A Token's Worth (Spawn of Darkness Book 1)

by S. A. Parker

I gasp out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding as Sol walks inside, expression cautious, as though he’s approaching a wounded animal.

  Fuck, he has no idea just how wounded I am.

  “Are … you ok?”

  “No.” Not now. Not since I was four. Perhaps not even before then, but at least the illusion was there.

  After a pause he nods, placing his hands in his pockets and looking towards his feet. He draws a deep breath. “I’m not too good at the whole … emotional thing. That’s why I brought you here, to my sanctuary. I’d hoped it would speak for itself …” He looks around, assessing, appearing to distract himself.

  I like this place more than I feel comfortable saying right now. I like to think one day I’ll be able to tell him how close it feels to my own heart. One day when I’m not so fucked up.

  His gaze meets mine, and it’s all hard edges again. All control. All Sol. “What do you need from me right now?”

  To be left alone—forever. To lose my mind entirely. Both things I know are unobtainable. Unless I give myself a fucking lobotomy, and to be honest, I’m not even sure that’s possible. I lift my chin. “I want you to take me back to Grueling. There’s something there I need to retrieve.”

  “Out of the fucking question.”

  I frown. “You asked me what I need, and this is what I fucking need!” My voice has a frantic rawness to it, because I’ve finally voiced the fact that I’ve left something crucial in that place where people lose themselves in more ways than one.

  He shifts so fast he’s a blur—shoving me backwards onto the coverlet. His half-naked body hovers, so close I can feel his heat washing over me in waves, causing my underappreciated nipples to harden. My breathing comes deeply, my heart pounding in my ears.

  “You don’t get it, little mortal. Aero and I, for the most part, have a good relationship. We talk.” He takes my hand in his own and flashes my scarred palm in my face. “I know what they fucking did to you there. I’ll never let you go back.”

  He drops my hand and brings his face closer to mine, until we’re mixing harsh breaths. Will to fucking will. He has no idea just how rock solid mine is though.

  “Never.” His teeth are bared and very fucking close to my neck.

  I was hoping this would go down a little more smoothly. Damnit. I lift my chin and steady my breathing. “I wish for you to take me back to Grueling for an hour.”

  He can’t come with me, can’t be seen to be helping a mortal female without the implications of the King’s wards. Which is good, because this is something I must do on my own.

  Sol growls, eyes widening, shoulder muscles coiling. A wave of magic washes over my skin as he studies me, canines extended, his body trembling. “Do you have a death wish, girl?”

  I keep my gaze trained on the man I thought I could read, the man I know know has many more layers than I initially suspected.

  Like me, I guess.

  I hope like hell those layers won’t come back to haunt me … especially as I go back to the doors of death to retrieve the relics of my past.

  “Not a death wish. I’m just taking charge of my life.”

  Because I may not have the capabilities to save the world, but I’m done being someone else’s bitch.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You have one fucking hour,” Sol snaps, frowning at my disguise—a red cape with a pillow stuffed down my front. Nothing to see here, folks.

  “Don’t forget, I’m fucking warded here. I can’t even attempt to save your arse if there are other eyes around, unless I want to die, which I don’t. Nor do I want my brothers to die. So you better make sure you’re by yourself when the hour’s up so I can get you the fuck out of this shit smeared city. Do you understand, Dell?”

  Wow. Serious tone.

  “I understand. I understood the first seven times you told me, too. I can handle myself, alright?”

  He rolls his fucking eyes at me before flying away through the dull morning light, leaving me alone in Hind Meadow on the outskirts of Grueling.

  “Moody Fae God.” I start walking towards the smell of dirty street water and rotting fish, pushing up the hood of my cloak to cover my hair and most of my face. Reaching the city, I pass painted ladies—wearing corsets pushing their breasts up to their chins and hailing the few men who meander along the muddy footpaths.

  I look down at my disguise and smile. Sol thought it was a terrible idea, I did it anyway.

