Fairy Bride Ch9: With Faith (Patreon)

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Spencer lets Mallory’s yammering fade into the background, focusing his attention on the distant waves.  The Tory still looks dejected; in that way their conversation had been very productive.  But now, he can let his thoughts drift back towards their inevitable destination: his lovely little moth, crossing the car park with fresh memory spirits in hand.  He smiles.  That should calm her down a bit.  With a little luck, she might even forget all this… silliness with the Glade.

It’s not her fault, Spencer reminds himself.  She’s a nymph.  They don’t understand their limits.  They get themselves hurt. They’re quirky like that, it’s why they have Keepers!  But that means well-being is his responsibility.  Even if that responsibility goes…

… largely unappreciated.

But that’s fine.  It’s her holiday, too.  He can relax the rules, forgive more than he should.  Maybe, for once, she’ll reciprocate!  Maybe there won’t be another Henri fiasco, though he’s not holding his breath.

That’s a headache he can’t even begin to sort out, and why she thought reaching out was a good idea continues to elude him, but - again - it’s fine.  Spencer can clean all his wife’s little messes, even the ones he instructs her not to make!  He clearly has nothing better to do.

In truth, he knows he has to bring it up.  She probably should be reprimanded.  But that’s always easier said than done; he has to really work himself up first.  It’s just hard to stay mad at his wife.  How do you say ‘no’ to such an adorable little fluff ball?

Spencer’s smile widens as he sees her walking toward them, as if his thoughts had pulled her here.  She looks so serious, it’s cute.  He can’t wait for her to get within range so he can tell her to laugh -

A tourist stumbles in her path, not looking where he’s going and quite unaware that she can’t stop walking. Instead of ducking around, Daphne elbows him aside without a glance, clutching the bottles she’s carrying close to her chest.  Spencer blinks.  That’s not like her at all.

Was it something he said?

Daphne studies the terrain.  Crowds he’ll struggle to wade through, glass tables he can’t hide behind.  Nowhere for him to retreat, and more importantly, no way to stop her without causing exactly what she wants.  Sun Tzu would be proud.

She can feel the sun on her skin, and hear only the roar of thunder.  She smiles, despite herself.  His mind games haven’t taken those yet.

Guy only notices her when she reaches the table, his newfound smile evaporating as he sees her face.  Daphne can smell Spencer’s cologne, shot through  with the stench of heather.  She grits her teeth, holding her arms out straight, the bottles clutched tight in her fists.

“Take your drink.”  She says, quietly.  Spencer twitches.  Does he know?

“Uh, ah-ah-are you alright, Daph-Daph?”  He points to her head.  “Wuh-wuh-where’d your hat - ”

“I can’t move until you take the drinks.”  And she can’t move too early, regardless of his provocation.  Daphne blinks slowly, trying to keep her breathing steady.  Spencer turns to Guy and nervously chuckles.

“These… fuh-fae and their gifts, l-lemme tell you.  Thuh-thuh-they guh-guh-get so-”

It’s too much.

“Take the bloody drinks!”  Daphne shouts, halting conversations around the pavilion.  “Did I stuh-stuh-stutter!?”

His pained expression only infuriates her more.  How dare he look hurt!?  She can see people turning to look at them.  She knows what they think - she’s some vapid little trophy who’s already drunk and difficult before noon.  But some will pay attention, even with the language barrier.  She knows the TV crews and Guy’s friend ought to be.

Good.  They’re going to get one hell of a show.

Spencer cautiously wraps his hands around the glass.  He looks nervous, and that’s just as unfair as his flash of hurt.  Why is he scared of her?  When has she ever terrorised him?  Which one of them has nightmares?

“Alright, Daph-Daph.”

“Don’t Daph-Daph me.”

He squeaks.  “O-Okay.  Yuh-yuh-you can let go, Daphne.”

She nods, releasing the bottles one finger at a time.  Glass clinks against glass as he sets them on the table.  Before he can speak, Daphne leans forward, breathing in slowly.  Her lungs are full of heather.

“... Spencer… can we talk?”

