The Rise of Deragon (The Deragon Duology #2)

40

Pandora

A hard banging sound wakes me, but I fight the urge to stir, to even flinch in response.

It’s an instinct Venus taught me to respond with—to go absolutely motionless in the face of potential danger in the event that Broadcove were ever broken into. Lie still, breathe in silent, shallow doses, and slow my heart rate.

In contrast, Kit is the portrait of paranoia. The relentless pounding throws him out of bed, and he jostles me as he works to get out from underneath the covers. I hear him swear through his teeth shortly after brushing me, but two blinks later, he’s blowing out a steadying breath and darting out of the room. Just this once, I can admit to myself that Venus taught me well.

I refuse to move, mentally assessing how many seconds it takes Kit to reach the front door and appease the unseen force. Whoever it is, though, must be angry, because it’s an unsaintly hour in the morning, and—

The door slams again, and I close my eyes and count down the seconds before Kit might come striding back in. Only he doesn’t appear. Not even the ghost of his footsteps sounds from the other end of the House—which means he’s stepped out to handle whoever it is directly.

It’s the final confirmation I need to drag myself out of bed, throw on my robe, and think things through.

The moment the soft fabric of my robe graces my bare skin, I can’t help but recall the way Kit’s fingers and lips had been there hours before. Hungry rather than reverent. Rough rather than gentle. There was an eagerness about it all that almost made him feel entitled to me, and right before the point of no return, I realized that . . . things didn’t feel right.

Which made no sense at all.

I felt so embarrassed and confused when all I’ve ever wanted was to be his—when all I ever felt in Madman’s presence was confidence.

Why was putting two and two together like this so unsettling? Why couldn’t it have just clicked right away? Why did I have to go and ask him to stop, to let me sort things out in my head for a little longer before we crossed that bridge? The hurt in Kit’s face was evident, but he managed to work through it enough to lie in bed with me until I fell asleep. Holding me tenderly, as if realizing that the harshness of his touch before may have scared me off—but it shouldn’t have. The Madman I knew never shied away from his intensity. He gave it to me on full display, a major piece of what had me falling for him to begin with.

Things should be picturesque. Perfect, even.

And then, I remember my Pandora’s Box.

Nausea roils through my stomach as I tiptoe out of my room and across the hall, disturbing the peace within the immortalized room for Andie’s daughter.

Even in the haste of hiding it originally, I almost glance over its secret spot, my eyes just barely snagging on the gleaming, dark wood of the latched box Madman— Kit —gave me for my birthday. I remember the way its texture glided across my fingertips the first time I held it, and when my touch reunites with the object once more, it suddenly feels heavier in my hands.

I give it a shake, remembering how no sound had emitted from the gesture. This time, however, there’s an obvious clunking buried within. My grip tightens on the box’s rim to keep from dropping it as the weight shifts around. An intrusive thought deduces that there could be some kind of explosive in there, but rationality tells me that, somehow, it’s worse.

Suddenly, I hear the harsh sounds of male grunting and shoving.

Oh Saints, Kit—

My heart races, terrified that something bad is happening out there, and thankfully, unlike my rooms here in the House, this one looks out onto the front drive, towards the open expanse of the rest of the Isle. Not wanting to draw too much attention to myself, I squint in hopes of seeing well enough through the blinds.

A deeper voice, hidden by my limited vantage point, snarls out some sort of muffled allegation. To which I clearly hear Kit state, “Yes, my property. You up and left this place years ago, which left me to tend to the House. Anna certainly couldn’t, and Andie needed the help.”

Kit and the other figure drift closer, just enough so that I can see who he’s talking to—

And that’s when I see him. Same dark cloak. Same gelled hair. Same unyielding disguise and storm cloud eyes.

Madman . . .

And Kit.

Separately.

“I’ve been trained to keep this House and its occupants a secret,” Kit growls. “So when Pandora Deragon of all people just showed up here, I didn’t think about you once outside of my anger. I was focused on how the Urovian Princess could spoil everything I have been working towards on complete and utter accident !”

When Kit lashes out, seemingly through with what he wants to say, I watch as Madman—the true Madman—falls into the gravel with an intensity I imagine would fracture bone. He gnashes his teeth, but not because of the pain. The pain is nothing compared to the absolute vitriol that leaks out of him.

“So I learned to play nice. Got to know her a bit. Turns out, she’s nothing like their lot, and it kills me. When I’m with her, it’s like I’m dying a slow, tortuous death. I kiss her, and I taste my own treachery.”

The haunting omen I tucked away for safe keeping all those moons ago finally returns to my senses, as if trying to shake me awake to what is unfolding before me.

Everyone you know—both here on the Isle and back in Broadcove—has been lying to you.

I go deaf to all that happens outside, my eyes homed in on my Pandora’s Box as if it carries a supernatural, hypnotic aura. Maybe the history behind it has gone straight to my head. Maybe I’m too paranoid for my own good. But my fingers tremble over the metal latch, shivering on their own accord.

My gut was right about Kit—about what lengths he would go to seek revenge on me for scorning him. For deserting him at the temple, for evading his longing, and for sneaking around with the man he hired to destroy my family.

If I was right about that . . . it must be right about this.

So I shut my eyes and throw open the lid of the box before I can take it back.

Delicate, plinking chords softly chime through the room, shrinking the space in a way and pouring out above the sound of the altercation happening outside. A supernatural sense of solace washes out the dread.

Is that . . . a music box?

I dare a glance at the container, decently confident in the fact that no monstrous claws will stagger out and grab me by the throat. Sure enough, harmless and lovely, a porcelain ballerina spins clockwise en pointe, arms raised in fifth. It turns to a haunting melody—one that, come to think of it, I’ve caught Madman humming beneath his breath when he thought I’d fallen asleep.

