Page 14 of Forgotten Monsters
Jules pours three shot glasses and passes one to each of us. “What happened to this realm? I think we earned the right to know.”
Barron evaded most of our questions about himself, his powers, or the very realm we ended up in, like he wanted to protect its secrets as well as his own.
The Scot gulps the shot down in one swig and motions for Jules to pour him another. “Yer a demon, so I might as well tell ye. A hundred years ago, it used to be much like yer own. Cities bustled with merchants, horses, and sinners. Farmers and fishermen tended to their crops and nets in peace. Lesser demons were nothing more than fauna, while the most powerful ones ruled over the rest of the population.
“But the glory days of the Underworld are long gone. Hollows infested most of the continent and ravaged the castles, killing all but a few magic users. The demons that survived are the craftiest and deadliest of them all, and they rule over the islands with blood and violence. That is, until a hollow worms its way onto their lands, which is bound to happen at some point. A few non-magic creatures and humans have begun to rebuild the continent, but the likes of me and you wouldn’t survive a day out there.”
“So hollows can only infect magic users?” I clip off the thread and start a fresh stitch on the subcutaneous tissues. The muscles beneath already melded, so Jules’ spell is working.
“Aye.”
Jules screws back the cork of the Scotch bottle and lays it down next to the sink. “How did you summon those infernal blades?”
The shadowy power we witnessed out there isn’t like anything we ever heard of growing up, and while Jules clearly keeps secrets of her own, it soothes me to know she’s clueless on this, too.
“I told ye before. If ye want to know, you have to beat me at poker.” The Scot’s lips twitch in a half-smile, and he starts shuffling his cards.
With a huff, Jules hustles back to the bridge. Fire rumbles below the surface of her skin, her frustration palpable.
I smile at my—wildly impatient—patient and sink the needle deep in his flesh. “Stick that deck up your ass and tell me anyway. How do you summon infernal magic? Are you a demon?”
Like my sister…
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Nae.”
“What are you doing in this realm, then?”
He slides a little deeper into the cushions. “I’m considered…undesirable by the current administration.”
“Undesirable how?” I cut off the thread and start working on the skin.
He peers at me, eyes half-mast. “How old are you? Sixteen?”
My smile widens, and I keep a sugary, effable tone while tugging on the thread a little too hard. “I’m almost nineteen, you asshole.”
“Ohh—big difference.” He rolls his eyes. “Since yer a child, let me speak to you in terms ye’ll understand. Yer government has become irrelevant and outdated. The Magisterium is a farce that lets monsters flourish in the four corners of the world. Darkwood is a plague that never ends. The whole system is corrupt, no matter who sits on the chair.”
“Easy to say for a…Are you a smuggler, a thief, or what?”
He glimpses at my needle work. “Are you always so persistent?”
“I’m curious.” I lean closer to his ear. Men react better to honey than venom, and I’m not naive. I’ve caught him stealing glances at me—this small boat isn’t exactly private. Whatever he is, Barron is a warm-blooded man, and his relationship with Mallory is platonic.
Darkness hovers around him, an aura of raw energy rumbling over his skin—so potent I can almost touch it. Whatever magic he summoned before still runs thick in his veins.
“Curiosity killed the cat, little storm. Ye’ll be happier if ye don’t know,” he whispers wryly.
“What are you hiding below deck?” I knot the last of the thread, the sutures done, and trace the line of his bicep up to his neck.
Goosebumps freckle his skin, but he jerks to his feet and spins around to face me. “The secrets I keep onmyboat don’t concern you.”
We measure each other, the scissors still in my blood-stained hands. His chest heaves, and a few, long seconds pass before he yanks the bottle of Scotch from the counter and uncorks the top.
Mallory descends into the cabin, her glacial blue eyes clear and wide. “Come out now. We’ve got a problem.”
Barron holds both his wounded arm and his bottle of Scotch close as we return outside.
“What the fuck?” I cry out.