Hold…

She puts both hands on his armrests, pinning his wrists in place.  Spencer’s eyes widen.  He’s starting to sweat, but there’s still no realisation in his eyes.

Hold…

Daphne pulls down her mask and smiles, showing teeth.  Just the way he orders.

“Tell me about what you packed for the trip.”

Spencer pulls back, as far as she’ll allow.  “Wha-wha-wha - ”

… now.

“The fucking masks!?”  She screams in his face.  “They’re a little heavy to fall in by accident!”

It finally registers.  Spencer’s face stiffens.  “Shuh-shuh-shit!  Daphne, look, it’s a-”

“I saw the condoms, Spencer!  Don’t FUCKING lie to me!”  More heads turn.  A camera flashes.  She can see people getting out their phones, some of them filming.

And even, her husband notices too.

“Stuh-stop it!”  He sputters, his voice an anxious rasp.  “Yuh-yuh-you’re making a scene - ”

“AM I!?”  She shouts back.  “Sorry!  Maybe it’ll be less of one if you jam a bronze torture device over my head - !”

“Yuh-you’re being hysterical!”  A vein twitches in Spencer’s temple as he fights the stutter back down.  “Am I not allowed to have my own things anymore!?”

“Why did you bring them?  You made a fucking promise.”  Daphne whispers, her hands balling into fists.  Spencer holds up his own hands, open-palmed, as if to shield himself.

“And I kept it!  I’m not using them!  I never asked!”

“You don’t have to!”  She imagines her words slashing through the air, carving lines into the tabletop.  “Every other word out of your mouth is some passive-aggressive little barb about a nymph’s purpose.  You fucking coward!”

“Don’t say that!”  His eyes flash with panic.  Daphne’s face tightens.

“Pawing at me every chance you get and saying it’s for my benefit - ”

“Nuh-no,” Spencer’s breathing faster.  “I told you to stop - ”

“ - when you’re just terrified you might never get another chance to fuck - “

“Get off me!”  The panic flares to life in sparks of golden fire, and Daphne’s thrust back, bouncing off of a nearby table. The crowd gasps.  She can feel white-hot, gleeful anger bubbling up inside her.  Finally.  The mask’s off.

“I… I’m the coward!?  Really!?  When you won’t even try!?”  Spencer shouts.  “Do you think about anyone but yourself?  I have needs too!”

“What!?”  Daphne chuckles incredulously, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.  “Are you serious!?”

“One time!”  He points accusingly.  “One time, in three years!  That’s all I fucking asked for!  And what do I get for it!?  Years of paranoia! Insults, abuse, accusations!  I’m fucking sick of it!”

“Because you’ve locked me up!”  Her voice cracks.  “YOU’RE ABUSING ME!”

“AM I!?”  Spencer throws his arms out to the sides.  “I wouldn’t be so sure!  When you slept with me last night, you’re body sure as shit wasn’t SHAKING!”

“You fucking - ”

“Stop swearing at me!”

“Arhhh-”  Daphne blinks, the word dying in her throat.  She clutches her neck. “F-eh…  you f-f-uhhh…”

He only smirks viciously at her.  Daphne shudders, drawing in a gasp of air.  “You think I’m the one living a fantasy?  You can’t handle the truth, and I’m forced to play along!!”

“You’re clinging to the past, making yourself miserable, for what!?”  He shouts. “We both know what you want deep down!  You just insist we call it touch-starvation.”

She gives him a furious glance, her entire body shaking.”

“Well, I’m done.” Spencer frowns.  “Why can’t you grow the FUCK UP and move the FUCK ON!?”

Daphne screams.  For a moment, her voice doubles over, and the glass tabletop rattles.  Spencer and Mallory both recoil, lifting their hands to cover their ears.  It feels good to see him flinch away.  Better than she thought.  But not good enough.

Her eyes settle on the drinks on the table between them.  Liquid memories, the best gift he’s ever thought to give her.  She can remember the sensations they created, the places she longs to go back to.  The places she thought were lost to her.  What she’s about to do is going to hurt her badly.

But it’s going to hurt him even worse.

