Sheer Cupidity: A Standalone Cupidity Romance (Heart Hassle Book 5)
Sheer Cupidity: Chapter 5

BELREN

With my objective clear, I look around at all the hovering ghosts. “None of you want to tell me if there’s a trick to leave our deathplace by chance, do you?”

Not a single one of them looks at me.

“Right,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “Well, I’ll just do it without any help then. I’m going to leave this godsdamned island,” I say with determination filling my…well, not my veins. Maybe my vapor? Who the fuck knows. “Try not to miss me too much. Oh, and Screamer? Maybe stop screaming all the godsdamned time.”

She replies with another echoing screech.

Won’t miss that.

“Okay then. Have fun…haunting,” I say to everyone, nodding as they continue to float around morosely. “Yep. Just like that. You’re all doing great.” But I’m not going to end up like you.

I turn around and walk away, passing Rocky as I go. She’s still in her boulder, a hollow knocking noise coming from inside.

“I’m going to learn that trick,” I tell her as I pass by.

The boulder trembles for a moment before going still once again.

“Show off.”

I walk past my deathplace, and of course, that tingling, nagging sensation hooks into me, but I refuse to give it any attention. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just giving me a trick lure. Beseeching me, feeding me a false sense of intuition to keep me here. Perhaps that’s why the other ghosts stick around—they can’t get past it.

But I’m going to.

So, I keep going, right to the end of the island. I haven’t actually successfully stepped off it before. Every time I got to the edge, that incessant sensation always made me turn right back around. But I’m determined not to give in this time.

The urgency to go back, to look around my deathplace and stay here comes back full force. It’s almost something I can physically feel. I’d grit my teeth if I could, but instead, my feet try to sink into the ground a little more, like the damn island is trying to suck me back in.

“I’m not staying,” I snarl.

I jerk my feet out one at a time, glaring at the ground. The toes of my boots balance on the end of the island, mist swirling around the soles, closing in on me like a bad omen.

As if my deathplace knows I’m trying to escape, its proverbial fist grips me in a restraining draw. I look over my shoulder, troubled. I need to go back. There’s something there I have to do. Something I’m missing… I’m supposed to—

No.

“Fuck you,” I spit. I’m the godsdamned Horned Hook. I can go anywhere I want to go, and right now, I am leaving this forsaken Ghost Island.

With as much stubborn fortitude as I can muster, I face forward and then force my foot to take that first step right off the edge.

My boot hovers on nothing but empty space, and a small, buoyed victory helps me to step off with the other foot, too. Then I’m standing on thin air, off of the island for the first time.

I look down at my feet, sucking in a false breath at the sensation of seeing nothing beneath me. Who wouldn’t? I just walked right off the godsdamned ground. But I’m a ghost, so apparently, I can hover in the air. Small perks, I guess.

As soon as I test the air to make sure I’m not suddenly going to start plunging down, I take another step. Then another. Another. Through mist and empty nothingness, my transparent feet walk through the sky.

Since I died with my wings tucked away securely, I don’t have them in my ghost form, and it feels inherently wrong to be in the air without them. I suppose it’s the instinct of mortality that I keep expecting to start free-falling, but it never happens. Instead, I walk on the clouds.

Glancing behind me, I watch the mist swallow the island in a swirling shroud. My deathplace beckons to me like a shrill sound so high-pitched it can only be felt with cringing vibrations. That little voice is urging me to go back, but I won’t. This is the farthest I’ve been able to get away from it, and I’m not giving in. So I keep going, putting one foot in front of the other.

When I get a little further out, the clouds part, and a view of floating islands greets me, speckling the sky in every direction. Up, down, north, south, far, and near, the islands are everywhere.

Some of them are tiny and uninhabited, while others are so large that they’re home to sprawling cities. Being who I am with the profession I used to have in life, it’s providential that I’ve visited most of them, because that means I know exactly where to go. It’s a fortunate consequence of being the renowned Horned Hook. Fae from far and wide would hire me to find something for them, to steal some priceless heirloom, or locate a fae on the run, and I was able to travel all over, visiting all sorts of islands while I worked.

I always found my mark. Except for one, single, solitary time.

Benicia.

