“What did you do, Lyon?” Aon snarled. He went to storm toward Lyon. Lydia raised her hand to stop him and was shocked when it worked. She begged him silently to let the Priest talk. Aon didn’t retreat but stood where he was, fists clenched at his sides.

  Lyon kept his head bowed low in shame. “Lydia, the night you told me of the nature of his research, I fled to Edu in fear. I told the King in Red of what Aon intended—to raise the House of Dreams from the grave. We all feared what he may do if he held in his hand the powers of the Ancients. I myself have seen proof of it in days gone by.”

  “What do you mean?” Lydia furrowed her brow.

  “Go no further, Priest. That story is mine to tell, not yours,” Aon warned darkly.

  Lydia shook her head, feeling blocked out again. What the hell was this story that Aon wouldn’t tell her? She knew Aon could be an asshole—really, she was starting to know that firsthand—but was it so bad, compared to oblivion?

  Lyon looked up at her. “Please understand. I lived through the bloody war that decimated our world. It cost us millions of lives and left a deep gash upon us all. All of it was done at his behest. When Ziza told us you had to die to save this world, I was eager to pretend it meant your death could prevent his rise to total power.”

  “You’re all so afraid of him that you voted to let Edu kill me?” Lydia asked weakly, feeling suddenly very tired of the whole ordeal.

  “There was not a vote.” The regret in Lyon’s voice was palpable.

  “Whatever.” What was a little more insult to injury? “You all decided to kill me to keep him,” Lydia pointed at Aon, “from having control over another dreamer? You know I had nothing to do with any of his stupid mark-stitching science experiments from hell. You knew that!”

  “I did. I wished to believe you were some unknown secret key to his plans. That is my folly.”

  “You all had me killed to prevent exactly what ended up happening.” Lydia laughed at the sad irony in the situation. “Tah-dah! Well, fuck you guys.”

  Lyon was silent where he knelt before her. Even kneeling, he was still incredibly tall. Stupid assholes, the lot of them. But her anger simmered and couldn’t hold as she thought it through.

  Aon was a madman. A power-hungry, egotistical, unstoppable force of nature. He always believed his methods were correct. She knew how violent he was, and she stood on the precipice of learning exactly how sick and twisted a man with his reputation could be.

  But she also knew he was much more than that. Her opinions of the warlock were a convoluted, tangled mess, especially now. She loved him. She wanted to feel his arms around her, to hear him laugh, and to banter with him. She wanted to hear his stories, even with everything he had done and was going to do.

  Lydia missed Aon while he was gone and dreaded him while he was here. But he wasn’t evil.

  How bad could that war have been for Lyon—who by all accounts was a sympathetic creature—to lose sight of the facets in Aon’s personality? She had to ask. “Do you really all hate him that much?”

  Aon snorted in laughter.

  After a long moment to find his words, Lyon answered. “I have grown to deeply fear him. It consumed me. Now, in the pale light of what I have wrought, I see my actions plainly for what they were, born not of concern for the safety of our world, but of cowardice.”

  She could understand that. She didn’t want to, but she could. He was only doing what he thought was right. Even Edu, when he killed her. All of them—they were only doing what they thought they had to do.

  They were all as afraid as she was.

  They were all terrified of what might come or what this might mean for their lives. Killing the little mortal girl to save the world was regrettable but not a hard choice. It was a small price to pay for saving them from the horrors the “Great Evil Aon” might bring them.

  Lydia stepped forward and put her hand on Lyon’s shoulder. The white suit he wore was soft under her touch, even if he had no body warmth to go along with it. Right. Vampire. “I forgive you.”

  Lyon looked up at her, uncertain and surprised.

  “If there’s one thing I can sympathize with, it’s fear. You were all doing what you thought was right. None of it was personal. So…I guess I forgive you for what you did.”

  The Priest lifted a cold hand and placed it over hers, clasping it, thanking her silently.