Beneath the ballerina, however, lies the object that made the box heavier in my hands.

The journal Marzipan gifted me back in the Sacred City.

Why would this be in here?

How had it gotten here?

I tear it open regardless, my bruised soul aching to see any living piece of her, even if it’s only her handwriting. Even if I can’t make out the transcriptions in whatever language she desired to ink into the pages. I nearly cut my thumb open on the edges as I flip to the pages I hadn’t gotten to, and when I see her handwriting—

I understand everything.

I didn’t memorize the passages I’d poured out onto the pages, not in the slightest. In fact, writing what I had felt like the exorcism of a demonic entity, and by the time I gave Marzipan the book, I remembered little to nothing of the pain before. But there’s no denying what is clearly right in front of me.

I read the words with ease, her words. Words written in Mosacian languages I’ve never studied or even knew the names of until now. I comprehend all of it. Every conjugation, every inscription, every dialect . . .

Everything .

“Pandora?”

Andie’s voice takes me by complete surprise, but it also keeps me composed enough to lock in the sob that wants to break free. Mainly because her tone is accusatory and heartsick at the fact that she’s caught me disturbing her deceased daughter’s space.

“Oh Saints . . . Andie, I promise, I meant no disrespect—”

“Do you know?” she cuts in, her voice brittle.

I say nothing, shutting the music box and tucking the journal deeper into my robe.

“Do you know ?” she punctuates in a way that turns my stomach.

“That they’re two different people?”

Andie means to say more, but suddenly, the front door closes. I hear the deadbolt hinge into the front door, the chain clink from down the hall.

And Madman screams bloody murder from outside.

“ PANDORAAAAA !”

Madman wails loud enough to irrevocably damage his voice.

“ RUN PANDORA! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! GET OUT OF THE HOUSE—”

Andie pulls me close, her hands shaky as she grips me by the neckline of my robe and hisses almost too softly to hear, “When I tell you to, you run out the front door and after Madman. You hear me?”

Andie doesn’t wait for me to confirm my understanding before putting her other hand to my mouth, insisting I stay quiet. I obey, and we both wait anxiously for Kit to trail back through the hallway. At the sight of his nearing shadow, everything inside of me screams at me to flee. Pure and utter terror replaces every sweet or nostalgic moment I have of Kit in my mind. How his face softened after our drunken night of playing cards, the way he took care of me while I was sick in the Sacred City, the kiss on his boat that made him change the course of my fate—all of it is wiped away by the way he stalks into my room.

Even after he turns into the space fully, the sheer force of his murderous intent creeps up my skin like unseen insects, and I’m on the verge of spilling my guts onto the floor because of it when Andie bursts into movement.

The Saints kindly spare me the sight of Kit’s reaction to seeing that I’m awake and out of bed, and Andie yanks the door shut behind him, channeling her entire body weight into keeping it closed.

“Now !” she mouths.

The first jerk of Kit fighting back launches me into motion, and I bolt down the hall faster than my legs have ever carried me. It helps that they’re carrying me to Madman and away from the jaws of certain death. My trembling hands manage to make quick work of the lock and chain, and I slip out of the front door in such a mad dash, I forget to close it behind me.

Madman’s still screaming when his eyes capture mine, but the sight of me alive eases them ever so slightly into sobs. He’s hyperventilating, down on his knees and torso bent towards the ground like he was begging, praying that by some miracle, Kit wouldn’t get to me. Madman knew better than to waste his breath on pleading for another change of heart.

In silence, I reveal Marzipan’s journal, and Madman sobs harder.

“You opened the box?” he chokes.

I nod, still running for him. Aching for him to rise to his full height again. He senses my desperation and does just that, realizing that we’re running out of time to make a clean getaway. “Then we need to go.”

“Go where?”

“You’ll see.”

Hand in hand, he tears us towards the other end of the house, toward where the sharp, jutting rocks on the edge of the Isle give way to a steep, makeshift footpath. One that leads right to where his familiar, onyx boat bobs on the shoreline.

A little over halfway down to sea level, I dare to whisper his name on the wind.

“Yes, angel?” he replies instantly.

“Did you read any of the journal?”

“No,” he answers. Then amends, “Well, I tried to. But it was a lot of foreign scribblings. Marzipan was quite the scholar.”

My pulse beats hard enough to break out of my skin as I pull out the journal again and splay the pages wide. I see the uneven threads from where Marzipan must’ve torn out my original writings, swallowing hard, and hold it out towards Madman.

“You can’t read any of it?”

“I only know one of the passages,” he says calmly, even though he knows we’re too short on time to be talking about this right now. “Fourth page. Third paragraph. I know what it says because it’s written in my second most dominant language.”

I flip to the page and question and let my eyes rove over the page. At the same time I read her translation with unfathomable ease, Madman speaks it back to me, having memorized it like a proverb.

I’d thought my fate was cruel before, but I’d rather live a thousand, unbearable lifetimes never measuring up to my family’s legacy just so that I wouldn’t have to die in this one with unfinished business. I’d tear heaven apart just to crash back to earth and tell Madman he’s the song of my heart. If hell called me home instead, I’d plead with the devil for one last look into his eyes. And it would be enough, because I never needed to see beyond them to see into his soul—to see into myself and know how in love with him I’ve become.

I’m crying again—for more reasons than one.

Of course Marzipan would translate this passage into a language Madman could read. And of course I love him, even as the disbelief of hearing back those recited words takes over his entire body.

But as I descend the last of the rock-lined path, I don’t feel the sting that comes from cutting open the side of my leg on one of the jagged edges. I let the blood seep into my house slippers and sputter out what will surely plague me for the rest of my life.

“Marzipan . . . she passed me her blessing.”