  The men wear fancy silk blouses and breeches pulled so high up their arses I’m surprised they can walk. Red sashes are bound tightly around their waists, red to show their loyalty to King Sterling. His colour, even though his own wings are fucking white.

  I shuffle past unnoticed because I’m disguised as a pregnant breeder. Fucking genius, I know. I could be carrying a blessed boy! Nobody’s going to touch me with a ten-foot penis in this red cape.

  Women all wear red; the breeders—capes, the whores—skirts, the same as the help because really, what’s the difference? We all get preyed on, except the breeders; Fae who possess the right characteristics, looks or heritage to play the part.

  The breeders get treated a lot better most of the time, except that the newborns are taken away as soon as they can survive off the tit—to be brought up by the sperm donor that spawned the Faeling if it’s a boy. If it’s a girl, they’re marked for future potential breeders or sold to the highest bidder at the weekly market place.

  My destiny was determined when Kroe found me that day, four years old, walking the streets covered from head to toe in my mother’s blood. He hid me for years in the basement, in the dark, waiting for me to develop breasts and womanly curves ripe for fucking, hiding his pretty little ‘Cupcake’ so I didn’t get noticed … snatched up as a potential breeder.

  I started to bleed when I was nine, managed to hide it for three years with the help of an older woman who was kind to me. Marion knew which herbs to give me to cease the monthly bleeding, and she taught me how to tend my own wounds after the regular beatings to ‘tame my feral soul.’

  Then she stopped coming, replaced by a deaf woman who had no tongue.

  Locked in the dark with my chamber pot and small collection of relics to keep me company, I had no access to herbs to continue the treatment. It didn’t take long for Kroe to catch on, to see the blood on my sheets and to haul me to the fucking surgeon.

  I’ve been highly sought after over the years, having the supposed beauty of a breeder and the barren body of someone you can shag to your heart’s content with no risk of breeding implications. Someone to work out your wildest fantasies on, who’ll look good while you’re maiming her. Just don’t fuck up her face, then you’ll pay a handsome fee.

  I’m receiving the odd curious look, so I tug my hood tighter around my face—not far to go now.

  The box I’m looking for is hidden beneath a rock in the dungeon that was my home for seven years. The place where darkness was my only companion, apart from my master who fucked me and the woman who healed me.

  Somehow, I need to get in there.

  By the grace of fuck knows, I make it to the long alleyway next to Kroe’s castle-like establishment, the largest and most lavish building in Grueling, three storeys tall and made entirely of stone.

  I reach the low-lying window that’s at knee level, but has a dirty great big puddle on the ground right beside it. Of course. The window’s barred but one of them is loose, it can be pulled away and replaced at will. It took me four years to saw through that fucker with a contraband butter knife when I was supposed to be sleeping. Back then when I had hope.

  I’d heard from one brazen woman that a few had escaped and travelled East, where they were living happily, making homes in the trunks of the ancient trees. Problem is the East is across a goddamn desert that’s a two-week camel ride if you can afford it. Even if you have the money, no man would sell a whore a fucking camel. How do I know this? I tried. And failed. And got severely fucking beaten for my efforts, time and agai
n.

  I finally gave up and muted my soul.

  I stuff the pillow and robe in a crate on the opposite side of the alley. Hopefully I’ll need them on my way out again. I hike up my skirt, tiptoe around the puddle of piss and grip at the loose bar, wriggling it to displace it. It falls into my hand with the harsh scrape of metal on metal. I wince. It’s around six in the morning and winter in this part of the world, so it’s still quiet. Kroe’s girls don’t usually do overnight shifts, because he works us so hard during the day since his is the number one place to get laid. Everyone should be still sleeping. I’d like it to stay that way.

  I slip into the small space, contorting my limbs to fit between the bars. It’s not that difficult because I’m flexible as fuck, if I do say so myself.

  Once inside the room I realise I dropped the hem of my skirt in the puddle and I now smell like a toilet that hasn’t been flushed for weeks. Repressing the urge to gag, I wring it out and end up with hands smelling the same. Fucking lovely.

