Soulbound

by Kristen Callihan

  Eliza tried not to look there, at the obscene, angry length of him, bobbing about with each breath he took. Nor did she want to meet his eyes. She did not want to know what lay behind them, if he was in agony or in ecstasy. She settled for studying the pale length of his flank, smooth near his buttock, furred with blond hairs along his thigh, now glistening in the dim glow of the room.

  “This one is wonderfully obedient, is he not?” murmured a feminine voice in her ear.

  Eliza forced herself to stir, and she swore the tight clench of her corset threatened to put her off her turtle soup. “He has lasted longer than the others.” A benign statement but the only one she could muster. For there had been others. A parade of young and beautiful creatures looking for sensual pleasure in the hands of Eliza’s Auntie Mab and her court of fools.

  At Eliza’s side, Mab’s ivory skin was luminous and without line or flaw, her auburn hair holding glints of gold, bronze, and copper. An ageless beauty that did not seem natural. Unless you took into account that Mab was fae, an immortal.

  Fairies. Fae. Eliza had never paid myths much mind. In Boston, one was far more likely to hear stories of the Headless Horseman than those of little winged creatures. How very misinformed she’d been. Fae were beautiful, powerful, and able to alter their appearance to pass as human. Mab confided it took a measure of power to maintain, and that once their bodies were destroyed here, the fae must return to their lands to regenerate. Decidedly strange creatures. And, according to Mab, Eliza had their blood running through her veins.

  A year ago, Eliza would have thought her aunt mad if she’d claimed to be one, save Eliza had once been chained to the demon Adam long enough for the wool to be irrevocably pulled from her eyes. This brave new world was not the bland, colorless life she’d once lived amongst normal society.

  Around her, fine gentlemen and ladies ate a grand feast at the fifty-foot long white marble table. Candlelight and crystal turned the world into glitter and gold. Wine flowed with the generosity of Bacchus, servants dressed in emerald green ready to refill a glass should it lower even an inch. Which made for sloppy drunkenness. A respectable lord tossed a chicken leg across the table, and the room erupted into laughter as it landed with stunning precision directly between the large globes of a countess’s breasts.

  The countess merely plucked the little limb from her bodice and bit into the meat with pearly teeth.

  Eliza took a bracing sip of wine and immediately regretted it, as a low burn traveled down her throat. Sticky-sweet smoke drifting from hanging brass burners made her head light. And the poor lad laid out before her, desperate for attention, seemed to give a silent sigh, his body growing ever more tense. At Eliza’s side, Mab chuckled before leaning forward to trace a path with her tongue along the young lad’s ribs. He moaned in response, his pale length arching. A mistake.

  Mab lifted her riding crop and snapped it down on tender, unprotected flesh, eliciting another moan from the man. “Silence.” She whipped him again, much to the room’s amusement. “I did not give you leave to make a sound. Or to move.”

  And so he tried again to behave. Mab turned to Eliza, and her dark eyes were alight with glee. “A sturdy hand, Eliza. They relish it, you see.”

  Yes, she saw very well. Mab was grooming her. It had happened slowly, the fall into this particular niche of debauchery. It had been lovely at first, being given costly gowns of the finest silk, velvets, and cashmere, living in Mab’s luxurious home, eating rich and luscious foods every day. And the parties. Endless parties. No one to tell her that she was too loud, too brash, clumsy, frivolous. No one stalking her for favors she did not want to give. Eliza was free. To be herself, to indulge in whatever whim pleased her.

  But then came the cruelty. Eliza had seen enough of the world to understand that those who begged to be tied up and whipped did so in the pursuit of pleasure. They’d come to the wrong place. For Eliza suffered no illusions now; Mab’s pleasure derived from the pain and suffering of others. And the lad upon the table would soon end up like those who had come before him. Dead.

  Unable to take another moment, Eliza pushed back from the table, her voluminous, aubergine satin skirts undulating as she rose.

  Mab’s delicate auburn brow lifted. “Surely you are not leaving.”

