Overhead, a bleary ocean danced. Crashing and swirling, it rolled against the crown molding and thrashed into the cracked light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Its turquoise paint had faded over the years, and a cavernous split broke across the painted ocean from one corner down toward the center. Vera's blurry vision struggled to focus on the pale blue-green, lashes fluttering as she fought to keep her eyes open. The crash of waves echoed in her ears, and the water peeled off the ceiling and fell over her, drenching her in its endless cold depths. Her insides twisted. She was drowning, lungs seizing as she fought for a clear breath. Around her, the room spun, out of reach and yet so close it boxed her in. She couldn't see anything above the waters. Her fingers curled tighter against something heavy in her hand—a metal object, warm with the heat from her palm, that pressed firmly into her skin.
"Vera." Wyn was calling her from the outskirts of her memories, somewhere beyond the sea that lapped at her limbs. The icy waters sapped the strength from her body, almost as vicious as his smile and as cruel as his stormy eyes. "Get up, Ve."
The roaring in her ears returned in full force, a thunderous drawl that blotted out everything else, even the rush of the water. Her head threatened to split down the center, cracked against the stone and bleeding all around her. No, it wasn't the ocean she was drowning in. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth until she was choking on it.
"Vera."
Ice-cold hands seized her wrist like a pair of cuffs. Her eyes snapped open and immediately landed on the pale face bent over her, white brows knitted in concern. Behind him, situated way above them, was the painted ocean ceiling, now still, though her vision flickered weakly. Even the crack in the light fixture seemed smaller, but it blinked constantly as it struggled to stay alert.
Vera ripped free of the frigid hands around her wrists, glaring at the alabaster man as she pushed upright. Her hands sank into a plush mattress, and a pillow supported her back as she sat up. Her head was pounding, still threatening to pull itself apart, but it was nothing compared to her racing heart and the thrum of fear in her veins. Cotton stuffed her mind and muffled her thoughts—but it also dulled the agony that she expected to tear through every inch of her. Instead, she was overcome with numbness, save for the pressure behind her aching eyes.
Once he had taken a step back away from the edge of the bed, she let her gaze wander the small room. It was strikingly clean compared to the rest of the house, with a tall ceiling and white walls adorned with ornate molding. An armoire stood against the wall opposite her bed, made of dark wood with rusty copper handles. Beside it was a desk that was completely clean. If it once had a chair, it was nowhere to be found now. The door stood open and the hallway beyond was lit with delicate lanterns and flickering orange flames.
Vera was lying in a bed, the headboard against one wall and the large window situated a few feet from her other side. She was tucked beneath a worn quilt, one that used to be as blue as the painting overhead. Embroidered flowers decorated the quilt squares; some had waves woven into the fabric, bleeding multiple shades of blue into each other. It was once a beautiful piece of handiwork that might have brought even Eileen and her mother to tears of awe. Now, its edges were frayed and some of the floral-patterned squares were missing, but it was warm enough. Her dark blue coat was draped over it, its silver lining sparkling in the light. Her legs were tangled in the quilt, her injured foot sticking out from beneath it and almost touching the bedpost at the other end. She wasn't drowning in an ocean, but the sheets beneath her were damp and the bitter scent of sweat clung to her. She wrinkled her nose.
The prisoner—no, Zeno—was still watching her as she slowly reoriented herself. She lifted one hand to her head and touched scratchy bandages wrapped haphazardly around her skull, tangling her black hair that was loose from its ponytail and sticky with dirt and oil. Her confusion only made her head spin more. Had she wrapped her head after it was struck? The thick fog over her mind blurred her memories so that they slid through her fingers like water, too fluid to grasp.
A glint caught her eye. Warm and gold and heavy, it drew her eyes to her fisted hand. The chain of the key was wrapped around her fist, her fingers closed so tightly over the key that her knuckles had turned white. She frowned. She didn't remember holding it that tightly when she went down. What was more surprising was that it was still in her possession, but maybe her death grip was too powerful for even the homunculus. Unless...
"You were trying to take the key just now, weren't you?" Her mouth tasted like sandpaper, and the words slurred together, but the sharpness in her tone remained so she clung to it as she swung her glare back up to his face. She waited for him to flinch.
He didn't. His expression was eerily calm, his previous concern wiped clean. Maybe she had imagined it. When he shook his head, it only raised the alarm bells in her mind. Of course he would deny it.
She scoffed and carefully pried her fingers free. It burned, each joint resisting the movement as she slowly unfurled her fist. The key had left an imprint in her hand, one that pressed the diamond sigil deep into the center of her palm. It was the same hand she had cut when she fell down the stairs; now the golden key was stained crimson, and the cut tingled at the loss of the object. She dropped the chain over her head and tucked the key into the front of her dress before folding her arms to further conceal it from his prying eyes. "If you wanted it so badly, you should have magic-ed it into your hands."
