Ascending Into Light (Descending Series Book 2)

by Alainna MacPherson

  He knew the way he closed himself off to Jessandra wasn’t fair but he couldn’t help feeling that just being near her endangered the whole plan he and his people risked so much to see through. The more he was close to her, the more he wanted to toss caution to the wind, consequences be damned. As mo ri, his people deserved so much more.

  Kaer banked to the left, jerking him out of his thoughts, moving his body to follow. Finally, they came to hover above a small courtyard, complete with hedges lining the tall brick wall that surrounded the entire grounds of the massive mansion. The sandstone was on every piece of structure, even the steps, walkway and looped driveway, with a fountain in the center. Not just a plain fountain either, but one with a pan-like statue, with a reed flute hanging from around his neck and holding a gold sphere high above his head, of which the water spouted from it’s top. Fallon wasn’t positive but rumor was that the sphere was made of solid gold, not just plated.

  Their landing at the end of the walkway had the patrolling guardsmen taking a ready stance with their M4s pointed at them.

  The jumpy response told Fallon something was up. He’d never seen so many guardsman this trigger happy before, especially with someone who supposedly posed no threat, being daor.

  Frowning, him and Kaer stayed still, giving the Seelie time to calm. Kaer had a smug look on his face, but Fallon knew he wouldn’t try anything. Not now, anyway.

  “State your business, daor,” said the one to Fallon’s right. He couldn’t see the one behind his left shoulder, but he sounded like he was chattering to someone on the other end of a radio, reporting the visitors.

  “I’ve come at the king’s request,” was all he said, remaining still.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them,” the guard demanded, jerking the tip of his rifle in an upwards motion.

  Instead of complying, Fallon gave the man a droll look and kept his hands hanging loosely by his sides.

  “Fallon,” came a familiar voice from the large porch at the top of the steps.

  “Banner,” Fallon countered.

  “At ease,” Banner said, trotted down the stairs and path to stand in front of the two Fomorians.

  “He’s been waiting for you,” he said contritely. Though Fallon had no doubt that he would have expected his call, he wasn’t fooled that the King was put out by Fallon taking his time to do so.

  “Let’s not waste time gabbing about out here then shall we?” Fallon said, looking bored with the conversation altogether.

  Banner seemed a little entertained by the whole situation, but nodded before he turned around on his heel saying, “Come,” as if he were speaking to two dogs.

  Even the most obedient pets can turn on it’s handlers, Fallon thought as he compliantly followed, Kaer close behind.

  The twelve foot archway at the mouth of the porch opened up to double solid oak doors, stained dark but you could still make out the swirls and knots of the wood’s grain. The stone flooring mirrored the exterior. It only echoed a little as they filed inside. Kaer left the door open, just for spite. Fallon wasn’t above finding the childish action somewhat entertaining.

  They were led past the enormous living areas, filled with expensive couches, priceless pieces of furniture, including a grandfather clock that ticked away, the pendulum swinging gracefully side to side. There was no other sounds in the house except their footsteps. Coming to another set of double doors that appeared to lead to a sitting room or study, Banner flicked a hand to the two guards that flanked it. Instantly they jumped to open the doors and the three of them whisked inside.

  Chapter Four

  As they stepped over the threshold, they entered a whole different world entirely. Gone was the sandstone, replaced with a sort of hardened taupe clay, almost like concrete that made the surrounding walls and floor. They stood now at the mouth of a crossroads of four separate hallways. The ceilings were high, nearly sixteen feet and the halls were a good solid ten feet wide, allowing room for the heavy foot traffic. Even now the hall was buzzing with Seelie, male, females, gentile nobility, guards alike, all with somewhere to be.

  Not missing a step, the three walked down the corridor to the left and continued to the very end, merely a quarter mile Fallon recalled. Banner breezed through the double gilded doors that stood open. Walking to the bottom of the short steps that raised the large throne chair from the rest of the room, he took a knee.