  Eliza could make many excuses. She chose the one most likely to repulse. Leaning down, she whispered in Mab’s ear. “Privy.”

  Her aunt’s pert nose wrinkled. “Horrid, the human body.” Her pale hand waved in lazy fashion. “Go. And be comforted in the knowledge that soon you will not suffer such indignities.”

  Why? Eliza hadn’t the courage to ask her. It seemed her courage had left her on the day she’d fled the demon. She ought to have fought him for her right to live free.

  Cool damp swarmed her as she stepped onto the stone terrace that ran along the back of the house. From inside, ribald laughter continued, a trilling sound that scraped her nerves. But here all was clear and still. Eliza hugged herself close. She did not want to be in this house, in this life. And though she was likely as foul and morally wrong as they were, she did not want to be. She could run. Again.

  Always running. Since the age of fourteen when her grandfather Aidan died, she’d been running from things. Some nights, it felt as though she were running towards something. But she’d never found it. Only death and entrapment. Oh, but she knew death.

  She had died once. Years ago. Of that she was certain. She’d felt the sting of the knife as it pulled through her flesh. And seen her life’s blood spread in a crimson pool about her still body, and known with cold certainty that she’d suffered a mortal wound. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. And yet she now lived. Because he had given her life anew. “Him, he,” that is how she thought of the demon who’d held her captive for a time, linking her wrist to his by an enchanted golden chain. Never think his name, much less utter it. To give voice to a name, even in one’s secret thoughts, was to give it power. Eliza May had enough sense to know this.

  Yet, try as she might, the memory of the demon, that darkly handsome fiend who oozed sensual heat and temptation, never left her. Not for a moment. Such a strange demon, the one who created an entire race of supernatural beings. He’d called them Ghosts in the Machine, the GIM. Humans who, like her, had been struck down before their time yet refused to go gently into that cold night. The demon had given them immortality, the ability to roam free in spirit form, and a clockwork heart to bind them to him for a period of time. It seemed a fair bargain. Yet she’d received no such heart. He’d wanted something else from her. Her very soul. Her capitulation. Just like the other man she’d run from.

  The demon’s roar of rage and pain, the one she’d heard the moment their connection had been broken, still rang in her ears. Her cousin St. John had whisked her away so quickly that she’d only been treated to a mere second of that sound. Yet it haunted her all the same. Because it was not the shout of a man who’d easily give up.

  Why did he want her? They’d gotten along like tar and sand, stuck together because of circumstance, an irritant to both each other and those who had the misfortune to be around them. And still he’d been determined to keep her.

  How strange it all seemed now. Like a nightmare. She was no longer chained. She was safe. Aunt Mab assured her that the demon would never come for her. That once the chain had been broken, he could never find her again. Cold comfort.

  Eliza’s fingers dug into her skirt, and the fabric made a hushed rustle. He had given her gowns too. In a rainbow of colors, a buffet of textures. And she’d turned away from every one of them, too fearful that she’d be drawn by his enticements.

  You wouldn’t even be here were it not for me. No, you’d be rotting in an unmarked grave, forgotten and unavenged. Because the GIM did that for you as well, didn’t they? Striking down those who hurt you. And what thanks do I receive? Silence. You agreed to be mine. Mine!

  The worst of it was, she had agreed. She simply hadn’t realized ho
w much it would chafe to lose her freedom. From the moment he had her, he’d kept her chained by his side, his mood always angry, always looking at her as though she ought to be giving him something more. Yet he’d refused to tell her what. He’d grown more sullen, and she’d stopped speaking altogether. And then two men had come for her. Friends of her aunt. They’d saved her.

  And she’d escaped him. Her stomach clenched. Guilt was a terrible thing. No, she would not think of it. Or of his guinea-gold eyes framed by thick, black lashes. Accusing eyes, filled with rage and pain.

  As if beckoned by her wayward thoughts, a lone, mournful howl rent the night. Every hair upon Eliza’s body stood on end as she straightened. Heart pounding, she glanced toward the back at the windowed doors, where everything was warmth and light. Had it come from within the house or from outside?

