Chrysalis Ch25: A Perfect Union (pt1) (Patreon)

<- previous            Daphne's plate is empty.            She doesn’t remember what was on it. She doesn’t remember being led to the dining room, doesn’t remember being set and posed, doesn’t remember a word of the conversation Spencer pretends they’re having. It's still raining outside, the steady tap of droplets mixing with his anxious giggles into a meaningless wall of sound.            All the same, she’ll take it. Anything to blot out the voice inside her long enough to think, but it’s as pointless as trying to force her smile into a frown.            After all, the voice is in her head. That's the problem. p̶̑̉l̴͚͛ȅ̴͊ȃ̵̦s̴͍̑ȇ̷̿            It’s barely coherent now, half-formed words scratching at the edges of her awareness. Too distant to grasp. Too insistent to ignore. ĥ̸̿e̵̿̾l̸̮̽p̸̍̓            Her glass is empty, too. Daphne stares at the condensation, its reddish-purple hues. It looks… pretty. Like a deep sunset, like a blooming violet. Like-            b̶͕̎ḽ̶́o̵͙͝o̵͚͝d̴̯̉–            Her eyes flicker, and she focuses on Spencer. He’s still babbling on, unaware of how badly she needs to clap her hands over her ears. Even in her daze, she can see the lines of sweat, the constant fidgeting. It’s clear things aren’t going the way he thought they would. And it’s clear that he’d never admit it, that he doesn’t really care enough to stop.            … What angle are the whispers pushing her towards? What trap is Lyra trying to lay? Daphne’s not stupid enough to trust her. Everytime she trusts, somebody takes. Every time she trusts, Daphne gets hurt. Spencer, her parents, Ian, the King. She always makes the wrong choice. All she has left now is her mind… and Lyra seems hell bent on taking THAT from her, too.            Maybe she should consider Spencer’s offer. At least, trapped like this, Daphne doubts she could ever be betrayed again.            … think. Think, think, think. There has to be a way out. She just needs time. But, as always…            … time is one thing Daphne doesn't have.            "Daphne?” Spencer asks, finally quiet. “Were you listening?"            She nods; it’s the only gesture that won’t send him into a stuttering panic. She watches him take another deep gulp of wine, some malbec from the ruins of his living room. She has no idea how many bottles he’s finished this evening. She knows he doesn’t, either.            “Heh.” He pulls at his collar, glances nervously at the clock. “You’re… you’re beautiful, you know? I can’t believe you're here. I can’t believe we’re so close to being… together.”            Daphne's hands twitch. A sudden urge demands that she shatter her glass and cut open his chest. But it’s just an impulse, not a plan. Even Spencer could stutter out an order before she’s halfway down the table. w̸̝̏ȅ̴̯ ̷̊ c̴̫̋ả̵̟n̵̲͠ s̷t̴i̷l̵l̴ t̸̤͊r̶̝̀y̴͉̑ -            Daphne shudders, forcing the voices back down.            “... Daphne, I…” He looks at her with those bright, horrible blue eyes, but looks away just as quickly. He can barely keep his face off the floor. “... I’m looking forward to your love. When the spell works, that is, after we’ve sealed the rite.  Th-that’s what the magic is supposed to do, remember? Nymphs don’t want to be sad or angry. Nymphs… nymphs want to be loved.”            She smiles vacantly at him. Her cheeks ache for it, but hours of asking him to free her from it has been fruitless. Everytime she asks, Spencer orders her to smile a little bigger.            “... When it’s over, we should play a game,” Spencer nods to himself, smiling weakly. “You really love your little games, right? We can… solve riddles or… dance around toadstools. W-w-we could even chase each other again-”            “No.”            At first, Daphne doesn’t realise she’s spoken. But the silence becomes oppressive. She wants nothing more than to move out of this perfect, stupid posture, but the magic will never allow it.            “I don’t know if you’re listening, Spencer, but I don’t like solving riddles and dancing around toadstools. And you know that. You know I’m not the fairy you’re pretending I am. You know that we’re both human.”            Silence. Rain sweeps against the windows, sending a chill through her spine.            “... heh.” Another giggle, even fainter than the last. “... You should… call me Spence. It’s nicer. There’s no reason we can’t be nice. There’s no rr-reason we can’t be fuh-fuh-fuh-friends.”            The urge flares again. Daphne grits her teeth, shoving it away. These voices… It's just a new means for Lyra to control. And there’s no Trystan, or Madeline, or Ian to help her snap out of it. If Lyra wants, she can take her mind and never give it back.            And then Daphne will be the voice, scratching at the door.            …            Frankly, Daphne wouldn’t blame her.            Spencer bites his lip. “I know you’re sc-scared, Daphne, but I’ll be here. I’ll protect you. What we’re doing… every nymph in the Wilds has done it be-bee-before you. If… if they can… I’m… I’m sure for your kind, it’s different. It… it won’t even hurt a bit.”            “Harcourt,” She forces “... If you’re forcing me to spend a lifetime as your slave-”            He recoils. “It’s… it’s not slavery-”            “Fine.  Then whatever this is.”  She looks down at the table, at her hand, at the empty glass.  “I want to know why you’re doing this. I… I at least have earned that.”            “I’ve already told you,” Spencer replies. “The tra-... truh-... heh, the traditions-”            “Bullshit.” Daphne watches him snap back at her voice. She takes some mild satisfaction in being able to at least rattle the china. “... We saw the same bloody paintings. You know what those traditions look like, you know that those nymphs weren’t happy. So why? What are you actually telling yourself that makes you think this is… acceptable?  To either of us?”            Spencer stops. His face freezes, and his eyes grow dim. He tries to form wheezy, stammering words, but they always break in the air.            Daphne pushes forward.  “You say I don’t understand? Then help me understand.”            Spencer exhales, forces himself to sit straight. “It’s… it’s not wrong.”            “Right. I’m just assigning it mean words-”            “Loving people isn’t wrong.”            Daphne cuts off her own reply, focusing on him in silence. Spencer stares blankly at the space behind her.  He continues “... You’re… you don’t know what I want.” Spencer forces a smile to his lips. It looks as hollow as hers. “I… don’t want a slave. I don’t want something I can… tie to a bed. I just want someone I can love. I just… just want somebody who can love me back. Is that… too much to ask? Is that… too much for somebody to be?”            His breaths start to turn ragged, and Daphne watches his skin pale. Veins begin to bulge across his skin, still glowing with gilded aether.            “This is what you’re supposed to do. This is what you were made for. And … and as long as you’re here, I can offer the world. I know we can be happy, I-I-I juh-just need a chance. Buh-buh-but, heheh, y-y-you… they… nuh-nuh-nobody…” He starts rocking in his seat, pressing his hands to his head. “You-you-you started listening, buh-buh-but then you freaked out, then you got mad.”            “Spencer,” Daphne says cautiously. No, no, he’s starting to panic. She knows exactly where that ends. “St-stop, take a breath-”            “And now you tell lies and say mean things and you’re-you’re-you’re not being any different and I’m trying so hard and I can’t… I can’t… I can’t…”            “Spencer!” Her shout cuts off his voice. She struggles to collect herself, to not fall into his panic. “Calm down and look at me.”            She listens to his whimpers, she watches him twitch. Eventually, his hands pull away just enough to see her.            “... Spencer, this isn’t what love looks like.”            “It is. It will be.” He grasps the table, eyes wild and desperate. “If you would just fuh-fucking trust me-”            “I did trust you, Spencer, and you did this.” Daphne forces herself to move, as much as she can. “I gave you a chance, and you made me your slave-”            “I forbid you from saying ‘slave’-”            His eyes glow, and she touches her throat.            She can feel herself losing one more thing.            She blinks back tears, her anger forced to be in check.  “It won’t hide what it fucking is!  I bet all the other girls trusted you too, Spencer. I bet each and every one, fae or human, gave you a chance.”            “Dah-Daphne… s-s-stop it…”            “I promise you, it wasn’t the bug collection that drove them away. They listened, understood, and realised that you’re lying. To them, yourself, everyone. And maybe you can love those lies, Spencer, but it will never work on others.  It will never work on me.”            Spencer sinks into the table, eyes closed shut. He’s shaking.            “... Maybe you’re right. Maybe the spell works, maybe…” Daphne swallows with difficulty. “... maybe raping me will make me magically fall in love. We don’t know. But… but if it does, I need to say this, Spencer. While I still can.”            He starts speaking, but Daphne can barely hear his words. Only one manages to trickle into her ears. “Puh… please…”            “If you do this, I’ll never be really happy. And I’ll never give real love,” she hears her breath shudder, ignores it. “You think sealing the Rite can wave that all away, but it will never let you. Not enough. I will never love you, Spencer. And deep down, you’ll always know that.”            She lets silence fill the room, lets Lyra’s scratching filter back into her skull. She’s not being safe, but she doesn’t think it matters. If this is her fate, nothing’s ever going to matter again.            Daphne hears a faint beep emanate from Spencer’s remote. Slowly, his body shifts along the table until he grabs it, holds it up to her and the rainclouds that storm around them. She sees something in his eyes, a hint of that spark she saw at the gala, when he told her he was tired of hiding beneath masks.            "It’s almost midnight, Daphne,” he says vacantly. “The Rite… we need to complete it.”            He closes his eyes for a moment, and opens. She feels her stomach fall as the spark vanishes beneath his wide, pleading grin.            “Spencer-”            “I command you to stop talking.” His voice doubles over, and the air cuts from Daphne’s mouth. She watches, silent, as he pulls himself to his feet. “Heh, sorry, Daph, but we really don’t have time for more games. Come on, stand up!”            Her body moves of its own accord. As Spencer approaches her, Daphne can only slam her eyes shut. Inviting the darkness and whispers to drown her.            “W-we’re having a surprise guest tonight! She, heh, isn’t aware that I know, but I suppose I’m never taken seriously.” Daphne feels his arm brush along her bare skin. “Officer Chiagozie, a very kind policewoman. She wants to make sure you’re doing alright. And what are we going to tell her?”            Maybe if she prays, this nightmare will just go away.            “That’s right! We’re going to tell her that we’re very, very happy. I command you to smile, Daphne! Big and wide!”            Her cheeks pull impossibly wide, and she can feel the air on her flashing teeth. Spencer pulls her body into his, petting her hair.            “Oh? Heh, darling, stop being silly,” he lightly taps her cheek. “You have to keep your eyes open! It’s an order.”            Daphne’s eyelids open, and no matter how heavy they feel, she cannot make them close. And with that, her final resistance fades.            Spencer moves around, and brings his forehead to hers. The grip on her shoulder is shaky, sweaty, and white with fear. “When she comes, you’ll need to look her in the eye. She’ll be the first to see our new, perfect union.”            He slides his hand to hers, and pulls her towards the library. “But trust me. She won’t be the last.”+++            "Remember how excited you were when we first walked in here?”            