Before he can move to stop her, Daphne snatches up the bottles, pulling them out of reach.  She can see Hannah at her own table, eyes alight, whispering urgently to someone filming with a phone.  For a moment, Daphne wavers.  This… isn’t safe.  This could get her in a lot of trouble.  This could get her -

And then Spencer moves, starting to rise from his seat, and the spell breaks.

“Daphne - “

His eyes start to spark, but it’s too late.  Her arms are already swinging.  He's going to hear her, whether he wants to or not.  They all are.

With faith, she resists…

“ - d - “

… and without it, she is lost.

Glass shards fly in a thousand directions, sprinkling over a stunned, immobile Mallory.  Spencer dives to the ground, covering his face, but Daphne just slams the glass again against the ceramic edge of the table.  A laugh bubbles out as the precious contents splash over her, pink and blue staining her dress.  She’s finally been given colour.

A storm of flashes erupt like spotlights.  Daphne daintily tosses the remains of the bottles over her shoulder and smiles for the cameras.  It’s the same pose she used to strike back on stage at the Glade, and Hannah’s shark-like grin would fit right within it.  Daphne lifts her head, making sure the woman’s photographer gets the tears on her cheeks, then turns back to the table.

“Mr. Mallory?”  Mallory blinks, as if he’s not quite comprehending what just happened.  Daphne smiles encouragingly.  “You find me exotic, don’t you?  Do you want to know what it’s like, being me?”

“Duh… Duh…”  Spencer stammers, starting to rise.  “Nuh… nuh…”

Mallory doesn’t even manage that, just pursing his lips like a fish.

“It’s terrible.  I hate it!”  She grins, her shoulders relaxing.  “Every day that goes by, I hate it even more.  Do you want to know why?”

Spencer hacks desperately, trying in vain to conquer his stutter.

“... It’s him!”  Daphne points.  “That man!  Spencer Alexander Harcourt, MP for Henley, my ABUSIVE BLOODY HUSBAND!”

“Eh…” Spencer stops, arms shaking.  Hannah swivels towards him first, eyes bright with hunger.  Half the cameras soon join her.  He grabs for his throat he’s pelted with light.  “Dah… kh!  -”

“Daphne,” she chuckles softly. “Daphne, Daphne, Daphne!  His perfect bride!  That’s not even my real name!  He picked it out like he would with a dog!  He stole how I dress, how I look, who I bloody AM!”

Her breath hitches; she can feel a familiar weight coiling around her chest.  Good. Let her body remember.  Let it never fucking forget.

“He had all the money, all the power, and I never had a choice!”  She pauses, struggling to breathe.  She can feel the panic rising, and knows that means this moment can’t last forever.  But it doesn’t matter, because they’re listening.  They’re finally listening.  “I lost everything.  All so that he could have a fairy-tale fantasy and a new body for his collection!”

Sounds no longer come from Spencer’s lips.  He merely sniffles in place, frozen by fear.  Daphne can tell that he’s trying to find a way out of this.  And that he knows he can't.

“And do you know how he did that, Mr. Mallory?  Did he talk about it over drinks?  Brag to all his friends!?”  Daphne swallows, and feels something lurch.  Her body is drenched in sweat.  “He wants me to hide what he’s done.  He wants me to hide me!”

She closes her eyes.  “BUT I WON’T HIDE!  MY NAME IS NOT DAPHNE…”

They course through her body now.  Hands on her breasts, lips on her skin.  Memories he demands she forget and sensations she never could.

“AND SPENCER HARCOURT…”  She holds back a sob.  “... MARRIED ME!”

Her eyes open as the Keeping’s magic warps her words, obeying the commands he’d given earlier.  Guy Mallory blinks, staring in confusion.  “He… took my hand…” Daphne clears her throat, trying to find a workaround. “And he… he kissed me and… I promised I’d always love him - ”

Of course.  She hadn’t been able to tell Henri.  Why would she be able to tell a crowd?  Daphne’s vision goes blurry.  Her hand rises toward the Glamour, intending to yank it off, to throw it in his face and destroy them both.

But her hand closes around empty air, over and over again.  Forbidden by the spell.  And it’s only as the terror rises through her gut, that she begins to notice the cameras.