  A little dramatic, Fallon thought, as he’d witnessed the general bend at the waist usually, but said nothing as Banner introduced them to the man sitting in the overlarge chair.

  “Your majesty, the Fomorian, Fallon, and his man, have come to call.”

  Knowing their place, both Fallon and Kaer took a knee to the right of their warden. Unlike the general, they did have reason to bow low to their master.

  The gold and purple seat of the throne was high-backed, with points at the tops extending from the seats sides, almost like pikes sticking from the ground of a razed battlefield. The clawed feet legs were that of an eagle’s talons clinging to a ball of gold. Fallon saw the globes as the world and the sharp claws that of Sylus’ strangling grip he had on it. One tight squeeze would be all it would take for him to devastate it. The man in question was sitting very relaxed, reading a newspaper, The Wall Street Journal, Fallon read, per his usual.

  When the king didn’t respond or move the paper from in front of his face, a lean man standing to the right with short brown hair, wearing a black suit and tie the same bold colored purple as the king’s chair, leaned down to whisper something to the king, no doubt getting his attention.

  “Hm?” Fallon could hear the king say, coming out of his revelry of stocks and trades. “What’s that you say, Harlen?”

  Folding the paper down he nearly shoved it at the poor fool, but the man caught it gracefully. He was used to it.

  “Fallon!” Sylus said cheerfully with a wide smile on his face.

  His false excitement made Fallon’s stomach tighten. “Your majesty,” he greeted with little emotion, making the smile on the king’s face fade disapprovingly.

  In the next second, he plastered on a new one.

  “Don’t sound so glum, old man,” he said.

  He always did try to be charming, as if he weren’t a tyrant who kept slaves under his thumb.

  “Come have a drink,” he gestured to a small table and two chairs to the left of a blackened window. They too were gold, the velvet upholstery, purple, with a gray marble table top.

  Fallon always played the king’s games when they weren’t alone. He’d learned, as did his father and grandfather, that defying the king of the faeries was not a tolerable offense.

  Though he remained silent, he stood up and followed the king to the small table, on which someone was already placing a gold tray with a clear glass carafe filled with a maroon colored liquid and two glasses. As the servant turned away from the setting, Fallon’s stomach clenched with recognition, not a servant, a slave.

  Both made an effort not to draw notice that they knew one another. It would only entice the King of Light to use it against them both. It was possible he even did it on purpose. Aside from looking a little weary the woman, Layla, he thought her name was, looked healthy.

  Didn’t expect our call, my ass, Fallon groused silently. He had no doubt the bastard purposefully directed the woman to work in the throne room that evening.

  Sylus played the caring, elderly ruler but Fallon - even Queen Brianna in fact - knew differently. They weren’t fooled by his flippant exterior. The man was methodical and Fallon didn’t forget it.

  The king went to sit on one of the smaller chairs reaching for a cup before dropping his hand hard onto the table’s hard surface, the sound echoing through the large room, along with the sound of the delicate glass and tray ratting from the force. Everyone in the room went deadly still. Fallon had to stop his wings from raising upwards in a natural fight or flight reaction. Showing as little affect as possible, he looked to the king for expla
nation on what had caused him such an upset. He didn’t have to see him, but Fallon knew that Kaer would hold himself in check as well. Though just barely.

  Harlen scurried over, head hanging as he stammered, “What troubles you, your majesty?”

  Like a toddler having a tantrum the king only waved his hand hysterically to the tray of glasses, as if that were answer enough

  “Ah, I see, my king. I shall fix it straight away.” The steward clapped his hands, getting the attention of someone in the back corner of the room, where a small alcove led to another group of rooms. Some shuffling and murmuring could be heard before Layla reappeared, having been shoved by someone behind her, into the room. As soon as she regained her balance she looked around frantically, obviously unaware of the reason she had been so rudely recalled.

  “You!” The steward called accusingly. “You imbecile, you did not pour the drinks for his majesty and his guest!”

