The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

35

Pandora

I had a vague assortment of ideas on what the goddess’s chamber would be like—a green-shrouded forest, an archery range, or even a wild animal terrarium. I pictured scenarios where I held a sword while people ran from me, and I pictured realities where those same people brandished weapons of their own and charged after me.

But instead, I’m in a nursery.

One with gilded walls accentuated by familiar scarlet curtains. A woven bassinet rests in the center of the space, a stitched blanket draped over its yawning mouth.

“Isn’t this rich?” a feminine voice muses haughtily from behind me. The closeness of her snide voice sends goosebumps up my arms.

As I pivot to face her fully, her presence halts my breathing. The expression on her alluring face nails me to the floor, her aura threateningly familiar despite no memory I have of encountering her before this moment. Still, I look at her, and I feel the bizarre instinct . . . to weep. Not with misery, but with pure, bone-chilling terror. Like something in my DNA wills me to remain utterly petrified.

Diana Seagrave looks just as I would’ve imagined her. Angular face, piercing eyes, elegant posture. What does not match the description my family fed me long ago, however, is the way she carries herself. Proud, yet . . . diminished.

“Why am I here?” I ask, refusing to balk from the wicked grin deepening along her lips.

She ignores the question for now. “You have defied your own blood by speaking with me, Pandora Deragon .” I cannot tell which part of my name comes out in more of a sneer. “And I’d like to know why. I’d like to know exactly what prompted you to enter this chamber.”

“I wanted to go somewhere that Venus would never dare,” I say through chattering teeth, as if all warmth in the room has been sucked out. It’s the truth. “I came . . . to try and uncover the truth.”

Her gaze poses a challenge. “The truth of what?”

“Whatever I’m missing,” I respond, the answer vague. Then, I shut my eyes, trying to grasp the circumstances I’m standing amidst. “So, wait . . . are you the deity of Diana? But how would that work with all the historical recordings and accounts—”

“You’ve been reading about our culture?” she asks, but her tone sounds posh, offended.

“I think the culture here is fascinating,” I tell her. “Beautiful, even.”

Her eyes flare, brows furrowing at the improbable concept of her political enemy—even through a new generation—finding admiration in a land she ought to abhor. I can tell she wants to say something snide in response, but she holds her tongue and reroutes her wording.

“Alright, princess. I’ll grant you the truth you seek. But you must ask for it outright . . . and tell me the secrets of your soul as well.”

I don’t waste another breath. “Did your brother Slater truly love my aunt?”

There’s no point in playing coy about my real parentage—not when all truths are likely known to those in the Beyond. Still, any hint of Diana’s previous grin disappears at the inquiry.

“In his own way, it’s possible. Infatuation is a better word I’d use, though. He always was a glutton for pleasure—and this time, he got caught between her legs and couldn’t claw his way out.”

Forcing myself to stay mild-mannered and not let the obvious insult rattle me, I stand tall, waiting for my first trade-off.

“What’s the most . . .”—she ponders for a moment, and then her eyes flare—“ depraved thing you’ve ever done?”

“I’m afraid I’m rather cookie cutter,” I say flatly.

“You have to at least thought of doing something debauched before, then,” Diana amends.

“Nothing crazier than imagining a steamy encounter in order to go to sleep.”

Diana smiles at that, the expression feline. “Details.”

Choosing to give her what she wants before I become self-conscious, I find the will to tell her, “I’ve never been with anyone like that. And yet my mind illustrates it all in vivid detail, all the things that haven’t happened yet. The way a heated glance, no words required, could have him undoing my corset, or how his hands in my hair would make me want to scream.”

“Still sounds boring,” Diana drawls.

I grind my teeth together, fists balling up at my sides. “He’s the only person, aside from Mother, that I feel truly cares for me, that sees me as something entirely unconnected from my bloodline. I resent them beyond measure for leaving me in the care of a Mosacian loyalist and an assassin , but . . .” I shut my eyes to keep from seeing the growing joy on her face. “Some nights— most nights—when my loathing matches the intensity of my attraction for Madman, I imagine a scenario where he worships me in a manner that feels like punishment. And that they hear it as it’s happening. They hear him defile me, body and soul, and realize that I let him. That I begged him to do it.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then, her amusement barrels into me like one of Whisper’s bullets. “I’ll be damned,” Diana says through dark, mocking laughter. “The Deragon Heir ensnared by the man who killed her king’s advisor. Aching to expose yourself entirely to someone who won’t even show you his face. How dreadfully hilarious !”