Flash.  Flash.  Flashflashflash.  Dozens of bright lights from every possible angle, and Daphne takes to them all like second-long knife wounds.  She tries to close her hides to hide them, but the darkness only makes it worse.

“He… m-married me…” She continues to slap the back of her hand, the tears forming in her eyes.  “... he MARRIED me!”

The flashes never stop.  Rationally, she realises, they’re throwing her back, piercing white reminders of the day he sealed their Keeping.  But her body doesn’t follow her mind.  It heaves, it rends, and it thrusts her back with phantom fury, heartbreak, and pain.

“... I love him.”

Daphne stares Mallory in the face, and tries to mouth the words she cannot speak. Over and over, until - “-hic-”

She gives out a tiny squeak, and her body hitches into place.  Frozen and terrified.  Exactly like he had once commanded.

Eventually, in the corner of her eye, Spencer rises to his feet.  Her mind leaps when his hand settles on her shoulder.  She tries to squirm away, to fight him off, but her muscles remain stiff and unresponsive.  Spencer slowly lowers her arm and pulls her body against his.  Daphne feels her lips twitch against his coat.  The scent of his cologne mixes with the lemon balm.

“There.  All good, all safe.”  There’s no warmth in his voice.  “We have a lot of talking to do.”

Spencer’s head snaps up at the sound of sirens, growing closer and closer.  He turns to Mallory, still barely cognizant of the world around him.  “Guy.”

“Spence, what the fuck was - ”

“The press is your bitch?”  Spencer points to the crowd.  “Deal with this.  Immediately.”

Mallory blinks, struggling for words.  “But… Spencer… what about her!?”

Spencer scoffs.  “She’s being ridiculous.”

“No, seriously.”  Mallory gapes, picking around for words.  “If half the things she’s saying are true…Spencer, I’m not going to protect you from the police if-”

“Just FUCKING DEAL WITH THIS!”  Spencer shouts.  Mallory flinches, shocked into silence.  “Get this footage off the air, keep her story off your bloody papers, and when we come back, they’ll see nothing but a happy husband and wife!”

“Spencer, she sounds like you’ve kidnapped her!”  Mallory takes a step forward, crunching on broken glass.  “Is that true!?”

“Walk with me.”  Spencer turns away, shying from the cameras to hide his eyes’ glow.  Daphne feels herself turn with him, joining him in perfectly even steps.  “Look away from the cameras.”

“Spencer!?”

“Don’t talk, don’t listen, don’t do anything!”

“Don’t you dare walk away!”  Mallory shouts, slapping a hand on the table.

“Just smile and be a good fucking nymph.”  Spencer’s eyes return to normal.  “This is why I can never trust you.”

Daphne doesn’t feel angry, or heartbroken.  She doesn’t think about what new abuses he’ll lay into her, what new rules he’ll force her to follow, what nightmares she has in store.  As they march out of the Café de Paris, amidst the fallen chairs and broken glass, her mind goes completely blank.

But her stomach quakes in fear.

Daphne tries to flex her toes, and when that fails, to curl her fingers.  No luck.  The only movement she’s allowed is the dumb little smile he’s coded onto her face.

Spencer marches back and forth, scowling at his phone and muttering under his breath.  It’s a good look for him.  No more hiding or pretending.  No more perfect little fantasy.  Now he can feel what this really is.

He stops.  “Would you like to see?”  He holds up his phone near hear.  “Care to know how much you’ve royally fucked us over!?”

Daphne watches herself smash the bottles against the table, over and over again.  She’d be smiling even without the command.

“We could be enjoying our holiday right now.  Drinking on the beach, soaking in the sun, having some fucking fun!  But no!”  Spencer chuckles mirthlessly.  “Let’s spend our holiday talking to the police!  Running from the press, getting into the year’s largest scandal!  Great thinking, Daph!  Good fucking idea!”

He pauses, catching his breath.  His face is beet red, and he clutches at his phone so hard his knuckles turn white.  It’s buzzing again and again, one alert going off after another.