As I get further out, the imploring sense to turn around and return to my deathplace comes back full force, and I jolt mid-air, my entire body jerking to an ungraceful stop. The urge to go back is strong, like it knows it’s losing, but I’ll be damned if I let it win.

I just need to get to Emelle. She’s the damn boss of all the cupids for gods’ sakes. She can help me, and then I can find my sister. I can find Lex.

The pull gets more intense the further I go, and my face pulls into a grimace from the strain. “You’re not winning this.”

To distract myself, I mutter memories. Of Benicia and me. When Lex first appeared in my hideaway grotto. My first paid thieving. The time I left home to strike out on my own. When I had my Horned Hook mask made to keep my identity secret.

The further I go, the heavier I feel. Seems unfair, considering I’m incorporeal.

Despite the fact that my body feels stretched and weighed-down, everything screaming at me to turn back and return, I don’t. I press on, going as fast as my ghostly limbs can take me. I even join a group of pixies for a while, their high-pitched chattering wonderfully distracting as I fly beside them.

Although, fly probably isn’t the best word to describe what I’m doing. It’s more of a lean that I do while walking on air. And as if that’s not embarrassing enough, I also keep catching myself with my arm thrusted straight out in front me like it’s a rudder on a damn ship, steering the way. As much as I hate being a ghost, I’m glad that I’m invisible right now. Those pixies would laugh their asses off if they saw me.

Aside from a few clouds dotted around, the skies are mostly clear, giving me a good view of the speckling islands floating leisurely in the sky. I used to fly around just for the fun of it, visiting places I hadn’t been to before, getting a feel for the land and chatting up locals. After all, I didn’t just get hired to steal things. One of the most lucrative avenues of my business was secrets. I love a good secret.

So does Benicia. She loves secrets so much that when she hid away, even I couldn’t find her. I knew she’d had a love affair with Princess Soora, of course. Soora wasn’t the princess back then, though. Yet high fae can be fickle and fluid lovers. When Soora’s family worked to match her up with Prince Elphar, it was her best advantage of becoming royal and strengthening her political power. But she broke my sister’s heart in the process. Cast her off, just like that, claiming it was for the good of the rebellion, to get an insider into the palace.

But an ugly part of me wondered if she just wanted the crown.

Part of me understands Soora’s justification for betraying us all in order to make a deal with the prince—to end her role in the rebellion and take my sister to safety. But the other part of me doesn’t forgive the treachery. She broke my sister’s heart by marrying that prick, and then she threw the rest of us to the wolves.

I crick my neck, rolling my shoulders back as I once again make myself put my arm down. I need to go back. I’m too far away. I need—

“No,” I snap, cutting off the deathplace drawl before it can drown out my thoughts.

Gods, what I would give to have a little wine right about now. Or my smoking pipe. It would’ve taken the edge off wonderfully. Instead, I have a flock of pixies, an incredibly awkward looking fly-pose, and bitterness.

With that lovely combination, I spend the rest of the daylight passing by islands like some crazed specter, fighting against my ghostly instinct every step of the way. When the sky goes from blue to a darkening gray, the already strained pull on me becomes much, much stronger.

I double down, leaving the pixies in my dust because stubbornness can only take me so far. I don’t know how much longer I can last before I’m forced to turn around. When darkness sets in, the strain becomes almost unbearable. My body starts to shake all over, and fear grips me by the balls.

My body shakes, the pull to my deathplace becoming a tangible, furious thing. Like talons trying to close in around me, take me in its grip and fling me right back.

I can’t let that happen—not when I’m so close. I have to get to Emelle.

Grimacing, I push on, body propelling forward in an awkward, shaken zigzag through the sky.

And then, the genfin island finally comes into view.

Domed wooden buildings and thick forests appear from below, fairy lights making the island visible amidst its soft, welcoming glow.

The tension around me and the lapse of relief that I’ve gotten here makes me drop from the sky like a dead bird. I fall through branches and leaves, landing in a graceless heap on a grassy knoll. Half of my body sinks well below the ground, and it takes more than a few tries to heave myself up.

I lie on my back for a moment, panting heavily, though it’s certainly not for the oxygen. This physical struggle bombards me, the pull so strong that it feels like it could break me in half. Somehow, I force myself to stand and manage to get to my feet. My head swims, dark blots spreading through my vision like droplets of black ink.

