A Beautiful Evil

“Let me calm you,” he said.

Sebastian had the ability to mesmerize, to put people into a trancelike state. He’d done it to the two clerks when we’d accessed my birth records at Charity Hospital.

Weariness settled over me, weighing me down. Was it weak to want that? To want a lessening of this horror and pain? He wiped his thumb through the hot trail of tears running down my face. And for the first time in years I wanted to retreat to my safe spot, to that inner space inside me where I’d gone as a child. A place where no matter what was done to me on the outside, nothing could reach me in my dark little corner.

He tipped my chin so I’d look at him. His eyes were glassy as we stared at each other. I nodded, accepting help, admitting defeat. I’d never opened myself up to that with anyone else.

“Touching,” Athena said, interrupting.

My eyelids slid slowly closed as the dull realization of what we’d just done settled like a two-ton brick in my gut. No, no, no . . . Hopelessness erased any fight I had left. We’d just shown her something else she could use to hurt us.

Her hands were on her hips, but this time, as I expected, her gaze was not on me but Sebastian. Thoughtful, scheming, deciding. She grabbed Sebastian’s arm and hauled him to his feet.

He was just a hair taller than Athena, and together they looked oddly similar with their black hair and perfect skin. She leaned close to him. “Tell me, Mistborn, have you taken blood yet?”

Her fingers trailed along his jaw; it flexed beneath her touch. All my anger returned in a dizzying flash. Sebastian held her gaze with a hard glare. He didn’t answer.

“You haven’t, have you?” She leaned even closer, brushing her cheek against his, then drawing back, retracing the path of her cheek with her lips this time. “You smell innocent. How . . . wonderful.” She turned to the guards, the same ones with the blood of my father on their hands. “Take them back.”

“What?” I rasped.

“You’re going back to New 2. The doorway will be sealed behind you.”

All I wanted was to get out of this nightmare, and yet I struggled against the guards as they grabbed me. “No!”

“I’ll admit I didn’t expect you to come tumbling through the gate, but your timing was perfect. Hard to leave now, isn’t it? Now that you know what I’ve been doing to dear ol’ Daddy.” She went from maniacal to brutal in a flash, grabbing me by the chin and forcing me to look at her closely. “This is my realm. My time. My decisions. I deal with you when I see fit.” Her nose brushed mine. “Remember who’s really in control, gorgon.”

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with,” I cried.

“Please.” She laughed, but her words came out in a snarl. “I haven’t had this much fun in at least a century and—”

“Let them go. My father is of no use to you. And Violet, she’s just a kid.”

“So are you, my dear.” She shoved me back into the arms of the guards. “Enjoy stewing in your thoughts and worries, Aristanae. Try not to have too many nightmares thinking of all the fun we’re having here without you.”

The guards yanked me back toward the gate. “No!” I kicked out and screamed, but none of it mattered. We were going back.

Because Athena wanted me to suffer.

Fifteen

SEBASTIAN AND I WERE SHOVED THROUGH THE DOORWAY SO hard, we came through sliding on our hands and knees, landing at the feet of Michel, Henri, Bran, and Josephine.

My chin hit the floor, splitting the skin. Glass stuck into my palms and knees, but the pain was nothing compared to the desolation inside. I stared at Josephine’s expensive-looking black heels, feeling like I was there but not there—still immersed in the horror of Athena’s temple.

“Merde,” Josephine sighed annoyingly. “Bleed on someone else’s shoes.” She lifted her foot, prepared to push my face away with the sole of her high heel.

“Lay off, Grandmère,” Sebastian said coldly.

“The gate has closed,” Michel said, interrupting Josephine’s reply. He stepped forward as I pushed slowly and painfully to a sitting position. A glance over my shoulder told me he was right; his hands pressed flat against the wall. Athena had sealed it from the other side.

“On your feet, Selkirk.” Bran’s gruff voice drew my attention. He leaned over, hand outstretched, his face trying to be all fierce and grim, but there was only concern written on his features. He was actually—wonders never ceased—worried. “Stop looking at me like that,” he growled. “Take my hand and stand like a warrior, damn it.”

Fresh tears blurred my vision, and my throat closed. I did as he demanded, wincing as glass pressed farther into my skin.

Michel grabbed Sebastian’s face gently, his expression fierce and stark. “You are . . . unhurt?”