  “But,” Lydia continued, “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “I want you to go tell everybody this. If I can’t hate Aon, even now, then you pansies can seriously shut the fuck up about it.”

  Lyon blinked and rose. Her hand slipped from his shoulder as he did. The vampire pondered her words, opened his mouth to speak, stopped, shut his mouth, repeated the action dumbly, and then bowed his head in acceptance. “Yes, my lady.”

  “And I want you to repeat that to them word for word,” Aon said with an air of great enjoyment. He flicked his wrist, and the black, swirling gateway opened again. “You are dismissed, Priest.”

  Lyon cast a look back at her before disappearing through the void. The circle shrank and blinked out of existence a second later.

  Lydia walked to the edge of the cot and sat. She needed a second, after that. Elbows on her knees, she put her head in her hands. “Let me get this straight. The Ancients told Ziza to tell them all to kill me?”

  The sound of wingtip shoes on the floor heralded Aon’s approach. “Yes.”

  “I don’t think I like the Ancients very much.”

  “In that, we agree.”

  She felt Aon crouch in front of her, her legs between his. His metal hand fell lightly on her thigh as he stroked the other through her hair. “Do you mean what you say?”

  “What part? Telling them all to go fuck off?”

  “That, I know you mean without question.” He chuckled. “No, that you do not hate me.”

  Lydia lowered her hands to look up at him. His metal visage tilted slightly in curiosity. The man she loved. The man she would always be afraid of, no matter how long they spent together. He was a panther, tamed only to a point, able to snap at any time. But she couldn’t help it. “Of course, I don’t hate you.” She reached out to put her hand against his metal cheek, and he leaned into her touch, even if he couldn’t feel it.

  “Even with what I have done to you? That I have hurt you?”

  “If you were doing it just for fun, I’d be far more upset.”

  “Well, then. I suppose I now know not to ask. You have saved me an embarrassing evening, thank you.”

  Lydia laughed at his dark humor. “But, like them, yeah, you scare me. I’m afraid of what you’re capable of. And I don’t mean the torture. I’ve seen Saw. I’m afraid of the pain, sure. But whatever. I can’t die now, so what’s a little maiming between friends?”

  Aon continued to stroke his hand through her hair, and his touch made her slip her eyes shut. “Then what about me frightens you?”

  “Because I’m not stupid. I know you won’t stop there. You’ll find some other way to hurt me. I’m afraid of your motives, Aon. I don’t know what you’re after. You wanted this world not to die. You wanted to bring back the dreamers to save it. Check. Done. But now what? What do you want? Why did you kill Qta in the first place?”

  He touched his fingers to her cheek, tender and warm. “Keep your eyes closed, Lydia.”

  His hand tilted her head closer to him, and she felt his warm breath against her lips. He had taken off his mask. A second later, he claimed her lips with his own. It wasn’t violent or rough, but it gave her no room to argue. Not that she wanted to. She sank into his embrace and let her hands curl into the fabric of his lapel.

  He pulled her up to standing and cradled the back of her head in his hand as he deepened the kiss. Finally, he broke away, allowing them both some air. “Forgive me. I felt the overwhelming need to do that.”

  Lydia chuckled. “I won’t complain.”

  “You may reopen your eyes now.”

  Lydia did so, looked up, and shrieked. Quickly, she ducked her head and covered her eyes.

  He hadn’t been wearing his mask!

  It had taken her a split second to notice that his face was not covered in black metal.

  “Aon, I—I’m sorry!”

  Aon was laughing. “Oh, come, now.”

  “Your mask!”

  “As if I did not notice? It did not fall off.”

  “But—”

  “I know.”

  “But I—”

  “Are you so afraid you will find me repulsive? A worthy concern, I suppose, to have your fantasies so ruthlessly shattered.” Aon pulled her hands away from her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. He kissed her again, and she let out a small sound as he did. He held it for a long time, slowly becoming more passionate, before he clearly forced himself to stop. Still, he hovered near her, and she felt him place a kiss by her ear.