  Past the grand hall that ran along the back of the house, she could see a small slice of the dining room. Mab’s party was still in full swing. Not a flinch or concerned face in the room. Had she imagined the sound?

  A mystery solved, as another wailing howl rang out. Such pain and misery in that cry. It wasn’t human, that howl, but sounded as if made by a dog. And it had come from the direction of the kitchen wing. Had a dog found its way inside and been hurt? She couldn’t fathom how, but nor could she remain here and ignore the plea for help.

  Slipping back inside, Eliza crept past the dining room and into the main hall. Once outside the kitchen doors, she stilled. Where now? The echoing quality of the sound made it difficult to discern its origins. With only the light of a few sconces lit along the walls, the hall was filled with shadows. Silence was a weight against her skin, warring with the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. The tall case clock by the salon door tick away.

  Eliza’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a slow breath. Perhaps she had… A yelp, high and aggravated. Most definitely that had come from the kitchens.

  She hadn’t taken two steps when she heard someone coming. If there was one good talent Eliza possessed, it was to trust her instincts, and now they cried out for her to hide. Ducking behind one of the decorative Doric columns that graced the main floor, she held still as someone passed. Who, she could not discern, and she was in too great a risk of discovery to peek out and look. The footsteps were heavy; however, the beat between them far enough to suggest a long stride. One of the footmen? Yet she’d never felt a prickle of warning when they were near.

  Eliza waited a full minute after the steps had faded and then headed for the kitchens. Once there, Eliza could do nothing more than hope for another sound from the dog to help guide her. Yet nothing stirred. Standing in the center of the room, she turned full circle, her gaze scanning the area. Had her senses not been on full alert, she might have missed the thin but delineated cracks that ran along the wall by the root pantry. A hidden door, not fully shut.

  It was not a surprise to find that the door opened to a dark stairwell leading down. Eliza had read enough gothic novels to expect such a thing. Which of course meant that going down those stairs was likely to lead to trouble.

  The sounds of Mab’s party drifted along the night. She ought to return there. A sane woman wouldn’t try to discover what lay beyond. Unfortunately, Eliza had never been very good at taking the safe course of action. A lantern hung upon a hook on the wall just inside the stairway. She plucked it free, lit it, and ventured into the unknown.

  Counting each step she took, Eliza pressed her palm against the damp stones for balance. Within the small orb of lamplight, she felt safe, but beyond and behind, there was only darkness and the fear that something would soon leap out of it.

  The whimpering grew in strength as she descended. Until she rounded a curve, and then it abruptly stopped. She did as well, hovering in the stairwell. Too silent. As if whatever it was that had cried out now held itself quiet. Cold air ripped through her lungs, and her pulse beat an insistent Flee, flee, flee against her throat. Yet she knew that what lay beyond needed help.

  Eliza let out a small breath and continued down, her hands shaking so badly that the light wavered. The bottom of the stairs opened up into a long, low corridor. Following it, she soon turned right and found herself in a circular room carved from stone. The walls were composed of cells, barred with steel that shone bright and new against the surrounding rot. They all appeared dark and empty.

  She stood in the center of the room, ears buzzing, heart racing. Nothing stirred. Not a sound. A faint scratching from a cell to her left had her nearly jumping out of her skin. Peering into the darkness, she crept forward.

  The light of her lantern led the way, stretching forward, slowly illuminating the small cell and what lay inside, a glossy, black hind leg bent at an awkward, painful angle, ribs protruding from an emaciated canine torso. Eliza’s breath caught. The beast moved, a slight adjustment that had its head lifting. Yellow eyes glowed in the dark. A low, warning growl rumbled and then broke on a whimper. And the dog slumped back down, ignoring her, though it did not close its eyes.

  Yes, it was a dog, or a wolf. Eliza could see that now. The largest dog she’d ever seen. Slowly she approached it, stopping just short of the cell door. Chains dug into its fur, cutting in some spots. From what she could see, the dog’s left hind leg and right foreleg were badly broken, a clever cruelty that prevented it from lying comfortably in any position. Gouges riddled its body, and they oozed with blood that matted its dark fur.