Bookshelves tower over them, glowing orange in the fireplace’s light. Portraits of different Harcourts seem to sneer down at them as Spencer gives her arm an impatient tug.            “It’s all yours, now. Whatever I have, whenever you want.” He’s trying to sound cheerful, and it’s fooling neither of them. “And if you want any more, I’ll go out and buy them! For you, I’ll give everything.”            Beneath the musty smell of dust and old paper, Daphne’s antennae taste the tang of the driver’s blood. Nobody’s cleaned it. Maybe Spencer’s expecting Reg to fix the mess himself.            Maybe she'll be commanded to, when he remembers.            Another foreign urge. She could take him with a mask. They’re heavy enough. If she's fast and hits h̴̪̚i̵̒͜m̵̢̉ ̴̲̈in the ̸̜̆m̸̛̗ô̵̼ȕ̷͜t̵͓̅h̴̝̀, she can stop him from speaking and j̵̩̈́u̴͔͋s̶̭͗ẗ̶̳́ ̶̳̒k̶͈͊e̴̱̋e̴̖͒p̵̗̉s̸̥͗ ̶͙̾ș̵̀w̶͚̅i̷͚̿n̸̓ͅg̴͔̊i̸̛̗n̵̝̐ğ̵͍ - or she could pull the shelves d̵̤͋o̷̖̓w̴͖̄n̵̖͘ ̷͕̈o̷͔͠n̵̝͠ top of him. Or, or, she can t̴̬̋é̵͈r̵̨̎r̵̨͒i̸̩̅f̴̰̔y̸͇̾ ̴̕him, make him stutter and c̸̾̎h̸͛͘o̸̔͛k̴͛̽ë̴́ ̴͑̃on his own commands -            Daphne drifts, taking comfort from the helpless voices in her head. The whispers are furious, frightened, overwhelming. If Lyra could seize control, she would - and she hasn't.            One fear, at least, put to rest.            “You know, collecting bugs together will be so much fun!” Spencer never turns around, his voice giddy. “You’d be able to reach so many places that I-”            Daphne stumbles slightly, trying to drag her feet. Her wingtips are spread aggressively wide, desperately snagging along the edges of the bookshelves. A mute flag of defiance he can’t ignore.            When Spencer stops and turns around, Daphne can see the bags under his eyes.            "Daphne, please. Please, no more games.” He squeezes her fingers tightly. "I’m… heh, I can’t keep up. I don't want to command you every step of the way.”            Daphne grits her teeth, visible in her beaming smile. She forces her wings to open just a hair further.            Spencer scowls, marches away, and drags her along with him. He ignores the occasional flutter of sound when her wings knock a book from their place. "We can get you an ant farm, too. Big, bigger than big, stretching further than you can see. Isn’t that fun? Doesn’t that sound nice?”            ŷ̸̜o̴̙͐u̸̅͜ ̷̩̈́c̶̤̈a̸̦͒n̴̳͋ ̸̮̚t̴͈͋ṛ̷͊a̵̠͂i̸̩̽n̶̫̓ ̷̢̃t̶̢͋h̶̺̉e̴͊ͅm̸̺̾ ̸̺̊t̶͕̑ŏ̸̢ ̴̪̐ȅ̸̦á̴͕t̷͇̒ ̷̗͆h̶̻̿i̴̩̅s̶̯̓ ̷̙̃s̵̯̏ḱ̶̼i̸̭͘ṉ̴̚            Spencer heaves his way through the heavy doors of the bug collection and hurries past the mess they’ve made of it. Somebody's swept the glass away, at least, but Daphne notes the empty cubbies that once held pins and corpses. The rain continues its steady downpour in the iron-barred skylight above them.            “It will be nice to talk about bugs. And cuddles. Everyone likes cuddles. Cuddles and bugs and many kind words. They’ll… they’ll make you feel good. Little things like that, they stack. Make… make it all worth it…”            She looks at the devastated collection: the toppled cabinets, the few upright displays. Some insects stare down, posed and dry, mummified in a parody of life. Others pile in the room’s corners, spilled from their shelves and torn to bits by glass. All of them, swept aside to make room for Spencer Harcourt’s newest prize.            Daphne's wings still bounce against the wood, pushing away rogue diagrams and canisters. Their grating sound floods the quiet room like nails on chalkboard. But the MP never stops pulling, no matter how firmly she sets her feet. He refuses to acknowledge any of it.            Apparently, it’s easier to drag her through tar.            Daphne clenches her teeth against it, biting down on her vacant smile. Lyra’s cries are getting louder, more feral. She can feel the outrage like it’s her own. It’s becoming harder and harder to not believe that she wants to help.            But her mind is all she has left.  