  “But I thought you never showed your face to anyone.” Lydia clung to him, keeping her eyes squeezed shut.

  “I do not. I never have. Not once since I cast the Ancients into the lake in which they are still prisoners has any living soul seen me for what I am. Not since I designed my mask has anyone seen me without it.”

  “Then I…”

  “I appreciate your reservations.” His hand stroked through her hair slowly. “It means the world to me that you are worried over what this may mean. But I am certain in this, my dragonfly. Open your eyes.”

  Still, she kept her eyes shut like a kid being led down to see a Christmas gift.

  “Oh, you are impossible!” He laughed at her fear. “Suddenly so shy? I did not realize our ‘stupid traditions’ carried such value to you.” He reached behind her and roughly pinched her ass, and that brought her eyes shooting open as she yelped and jumped from the pain. He was grinning at her.

  Grinning.

  She could see his face.

  Aon’s expression faded to a smile, and he studiously smoothed his expression. He straightened his shoulders as if for examination by an army superior—doing his best to look regal and presentable.

  Framed in jet black hair, with just the rare strand of gray, his face was just as pale as the rest of him. Four dark lines of cryptic symbols ran down one side of his face from hairline to jaw and three on the other. Seven in total, archaic and razor thin in black ink.

  They didn’t do anything to stop how…goddamn handsome he was. Holy hell. Sharp cheekbones and a matching jaw. His lips looked slightly chapped and uncared for. His eyes were such a deep, dark brown that they looked black. Of course, they were. Of course, they wouldn’t be any other color.

  “Well…hi.” Lydia reached up to touch his face, and she watched as his spilled-ink eyes slipped closed. He leaned into her palm and let out a wavering breath—she realized he had been holding it—and pulled in another deep one to fill his lungs.

  “Oh, my dragonfly.” It was so strange to see his mouth move in time with the voice she had come to know.

  She had become used to his metal mask, even with how foreign and unnatural it was. She had started to accept that, to her, he didn’t really have a face. “Why did you…why are you letting me see you?” She was awed, wary, and confused all at once as she let her hand run along his face, exploring it for real for the first time.

  He was obviously lost in the bliss of it and was unable to form words for a moment. When he did, his voice was low. “In exchange for what I have done. For what I will continue to do. At the very least, I could give you this part of myself in exchange.”

  God, she could watch him talk for days.

  “I thought…” she started and hesitated. Aon stepped into her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. He was warm, and the smell of old books and leather washed over her. He was fascinating. She couldn’t stop touching his face, tracing the lines of writing that ran down him in almost straight lines.

  “You thought what?” He opened his dark eyes. When they found hers, he captured her in his gaze. He smiled. His expressions came quickly. He had spent so many lifetimes behind a mask, she supposed he wouldn’t try too hard to hide emotions from his face.

  “I thought you people didn’t show each other your faces unless—” She broke off, afraid to put the thoughts together. She shouldn’t assume. She shouldn’t let her mind wander that way.

  Without warning, Aon leaned down and caught her lips with his, kissing her passionately again. He pressed her tight against his chest and let out a sigh of contentment against her. When he broke away, she was breathless. “Unless what? You are so painfully shy sometimes. It is quite adorable. Have you not suspected, my darling? Is this not enough proof for you?

  “Proof of what?”

  His metal thumb was against her cheek, tilting her head back, as he kissed her jawline up toward her ear. A small moan left her throat unbidden as he kissed the hollow just below the lobe. “You would have me say the words, then? You would have me admit it out loud, to embarrass myself. What a cruel mistress you turn out to be.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She found herself clinging to the fabric of his vest and coat, fingers tangled up in the lapels.