The problem is, those drops of ink aren’t just affecting my sight. They’re affecting my mind too. I feel each obsidian drip like a physical, ominous thing. Dizziness sets in, but then I realize my memories that are being blotted out.

Fuck.

Every bead lands inside my consciousness and creates a smudged mess. I try to grasp onto my memories, but they slip away, stained beyond recognition, fading into black nothingness.

“No…” I gasp, hands fumbling uselessly at the outline of my forehead as if I can try to keep the contents of my head inside. But I can’t. My stubbornness to leave my deathplace is costing me. Dearly.

Please let me find Emelle…before I forget why I’m looking for her in the first place.

I dig down deep into my crumbling willpower, not allowing myself to give up, but even I know I’ve pushed it too much. I’m too far away from my deathplace. Like a bet on a hand of cards, I’ve gone all in, and if I lose, I can’t afford to play again.

“Don’t…black…out…” My voice is labored with breath I can’t take, unsteady with a heart that won’t beat.

Every fragment of my phantom body is cringing, shutting down, and still, there’s that incessant, repulsive pulling, like the hands of a demon come to drag me back to hell.

It feels like it takes ages to reach the top of the hill, but perhaps that’s just because I feel like I’m dying. Which is complete and utter shit, considering I’m already dead.

I crest the incline and trudge back down the other side, while more ink spots stain my gaze, blotting out another memory, each step slower and shakier than the last. An insidious thought creeps up my insubstantial spine.

I’m not going to make it.

Despair, deep and dark, tries to overtake me, but I shove it away.

“My name is Belren,” I gasp out, voice sounding hoarse and pissed off. “I’m the Horned Hook. Master thief. Cernu fae.”

I don’t want to forget anything. This knowledge, it makes me. It is me. After all, are we not just a collection of our experiences? Of our choices? Fuck if I’m going to just let it all leave.

I take one step. Two. Each is labored and heavy, as if the soles of my shoes are burdened with stones, trying to weigh me down and keep me from going further.

But I must. It’s all I can do—walk and repeat.

“My name is Belren. I’m a…fae. A prick of a prince killed me. I saved a cupid—Lex, with her smooth pink hair and pretty red wings. I just need to get to Emelle. She can fix this. Then I can find Lex. Find my sister. Steal something. Keep all my memories.”

A walk that should’ve been quick takes me ages. Since becoming a ghost, there hasn’t been a single physical need. No hunger or thirst, no drive to sleep or rest. Yet right now, I’m utterly exhausted, as if it’s not just my memories being drained, but I’m being drained. Like I’m going to fade away into nothing.

It’s not a very comforting feeling.

Just when I think I’m about to keel over, I spot it—Emelle’s dome. I’d have a sense of relief if I wasn’t so incredibly fucked up.

My vision tilts, more ink drops staining my eyes and tainting my mind, but I narrow my eyes, speckled gaze staring intently at that one dome I need to get to. It’s nestled in the hill, a garden wrapped around it like a grassy cloak.

It’s a godsdamned struggle.

Every. Single. Step.

Confusion and emptiness whirl in my head where certainty and fullness used to be. The pull has become a pain that’s soul-deep, something that far surpasses anything physical. This is an attack against my very soul.

What used to be dripping blots of ink is now a rushing, sweeping tide of black waves in a violent sea, ready to wash everything away.

“Prince Prick…k-killed me. I protected…pink hair. Red wings. I have to get t-to Emelle. Have to…keep…going…” I grit out the last word and nearly go right through a door.

It’s hard to focus on what’s around me when what’s inside me is slipping away. I try to follow the memories, to grab onto them and hold tight, but no matter what I do, they’re being washed away.

Blearily, I glance up, seeing the house in front of me. I’m actually here. All I need to do is find Emelle. She can help me. She has to.

“My…name is…”

Something cleaves. Breaks. Frothy water black as onyx churns.

“I’m…” Lost. That’s what I am. I’m fucking lost.

Panic is a noose around my godsdamned neck as I try to scrabble for my memories, but they’re disappearing right through my hands, like grains of sand falling between fingers. Why does everything hurt? Why do I feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere else?