She can’t lose that too…            She hears the sounds of sliding wood and spinning gears. Spencer takes a step back, allowing them to bask in the nest’s lantern lights. The lantern glow of the nest slowly washes over their faces.            Her heart starts pounding, faster and faster. She knows what’s coming.            Her time's run out.            He’d tried to make it more comfortable. He'd seen her reaction, and his first thought was to rearrange it. The pins have been plucked out, the bed lined with new, animal furs, the mannequins and their appalling masks shoved back into a corner. Daphne’s antennae twist back. It just makes it all worse.            “Right here, Daph.” He directs near the bed, leaving her standing. “Just… stay right there. I forbid you from moving unless I direct you.”            She can’t speak. She can't pull away. She can't do anything, her hands dangling uselessly at her sides, her wings suspended like one of his posed corpses.            Spencer takes a shaky breath, forces himself to stop and turn. She can’t see his face; he’s staring at the bottom of her dress. “... You look perfect, you know that? Steal my breath every time I see you. Just like your v-voice. Just like your touch. Just like all the playful thoughts that come from your little head. I love you."            She stares at the posters beyond him. They don’t even look like her. The singing nymph they feature stands tall and proud, bold and fearless. That’s not her. That’s never been her. The posters don't show L Morgan.            “And… and… and monsters don’t love.”            The posters showed him Daphne.            Another sigh. “Darling, I-” Spencer looks up, into her face, for what feels like the first time this evening. She watches his lip quiver, his eyes wilt, his expression. “I… I wanted to say…”            A second passes between them, and she can see his fear. But Spencer Harcourt clenches his fist, looks back to the mannequins, and turns away. He stares at one of the bronze masks, no different from the helmet he first showed her. He picks it up, holds it out, and watches the way the sleek, polished visor catches his reflection.            “... I order you to say, ‘You’re not a coward.’”            A short pause. And then…            “You’re not a coward.” The words are toneless and vacant. She doesn’t even feel her tongue’s movements. The sentence never enters her mind.            “I order you say, ‘You’re not a monster.’”            “You’re not a monster.” It’s hard to hear the rain from here, to escape this world of straw and ink, even in her mind.            He leans into the mask, closing his eyes, gripping it with all his might. “I… I command you to say, ‘I’ll always love you.’”            no no no no n̷̛͓͆o̷̠̬̤͒͛̋ ̷̣͕̔͜N̴̹͆̅͐Ȯ̷̰̇            “I’ll always love you.”            He smiles faintly, his voice weak and deflated. “... Thank you, Daphne. I command you to put this mask on.” He turns around and holds it out for her. “It… it will help you.”            As her arms slowly take it, he can’t look into her eyes.            Daphne can hear her breath hitch. Her stomach writhes in agony, but still she watches the metal float over her head, heavy in her hands.            “Carefully!” Spencer adds, giggling. “We… we don’t want anything to get hurt.”            She lowers it down. Slowly, carefully.            Oh            so            carefully.            Daphne's world goes dark. Her antennae are forced up, muffled by the tubes. Padding closes around her face, metal presses on her skull. Her hands drop limply to her sides as everything feels silent, constricting. Even Lyra grows quiet.            Daphne can feel the tears welling up, hidden beneath the mask.            His fingers press into her chin, lifting her concealed face. They follow the goosebumps along her neck, and the contours of her trembling, upturned lips. She feels his breaths and wants to stiffen, to shove him back. But all he's allowing her to do is stand there and - n̷̍̕o̴̅̈            - smile.            