A Girl in Black and White (Alyria 2)

I didn’t run. At least in the literal sense. I wouldn’t stay near that if someone offered me the Crown. I fast-traveled as soon as the door clicked shut behind me, the cold, stone walls of the palace dungeon appearing in front of my eyes.

Trepidation ran through me with a cold shudder, my heartbeats all colliding. What have I done? Had I pushed him over the edge only to keep my pride intact? The guilt tasted acidic in my mouth.

Shadowed cells surrounded me, some criminal or another depreciating in different stages of death and madness, depending upon how long they’d been here. With the overpowering smell of urine and the idea that Weston could appear behind my back at any moment, I strode to the front of the room where a guard sat sharpening his long blade to pass the time.

“Ei,” he barked, sitting up from his slouching position and resting his limestone on his sword, “how’d you get in here?”

I didn’t stop my strides, not giving him even a glance. “I’m a witch, pretty sure I hate all men, and have the urge to curse them all. Don’t make that idea a reality.”

He didn’t get up from his seat.

I stood in front of a wooden door just down a darkened hall of the main cells, and with my hands still shaking from the moment upstairs, I pushed it open. It creaked like it had never been ajar before.

Shutting the door behind me, I leaned against it for a moment, my gaze running over the man sitting at the table, before sliding down it until my butt hit the floor. I let out a tortured breath. “I think I made a mistake.”

“I’d say. A quick death would put you out of your misery,” he returned, indifferently.

“I didn’t make that bad of a mistake,” I countered.

It wasn’t even like he knew what happened, not sitting down here in his jail cell. But death seemed to be his favorite advice of choice, half of the time not even glancing up from his work to suggest I commit a quick suicide. My grandmother would cross herself at just the mention of the word and, being a product of her grooming, I found it hard to resist myself.

I banged my head against the wooden door gently, wishing I could go back and tell my pride to shove it and just admit to Weston the truth about never being with Maxim. But why did I have to? It wasn’t my fault the Titan had issues.

Red candles dripped down the sides of the wooden table and onto the stone floor. Piles of books were scattered across the room; pages were torn out, strewn around in disarray.

“What time is it?” he asked, tinkering with springs and metal pieces sitting on the tabletop in front of him.

I blinked my tumultuous thoughts away. “I don’t know. Eleven, maybe.”

“Can’t hear the bells,” he mumbled. “Can’t hear them.”

I was assuming he was speaking of the chapel bells, and yea, I guessed it would be difficult to hear them down here. I’d just gotten used to sleeping through them ringing throughout the night.

“You better not have your trouble follow you down here. I think they have the palace children cook my food when I misbehave.”

I grimaced at that idea. “This is the only place I thought to go where he wouldn’t find me. The magic wards,” I said as if he’d forgotten. Though, I doubted he ever did—he was locked down here for good.

“It’s not so bad. It’s been a while since I’ve had a frightened woman in here since what happened with the last one.”

I paused, deciding I didn’t want to venture a question in that direction. Looking up, I saw his dark, inquisitive gaze on me. His hair was so black that sometimes it gleamed blue in the light; it was longer than it was supposed to be, probably because I didn’t think anyone w

anted to bring shears in here to try and cut it. His face was sharp but somehow still soft, and I always imagined he would be an artist’s dream model. They could paint away the dark circles under his eyes, and a portrait could always hide a lack of sanity.

His gaze could be wizened as if looking into a scholar’s eyes; it could be licentious, as if he were only a young man whose priority was women; or sometimes it could just dance with madness. I was looking at the latter.

My curiosity grew about this mad prince. I knew that he wasn’t an ordinary human at all, or there wouldn’t have been magical wards on the room. But I never could figure out how. For all I knew the King and Queen were magic-less humans, but this was a strange land, and I wouldn’t think I had it figured out. “How old are you?” I asked.

His lips turned up in the corners as he worked delicately with the pieces on the table. “What is the unit of measurement?”

“Uh . . .” I paused, then supplied, “Years?”

“Years.” He laughed softly to himself as if I’d just told him a jest.

Well then . . .

It wasn’t often that I tried to ask him personal questions because I would get answers like this. Sometimes he made me truly think, but other times he merely made my head hurt.

It had been five months ago that I’d gotten the true initiation to the Sisterhood. It was then I’d learned Farah was stingy with her things—well, psychotic about her belongings. I borrowed one of her books. I was going to give it back, I swear—I just forgot to. Well, somehow when the magistrate got a tip on where the Princess’s stolen necklace was, he’d come to search the Royal Affair only to find it sitting neatly on my desk.