So I can’t even imagine what all this interest is about.
The leader takes some steps closer to me. I clamp my mouth shut and force myself to stay silent. As he reaches for me, I cringe against the ground. His grip coils around my neck. He holds me for a beat, then he yanks me up to my feet and throws me against the wall.
I grunt, though the impact didn’t hurt too bad. Not as bad as falling off the wall.
Now, I’m drenched in the fiery light from the street. Now, he can better see me, I realise.
I keep the weight off my ankle by leaning against the wall, and warily watch the leader advance on me. But there’s no murder in his dangerous eyes. He’s focused on the side of my neck as he peels hair off my skin, one strand at a time.
Instinctively, I cringe away from his touch. But that doesn’t stop him. Instead, it gives him a better view of my neck.
His sharp, black fingernail drags the final strand of hair away from my neck. Then, he runs his fingertips down my skin to my collarbone. He’s silent for a while, studying whatever it is he sees on my neck.
Most of the dark fae who crowded me before are gone. Now, only three of them remain with us in the alley. The fires still rage on—their crackling and roars singing through the village. But all I can focus on in this moment is the dark fae leader, touching me.
My skin shivers. Little bumps prickle along my arms, and I fight the urge to shove him away from me. But in reality, I daren’t move an inch. My muscles are seized up, frozen beneath my skin, and even my breath stays trapped deep in my throat like a lump of coal.
He’s so close, I can feel his hot breath on my skin. Just a whisper, but still, it forces me into a statue, unmovable in fiery winds.
His fingers leave the side of my neck and travel down to my throat. He grips, loosely. The lazy grip of a tired beast holding onto prey it’s not all that interested in.
Pain nips at my neck—the bite of his nails against my skin. I wince, the first sound I’ve made since being thrown at the wall. His grip tightens somewhat, as if to respond to my sound, as if just realising I’m a person, trapped.
He holds my neck tighter and pulls me to the side, forcing my head to turn until I face him. I look up at him from beneath wet lashes. I realise just now that I’m weeping.
The leader stares down at me with eyes blacker than the darkness that swallows the world. He studies me in a thick, tense silence that I’m sure will end with my head severed from my body.
Our faces are so close that our noses touch, barely. Just a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to flood my body with adrenaline. Ever been this close to a wild, savage beast before? Every nerve and muscle in my body is screaming for me to run, run into the fire to save myself from the agony he’ll inflict upon me.
I turn my gaze down at his full lips to avoid his stare.
The silence is becoming deafening when he finally breaks it.
“Have you more?” he asks.
With a jerk, I look up at him, my brows arched. I definitely didn’t expect him to speak any human language, let alone the one I know.
But once the shock settles and I register his words, confusion creases my forehead and I shake my head. “I don’t understand,” I tell him in a choked, whispered voice, a voice that speaks of fear and panic.
“More of these,” he says, his tone thick with an earthly accent. His hand abandons its grip on my neck before his fingertips graze over the freckles he touched before. “Three freckles,” he explains, holding my gaze steady, “in a crooked line, like the stars.”
As if I can see the stars, I look up to the sky. But even with the blaze that eats through the village, I can’t see them, and I don’t know what he’s talking about. What stars? There are more than three out there.
But I shove aside my poor astronomy skills and force myself to focus on what he said. Three freckles, in a line—a crooked one at that.
I race to think over my entire body. I know my scars well, better than I know the back of my own hand, or the reflection that greets me in the mirror.
I come up with an answer. “Yeah… I mean, I think so.”
The word ‘why’ sits on my tongue, burning me. I’m desperate to ask why he wants to know about my freckles, why they have to be in a crooked line. But I bite my tongue, hard, to stop from stirring rage in the beast who could easily tear out my throat.
“Show me,” he says and releases me. He takes a step back, still standing in the orange blaze that grows hotter by the second. I only realise now how much I’m sweating.
With a slow, unsure nod, I peel off my cardigan. It sticks to my clammy skin like cling-film on a wet surface.
My tank top hugs me like a second skin, and I’m all too aware of the holes in it at my belly. My stomach is practically sunken in from how little I’ve eaten lately.
Shakily, I outstretch my arm, letting it bask in the fiery light. The heat is almost unbearable now. But if the dark fae aren’t fleeing from the fire yet, then maybe I shouldn’t worry. Not that I’ll live long enough to be concerned about the fire.
My arm stays outstretched between us.
The fae rinses his gaze over my tattered flesh. He lingers over the fresh wound, wrapped loosely in a cloth. Slowly, he reaches out for the cloth and pinches it between his sharp fingernails. With a gentle tug, the bloody rag falls to the ground and lands between us.
Now, my arm is bare. As naked as can be. He sees all of the scars smearing my flesh, and the red, angry cuts slicing through my skin. The tattoo between my fresh cuts and the bone of my wrist.
My heart stops as he takes my wrist in his gentle grip and, with his thumb, brushes the skin of my tattoo. His brow creases as he studies the odd shape of my ink.