  Aon leaned his head to whisper to her. “I would have you rise as my equal in this world. I would have you tear down all who stand in your way. I would have you build this forsaken world to be your throne. For I love you, and I think I always have…”

  Chapter Eight

  “For I love you, and I think I always have…”

  Lydia stood there in Aon’s arms, stunned. She was locked solid, wide eyed, watching his expression as he confessed that he…loved her. Immediately, her reaction was to call bullshit. He had to be joking around with her. It was another one of his games, that was all. If she couldn’t have seen his face—if she couldn’t have seen the expression etched onto his features—she would have.

  Sharp, handsome features were drawn in a look of tired and beleaguered acceptance and heartbreak. That whatever she was about to do would be a blow and one he deserved. He was a man at the executioner’s block, resigned to his death. Still, a smirk curled the edge of his lips, as if to say he knew this would happen. He was somehow superior, even in his pain.

  A smirk suited him, she decided.

  He waited, seemingly expecting her to do…what, exactly? Slap him? Refuse him? Tell him she didn’t feel the same?

  She couldn’t say it. It would be a lie.

  Lydia did love him.

  But the words hung in her throat. Something kept her from telling him. From saying those words back to him. She was his prisoner. He was torturing her. His intentions might be benign, but his methods were still wrong. He wouldn’t tell her what he had wanted with Qta so long ago.

  Telling him didn’t feel…right. Things were too messy and too complicated. She was still trying to sort through and come to terms with what had happened since Edu killed her.

  All she wanted was a chance to catch her breath. A chance to straighten everything out.

  Unable to face those dark eyes, she flicked her gaze down to his tie, finding it safer there. He chuckled and placed a kiss on her forehead as if he predicted her reaction. He stepped away from her and moved toward the table by one edge of the circular platform. Casually, he poured himself a glass of water, drank it all in one go, then poured himself another. Turning, he leaned his weight on the edge of the table and looked down at the glass.

  He shut one eye as he peered into it, a curious expression on his face. “I think I must spend all my days painfully thirsty. I wonder if that is why I am always so irritable. Fascinating. To think, how many deaths could have been spared if I had only been able to drink a glass of water?” He took another sip and could not help but look at her with that same playful and knowing smirk. She wasn’t the only one who found shelter in cynicism.

  Lydia slid a hand over her eyes and laughed. Just laughed. It was weak, weary, and a reflection of how ridiculous this all was. She wasn’t laughing at him; she was laughing at herself. At the situation. At everything. When her laughter faded, she threw up her hands in surrender to the strange turn of events and walked up to him.

  She may not be able to find the strength to tell him how she felt, but she couldn’t bear to reject him outright.

  The way he leaned on the table made him a little shorter and easier to reach. That was nice, at least. This way, they both had to crane their heads less, anyway. As she approached, he reached out to put his prosthetic hand against her hip and drew her in to stand between his legs. She felt his metal, clawed fingers twist nervously in the thin fabric of the dress she wore.

  He must have been worried sick she was going to tell him she was only in this for the sex. Probably still was. “Do you mean it?” she finally found the strength to ask him.

  “Unfortunately, I say little I do not mean.”

  His voice was unreadable, but his face was not. It betrayed his exposure and his wariness of her and what she might say or do considering his confession. She wondered how much she had missed—how many things he had said to her whose meanings she lost—because she couldn’t see the real emotion behind it.

  “Everything is a mess right now, Aon. I don’t know what I am, let alone—” She choked off. Why was she suddenly about to cry? Damn it all, she was never a crier; why did she have to start now?

  Aon shushed her and drew her in closer to him. He wrapped his arm around her tenderly and kissed the top of her head as she tucked it up against his chest. “That you do not refuse me is more than I could have ever asked. For that you feel anything but disdain for me, I am content. I did not show you my heart, or my face, in hopes of garnering anything in return. To expect such from someone in your predicament—toward her jailer and tormenter, no less—is asinine. I am selfish, but there are lines to be drawn in all things.”