t̶̀ͅh̶̜̀í̴͕s̵͎̏ ̷̼̋c̸̪̈́a̶̧͝n̵͎̅'̴̖̓t̶̩̓ ̴͈̓b̷̜̀ė̸̟ ̷̦͋h̶̙̉a̶͎͛p̷͙̌p̷͓̓e̷͇̚n̷̺̈́ǐ̵͔n̷̙̒ǵ̶̰            Spencer’s hand finds her bare shoulder. His touch is impossibly soft, his voice maddeningly soothing. “It’s going to be okay, Daphne.” wingbeats in her head, rising and falling i̸͑͌ ̵̛͛c̶̛̀a̴̋͑n̷̕͠ ̴̰̆s̶͔͘t̷͆͘o̵̒̿p̷̅̽ ̶̨̔h̸̃̈i̶̢̽m̶͍̓ ̸̆͒i̵̓̈ ̷̃͋p̶̜̎r̶̚͠o̸̦̅m̴̊̈́i̷̓̚s̵̑̂e̵͋̅            He pulls her body into his. She can feel his hurried heartbeat. “It’s all going to be okay.” claws scratching at her mind l̷̮̒e̶͐̀t̶̅͛ ̷̓̀m̷͆͠e̴̛͖ ̶́͠l̵͌̐ë̴́͘t̸̼̆ ̷̀̍m̶̀̈́e̸̐͛ ̴͐͝L̷̦̄Ē̵͕T̵̩̀ ̵̈́̈́M̴̏̓E̸̍̌            "A Rite of Keeping requires a sacrifice of flesh and blood, blood and flesh. The blood initiates.  The flesh seals.  Makes it permanent.  Forever.”  He presses closer and closer and closer. Spencer’s fingers trail down her thin white dress, all the way to the hem at her thigh. It’s just like the one he gave her, when she stepped into his car and let him drive away with her life.            “I’ve given you my blood,” he whispers. “Now… it’s your due.” L̵̊͆E̴̓͐T̴̚͝ ̷͔͊ ̶̾̊            Spencer reaches a hand up her dress… M̷̄̕É̶͙ ̵́́ ̵͐̑            … and grabs at what he finds. Ő̸͛Ū̶͑T̶͌̐            Spencer is relentless, his movements pummeling her frozen body. One hand holds her up, forcing her into his embrace. The other kneads her breasts, her crotch, forcing her to whimper. His lips press to hers, warm and wet, the tongue he pushes in heavy and invading. A hundred sensations cascade into each other, too many to perceive. Her arms twitch, her frame trembles, and he ignores it all.            Coloured spots swirl in front of Daphne's terrified, frozen eyes. And in that terror, blackness. It swells and coalesces in her vision. Not the blackness of the mask, of cloudy midnights or sunset shadows. This is a blackness eternal, a blackness everlasting. A blackness that has never known midnight and never seen a sun.            Claws reach up, demanding control, demanding to seize her. Daphne can feel them on her skin, like the trees in that photograph. Old and sharp and never meant for light. Something has crawled from that ancient, uncaring darkness, an ocean lapping at the shores of the waking world. Something that has already torn her life asunder mere months after she was born. She can see it so, so clearly.            As clearly as she sees the intent behind the hand in her dress and the breath on her neck.            An endless house, creaking under the weight of old prestige and older money, riddled with whatever baubles and trinkets have caught Spencer's eye. Bright cities, warm beaches, piercing mountains and fields of wolfsbane. A different ocean, filled with light and life, false laughter and forced happiness. A prisoner in a gilded cage and a prisoner in her own body.            Daphne can see Lyra’s claws dragging her back into Gwyllion’s night. She can feel Spencer smother her beneath Annwyn’s light. There is no going back. There is no other way out.            Spencer’s lips graze against soft skin.            Lyra’s screams echo in the dark.            And the nymph, pulled between two futures…            … is forced to make her choice.+++++            Spencer Harcourt tries to lose himself in the movements, to melt against her smooth caresses and gentle warmth. With every heaving breath, with every frightened kiss, he tries to shake the visions burning in his mind.            Daphne’s crying. Her tears fall unseen beneath the mask, and yet he sees them. Terror rends her pliant body; she would scream if he allowed. Her body will bruise and bleed by night’s end, and he hasn’t the words for what he knows will happen to her soul. He’s hurting her. He knows this. He’s hurting her. The words, the mask, the Keeping, the smile. None of them hide.            But she has to smile. She has to bruise and bleed and cry. There’s no other way.            His heart is racing. His fingers are wet. His skin is hot and glistening. It’s this, or nothing. It’s her, or no one.            She’ll scar, she’ll hurt, and she’ll hate him for a long, long time. But that’s alright.            