It doesn’t mean anything—it’s just a shape. But he’s too interested in it. His mouth tilts into a frown to match his face as he uses his thumb again to brush over the inked skin. It’s as though he’s trying to wipe it away.
He murmurs something under his breath. Too quiet for the blond fae to hear him, and I don’t understand anything he says in his language, so I get the feeling he’s talking to himself, mulling something over.
The leader finally wrenches his stare from the tattoo. He looks up at me instead, a smouldering curiosity swimming in his molten eyes.
Slowly, his hand leaves my wrist and travels up along my scars to the three dotted freckles tucked away at the crease of my arm. He clutches my elbow tightly and turns my arm toward the flames blazing up from the street. Light blasts my arm, giving him a better look at the freckles.
I have more of them, I think. Three in a crooked line. On my ankle, on my back, just above my left breast. But I never paid them much mind before now. Even now, I’m more interested in why he is interested in them. Though, some questions are better left unanswered.
Head still bowed, he lifts his gaze from my arm and looks at me from beneath his long lashes. “You have more of these?” he asks.
I can only manage a nod in answer.
This satisfies him. He releases my arm and turns his back on me. I stay glued to the wall as he murmurs something in his language to the blond fae who waits by the opposite wall.
The blond one nods, then turns his attention on me. I shudder under the intense curiosity in his eyes. He moves for me, and without thinking, I just react.
I shove from the wall and make a run for it, headed for the blazing street. I make it two hobbled steps that sear pain in my ankle before something strong grabs my shoulder and hoists me back. I stagger, unbalanced.
The leader has me by the shoulder.
I jerk back as if to escape him, but he doesn’t give me the chance. In one swift move, he lets me go, then boots me hard in the stomach. I fly back and hit the wall—my head smacks against the brick with an audible crunch.
I crumble to the ground, seeing boots move for me.
I’m sprawled on my side at the boots of the fae leader. He stares down at me with an impassive look, as though he didn’t just crack
my skull against the wall. His head tilts to the side as he studies me. I can only manage a hazy look back up at him, my lashes drooping and my grip on consciousness is loosening.
Guess they really don’t want me to get away. I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t have those crooked-line-freckles all over my body. Would he have run me through with a sword instead?
I doubt they would go to this trouble if I didn’t have the freckles. But the meaning of those small dots on my body gives way to the exploding pain at the back of my skull.
Dazed, I reach back to my aching head and gingerly touch the throbbing spot. My fingers wet instantly. Blood seeps out of the wound and clots my hair together. I bring my fingers back to myself. The blood glows bright crimson in the fiery light. Now, I feel the burn of tears searing my eyes.
I blink away the tears and watch as the leader’s boots retreat. He’s gone, leaving me with the blond fae—the one with the cheekbones as sharp as shards of glass.
Cheekbones marches over to me, scoops me up in his arms, then hoists me over his shoulder. All I can see is cobblestone and the heels of his boots. Some blood starts to trickle down my face. Drops make their way into my mouth, and I have to spit out the bitter taste from my tongue.
I’m as limp as a noodle slung over a fae’s shoulder. But I cling to consciousness as he carries me to the main street. The closer we get, the hotter and thicker the air becomes, and my breaths feel more suffocating than fresh. Already, ash and smog floods the air. I can taste the bitterness on my tongue.
Out on the street, it’s even worse. I can barely keep my eyes open against the violent blaze that’s swallowing the whole village. And that’s exactly what it’s doing. I turn my head just enough to see the street. The grocery shop we’d camped out in last night is gone already. Crushed under the weight of the flames that now simply dance over its grave.
How long has the village been burning? It hasn’t felt like very long for me, maybe an hour or so, but the total destruction all around me speaks of a whole day that might have passed.
Somewhere above the dark skies, is it night? Does the moon shine down on an impenetrable veil of black, never to touch our world again?
My thoughts are drifting away from me. A flurry of panic blossoms deep in my gut—how much damage have my head injuries done? A broken ankle and bruised ribs I can live with. But fear nips at me at the thought of my cracked skull, whose blood now completely coats my face.
I spit out a chunk of blood as Cheekbones comes to a stop. I can’t see where we’ve stopped, only the cobblestones and his boots. Then, he jerks me off his shoulder and throws me away from him.
Arms and bodies catch me before I can slam to the ground, hard. They break my fall, whoever they are. The human prisoners, I realise, as I look up at the faces hovering above me. The fae threw me to them, like I was nothing more than a bag of grain.
The tear of fabric ripping draws me in. I watch as a middle-aged dark-skinned man rips the hem of his shirt then brings it closer to me. My eyes flicker as he wraps the make-shift bandage around my skull-wound, securing it at the back of my head.
I try to focus on the faces above mine. Some look down at me with pity and worry etched onto their expressions. Some look like stony statues simply watching me. But what’s odd is that all of them are a blur. Each face has two pairs of eyes, warped noses and chins like a distorted painting, and, as they murmur to each other quietly, their mouths look like gaping black holes. Chasms of nothingness.