“Tell me, Daphne.  How am I going to possibly smooth this over?”  Spencer throws his mobile on the bed, where it continues to blink and vibrate.  “What do I say to the cops, the King, Keir fucking Starmer!?  Labour could kick me out, and their job feeds both of us, you know!  What skills are you bringing to the fucking table!?”

I bet I can haggle out a fair price for selling your mask collection.  Daphne just stands there, smiling.  Spencer’s eyes flare.

“Go on!  Speak up!  What’s the next step in your grand scheme?  You get me attacked, you try to ruin us, and then what?“

Daphne works her jaw for a moment, stretching out the stiffness.  “Attacked?”

“Oh, don’t play fucking coy.”  Spencer waves a finger.  “You knew exactly what I was walking into.  Could have used a warning before you set Ombras on me!”

Daphne’s eyes widen.  Henri attacked him?  Had he changed his mind?  It obviously hadn’t worked, but -  could she reach out, and -

“Will you shut the fuck up?!”  Spencer screams at his phone, still buzzing away.  His hands rocket to his face as he turns to Daphne.  “Do you think I make these rules on a fucking lark!?  Your stupid little game nearly got me KILLED!”

Daphne’s ears are ringing.  He’s never shouted like this before.  It releases something inside her.  Something venomous.  “If it makes you feel better, I would have made you a beautiful funeral-”

“Stop.”  Spencer’s face sets, and his eyes flash gold.  He points at the trunk in the corner.  “Kneel there, and pick out the largest mask.”

Daphne’s lungs seize as she turns, stumbling toward the still-open trunk.  The light from the window catches a hint of bronze framework, half-buried under a crumpled shirt.  Her mouth works helplessly as she drops to her knees.  “Wh-what are you-”

“Pick out the largest mask, then walk back to me.”

“Spencer…”  She roots through his luggage with numb, trembling hands until her fingers close around a cold metal cylinder.  Daphne’s eyes bulge in panic as her feet spring back up.  She can’t stop the whimper that bubbles up as she approaches him.  “W-wait-”

“Pull the switch.”

Daphne’s shaking fingers pull.  A stylized quartet of leaves snap from the mask’s sides, curling over a space that could cover her eyes and mouth, locking shut together.  Her body begins to shake in frozen panic as she looks at Spencer pleadingly.

His frown offers no remorse.  “Hold it six inches away from your face.”

Her hands dutifully obey, partially smothering her vision.  Daphne feels something squeak from her throat.

“Oh?  Scared?”  Spencer snarls.  “This is how dryads deal with unruly Kepts.  And after your stunt, they’d do far worse.  Maybe I should follow their lead.  Maybe I should mute you forever!  I can!  Nobody’s stopping me!  Maybe I’m tired of playing the Good Keeper!”

She wishes so desperately to bring the mask down.  To keep it just two feet away. Anything but six inches.

But the Keeping never cared about what she wanted.

“What more can I fucking give you!?”  Spencer continues his rant, his voice shaking.  “I offer you choices, you choose to hurt me.  I give you luxuries, you throw them back in my face!  I gave you a future, Daphne!  But I suppose it’s just a ‘fairy-tale fantasy’ to expect some gratitude!”

She hisses out a few strangled words, her hands trembling against the bronze.  “I n-never wanted your future - “

“Oh, because the one you HAD was so much better?”  He screams.  “One step removed from a WHORE!?”

“How bloody dare you.”  Daphne can feel her hair on the metal.  Raindrops patter in her ears.  “If I’m such an ungrateful whore, why am I here?  Just throw me back!”

She’s cut off by his laugh.  His fucking laugh.  Spencer raises his arms and smiles humorously.  “Oh, wow.  What a fresh idea.  ‘Let me go, Spencer, you’re such a villain!’  Really?  Really!?  You’d run to the first tabloid you can find, if you don’t get your old dryad friend to laser me into a crisp first!  No thanks!  I’ll pass!”

“Now why would I do anything like that?” Daphne smirks.

Spencer chuckles and shakes his head.  “Three inches away.”  Daphne squirms as the metal starts touching her cheeks.  “We’re short on time, Daph.  Only real solutions, please.”

