’m going to stay with Marzipan for the night.”

He’s already moving for me, eyes dewy and remorseful. “But—”

“Just for tonight,” I explain. “I promise, we’ll face this conversation head-on tomorrow. But I don’t . . . I don’t feel comfortable sleeping beside you tonight, and I want to be alone.”

I expect him to retaliate, to talk me out of the things I want at this moment—but he gives in before I have to ask him to respect this boundary.

“Okay then,” he says stiffly, like there’s an inkling in him that wants to blurt out so much more beneath his calm exterior. Still, he nods again and steps back, worried that his previous steps made me feel unsafe. “I’ll be waiting for you, whenever you’re ready to come back to me.”

I don’t take anything with me aside from my journal, because I’m not going to sleep. Not here nor at Marzipan’s.

I’m going to the shrine of Venus, praying to the Saints that, by some miracle, I find Madman there.