His hand leaves her breast to grab his belt. Scars fade. Wounds heal. Hate becomes love.            The leather falls to his feet. And he’ll have an eternity to make everything right- swk            He doesn’t see the movement. Only feels the burning, stinging pain.            Spencer pushes his Kept to the floor, bolting to the mannequins. As she falls into the straw, he brings his hand to his neck. Everything is rushed, confused. His eyes grow wide. As he looks at his hand, he finds something impossible dripping down his palm            There’s movement in the straw. His Kept stands slowly, the expressionless bronze mask turned toward him. One of her delicate hands grips the mask, pulling it free. The other curls her fingers, stretches them, sharp nails matted with skin and red.            Spencer stares at her, horror freezing his features. The blood is forgotten as he raises his hand. He struggles to force words from his throat. “Dah… Daphne?”            Her fingers tap the bronze mask in a singular, practised beat. It slides from her head in a flowing motion, like liquid through shadow. She takes a step forward, testing her weight. Her eyes glow in the darkened room, a rich and vibrant yellow in a sea of black.            The nymph’s smile collapses as she whispers, one inch at a time.

"... I̷'̷m̵. N̷o̵t̸.̸. D̴a̷p̸h̵n̶e̴.”            She smirks as his eyes grow wide, and his instincts take him like the p̶͚̑r̴̗̾e̸̬͐ÿ̷̤ ̷̗̃h̵̯̔é̴̯ ̸̝̒i̵̯̊s̶͔̓.            The nymph wonders if he’ll enjoy seeing what a real chase looks like.            "St-st-stop! You… y-you weren’t ordered…”he squeak more than growls. “I... I command you to FREEZE!"            He blinks, confused. His eyes don't spark, his voice doesn't double over. Annoyed, he almost tries again, but realisation finally arrives. And just like that, the nymph observes, he springs like a frightened elk.            “St-stay back! D-don’t… get away from me! I- AH!”            He leaps back just in time to avoid the mask. It blurs past his head, crashing into the boards behind him. Moments later, she follows, legs blurring as she sprints towards him. With bared teeth, she sings in a crystalline voice that transforms into a murderous shriek.            Spencer rears by instinct as she pounces him, but his heel finds her first. They collide in a storm of fabric, sending her flying into the wall. Posters shred on impact; her voice rattles piercingly in his ears. He can feel the aether coursing through his veins, adding to his strength, quickening his movements, but it’s not enough. Magic alone can’t keep up with a predator.            … But he knows what can.            Spencer wastes no time bolting from the nest. He slams his fist on the button, closing the door before he springs into the corridors and glass and insect corpses. He starts plotting out the doors, the windows. Whatever Daphne’s become, he knows she won’t get through iron.            And as long as he reaches the cabinet, he can surely take Daphne back.            There's a hiss of pain behind him, then a clawing, scrabbling sound. The nymph's on her feet again, her dress torn as she leaps from the nest and hops from cabinet to cabinet. With lightning-fast motions, her wings flick to balance her each and every move. Every footfall is perfect. Every perch is just long enough to find the next.            Spencer is fast, but this creature is gaining.            He plucks the Fireside from his pocket, his mind a panicked flurry of thoughts. He scans through research after research, fable after fable. This is not what the bloody King promised! Is this what all Shorn are like!? The stories said they’d be fucking docile!            Another leap. Spencer’s almost at the cabinet, feet crunching against broken glass. He pulls away just in time to avoid colliding with her, wood creaking as she slams into the ground. As she writhes silently closer, a leopard on prowl, he finally sees her in the light.            