Dark Fae

by Quinn Blackbird

  From the fire-torch in a room that’s off the corridor, I can faintly make out that I’m inside the hall of a home. There are picture frames, caked in dust, hanging on the walls. Some vases dot along the floor, cracked in places where flower designs have faded. Maybe the owners of the café lived here.

  I pause at the door where the fire-torch breathes orange light into the hall. Holding my breath, I peer around the doorframe. The dark fae steals every bit of courage from my soul.

  My legs quiver at the sight of him, despite that he has his back to me, and I have to seize my middle to stop from wetting myself right here and now.

  He’s fucking huge.

  Not just tall. Not just taller than human men by a solid foot or so, but wide too. Muscles bulge out from beneath his chain-link armour vest. His arms are bare, an earthy dark complexion glittering in the firelight. I decide he has legs for arms, they’re so muscular. Down his back, pale blond hair falls sleekly from a nape-ponytail, giving off the glint that a sword flickers with in moonlight.

  Everything about it screams warrior. He’s a walking killing machine. Built for the bloodshed he spreads over the world.

  I hold my breath and quickly creep by the doorway. I pause at the other side, silent and waiting. But he didn’t hear me.

  My breath comes out in a ribbon of relief before I head down the hall. My options are limited. Can’t go back to the doors that are open, can’t go up the stairs or back into the cupboard. Only option is straight ahead, through the door I came from.

  I sneak back into the kitchen of the café, my footsteps careful and certain. This time in the kitchen, I don’t make a sound. Not even the noise of boots against the floor gives me away. I tread carefully, like my life depends on it, because it does.

  I make it to the half-door before sound escapes me. A whimper chokes me. I slap my hands to my mouth and cringe, not at the sound I made, but at what I see through the windows of the café.

  Already, the village is burning.

  Even through the dust caking the windows, I see the flames soaring up the faces of the buildings, consuming them. Fire rages through the once-homes, and destroys the memories that once lived here. It’s amazing how quickly fire catches. It seems to jump from one building to the next, like the plague did when it first came.

  But worse, hordes of the dark fae are out there. I see them on their beastly steeds, brandishing their swords in the fierce reds of firelight. Some of their laughs slither into the café and snake at my feet. I’m frozen by the sight of them out there—at what they are doing.

  They are hollering over the cries of my captured people.

  At least a dozen people—definitely human—are sat on the ground, surrounded by armed dark fae. Like guards, almost. But…

  I step closer to the windows, careful to keep tucked in the shadows of the café. As I inch closer, I can better see the faces of the humans, illuminated by the fires raging all over the village.

  They’re not my people.

  These people—they are undoubtedly human. I can see it in the hollow expressions that their faces wear, the torn and bloodied ordinary clothes clinging to their slender frames.

  But I don’t recognise any of them.

  These people are strangers. But what’s odd about that is how closely they are guarded by at least twenty of the dark fae. They stand with their backs to the humans who huddle together on the ground, and they hold their weapons ready while the rest of them pillage this village.

  I do recognise the face of a body on the street. It lays there, lifeless. Its face stricken, eyes wide open and reflecting the fire that consumes all around.

  Lee.

  Guess he didn’t make it. I wonder who did. I might still be alive, but that doesn’t mean for a moment that I’ll make it out of this alive. Chances are, I’ll end up just like Lee there. Left like garbage on the ground. Something to be stepped over, ignored. Forgotten.

  I slink back into the shadows.

  Don’t have time to waste on anyone but myself and my own survival. I need to find a way out of this damned village before I burn down with it.

  I throw a look over my shoulder and see the glow of firelight brighten. It stretches up the walls and starts to invade the kitchen.

  The dark fae are coming back this way—they’ve finished with the inside of this building, finished gutting it to find people like me.

  Now they’re headed right for me.

  Looking around the café, I see how trapped I am. The door that leads to the main street would spill me right into the laps of a hundred dark fae, and I can’t go back into the house behind the café.