The darkness from their mouths is spreading, seeping over their faces and bodies, swallowing the fires that are raging on all around us.
No, that’s not their darkness—it’s mine.
Finally, my grip on consciousness is failing. I can’t hold on a moment longer. It’s slipping through my fingers, until the darkness eats up everything around me, and I’m left to fall into it with only nearby screams to carry with me and one lingering thought—
I’ve been taken.
end of book one.
QUINN BLACKBIRD
TAKEN, BOOK 2, IS OUT NOW.
THIS SERIES A RAPID-RELEASE, AND ALL INSTALLMENTS WILL BE RELEASED OFTEN.
I hope you enjoyed Dark Fae, book one in The Dark Fae series.
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KEEP READING FOR A ‘GODS AND MONSTERS’ TEASER
PRINCE POISON TEASER, BOOK 1 IN GODS AND MONSTERS.
A shaky breath hitched in my throat as his fingertips reached my chin.
Surprisingly, his touch was gentle. Then he dragged the tip of a silver nail along my skin.
The ferocity of his eyes kept my gaze locked and my body stiff. The nail lowered—down my pulsing throat, slower than the clock’s ticking.
“I can tear your throat out right here,” he said, his voice a hushed whisper of threats and spilled blood. “I could kill you a thousand different ways where you sit.”
The nail cut deeper. Blood beaded, then spilled down my front, over my breasts.
I choked on a whimper.
“Now tell me everything.”
SAMPLE CHAPTER FROM GODS AND MONSTERS, BOOK 1 (PRINCE POISON, CHAPTER 1)
Few knew my secret and it already carried a death toll:
One.
It might not seem very high but how can a mother’s life be measured?
Sometimes, as I stood on the path to our icy, salt-aired cabin, I looked to the pier and saw it all happen again.
Today was no different.
I watched the creaky pier and relived the worst moment of my life. Mother, being cut down in front of me, like a human shield wielded to protect me; her curse.
As she took her last breath, I became my brother’s burden.
I cut my gaze to the damp, soggy markets in the heart of our isle’s village. My brother, Moritz, was down there, somewhere.
Did he ever look to the docks like I did and remember the cruel wink of the sword as it took our mother’s life? Or had the memory faded into the blurred masses of sea-travellers by now?
Our dock saw many visitors.
Isle Zwayk procured the sharpest swordfish in all the lands. Our mussels were said to be stronger aphrodisiacs than the God, Lover Lust, and our crabs were the butteriest on any shore. But the day my mother died, the docks were swarmed with sailors and pirates, and they took more than seafood.
Twenty years did too much to the sorrow and grief. I should have felt something. I should have still mourned her. Yet, I only knew that I should, and I didn’t.
So I pretended.
I went through life pretending I wasn’t a monster, that my brother wasn’t afraid of me, that I hadn’t let my nephew swim alone in the sea on his third birthday, not caring if I never saw him again. I pretended because I had to. Because I should have cared.
But no matter how hard I fought it, it never quite fit. The darkness inside of me was there to stay, long enough that I named it—
Monster.
Monster looked just like me. She had the same ashen hair and eyes greener and sharper than any broken emerald stone. But Monster was hollow and cruel.
The stronger the boredom, the harder Monster fought to come out and play.
Boredom was a guarantee here.
Living on Isle Zwayk didn’t offer much, other than distance from the Gods. I should have been grateful for that. At least, that was what my mother used to tell me.
T
here is no greater gift than to live outside of our Gods’ light.
Of the few memories I had of my mother, that was the strongest: the one I replayed in my mind every night I found myself dreaming of bigger things in life than chores and work.
I reminded myself of that as I swept the front path to the creaky cabin that was home to the remains of my family.
My gaze should have been locked onto my work, but I found myself watching the shimmer of the horizon far across the sea.
If one looked hard enough, just moments after dawn, the faint whisper of our neighbouring isle could be seen dancing over the horizon. But it was far past dawn, and all I could see were the wispy pinks and reds of a nearing sunset.
That isle couldn’t have been much different to mine. Still, I wondered sometimes what it would be like there. Closer to the Gods, if only by a little.
Numbly, I turned my gaze down at my hands, wrapped tight around a splintered broomstick.
“The farther away from the Gods, the better,” I told myself.
Maybe one day I might have believed myself, rather than feared—and I did fear myself.
My secret that had to stay hidden.
“Valissa!”
I jolted out of my thoughts.
At the sound of that familiar grating screech, my slender shoulders stiffened and my grip tightened even more. White dots began to blot along my knuckles.
“Valissa!” she called again, so loud that a watchful crow that was perched on the cabin’s fence suddenly took flight.
I watched it go for a moment, wishing I could fly away with it. To escape many things, but in that moment to escape her—the dreaded sister-in-law.
With a huff, I let the broomstick fall and I shoved through the front door to the chilly cabin. Even with the day’s whisper of warmth still lingering, the cabin would be cold always, and the moisture from the sea would stay trapped inside.
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