“Cupid. Pink hair. Red wings,” I grit out, latching onto that one thing that seems to be all I can see through the inky black waves sloshing in my head.

Just get to her.

So. Close.

I start forward, but the pull snaps at me just then like the sharp teeth of a fish. It’s presence is circling, ready to tug me away and let this onyx sea drown the last of me.

Gasping, I press ineffective hands into my phantom stomach, unable to stop my mortal instincts. Dark spots speckle my vision, making me pitch forward, right through the wooden door. I practically trip down a set of stairs, barely able to stop before I go through another wall.

Everything spins.

My vision, the world, the pull trying to reel me in like I’ve been caught on its line. Confusion blares through me.

I look around, fear pounding like a pulse, and take in the dark living space I’m standing in. There are bookshelves on the far wall, though they’re filled haphazardly with more children’s toys than books. A seating area is sprawled out over a fur rug, and to the right, there appears to be a kitchen area through an open archway.

I frown in confusion.

Wait. Why am I here? How did I get here? And…where the fuck is here?

Closing my eyes, I will myself to wake up, because surely this is a dream. That’s why I’m so disoriented. That’s why I feel so lost. I fell asleep and none of this is real.

I can wake up and… I frown. Wait, why can’t I picture where I fell asleep? Why can’t I picture anything at all? The more I search my mind, the less I dredge up.

Panicked, I try to search for who the hell I am, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s a niggling maggot squirming in the mental soil of my dusted memories, telling me that what I lost was vital.

What was my name? I just had it—I know I did.

Swish, swish, swish goes the mind wipe. Dusted and then rinsed away with night’s ocean. I need to wake the fuck up, but when I try to pinch myself, my fingers go uselessly through my arm. Staring down in shock, I look at this ghost of a body, eyes wide with horror.

What the hell is happening?

With the amount of fear coursing through me, my heart should be pounding, my body slick with terrified sweat, and my teeth gnashing in defiance.

But I’m nothing more than that chalky dust that I picture in my mind, fragments blowing around uselessly, unable to coalesce together, until everything is gone except for this single grain of powder.

I’m bereaved…until I even forget that. I can’t hold onto being heartsick, because I don’t remember why I’m feeling that in the first damn place.

The roiling, storming emotions slump down, stilling into calm, murky waters. I sway on feet that just sink into the wooden floor, and I know I’m well and truly fucked.

Spots in my vision start to take over. I’m either going to black out or wake up, and I desperately hope it’s the latter. But before I can, something moves in my periphery.

I jerk my head up, letting out a gasp that’s mirrored by the figure who jolts to a stop in front of me.

A small girl stands in the threshold between the kitchen and the living space, a little cup clenched in one hand, and an arrow in the other. She watches me with wide eyes, toes peeking through the bottom of her long nightgown, hair mussed from sleep, though it’s too dark for me to see the color.

I’m frozen as I stare at her, that niggling worm in my head writhing around. Does she know me? Do I know her?

We continue to eye each other for a moment until she rubs her eyes sleepily, like she wants to make sure she’s really seeing me. After she’s tried that and I’m still frozen in front of her, she frowns. “Who…are you?” the girl asks, her voice lilting with childhood innocence, even if she is clutching an arrow like it’s her favorite stuffie.

I open my mouth, but no answer comes out, because I have no idea who I am.

She steps forward into a shaft of moonlight coming from the window, and my gaze hooks to the pink of her hair. The feather duster that brushed through my mind does another sweep, but I claw forward and snatch up a solitary fragment, one dusty piece of a memory, right before it can take that too.

I clutch that grain in my figurative fist.

Pink hair, red wings, pink hair, red wings. Pink hair.

I stare at the little girl’s hair, but my mind’s eye is trying to picture another face, trying to come up with a name. I was supposed to do something…looking for someone…

A pull, its force stronger than a seismic wave, lurches me clear off my feet.

My eyes widen, a choked sound coming out of me, and the little girl gasps and reaches out, but it’s no use.

Something rips me away with the strength of a terrorized sea.

The final wave of darkness claims me, taking me far, far away, erasing me until l have nothing…

Except a single piece of dust still clutched in my fist.

Pink hair.

Red wings.

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