Angels Grave

~ Chapter 21 ~

Zhysa awoke to screaming.

The screaming rang in her head, disorientating her for the first minute of her consciousness.

Screaming from the depths of hell seemed a fitting way to describe it. Her eyes peeled themselves open, still crusty from the blood stuck to her. It seemed that nobody had decided to clean her, just chuck her in what she assumed was a cell and be done with it.

She could still feel it – the mixture of blood from the Attor's ilk and Azaka's body mixed in under her fingernails and in her hair. The wound on her shoulder barely twinged, seemingly healed even under these horrible conditions.

She flinched as the screaming abruptly stopped, accompanied by a sharp crack. The guards yelled some order – her hearing was still fuzzy – and they dragged a male's dead body past her cell. Metallic and tangy smells wafted over towards her, her stomach lurching in the process. She aimed herself at the corner of the cell, only stomach acid coming out from her retch. She scrambled back from her spew, the restraints clanging on the stone.

Zhysa pulled on her restraints – a simple shackle made from that strange stone that prevented her from using her unnatural strength or any magic and a small sliver of ash wood. It seemed her kidnapper wanted her alive – weak but alive. Her wings shifted uncomfortably behind her, the stone walls digging into the muscle. She was glad her wings hadn't been damaged, but as she turned to look at them she froze.

They had turned Illyrian. The intricate spell that she had woven – something that had taken months to perfect – gone.

They were larger now, held no feathers and the point of her wings was now more pronounced. She couldn't see them in the darkness but she was sure that her wings held that same inky sheen as Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel. It had been so long since she had forgone the glamour. As she scrambled to scrap up any remnants of her magic a shouting was heard across from her.

The guards suddenly turned frantic, running around with unheard orders. Sliding back, she blended into the black rock, hoping the commotion wasn't caused by her. Zhysa didn't feel the King until she saw him. A surprisingly plain faerie male, dressed in black from head to toe, pale – almost pasty – skin and pitch-black hair. His eyes were void-like as if they sucked in the bleak expanse of colour. However, he was unmistakeable, the black obsidian crown screaming out who he was.

His mouth had turned into something remnant of a smirk as he looked down upon her, inspecting the amounts of blood covering her. He was quiet for a few minutes just watching Zhysa shift uncomfortably under his gaze.

"You don't look like much." Even his voice was cold, vacant and held something that bordered on the brink of disinterest. She didn't respond, only watched him. He just raised an eyebrow and looked away from her, examining the blood-stained walls instead.

"My niece and nephew tell me you are an of the Night Court." Zhysa didn't respond, pursing her lips.

"However when I broke the spells placed on your body it was set by someone of the Day Court." He expected an answer this time, glancing at her. She undistinguishedly nodded.

"Interesting. Both Day and Night. Also, a daemati from what I hear, although I have learned to not take my niece and nephews word." He said, his cold eyes flickering over to Zhysa again.

"They tell me that you were the only one to figure out the diversion I had set – albeit a little late – though I suppose that doesn't matter now. What does matter is your connections and how I could use it for a little ploy I am developing." Zhysa's brow furrowed, a glare oversetting her features. The King just chuckled at her attempt to look threatening and leaned down a little.