It's not Daphne. Not even L. Her antennae drink the world with slow, fluid movements. Black fingernails scratch mark the walls like talons, and wings jitter as fast as his heartbeat. When he takes a step back, she hisses in a pitch too perfect to be human. Spencer feels his heart leap into his stomach as her glowing eyes study him and the Fireside in his hand.            But even she’s not fast enough to stop that relieving, heavenly beep. Spencer closes his eyes, and ignores her shrieks of pain as the room is filled with sounds only it can hear.            A second passes, and he opens his eyes. The monster. In the distance, he can hear a frantic clatter and snap as she wrenches the leg from a table. But that’s fine. He just needs time. Time to think, time to plan, time to grab that motherfucking rifle.            Shakily, his fingers fiddle with the lock, his breath hitching with every chiming shriek. Spencer can hear wings whirr madly behind him as the closest speaker dies in an agonised squeal of static. It’s punctuated by echoing, wooden thumps.            Another goes out, mere seconds later.            "FUCK!" He watches the lock slip through his nerves.  "Come on, come on, COME FUCKING ON!"            A third speaker dies. The nymph's shadow flickers over the room as more stereos are pulled apart, stem by stem. These were the Dryads’ bed slaves!? What on Earth were the rest of them like!?            Another shriek echoes behind him, too close and climbing in pitch. Higher and higher, the musical voice distorts into something sharp and painful. Spencer watches the cabinet’s glass shiver, lets go just in time. The panel shatters into a thousand shards over his hands. Without delay, he reaches into the cabinet and yanks the rifle free.            Just in time for something to land on the floor behind him.            He turns around. She’s there, in the shadow just beyond his vision. Her yellow eyes glitter in the black.  She has something in her hand.            Spencer raises the stock to his cheek, feels the cold steel on his fingers. He builds up the courage to speak, pleads with himself to not fucking stutter. “You can’t hurt me. The King-”            He raises the barrel when he hears her snarl.            “Kill me, and your Market dies!” He pulls on the bolt, puts a finger on the trigger. “I alone am keeping your kind hidden! The King is isolated, without allies! The cops are already coming, and if you do this, they won’t stop looking.”            The nymph moves closer, stalking towards the light with sinewy, unnatural grace.            He listens to the click of the cartridge. He just has to hold out. Chiagozie will come. She’ll come and protect him.  Certainly nobody’s coming for her. “There will be war, and we both know which side will win. Not even Glamours will hide you then!”            Something scrapes along the cabinet as she approaches. A shard of wood. Dark, jagged and knifelike. The nymph’s lips pull into a smile that’s nothing like his wife’s gleaming grin. There’s something in there, something he’s never seen. The Wilds. That from Whom They Rise and to Whom They Return. A darkness with no end and no name but it’s cry. It stares at him with colours blazing red and violent.

He points the barrel at her. Blue eyes meet yellow. He sees her wings start to whirr.            “I’ll get her back,” he whispers, grinning. “Even if I have to claw her out.”            She leaps. He fires.            Light flashing across Spencer Harcourt’s face as the shadows he chased come crashing down upon him.continue reading ->~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Hark here today! We’ve been waiting ages to share this scene with all of you! Every now and then the rest of the team is gracious enough to let me go full Horror Movie Monster Sequence, but it’s not often that the subject is our protagonist.   But you know what? She’s had a long night, I think she’s earned it. How about you?   Speaking of long nights, the rescue party is still on the way.  To learn what awaits them – and what they learn from it – please join us on Friday, April 28th for the second part of Chapter 25: A Perfect Union. Thanks for reading!