  “You poor thing,” she whispered past her fear. It occurred to her that there might be a very good reason for the beast to be locked up. Perhaps it was mad, a killer. But nothing could excuse the treatment it had received. If the dog was a killer, it ought to have been put down. Not brutalized and left to suffer.

  That thought alone prompted her to set her lantern down before kneeling near the bars. The dog’s yellow eyes tracked her movements without bothering to lift its head. If anything, it seemed to be resigned to its fate. But its body shivered, and she knew it was fighting the pain. She shivered in sympathy.

  “I want to help you.”

  A soft snort came from the dog’s snout, as if it understood her words and thought very little of her abilities to do so.

  Eliza glanced around, searching for something to strike at the lock, when she noticed a ring with a key hanging from a hook on the wall. She hurried to it, only to stop. She needed supplies. Turning around, she spoke to the dog. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Determination gave her speed. No longer afraid of what lurked in the cellar, she hurried to the kitchens, pilfered the cupboards for food, collected Cook’s medicinal kit that he kept on hand for household emergencies, and then grabbed a stack of freshly washed hand linens. By the time she returned to the cell, she was breathless.

  “Now then,” she said in a low voice, as she opened the cell door, “we’ll get you sorted.”

  The black dog, however, had other opinions on the matter and began to growl, a steady menacing snarl that curled its upper lip and revealed a set of wickedly long fangs.

  “It’s all right,” Eliza said. “I am going to help you.”

  The dog’s snarling intensified. He was chained against the floor but had enough reach to bite her if she came too near his wounds. Which wouldn’t do. Crooning softly, Eliza opened the green bottle she’d removed from the medicine bag. Mindful of the fumes, she soaked a rag. As if the dog knew precisely what she was about, it snapped and writhed, only to cut itself short with a yelp as the frantic movement jostled its leg.

  Eliza took advantage and threw the chloroform-soaked rag over the dog’s massive head. Enraged, it struggled to free itself, but the drug did its job. Soon enough, the dog fell still, and its breathing turned slow and steady. Eliza waited, counting to one hundred, before moving close. She dared not move the rag just yet, but took the time to try out the sole key on the padlock that held the dog’s chains to the cell. But it did not work.

  “Damn all,” she muttered, before setting the key ring aside. Frowning,
she studied the dog’s leg. She knew nothing of resetting bones. Especially for a dog.

  “No matter,” she muttered. “First things first.” She’d clean those weeping wounds. Eliza rested her hand upon the dog’s hind quarter where the fur was slick and damp. But no sooner did her palm make contact then a great puff of glittering dust rose up around the dog, obliterating it from her sight.

  Eliza coughed and sat back on her haunches to get away from the swirling dust. Just as fast as it had appeared, the dust dissipated. A strangled sound escaped her. There, on the stone floor, lay not a dog but a man. Long, muscular limbs, broad shoulders, narrow hips. He was battered and wasting away now. Muscles stood out like thick hemp ropes beneath too-tight and too-pale skin. Skin that was slashed and bleeding.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Gaping down at his badly broken leg, Eliza found herself too shocked to move.

  The heady scent of myrrh and heated male flesh surrounded her with dizzying effect. She knew this scent. The torment of it and how it made her breath quicken and her nipples tighten. No, no, no. It cannot be. With a trembling hand, she reached out and plucked away the linen that covered the man’s head. Her heart turned over in her chest as her insides plummeted.

  “You!” Her shout echoed in the small space.

  Gold eyes peered at her from under a mop of black hair. His rich, dark voice was weaker now, slurred and stilted. But it still had the power to unsettle.

  “Hello, dove. Did you miss me?”

  Adam.

  During his seven-hundred-odd years stuck in this life, Adam had been tortured numerous times. He’d like to think that, eventually, he would become accustomed to the pain. No such luck prevailed. Agony held him in a tight grip from the tip of his big toe to the top of his head. For months now, he’d been battered and humiliated by the fae bitch. His life had become this cell. This pain.