“Yes, Father.”

A long string of relieved mutterings—prayers of thanks and what sounded like a few curses—fell from Michel as he gathered his son into a hug and held him tightly.

An odd stirring of loneliness went through me. Sebastian rolled his eyes, but I could tell he welcomed the embrace. The smile I returned wasn’t heartfelt. It hurt.

I turned away, bit my lip, and yanked the shard of glass from my palm.

“Here.” Bran stood in front of me and shoved a wad of balled-up old printer paper into my bleeding hand. “Hold on to that for now.”

“Thanks.”

“Physical pain,” he said quietly, “has a way of lessening . . . other pains.”

I lifted my head in surprise. Bran understood far better than I’d thought. I’d take physical pain over internal pain any day.

“I take it you saw your father?”

I dropped my gaze and managed a nod.

“Come, Ari,” Michel said, walking toward the office doorway. “A warm meal, a hot shower, and rest await you.”

“And then we will discuss your little . . . adventure,” Josephine promised.

Michel gave me the same room I’d used once before, after escaping with him from Athena’s prison. I showered on autopilot, redressed, and then wiped the steam from the mirror to stare at what was reflected there.

The cut on my chin was red and vivid against the paleness of my skin and hair. Faint mauve-blue shadows curved under eyes that looked weary, lost, and hollow. Yes, so hollow.

After a deep exhale I straightened and went in search of the others, even though all I really wanted to do was crawl under the clean comforter, close my eyes, and sink into oblivion.

I found them on the second-story balcony overlooking the courtyard. Lanterns on the walls provided a soft yellow glow. Potted ferns and other plants made the wide space feel homier. I stepped outside into the cool air and the sounds of conversation.

Bran leaned back against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. Michel and Josephine sat on wicker chairs as the butler set drinks on the table. Sebastian was sitting on the end of a chaise lounge, his arms resting over his knees. He lifted his head at my approach, a strand of wet hair falling over his eye. He raked his fingers through it as he sat straighter.

I didn’t have the strength to distance myself from my emotions and tell them what had happened in Athena’s temple. It was all too fresh.

“Sebastian has filled us in,” Michel said with sympathy. He cleared his throat. “Had I known Theron would suffer so greatly, I would not have prevented you from freeing him when we escaped Athena’s prison.”

That was another memory I really didn’t want to remember, yet there it was, staring me in the face. I’d freed everyone in that prison except my father. He had hunted and killed who knew how many beings on Athena’s behalf. He was an enemy to the Novem, a Son of Perseus who had loved my mother so deeply that he had betrayed the goddess. And I could have set him free.

“You’re not responsible, Michel,” I said without a trace of emotion. Michel had been in Athena’s prison for a decade, and—who knows—my father might’ve been the one who put him there.

“I find it very hard to believe she would simply send you both back unharmed,” Josephine said.

“And I couldn’t care less,” I said tiredly, “about setting your mind at ease, Josephine.”

“Why, you belligerent little—”

“Did she bargain?” Bran cut in, glaring at Josephine. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“For me to suffer until I break, at which point I’m sure she’ll kill my father and Violet—probably make me watch—and then she’ll kill me. I really don’t see what’s left to talk about. I’m going home.”

I walked away, heading through the house and out into the night air. I moved like a ghost, letting my memory guide me through the streets.

And then I was home in my room toeing off my boots, removing my weapons, sliding fully dressed beneath the sleeping bag, pulling it to my chin, and finally shutting out the world.

The sound of drums echoed through the house, vibrating the walls and coming up through the floor and into my body to shake me awake. I rolled onto my back, keeping my eyes closed and letting the beat pound through me. It was like waking to a morning thunderstorm—one of my favorite things. Except it didn’t bring me joy. Not this time.

I stayed still for a while, listening, letting my muscles relax and sink farther into the weighted sensation of exhaustion and defeat. My pulse seemed to keep time with the beat—deep and constant and full of pain.

“Gah. It’s too early in the morning for that shit,” a voice groaned within my room, and a fist hit the wall halfheartedly.

I turned to see Dub grabbing his sleeping bag and pulling it over his head. And then on my other side Crank was yawning and stretching her arms high into the air. I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

“Morning, Ari.” Crank scratched her nose. She looked puffy and very young from sleep. Her braids were bent and several wisps of hair had come free.

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