My gaze narrows on his as I silently ponder the unspoken questions:
Am I a convalescent or a captive?
Is he saving me or enslaving me?
Assured by the way he flinches, th
e way he tears his gaze away, that he heard the thoughts as well as the words.
“What if I told you I was none of those things?”
“Then I’d suspect you were lying,” I say in a voice that’s strong and sure. Wanting him to know that while I may be at a physical disadvantage, dependent on his willingness to take care of me and tend to my wounds, my will is still strong. My days as an invalid are nearing an end.
He lowers his chin, sending a tumble of blond curls sailing over his forehead, down past the finely sculpted bridge of his nose, before landing at the perfect bow of his lips. “If you insist on a label, and clearly you do, then I guess you could say I’m a Mystic.” He runs his palms down the crisp white tunic he wears.
“A Mystic?” My tone is as stark as my face.
He nods, making great study of the abstract, Georgia O’Keeffe–style painting of a vibrant blue lake on the far side of the room, before settling on the small, glass-tiled pool where I often bathe in a modest white gown as Axel rinses the suds from my shoulders and hair.
“Define Mystic,” I say. Despite a number of prior attempts, this is the most I’ve ever gotten out of him, and I plan to push it as far as I can.
“One who is initiated into esoteric mysteries.” He turns to me, clearly pleased with his explanation, but I’m far from satisfied.
“Would you care to elaborate, or are you being purposely vague?” I lift my chin, quirk a brow, surprised to find my sarcasm tested by the shock of his luminous grin. A grin that begins at the tip of his chin and creeps all the way to the haphazard part in his hair. A grin so open, kind, and authentic, it takes all of my will to curb the impulse to return it.
“I’m being purposely vague, there’s no use denying it. So now, if the interrogation is over, perhaps we can talk about you?” Misreading my silence for surrender, he leans closer. “How are you feeling?” he asks, studying me with a concerned eye and a cool palm that travels from my brow to my cheek. Searching for signs of the fever and chills that have plagued me since I arrived in this place.
“The interrogation is never over. You should know that by now.” I pull away from his touch, striving for a stern voice and the expression to match. Resolved to get at least a few of the answers I seek. “What exactly is a Mystic?” I demand.
He shutters his eyes, sighing when he says, “I’m afraid it’s of a scope that is far beyond human comprehension.”
“Try me.” I frown. Glare. Commit to waiting for however long it takes to get him to properly answer me. But all I get in return is a view of Axel’s grin. “C’mon, Axel,” I plead. “Why won’t you tell me what it means? Is everyone in the Upperworld a Mystic? And if so, where are they? Why haven’t I seen anyone but you the whole time I’ve been here?”
He commits to the silence, leaving the questions to hang heavy between us.
“Fine.” I breathe a frustrated sigh. “But don’t think this is over. You can evade me for now, but I’ll find out eventually. You’re not the only stubborn one around here.” I do my best to rebuff the lure of his charm, but it’s no use. Even when he’s not smiling, chucking a self-conscious hand through his hair, or engaging in any of his other well-practiced gestures from the “Handbook of Disarming Moves,” he radiates such an abundance of genuine kindness, benevolence, and undeniable charisma, it’s not long before I fold. “So, in the spirit of cooperation—which, by the way, is something you could stand to learn a thing or two about—I will answer your question by saying my fever has finally broke.”
I watch as his fingers move from his lap to my cheek and then back to his lap. Captured by the way his movements cast the most glorious veil of light, bearing no hint of darkness or shadow.
“And my memory is returning,” I add, noting the fleeting flicker of worry that crosses his face as his gaze returns to the painting.
“And exactly what do these memories reveal?” he asks, his voice as quiet and uncertain as I’ve ever heard.
I hesitate, needing a moment to decide what to say. Torn between the desire to pretend to know more than I do—if for no other reason than to gain some semblance of an upper hand—and admitting I know very little in the hope that he’ll finally explain how he came to find me dying in the Lowerworld with my own athame turned against me. The double-edged blade bisecting my heart as Cade Richter moved to stake claim on my soul.
“I know there was a struggle. I know that I lost. And I was hoping you could fill in the blanks.” I stare hard at his profile, willing him to turn to me, acknowledge me, but for the longest time, he favors the wall. “Fine,” I say. “Keep your secrets for now. It’s not like I won’t find out eventually. But, if nothing else, can you please just tell me whether or not Dace is okay? I’m thinking that if I’m here in the Upperworld with you, then everyone in the Middleworld probably assumes that I’m dead. Which means that the prophecy was averted. Which also means that Dace is alive—that I was able to save him. Right?”
Axel clamps his lips so tightly it takes all of my will to keep from grabbing hold of his shoulders and shaking him until he responds. Allowing an annoyingly long drag of time to loll before he says, “I’m not keeping secrets, Daire. It’s just I see no point in reliving the past when the present awaits.”
“It’s the past that got me here!” I cry, instantly regretting the hysterical ring to my words. I’m getting worked up. I need to rein it in. Need to rebuild my strength. These emotional outbursts never result in anything good. “How long have I been here?” I ask, casually broaching the question as though I’m only mildly curious. My attempts at keeping track have left me confused. Most of my time is spent sleeping, and the light seeping through the curtain-covered window never seems to change all that much, making it impossible to count the succession of days.
“Linear time does not exist here.” Axel shrugs. “But then you already knew that.” He brings a hand close to my chest, ready to move on to more pressing concerns. “May I?” His hand hovers uncertainly, awaiting permission to proceed, despite the fact that as my only caretaker this is hardly the first time he’s done this.
I nestle my cheek against the pile of downy pillows with soft silken cases he’s placed under my head. Embarrassed by the rush of blood that creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks as he loosens my robe until my wound is exposed.
“It’s healing nicely.” He skims a finger along the jagged, puckered line of angry red flesh he coaxed back together with his platinum needle and spool of golden thread. His touch reverberating straight through my core, all the way to the invisible network of scars hidden under the surface, where he worked his magick and reassembled my heart.
“How soon can I return?” I ask. It’s the same question I always ask.