His obnoxiously long pointed ears drooped ever so slightly, though his face remained perfectly blank as his ink-dipped hands began to speak again. The language of his fingers was more fluid than her tongue, a series of signals that were meaningless to her. No matter how many times she said it, he always resorted to the empty words. It pulled sharply at her chest. If he had no words for her to twist, her position as a fae was as good as gone. The only power she held over him now was the key, and it was only a matter of time before he took it from her.
Except that he could have killed you when you were down, stolen the key, and fled. The idea squirmed to the surface, loaded with questions that were left unanswered by his silence. She was at her weakest point, knocked down by her wounds and left helpless at his feet. But now, she was lying in a bed—a real bed, not just some old couch—and he had moved a good, respectful distance from her. However, not only was the key in her possession, but she spotted her other belongings leaning against the nightstand beside her as well, Wyn's shotgun and her sword within reach if she only stretched a little.
It didn't make any sense. What was the point of attacking her before if he wasn't going to take advantage of her? He had slammed her against the stone so hard that stars burst in her vision; she could still feel the press of his arm to her chest, picture the murderous grin on his face, taste the sting of fear. It wasn't accidental. So why throw it all away?
Wyn would have kicked her when she was down and jeered as she tried to get up. He would have told her she should never have let herself fall in the first place, that a fae must never show weakness to others. She could practically feel him breathing down her neck, his warnings slithering through her ears. He wants to make a fool of you, Vera, her brother's voice warned. His mercy is not kindness.
Vera's breath hitched. His ghostly presence dissipated as quickly as it had come, but she couldn't help but glance at his shotgun, humming faintly with power.
Zeno had given up his silent speech, perhaps noticing that her eyes had wandered. Instead, he crept toward the large window beside her bed. The ivory curtains were closed, but sunlight streamed through the thin fabric in soft beams of warmth. He hesitated in the shadows before slowly stepping into the light, eyes squinting at the brightness. It wasn't even direct sunlight, but he was already shielding his face. That black tattoo on his cheek sparkled with tiny silvery stars, but it wasn't that which made her heart twist. It was the awe on his face—the pure childlike wonder as he brushed the curtains aside to let a crack of pure light in. The world outside was bright, a swash of green that glowed in the afternoon light. They must have been on the second floor of the house, as the view overlooked the courtyard and the forest beyond the gate from a higher vantage point than the parlor where she had made camp.
She looked away as her hands somehow found their way to the hem of one of her coat sleeves in her lap. "You could have left," she said. "I wouldn't have been able to stop you."
The bed creaked. When she raised her head again, he was perched on the edge beside her feet. He leaned in, the mattress dipping as he settled one hand atop it, mere inches from her wounded foot bundled in clean bandages. For a long, infuriating moment, he didn't answer. His lips pursed, gears turning in his head. With a soft, raspy sigh, he only shrugged. The motion was heavy, dragging his shoulders back down with a sharp pull that made them droop almost as pitifully as his ears.
Her lips were suddenly dry when she opened her mouth to speak again. She paused, searching his face as he was searching hers. Carefully running her tongue over her lips, she sank into the pillows and tucked her chin against her chest. "Are you unable to speak? With your voice, I mean. Do you... not have one?"
He chuckled—more like a harsh exhale than a laugh, and just as soundless as everything else he did. Indignation flamed in her chest, warming her face, and she started to snap back when he gave a slow but firm nod.
Vera sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose as a renewed headache throbbed behind her temples. Even just sitting up made her nauseous. "Is there any way we can talk? I can't understand what you're doing with your hands and I think clear communication would do us some good. If we want to take down the fae-killer, we have to be able to understand each other."
He looked away in contemplation, sliding his fingers together before pulling them apart again. His face lit up as he noticed her injured foot and a grin split his thin lips. Cold hands settled against her knee, icy even through the quilt. Vera startled and threw herself upright with a gasp, tensed against the cold sensation. As he gently lifted her injured leg, hesitation flickered across his expression. Turning to her, he settled her foot back into the bed and began to sign again.
She watched him warily as she curled her limbs closer to her core to make space between them, ignoring the stab of pain that shot up her leg. "I just told you. I don't understand what you're saying." She sighed as exhaustion washed over her. "Can you write it out, maybe? I can read, you know."
Silent as a ghost, he stood and folded his arms. A flicker of satisfaction stirred deep within her chest. It seemed there was something even Zeno's magic could not do. Even with all his power, he still could not speak, for he had no voice.