“Fine!”  She swallows, feeling a lump in her throat.  “Won’t get rid of your toy?  How about you put it back on the bloody shelf!”

Spencer blinks.  “What do you mean?”

“Just.  Stop.  Trying.”  Her voice quivers.  “Mallory told me about your old nightlife, why not go back to it?  You don’t have to be miserable.  Just get some hooker to ‘meet your needs’ and leave me locked in my fucking room!”

“You want me to chain you to my radiator?”  She doesn’t expect the response that brings.  Spencer’s hands tremble.  Suddenly, he looks uncertain.  “What kind of creep do you think I am?  You’re a person, not an ornament!”

“You can’t make me happy.”  Daphne bites off each and every word.  “Every time you try, you just make it worse!  When will that get through your thick bloody skull?”

“Why?”  He folds his arms.

“Why?  That’s your problem, Spencer.”  Daphne stares murderously at him.  “You say you want answers but you won’t let me speak them!”

“Oh my God,” Spencer rolls his eyes.  “You’re bringing this up again?  You really won’t move on - ”

“How am I supposed to ‘move on’ when I see it every time I fall asleep?  When I’m stapled to the man who did it every single day!?”

“You know what your problem is?”  Spencer scowls at her.  “Actually?  Selfishness.  You’re utterly, blindly obsessed with yourself and your own fucking victimhood!  ‘Oh, woe is me, I’m forced to live without want or fear!’  There are millions out there who would gladly take your place.”

Daphne’s eyes widen murderously.  She tugs conspicuously at the mask, her arms straining uselessly.

“I only brought the masks because I thought they’d make you happy!”  Spencer throws his arms wide.  “That’s the only reason I ever get anything!  You love fae spirits, so I buy them!  You might relax in a jacuzzi, so I rent it!  And if, on the very slim chance, you asked for a moment of love you so clearly desperately need, then, and only then, would I - ”

“I don’t love you!”

Spencer takes a step back.  He almost looks… hurt.  “... Nuh… Not even a little? But nymphs - ”

“Stop pretending you know anything about nymphs!”  Daphne grips the mask, as if holding it for support.  “Stop pretending you can make me love you, stop pretending we’re happy, just…stop!  If any part of you cared even a little, you’d see that this is killing me!”

“Because you keep refusing!”  Spencer looks her up and down, his eyes wide and wild.  There’s a tremor in his voice.  “Why can’t you just be happy?  Why won’t you accept that I only want the best for you?  W-Why are you always hurting yourself like this!”

Daphne’s eyes harden.  She lets her face fall into a mask - not the delicate metalwork poised near her head, something older.  Made of stone, immovable and unforgiving.  “Because I’m hurting you more.”

Spencer’s expression falls.  Daphne closes her eyes, waiting for the command.  If that face is the last thing she sees for a while, she can live with that.

“... Thank you for your advice, Daphne.  You can be silent again.”  Spencer sighs.  “I want you to know, before I do this, that I gave you a choice today.  That, despite all your protests, I let you act with your own will.  What happens next are the consequences of your actions.  Drop the mask, then relax.”

Daphne opens her eyes, confused, as the hateful device clatters near her feet.  Her arms sink to her sides, and her breathing slows.  Spencer’s staring right at her, his eyes bold and blue and piercing, narrowed in concentration.

“Because, in time-out, you won’t have the choice to hurt yourself.”  He smiles.  “And you’re going to be in time-out for a long, long time.”

Daphne realises what’s coming.  She should be trembling, dripping in sweat.  But, of course, she can’t.

“I thought we were making real progress on the plane, darling.  That we were, Guy would say, reaching mutual consensus.”  Spencer laughs.  “Live and learn!  I won’t make that mistake again.  Expect a lot more of these commands, Daphne. Not that you’re bothered, right?  You’re just looking for excuses to hate me!  So you’ll love this one.”

He walks forward and grabs her arm.

“Spending time with me is Hell?  Too bad.  We’re staying in physical contact for the rest of this holiday.  Always in sight, always by my side.  That’ll fix the touch-starvation!”

Her breath hitches.  No.

“Aww, don’t give me that look.”  He lifts her chin with his hand.  “You’ll have so much time to fume and resent me!”