  With no real choice, I rush to the window I came through. With a quick glance out at the alley, I see the blaze of fire all around. It’s eating its way through the village from all angles. Still, I don’t see another way out.

  I throw myself out of the window, fast. My landing comes with a smack on the cobblestone ground.

  With a grunt, I roll onto my side and sluggishly get to my feet. The light from the blaze shows me all the ways to die—run out into the main street, run to the wall that blocks the alley from going anywhere, run into the burning building opposite me, or run back into the café and face-off with two dark fae.

  I’ve felt trapped more times than I can count. My whole life has been one unbreakable trap and I’ve never truly escaped it.

  But this is something else.

  This… this is the end.

  6

  I don’t have any other choice but to climb the wall severing the alley before the dark fae see me.

  I see them. In the street, shrouded in a fiery red light. I see them throw fire-torches through windows and doors, shout and jeer as they bathe in the destruction they are causing. And all it will take is one glance up the alley for them to discover me.

  I run. My legs struggle to carry me over to the wall. They’re starting to feel like jelly, as if the bones are disintegrating and my muscles are liquefying.

  Still, I make it to the wall.

  I skid to a stop a moment before I can slam into it. In the light from the street, I can see the insides of the alley better—I can see the window on the opposite wall, tucked neatly beside the stone wall I need to climb.

  A breath of relief swells in my chest as I jump for the window. The toes of my boots tuck onto the windowsill and I reach for the tip of the stone wall. Just as I get a firm grip on the wall and hoist myself up, I hear a sudden shout from behind me.

  Wide-eyed, I look over my shoulder. And my heart plummets to my gut.

  The dark fae have spotted me. One of them at least. He stands, tall and looming, at the mouth of the alley and points at me with the tip of his sword. My stomach is churning with ice-cold fear at the sight of his feverish face. He is excited. He likes this, craves this. The hunt. The chase.

  And that’s what I give him.

  Dozens of wild fae eyes turn on me. I barely have a moment to look them back in the eye before I turn back to the stone wall. Their sudden outburst of war-cries spurs me forward, and I’m falling over the edge of the wall.

  I land on cobblestone, hard. The knife falls from my grip.

  My scream rises up with the roar of the dark fae. Their footfalls pound against the ground on the other side of the wall. They’re coming. Doesn’t matter if I broke a bone or have a concussion—I need to move.

  I cry out as I flip onto my front, then push up to stand. Beneath me, my legs tremble and my ankle throbs angrily. Definitely twisted it at the least, if not fractured the bone. But that’s the last worry on my mind as I push down the dark alley to where gutters and streets end, and trees loom in the distance.

  Massive thuds erupt behind me. The dark fae, jumping over the wall, landing on my side of the alley. They’re coming for me.

  At the end of the alley, I realise I’m at the edge of the village. Beyond a hill, I face the edge of a forest that can save me from the dark fae, with places to run and hide, no fires in sight. But as I make
it to the end of the alley, shadows stretch up the cobblestone, snaring at my ankles.

  I race for the treeline ahead.

  My bag slams against my back, hitting a sore spot where my tailbone is—it cries out with every thud, agony searing me beneath the flesh. Falling over that wall has wounded me all over.

  I shove through the pain exploding under my skin, at my ankle and back, my burning shoulder—I push through the pain and run faster than I fear my legs can carry me. They’re wobbling beneath me, threatening to give way as I race up the hill.

  I make it halfway before an arrow whirs by my face. I jerk back just in time. It grazes my nose a second before I throw myself back onto the grassy slope.

  My bag breaks the fall as I slam down on the dirt. But it doesn’t stop me from rolling down the hill, faster than I can run. Everything whirls by me; grass, dirt, and darkness polluted by orange firelight. The spinning only stops when I land with a crunch on the cobblestone at the bottom of the hill.

  With a grunt, I scramble to my feet and spin around.

  The dark fae are pouring out from the alleys, all over the village, and from the woods comes another dozen of them, arrows notched and ready to release. And as I know from the tiny drop of blood swelling at the tip of my nose, their arrows are faithful.