  This room’s used for storage, and it’s dark enough to make things difficult, if I didn’t know my way around. I shuffle a few feet to the right, past the piano, avoiding the tall lampshade that jingles. A small step to the left, turn my body to the right and ease past the two bookcases wedged closely together. I climb over the large blanket box, trying not to touch the two chairs that are upside down on top of it, then pause because there are fucking footsteps in the hall outside the room …

  Not ideal. Not fucking ideal.

  Perhaps they heard me prying the bar from the window? Shit. Getting caught is certainly not on the top of my priority list. For one, Sol would probably revel in the glory of being right about this whole scenario, and I’d never live it down. Not to mention I’d be dragged back into the throngs of eternal fuckery.

  With the stealth of a cockroach, I climb backwards over the blanket box, shuffle between the two bookcases and nestle myself beneath a small coffee table that’s covered in about an inch of dust. My nose instantly starts to itch. Yeah, not the best time to have a fucking dust allergy.

  The door to the storage basement swings open and the familiar scent of cigars and brandy infuses my senses.

  Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck.

  Kroe whistles a familiar tune, the same one I’ve heard him hum many times before—mainly post fuck while he wiped the cum from my leg and backside, and the underside of his limp cock.

  The room brightens and I realise he’s carrying a lantern, illuminating his way through the junk. He shuffles a few pieces around as though he’s looking for something, then it goes quiet, as if he’s standing still … listening.

  My nose itch peaks like a brewing orgasm, my eyes watering as I suppress the sneeze that’s desperate to shoot its load all over my motherfucking hand.

  He takes a step in my direction, then another. He’s so close I can hear him breathing, drawing a deep lungful of air.

  I hold my breath.

  The bastard’s probably scenting me. The same way I just scented him.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m fucked. And then I’ll be fucked. And then I’ll probably fucking die.

  He draws down another whiff of the room. “Smells like piss in here,” he states, then continues with his rummaging.

  And even though my foul odour just saved me from falling back into a life of fuckery, my face heats, because he’s right … I do smell like a fucking toilet.

  I take a small, shaky breath because I just dodged the whipping post—something I’m historically not very good at. But the battle isn’t won yet, because all that blood rushing to my face is bringing forth another mind-blowing, orgasmic sneeze. And I want it. I want it bad. I want it so bad that I’m considering just letting the fucker fly.

  I wonder if I could make it out through my little escape gap before he would reach me? Doubtful. He’d probably catch me by the ankles and I’d fall vagina first back into this hole of a life.

  Shit.

  Tears are streaming down my face from the effort of keeping the fucker reined in. I’m not crying, my body’s just seeping juices unceremoniously.

  “There you are,” Kroe mumbles, before dragging something along the ground. He blows a breath over whatever the hell it is, sending plumes of dust billowing into the air.

  Fuck.

  I’m holding my breath, fingers clamping my nose with my eyes screwed shut, because that’s all I can do to avoid this undoubtedly mind-blowing sneeze.

  He opens the door and drags what sounds like a dead fucking body through it, before allowing the door to thump shut behind him.

  I don’t dare let out my breath. Not yet. Not until I hear him pass through the door at the top of the stairway. By the time he drags whatever the hell he came down here for up to the top of those stairs I’m damn near close to passing out.

  Finally I breathe, and the sneeze comes out the second I open my mouth, which feels fucking amazing, because it’s not one sneeze, it’s two, right the fuck on top of each other. I bury my head in my skirt that smells like a toilet to tamper the sound, then gag, instantly regretting it. This is not my day.

  I shuffle out from under the table, edge myself back between the bookcases and clamber over the top of the blanket box, before tiptoeing across the room to the doorway Kroe just took. I take a moment to consider my questionable life choices before I gently pry it open, mainly concentrating on those stairs to the right, which lead to Kroe’s personal quarters, and check for any sign of life.

  None. Good.

  There isn’t much light without my usual lantern down here, which is a good thing, though the hallway looks like it belongs in a haunted house. I hope no ghosts sneak up and try to fornicate with me.