The sound of Diana Seagrave’s cackling will likely haunt me the rest of my days.

“Why this room?” I sneer, ready to move forward. “Why show me a nursery?”

Diana’s smile deepens again, and the sight is absolutely unnerving. “You don’t remember because you were only days old, if not hours,” she answers. “But this is where we first met.”

No.

It can’t be.

“You were the last person I spoke to before the end, princess,” she says almost sadly, though bitterness coasts in the depths of her voice. “It was only for a moment, but rest assured, I made sure to use the time I had with you wisely.”

I grit my teeth. “Doing what?”

“Ensuring that you’d atone for the sins of your family. You see, your aunt, through her scheming and her betrayal,” Diana seethes now, inching towards me, “forced my hand into an act that would’ve damned my soul had I survived what happened that dreaded day in Broadcove Castle. She had turned my sister, Greer, against our family—convinced my sister that her side was the righteous one. My brother overpowered her, but I was the one to plunge my sword into her. To silence her once and for all.

“Slater had wanted to seek Venus out, still believing in her partial innocence, but I saw through all the lies. My father was gone. My mother and her baby. My—” She halts and swallows hard. “Delta was dead. I knew we were outsmarted, and likely outnumbered, so after gutting my insolent sister, I found you in your crib, stooped over the sides . . . and cursed you.”

Run, a voice urges, the sound breathless and frantic. Get out of there. RUN, PANDORA—

“I voiced a declaration in the name of the Saints your lot believed in so deep-heartedly and cursed you to carry out the same vile will that Venus left me no choice but to follow.” She grins, the expression so spider-like I feel it crawl across my bones. “To murder a member of your own family. And considering those Saints turned out to be the real deal . . .” She laughs in a way that almost sounds like a scoff. Like even in death, Diana still cannot fathom it. “I’d say it was worth it.”

+

From my first experience in the Temple of the Shrine, I learned that I’m supposed to let the substances ebb out on their own time before exiting a sanctuary. But I’m so aghast over what Diana Seagrave just shared with me—albeit to intentionally terrify me—that I come tearing out of the room and into the level two vestibule.

It can’t be true.

I will not be destined to kill a member of my family.

Just because I do not measure up does not mean I’ll resort to the despicable violence that took hold of the Seagraves. Never.

I don’t know how long I stand there, but eventually, one of the temple maidens approaches me, profound worry in her narrowed eyes. She tries speaking to me, but no sound comes out—at least none my ears can detect. Have I gone deaf to anything beyond the hysterical beating of my heart?

And then, faintly above my rocky breathing patterns, I hear it.

Music .

Sad guitars, lilting flutes, the soothing bleed between saxophones and clarinets. Full-bodied bases and cellos accompanied by the singing of violas and one operatic violin. And underneath it all, two finely tuned pianos that play such complex, compelling melodies with supernatural unity.

They call to me from beyond the grasp of Apollo’s sanctuary.

I sail through the air and move at a snail’s pace all at once, but the hard crash of tumbling down the temple stairs and splatting on the mezzanine knocks me awake. I scramble for my footing, unbothered by the stairs, or the fact that the attendant from moments ago comes chasing after me—though slowed down by the need to pick up her skirts in her hurry.

Time moves in slow motion, but this time, my feet don’t. The wind rips past my skin as I pump my arms and haul ass for the door. The attendant guarding Apollo’s door possesses enough intelligence not to stand in my way, but I realize why as my hand makes purchase on the sanctuary’s gilded handle.

The brand hasn’t set in yet.

Without hesitation, I throw myself at the mercy of Apollo, the god of music, healing, poetry, and truth—and while there’s always been a spell of silence as the scene in each sanctuary formed, this time, it’s different.

The scene before me lies untouched by supernatural intervention or any human participants before me. I merely stand on a stage so shrouded in shadows that I cannot clearly make out the material of the floor—but in its center, a singular spotlight settles upon a lonely, silver object.

Madman’s harp.

Feeling helpless and sad and yet so connected to the means of playing music again after so long apart, I dash forward. I nearly crash into the stool but find my bearings enough to slow my heart rate and sit before the familiar instrument. The calluses on my fingers practically sigh as they reunite with the finely adjusted strings.

For an audience of none, I pluck my favorite series of chords and melodies across the harp. I let my performance act as a prayer to a deity I don’t formally believe—wishing Madman were somehow here again. And as I let myself get lost in my music, to the point of losing my way from reality entirely, I don’t feel the mark on my hand fully materialize. I simply let the poison sink in.