Her mind races.  How will she reach out?

“Not that you’ll be voicing those critiques.  Every time you’ve spoken since coming here, you’ve only done so against me.  I think I deserve a holiday from that, too, so let’s mute you going forward and keep all the insults in your pretty little head!”

All her plans…  this was her best chance…

Spencer beams, studying the fear in her eyes.  “In fact… let’s put all the trouble-making aside.  You’ll only move if I order you to, just like our wedding!  Another perfect memory for us, right, darling?”

He runs his thumb over her lower lip.

“And I hope you’ve stretched these muscles, you rebellious little moth.  I want to see that shiny smile from dawn to dusk!  Because we are on holiday, and we are going to have fun!”

Daphne doesn’t move.  Spencer draws back and claps his hands.

“Let’s try it out!”  He chirps, eyes glowing.  “Hug me, Daphne!”

She tries to scream.  To fight or run or hide.  But her arms slowly extend instead, and she pulls Spencer into her arms, squeezing tight.  The mint in his breath reminds her of lavender.

“Tell me you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you’re just being silly.”

Her stomach falls.  “I’m just being silly.”

“I know, Daphne.  I forgive you.”  He squeezes her and pets her hair.  “I’m your husband.  You’re my nymph.  I know you better than anyone.  Even yourself.”

Slowly, lovingly, he places a kiss on her frozen, upturned lips.

“I promised I’d make you happy.  And I still can.  I still do.  You’re just not ready to admit it.  Look up.”

Daphne has no choice.  He puts a hand on her shoulder, his eyes so bright and alluring.

“You don’t have to be happy, yet.  You don’t have to accept our future.  That’s okay, I want you to choose.  So we’re going to take our time, one step after the next, together.”

The scent of his sweat, the tone of his voice, it all brings her back to that night, the thunder and the rain.  But she can’t turn away.  She doesn’t know when she’ll be able to turn again.

Or if she ever will.

“You don’t have to be happy…”  He repeats, his eyes erupting into blue sparks.  “... But until you are…  I command you to act like it.”

Guy Mallory has to admit.  It’d probably be a lot easier to get an order now that most of the customers have left.

Their things remain scattered around - half-eaten parfaits, spilled coffee.  Tiny islands of cleanliness on a sea of broken glass.  He looks down at his phone, ignoring the police as they hurry past him.  The damn thing is always buzzing; the consequence of such a large network.  Not that it’s a price he won’t pay, given the returns.

He looks up into Hannah Clarke’s waiting gaze, her camera still perfectly angled on that corner table.  Mallory offers her a nod.  It won’t be an easy balance - covering enough evidence to save Harcourt while offering jackals like her the scraps for a succulent meal - but he’s been doing this for decades.  The established reporters know better than to challenge him, the foreigners are one upper management call from the same, and freelancers are always so easy to bribe.  That only leaves the independents, like that paparazzo photographer taking shots from a tree, who suffer the unfortunate condition of lacking Mallory’s ‘suggestions’.  The MP squints at the man’s camera.  Looks expensive.

‘Who’s our straggler?’  Mallory texts Hannah.  Better to not be seen too close.

‘Jeremy Lyson.  Freelanced for E.P.  No idea why he’s here.  Should I?’

‘No.  I can handle him.’  He slides his phone away. Best to let this story trickle out somehow.  If he does too good a job hiding it, Spencer won’t squirm.

Mallory smiles, thinking back to his original plan. It had been so simple; there was so little they could complicate.  Spencer would eat his breakfast.  Hannah would get her shot.  And Mallory would be right there to explain that he must have forgotten to get their parties’ permissions, that he thought Spencer had all assurances, that he has nothing to fear, because these blowbacks always fizzle out with Labour.

And Mallory will take care of it.  So Spencer shouldn’t start digging.

A tiny scandal, a little buzz, just to show Marshall and the other bigwigs that he’s still committed.  That’s all this morning needed to be.

Then came along Daphne.  Mallory chuckles.  It’s like digging up diamonds in your yard.