  To her credit, she didn’t hesitate to run back to the table and began pouring the red liquid into the glasses. Fallon bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something reassuring to the scared woman. Glass on glass could be heard knocking together as she filled both glasses. The second the carafe was placed back onto the tray, the king, who stood waiting, brought his left arm to his chest as if to adjust his lapel, then swung it back out lightning fast, catching the woman’s cheek with the back of his bejeweled hand.

  The image of her body crumbing to the dark stone floor, carved the king’s death into Fallon’s mind. The woman didn’t move, unsurprisingly. Sylus wasn’t a weakling by any means, and not one to hold back his punches.

  “I do apologize, “ the king said, shocking Fallon from imagining his hand wrapped around the man’s neck. “They must have brought that one in from the stables.”

  Bastard, Fallon thought.

  Harlen snapped his fingers, getting the attention of a couple of guards who stood against the wall at the entrance. “Remove this,” he directed. They were none too gentle as they carted the unconscious woman through the back.

  Fallon heard a minuscule groan come from Kaer, who still knelt before the throne where the king had left him, uninvited to partake in drinks with the king.

  “Come, come,” the bastard waved Fallon to sit down with him at the table.

  Releasing the hold he had on his cheek from clamped jaws, tasting the coppery bite of blood, he moved over to sit, adjusting his wings to hang awkwardly over and away from the chair’s back. Fallon kept his discomfort to himself.

  Sylus opened his mouth to start talking, when someone burst into the room unannounced. Everyone except the servants and Kaer, snapped up to see it was Bain, the king’s son. He had a swagger that told everyone he knew he came from power. He wore an expensive suit, like he’d just gotten back from working at the bank. He short hair was styled flawlessly and the only piece of jewelry he wore was his family crest ring, similar to his father’s but not nearly as large.

  Fallon rolled his eyes inwardly. He barely had the patience for the king, adding his idiot son to the mix was asking too much. Fallon tried to calm himself by envisioning Jessandra’s face. He’d rather picture himself punching the asshole in his smug mouth, but he was nearly positive that would only drive his need to do it for real.

  Sylus smiled proudly. Of course he did, they were so alike it was sickening. Fallon reframed from spitting at the man’s feet. He’d heard many stories about the Seelie and they painted him to be a hero rather than the tyrant that Fallon knew him to be during the last war.

  “Ah, my son,” Sylus greets him. “Come, have a drink with us.” Snapping his fingers to the steward, he signaled for another glass. When someone magically appeared with one, he snatched it up and began to fill it himself.

  Fallon made a sound in the back of his throat. Completely absorbed in his task Sylus didn’t even look up when he raised his brows in Fallon’s direction. “Hm? Did you say something, Fallon?”

  Fallon just cleared his throat and shook his head and stood when Bain approached. He bowed his head in greeting but Bain ignored him, taking the glass his father handed him.

  Smiling, Bain said, “Thank you, father.”

  “Sit, sit,” Sylus told him, pointing to Fallons’s chair, to which Fallon quickly side stepped around to make room, standing at the outside of the table.

  “How was Paris?” His father asked him.

  “Lovely, as always,” he answered, sipping the drink. He turned to look up at Fallon, completely uncaring that he was still standing. No one called for an extra chair so he remained standing. “Fallon, it’s been too long,” he told him.

  Fallon gave himself points for not growling at the man. He knew full well they were never friends. Most of his people were slaves there because of Bain with the help of Banner. Fallon suspected they had a romantic relationship with one another but they would never admit it. Sylus would see it as impure and likely have one, if not both, executed like he did Jess’ biological father.

  Rather than risking opening his mouth to speak, Fallon just nodded.

  Sylus smiled again at his son, saying, “You can catch up later, son. I have some business to discuss with Fallon first.” He turned to look at Fallon, picking up his drink.

  “Now,” Sylus started, tossing it back and pouring himself a new one. The muscles in Fallon’s arms tensed with renewed need to snap something at the fact that the King of the Light had no qualms with pouring drinks himself, beating his servants was just for show. “Tell me how things are at D’lansis.”

