Page 37 of Whispers of the Water

“I’d like to speak with you in my office now that you’re done being a child. Follow me.”

There was no room to argue. It was a demand, and when Myra ordered something, I knew it was best to do whatever she said. Even if she was a bitch for calling me a child. I hadn’t realized being there for her sons was childish.

I followed after her, and each step we took toward her study on the first floor made my feet feel like they were being weighed down with cinder blocks. I was walking straight into the Fox’s den, all on my own. My friends didn’t even know I was going somewhere with Myra, so should she decide to rip my heart out of my chest with her claws, Rune and the others wouldn’t even be able to reach me before my screams went silent under the hand of death.

Way to think positive, Bria.

Myra’s study was the first room on the left in her private wing. The room sat cold with an unlit and barren fireplace. Two couches faced each other, but they looked stiff and far from comfy. No personal touches decorated the space, and the colors were all dark and uninviting.

I glanced behind me, and that’s when I noticed what decorated the wall facing Myra’s desk. Bile rose up my throat.

Heads.

Dozens of dismembered, frozen heads mounted on the wall. Men, women, children. Each face wore a different, more horrific expression than the last. A woman forever frozen in a petrified scream. A man’s face contorted in what looked to be a final gasp for air, his eyes long glazed over in death. A little girl, her no-doubt once pink cheeks now pale and littered with gashes, her tongue sagging out of her parted lips.

My stomach churned, and I bit the inside of my cheek to hide any sign of revulsion.

Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke.

I recalled Rune’s earlier statement about how Myra kept her more grotesque decor in her private wing, and I realized this was what he’d meant.

“Do you like my art?” Myra asked. I glanced over my shoulder at her. She gestured to the wall and flashed me a sadistic smile. “They’re some of my favorite Water Fae kills. I had a friend of mine, a Polar Bear Fae, freeze them so that I could always have their dead faces to stare at when I felt the urge to do so.”

Oh God, please don’t let me puke.

Trying to take a breath without giving away that I was struggling, I nodded. At least, I thought I was nodding. I was so unnerved and sick I couldn’t be sure I was actually moving.

Art. She called this—dead fucking people—art. Up until that very moment, I hadn’t realized exactly what kind of heartless monster I was dealing with. A shitty mother and person in general? Sure. But this? She was an unfeeling, malevolent husk of what should’ve been a person.

And I despised her.

“Well then,” Myra started as she sank down gracefully onto one of the couches—the one that let her view the wall of heads. She gestured to the couch across from her and commanded, “Sit.”

My feet moved on autopilot, guiding me to the couch where I slowly sat less gracefully than Myra, despite my effort. My heart beat erratically within my chest, and I prayed Myra couldn’t hear it. Any sign of weakness around her would be like a drop of blood being spilled in a frenzy of sharks.

Deadly.

I was grateful that I at least didn’t have to sit where I’d see those empty eyes of long-lost souls staring at me.

“So you intend to be with my son, yes?” Myra started. Her cunning gold eyes pierced into mine with an intensity that only the sun could match.

Somehow finding my voice, I said, “Yes, ma’am. Rune and I are serious about one another and plan on getting married eventually.”

“And you believe you’re fit to breed with our family line? How many Water Fae have you killed?”

This was a question Rune had anticipated his mother would ask at some point. His family had been key figures in the war with Water Fae, so having a partner who had ruthlessly killed hundreds was high on Myra’s list of requirements—though Rune had failed to mention her wall of trophies. Having to pretend that I’d killed loads of Water Fae had always been stomach-churning, but now knowing I was one made it even more gut-wrenching.

Despite my unease, I responded with that answer Rune and I had rehearsed. “I’ve lost count of the exact number. Their faces blur together after a while since their lives are of little importance. I stopped counting at 181, but I’ve since killed plenty more. I’d guess I’m up to 300-something now.”

“1,086.”

“Pardon?”

“1,086,” she repeated. Her clawed fingers reached for a teacup that sat on the table between us, and she sipped on the steaming mug with a calm that disturbed me. We weren’t friends having a fucking tea party, yet her entire demeanor was so calm it was unnatural. She met my eyes over the rim of the china and continued, “That’s how many Water Fae I’ve killed. I can remember each and every one. Every face, every last word, every expression they had when they died at my hands. I was expecting the same of Rune’s partner. Someone who revels in the kill. Someone who is likely to create strong and powerful offspring that can continue the Beckett line. I don’t believe that individual is you, so tell me. Why are you here?”

My skin prickled with disgust. The sheer magnitude of what this woman had done. How many mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers she’d stolen from the world, including the ones behind me.

The Water Fae behind me.

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