Another chorus of shouting.  Mallory turns to see Spencer finally exit the Monte Carlo, dressed in the same polo, his wife clinging to his arm.  He’s already wowing the crowd.  The cops laugh when he laughs.  They nod when he gestures them to.  Mallory smirks, worries of an arrest lost in the wind.  He taught his friend well.

But then his focus shifts to Daphne.  She leans against her husband, both arms now around his waist, laughing along with unnerving abandon.  Her auburn hair catches in the ocean breeze, her white dress billowing.  Only when the police depart, relieved to extract themselves from this mess, does she turn around and see him.

Her smile is wide, and her eyes are bright and sparkling.
He almost doesn’t notice the tear trickling down her cheek.

Spencer waves the police off before leaning into Daphne’s shoulder.  He takes her hand, whispers in her ear, and for a moment, Mallory almost thinks he sees a different light in his eyes.

And just like that, the tear is gone.  Lost in the sun’s reflection.

Daphne walks with a spring in her step, never looking around, never moving an inch away from Spencer.  The longer Mallory watches, the more uncanny it all feels.

“Guy!”  Spencer stops synchronously with his wife.  “Thanks for clearing that up. We… needed the time.”

Guy hesitates, staring at Daphne’s face.  There’s no shift in her expression.  “... Nessun problema.  It was nothing.  Was your conversation productive?”

Spencer beams.  “It was!  Rough spots patched, weak links fixed!  Don’t want to jinx myself, but… I think we’re finally ready to get this holiday started!  Right, Daphne?”

There’s a pause.  Spencer jostles his wife, whispering into her ear.

“Yes, Spence.”  Compared to her smile, the voice is gratingly flat.  “It’s going to be the trip of a lifetime.”

Spencer pulls her into his chest and nuzzles her cheek.  “That it is.”

“Daphne, are you hurt?”  Mallory offers, struggling to continue watching.  “Your voice, the glass-”

“Ah!  It’s… best if you just ask me,” Spencer answers, chuckling nervously.  “I’m afraid all that craziness left Daphne in a rather shy mood.”

Mallory sees her eye twitch.

Spencer speaks with a singsong tone.  “Well, darling?  Didn’t you want to tell Mr. Mallory that you’re really hungry?”

Daphne finally makes eye contact, but it doesn’t feel like she’s seeing.  “I’m really hungry, Mr. Mallory.”

Spencer nods.  “You’d like to go to a restaurant, right?”

“I would like to go to a restaurant.”

“Good girl.”  Spencer kisses her head, before looking at Mallory.  “Well, mate?  Any other good cafés around here?  Preferably one without journalists or crowds?”

Mallory pulls up his phone, pretends to search Maps while opening his notes.  “There’s a bistro on Larvotto-”

“Perfect!  Lead the way!”  Spencer curls his arm around Daphne’s and marches her forward.  Glass crackles beneath their feet.

Behind them, Mallory scowls, typing into his BlackBerry.  Beneath ‘kidnapping’ he adds ‘mind control,’ followed by ‘slavery?’  That was what Daphne was trying to say, right?  Before she blitzed out?

No.  He backspaces out.  She was mouthing something, Mallory caught that.  Something that started with -

“Hurry up, Guy!”  Spencer calls from a distance.  “What do the Italians say?  Bon appétit?”

When it dawns on him, he doesn’t want to believe it.  Really, from Spence?  But what other word could be so dangerous, what other word would a woman so desperately say?

“No!”  Mallory closes his phone, and rushes along.  “Mangia!”

What other word could start with the letter ‘R’?

continue reading -> 

Oooooof. Hey, y’all, Lehanna here. Still cowering from that ending.

Nobody enjoys writing a low point (I almost want to apologise!), but special attention should really be brought to Fairy Bride’s editor, Harken, for this chapter.  He presented a bunch of new ideas to the team that matched my vision in ways I really couldn’t imagine.  Thanks so much for all your dedication to my story!

Daphne might be at her darkest depth, but that means she can only go up from here!  Next week, I’m very excited to introduce a new… friend?  Foe?  Somewhere in between?  Find out on Friday, September 15th with Chapter 10: The Spartan.

See you all there!