  The small talk wasn’t new to Fallon. He knew all he wanted to hear was how little Fallon’s people had but for him to sound grateful to the king for all that they did have. Fucking masochist, Fallon thought. He was a burly man with a heavier upper body, wide chested and thick arms, his torso tucked into a trim waist that flared out slightly with large thighs. The Faerie didn’t skip a day in the gym. Like humans, they did lose definition when they stopped exercising the muscle. His sleeves strained around his bicep, done intentionally because every piece of clothing was tailored special for him. The gold band that wrapped around his upper arm gleamed in the chandelier crystal lights. The blonde hair, though tinged with strands of gray, showed a likeness to that of Jessandra’s own locks. The handlebar mustache he sported wasn’t anything new, but the way he twisted the right end of it told Fallon he was anxious about something. The rest of his face was always clean shaven. He was meticulous about his appearance and even had people do the trimming and cutting for him. Fallon had even borne witness the ruthless king of the light faerie getting his nails buffed and rounded during one of his many past visits.

  “D’lansis is well, sire,” Fallon told him. “Our females try to contribute to society when we can.”

  The king chuckled, glancing at his son, who chuckled along with him.

  “What could your kind have to contribute to the human world?” Bain asked doubtfully. The mirth in his tone had Fallon squeezing his right hand in a tight fist. He tucked it gracefully behind his back.

  “They do cleaning and serve food in nearby restaurants,” he explained.

  Pouring himself another drink, the king said, “I’m surprised they’d want such filth in their place of business.”

  The problem with racism was that most people didn’t even know they did it, not that the king cared either way. The king genuinely believed Fomorians were dirty, unclean, and not just in their blood. Fallon knew that no matter what anyone said or did, the Seelie king would never see them any different.

  So Fallon didn’t say anything, keeping his mouth shut. Bain on the other hand supplied, “I’m sure they’re required to wear gloves and the sort, Father.”

  The king shrugged but his expression said that it wasn’t a bad idea.

  Though they only talked for about five minutes, the king had finished his second and third drinks before Fallon could take the last sip of his own. Once he did, the king pushed away from the table, the chair’s legs scraping on the floor, a
nd stood up to walk back to his throne. Bain followed him.

  “Thank you for the unexpected visit, Fallon, it was refreshing.” Somehow Fallon interpreted “amusing” in the way Sylus said that last word, “refreshing.”

  “Please don’t forget about my birthday ball,” the king reminded him. He actually looked excited about the upcoming event.

  “Of course, your majesty,” Fallon assured him. “I’m looking forward to it.” The smile he plastered on hurt his mouth and rebelling cheeks.

  “Good, good,” The king said, sitting back down heavily into his seat. He gestured with a quirk of a thick ringed finger for the steward to hand him back his paper. Once in hand he unfolded it to the page he was reading when the two had walked in.

  Bain walked up to him, ignoring Kaer still kneeling on the floor. “I heard Bannor checked in on you all a couple days ago,” he said.

  Fallon wasn’t stupid, everyone in that room knew that Bannor raided D’lansis, looking for newly mated pairs to make new slaves.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Fallon answered. He had to. If he didn’t it would be considered rude and would draw unwanted attention to him and Kaer. They needed to just keep their heads down so they could execute their plan without any other kinks.

  Bain smiled knowingly. The sick bastard was just like his father.

  He turned away, climbing the few steps up to hover over his father, pretending to read over his shoulder. Done with Fallon.

  Harlen, who glanced down his nose at them, cleared his throat again, bringing the king back out of his reading, once again.

  “What?” he groused, glancing up and catching sight of his visitors. “Oh, you may go,” he said, now completely disinterested.

  Turning, Fallon made Kaer jump when he purposefully let the toe of his boot knock on Kaer’s own booted foot in an effort to keep the male focused on exiting the throne room rather than murdering the man who sat before him unbeknownst to his near demise.