Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne

Apollo Greaves is the twin brother of Artemis Greaves. He’s been committed to Bedlam as a dangerous madman…but is he?

Hero of Darling Beast.

Also appears in Sweetest Scoundrel and Duke of Sin.

Read order for Apollo’s story arc: Lord of Darkness » Duke of Midnight » Darling Beast

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There were those who compared Bedlam to hell—a writhing purgatory of torture and insanity. But Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne, knew what Bedlam really was. It was limbo.

A place of interminable waiting.

Waiting for the restless moaning in the night to be over. Waiting for the scrape of heel on stone that heralded a stale piece of bread to break his fast. Waiting for the chilly splash of water that was called a bath. Waiting for the stink of the bucket that served as his commode to be emptied. Waiting for food. Waiting for drink. Waiting for fresh air. Waiting for something—anything—to prove that he still lived and was, in fact, not mad at all.

At least not yet.

Above all, Apollo waited for his sister, Artemis, to visit him in limbo.

She came when she could, which was usually once a week. Just often enough for him to keep his sanity, really. Without her he would’ve lost it long, long ago.

So when he heard the light tap of a woman’s shoes on the filthy stone in the corridor outside his cell, he leaned his head back against the wall and found a smile to paste on his blasted face.

She appeared a moment later, peering around the corner, her sweet, grave face brightening at the sight of him. Artemis wore a worn, but clean brown gown, and a straw bonnet she’d had for at least five years, the straw mended in small, neat stitches over her right ear. Her gray eyes were lit with warmth and worry for him, and she seemed to bring a waft of clear air with her, which was impossible: how could one smell the absence of stink?

“Brother,” she murmured in her low, quiet voice. She advanced into his cell without any sign of the disgust she must feel at the uncovered slop bucket in the corner or his own damnable state—the fleas and lice had long ago made a feast out of his hide. “How are you?”

It was a silly question—he was now, and had been for the last four years, wretched—but she asked it earnestly, for she truly worried that his state might someday grow worse than it already was. In that, at least, she was correct: there was always death, after all.

–from Duke of Midnight