  I’m completely surrounded. I have nowhere to go.

  They advance on me. Their movements are dulled now. They know they have me cornered. They advance, slow and steady, wearing wicked smiles on their faces or vicious scowls that ache of bloodlust.

  I can’t believe, after this long of survival, this is how it ends. Behind some forgotten village, where I’ll be left to rot or be eaten by wild animals from the woods. Either way, I’ll be gone. Forgotten, just like the village.

  I back up to the nearest building until the hard touch of its walls presses against my bag. My hands somehow found themselves held up, as if in surrender.

  And I do surrender, don’t I? By not running or fighting, I’m giving up. Facing death so weakly might not save my life, but it might mean a quick death. And that’s the best I can hope for right now.

  Menacing faces draw in closer. Bloodshed glimmers in dangerous eyes all around me. I sink back further against the wall, as if I can simply fall into it and vanish.

  It’s truly terrifying how silent their footsteps are. Even as they close in on me and I see their boots flatten against the ground, I can’t hear much other than my own rapid, choppy breaths and pounding heart.

  Sweat seeps out from my pores. I can feel the beads gather at my brow. Watching the advancing dark fae, I hook my thumbs through the straps of my bag and slip it off. It slams down at my feet, freeing up the space between my waistband and my hand.

  Reaching behind me, I feel around the waistband for the scissors tucked there. My fingers brush the handle as the first dark fae, whose eyes are like cut emeralds, comes at me.

  I whip out the scissors and strike. Of course it misses him.

  He laughs as he effortlessly dodges my attack. His laughter rises up over the army as some even throw their heads back and howl.

  Guess I’ll go down fighting after all. But I’ll be laughed at in my final moments.

  I lunge forward and swipe out at him again. His fiery-red hair whips to the side as he swirls around, and my scissors sinks into nothing but dark air.

  Howls of laughter bubbles over the fae.

  The red-haired one turns to face me, a feral grin twisting his mouth. He looks up at me from beneath short lashes and, in a blink, he moves for me.

  A scream catches in my throat as he snatches me by the throat and, swiftly, throws me back against the wall. I smack against it audibly, then crumble to the ground.

  Heat swells at the back of my head. Blood, I’m sure of it. I felt the crunch of my skull against the solid wall. My bones heard the impact.

  The ground is spinning. I try to push myself upright, but everything tilts with every move I make, and dizziness washes over me. My body jerks forward as a violent heave shoves through me, and I slowly let myself slump against the ground. Better to die down here.

  The heat of flames advances on me. I feel the sear against my skin. Lazily, I look up at the dark fae crowding me and see the fire-torches in their hands, outstretched, as they get a good look at me.

  Some of the dark fae wear frowns as they study me. The red-haired one tilts his head and stares intently at the side of my neck.

  Gingerly, I reach my hand to my neck and feel around for any monstrosity or wound. But there’s nothing there, nothing that I can feel at least. But there must be something, otherwise why are they all looking at my neck as if it’s just sprouted an arm?

  Murmurs ripple over the crowd encircling me. Some of them look to another and talk in soft voices—as soft as their cutting language can sound. I frown back at the red-haired one as he takes a hesitant step toward me. I notice that he’s holstered his blade. There are no weapons in his hand.

  He swipes a fire-torch out of another fae’s hand, then brings it closer to my head. The heat burns my skin, an odd itchy sensation. But it’s a short-lived feeling, because he pulls back after a few seconds, apparently satisfied. He chucks the fire-torch back to the one he stole it from, then gestures to me.

  I’m too sore to move. My heart is pounding, my legs don’t work. It’s all I can do to lie on the ground as two fae move in on me and lift me up.

  They carry me, not kill me. Yet.

  I’m limp, like cooked spaghetti, in their holds. One has me by the arms, the other by the legs. They cart me around the building. We’re headed towards the main street. The small crowd of fae follows us, but some spear off and head in different directions—no doubt to finish their sweep of the village before it burns to the ground.