However, he was becoming less creative in his methods to convey his words to her. When he gave up thinking and again turned his attention to her, she shrank back against the headboard. There was a mischievous gleam in his eerie white eyes, one that she had already come to recognize as trouble.
He grabbed her injured leg again in his ice-cold hands and yanked it straight. Vera screamed, thrashing in his grip, but he calmly slipped the bandages loose and rolled back her pants to expose her ugly swollen ankle.
"Zeno!" she screeched. "We've been over this—do not touch me!" She threw a kick at his head. A flash of silver sparks deflected the kick—though he hadn't even moved to summon magic. He appeared completely focused on her wound. Her eyes instinctively snapped back to where her weapons were sitting, but with her leg firmly in Zeno's grip, she couldn't reach them. She strained, and her fingers just barely brushed the hilt of her sword. Frustrated, she threw back her head with a groan. There was no point fighting if she couldn't even touch him.
The air crackled with electricity. A faint glow emanated from his hands, hovering above her wound. In seconds, the throbbing pain diminished and her ankle returned to normal. In place of pain, a comforting warmth settled into her skin, the familiar touch of power flowing through her veins for only a moment before it was gone, along with the silver glow. Before she knew it, Zeno had rolled her pants leg back down and released her. Now healed, her foot dropped back onto the mattress.
She stared in stunned silence. Part of her was waiting for some sort of curse to race up her leg and crush her heart, or for the pain in her ankle to return tenfold before he severed her limb clean off. But nothing happened. The skin remained smooth and uninjured. Even her headache had vanished, taking with it the haze that had fallen over her and the constant ringing in her ears from the blow to her head. Every ache and pain was gone in an instant.
Vera eyed Zeno cautiously and threw back the blanket before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She carefully tested her newly healed ankle. Her heart fluttered with wonder as she stretched it and stood. No pain, no weakness—just her completely healed wounds. Magic was truly a wonderful thing. A touch of envy darkened her heart, but she plastered a smile on her face as she turned back to Zeno, a word of thanks on the tip of her tongue.
But he was already gone from his seat on the edge of the bed. Like a ghost, he glided back over to his spot by the window, his face impassive once more as he pulled back the curtains. The eight-point star tattooed on his cheek shimmered against his pale skin, silver like the stars that dotted his hands. In the sunlight, she realized they weren't dipped in black like she had thought; it was more of a midnight blue, tinged with a slight hint of violet and cobalt that shifted when he moved. The researchers had sought to make something that was aesthetic as well as powerful, and she was starting to agree that they had succeeded.
If he weren't so creepy, he would have been handsome—stunningly so.
Vera snatched up her coat, fiddling with a loose silver thread in the cuff of the sleeve. "You should warn me next time," she snapped. "I'll cut you if you do that again."
He said nothing, of course, but even his hands didn't move to answer her this time. He kept his gaze glued to the courtyard outside, drinking in the sunlight, the taste of freedom that was within reach and yet out of his grasp. Or perhaps he was watching obsessively for the beast that lurked beyond the gate.
A reminder, it seemed, that she could not afford to be distracted either. They were not safe yet, and they wouldn't be until the fae-killer was dead.
She tested her ankle again, choked by awe every time it took her weight without a fuss. Smiling to herself, she slipped her coat on again, grateful for its warmth and protection. When she was draped in Reite colors, it was easier to remember what she had come to the west woods for, and what she could gain if she made it out alive. Learning to communicate with someone who had no voice seemed like a minor thing, but it could be her downfall in a fight with the creature. If he deviated even slightly from her expectations, with no way to tell her what was on his mind, it could spell the end for either one of them.
"Zeno," she repeated, more firmly this time. He barely spared her a glance, which made the corner of her lips twitch as frustration sparked in her chest. "Isn't there a way we can communicate? Even just some paper and a pen would do for now if you know how to write."
A muscle in his face twitched. Offering nothing more than a huff—blowing his white hair out of his face—he turned and stalked out of the room.
"Wait a second!" Vera snatched up her socks and boots from her things and quickly shoved them on before she barreled after him. "Don't go off on your own!"
He didn't stop, and she was forced to follow him deeper into the house.
I wrote this chapter in a daze as I tried to get it done before leaving for the weekend, so I apologize if there are any typos (or those annoying instances where I confuse one word for another... because that often happens to me). Funnily enough, there's something about this chapter I enjoy. It's quieter than some of the others have been, but I think I like getting to write Vera and Zeno interacting.
Also thank you to Zeno for finally healing our poor girl. She has been suffering for too long. Now we're off to see what he's up to! :D
Thanks for reading! See you guys next week with chapter 12!