  Now for the hard part—I need to quietly pry open that trap door right there, a few metres down the hallway to the left. If someone comes down those stairs, I’m fucked. If I make too much noise lifting the heavy trap door, I’m fucked. If somebody randomly decides to lock the fucking latch while I’m down there, I’m fucked.

  No big deal.

  I take a deep breath, then another, and go for it.

  It’s not until I have the fifty-kilogram door lifted half way up that I realise I may not have the strength to push the fucker back open from the inside once I’m down there. Usually I leave it open when I’m visiting. Can’t fucking do that today.

  I come down here often because I like to visit my things, and I can disguise that by telling Kroe I want to visit my ‘home’. He gets some sick sense of pleasure from it, I see it in his eyes and I’m not entirely repulsed by the thought. Probably because I’m fucked in the head too, because of the seven years I spent knowing nothing except the darkness, his penis, and the healing hands of Marion.

  I’m gritting my teeth as I crawl through the gap, all the while keeping the trap door hoisted. I manoeuvre my body, dangling my feet through the hole so I can gain leverage on the ladder positioned there. I hope this isn’t the moment I drop a trap door at an inconsequential time and lose a fucking finger.

  And no, it isn’t, because I manage to close it quietly without losing leverage or making a single noise. I’m awesome, I’ll never underestimate myself again. If I wasn’t me already, I’d wish I were me, because that was legendary. I fist pump the air and wave to my imaginary, cheering crowd.

  Thank you. Thank you.

  I get to the bottom of the ladder and start blowing kisses to them while I smile and wave, because they’re cheering so fucking loudly. I love my fans.

  “What the fuck is she doing?”

  I freeze. Shit. That was Drake. I turn in the direction of his voice but can’t see anything, because it’s pitch black in here.

  Someone sparks a lantern and Drake in all his golden glory, enhanced further by the lantern light, comes into view. He has his arms crossed over his chest, looking royally pissed.

  But who the shit is holding the lantern?

  I turn, and there’s Kal looking sultry as fuck, even with that frown on his face and hip wi
de stance. His right hand is in his pocket, but I can see that it’s balled into a fist. Either that or he’s very glad to see me.

  “Why the fuck are you guys here?” I hiss, because I’m pissed off. My little ‘home’ is just through that brass door over there, and I can’t have my moment with my box if these two hulking arseholes are looming over me like persistent fucking shadows.

  “Why do you think, mortal?” Drake asks.

  “Fucking Aero.” I moan, slapping my palm to my face. That bastard’s been listening to my thoughts this entire time. I need to rein in my internal vomit.

  Drake nods, his loose curls flicking before his eyes. He casually swipes them away before taking two steps towards me. “Bingo.”

  I hold my ground because this isn’t fair. I’m so close. “Why didn’t he come then?”

  Drake frowns. “Because that fucker’s lost a lot of control since you came on the scene, and we couldn’t risk drawing attention to ourselves right now. So, Sol intervened.”

  Right.

  “Meaning he compelled him to stand still like a fucking statue. Bet that’s going down like a bag of shit.” I don’t do the family dynamics any favours.

  I turn to Kal, who suits all this darkness I’d like to add, though he’s still on my shit list. “So, have you guys come to take me?” My tone’s flat, because I feel flat. My imaginary crowd’s throwing vegetables.

  Kal grinds his jaw. “No.”

  “Why not?” That piqued my interest, and my crowd’s murmuring. There are a lot of them so it’s loud as fuck. Shh guys, I need to hear.

  Kal shuffles, all those hard muscles seeming to flex as if he’s restraining himself. “Because we can’t.”

  Ahh … “Say what now?”

  “Mouth fucking closed Kal, you idiot!” Drake snaps.

  But then it hits me like a penis to the rear end. “The wish. You guys can’t interfere until my hour’s up either … can you?”

  Kal pulls his fist from his pocket and rubs at his face, probably because he can’t fucking lie to me, none of them can, something I haven’t utilised enough. The movement makes him appear exhausted, and a little bit tousled, which makes me think about dancing the maypole with him. Wayward vagina.