  Fire is everywhere.

  As I’m carted down a narrow alley, the stink of singed cloth and wood burns my nose. The red light of the fires waters my eyes. I’m not used to so much brightness. Even if it’s the light of death-come-knocking.

  They carry me halfway down the alley before they come to an abrupt stop. I sway in their hold, trying to wiggle my way out. But their grips are tight, like iron shackles.

  I quickly still and freeze in their hold.

  I hear him before I see him; the purposeful steps he takes up the alley, the clink of armour, the song of a dagger he sheathes.

  I turn my head to the mouth of the alley, where the main street blazes orange. And I see his silhouette first. Tall, broad—consuming.

  Danger creeps up my spine. I have the sudden urge to break free and run at the other dark fae. I don’t want to face this one coming up the alley, the one all the others fall silent for.

  My breath is deep and shaky as I see him completely engulfed in firelight.

  The darkness fades from him, but lashes of it seem to lick at his heels, as though the darkness itself belongs to him, he is their master, their home. His soft-soled boots are thin, onyx-black leather, matching the trousers that grip him.

  At his hips hangs a belt that’s home to all kinds of daggers and throwing knives. Some blades wear traces of fresh blood, and my spine shivers at the sight of the crimson smears gleaming in firelight.

  Chain-link armour—so fine that it appears to have been made from silk threads—clings to a black-leather vest he wears. Paler than moonlight, his skin is scarred all over. His arms, muscular and strong, are ribbed by these strange scars. They aren’t bumped like the scars that scatter my arms, but pale and jagged not unlike stretch marks. They climb up his neck like claws, and stop just before the strong jawline.

  His face steals me.

  I’ve seen some dark fae from a distance before, and up close and personal today. They are all beautiful in the most dangerous of ways, like deadly cobras or lethal panthers. But this one… he’s something else.

  His sleek dark hair falls to the side and brushes over his raised eyebrow. His eyes are pits of nothingness, just pure black. As I take in his face, I think fleetingly of ou
r old world and the likes of Henry Cavill and Matt Bomer.

  Only, this guy is no pampered actor. He’s a warrior, and his onyx-black eyes are fixed on me. There’s nothing friendly about the way he looks at me, either. I get the gut-churning feeling he’s about to skin me alive.

  Suddenly, the dark fae let me go and I’m not given a moment to catch myself before I slam to the ground. Cobblestone hits me hard for the countless time today, and a weak groan of pain whispers out from my clenched teeth.

  I roll onto my side, keeping a wary eye on the dark fae approaching me. As he draws nearer, I see the wink of black circling his head—a diadem of sorts that sits on his head like a crown. Some dusty black material, like a metal coated with charcoal.

  He’s their leader.

  I feel like a damn fool for taking this long to realise it. But that’s why the dark fae didn’t kill me when I stood my ground. For some reason, they took me to him—and suddenly, my mind flashes with reminders of the human prisoners with the dark fae army. The ones who are guarded heavily out in the street.

  My veins run cold and a chill trickles down my spine. Fear clutches my heart and squeezes.

  That familiar cutting sound of their language slices through my thoughts. I force myself to sit, and look back at the dark fae who dropped my legs. A blond one with eyes like pearls and cutting cheekbones. He talks to the leader as he comes to a stop an arm’s reach from me. Then, they both turn their stares down at me.

  I suddenly wish I could shrink into a withering flower, then blow away in the fire’s hot winds. I wish I could I turn to ash.

  The leader speaks. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s looking right at me. Then, a sharp pain erupts at the back of my head—the blond fae grabs my hair and twists my head away.

  I face the ground, my bloody hand pressed against it, as it sinks in. My neck is exposed to the leader. Whatever it was that they saw on my neck earlier, whatever it was that urged them to bring me to their leader, they’re showing it to him now.

  But all I have on my neck is some freckles. That’s all. No scars from hurting myself, or war wounds, no tattoos or brand-marks. Nothing that stands out.