fOR WHO THE spELL tOLLS

by H. P. Mallory

  Dropping my hands to my waist, I palmed my Op 6s, and pulled them from their holsters, still searching the room. But I couldn’t see anything. I wheeled around to my right and left, but found only a destroyed library. My wings continued to beat wildly, carrying me even higher.

  Suddenly, a stinging sensation began brewing at the base of my neck. It felt like a very bad sore throat. It soon began to penetrate the entire length of my neck, no doubt the same discomfort that had attacked Quill, rendering him either unconscious or dead. The burning started to dissolve, but left me feeling that my neck was swelling, and restricting my airway. Dropping both of my guns, I didn’t even comprehend what I was doing as I brought my hands to my throat instinctively. The guns banged against the ground, and I recognized my mistake instantly, but all I could do was grip my neck, and try to squeeze some air into my lungs. My throat was swelling so much that I could only rasp, and even that ability was quickly dissipating. My wings finally slowed their incessant beating and only flapped every few seconds, allowing me to slowly float to the ground. I continued clawing at my neck, and opening my mouth wide to inhale, but it was useless. When my toes touched the ground, I collapsed against a nearby bookshelf. Then I was confronted by a large-skulled, bald man with a pencil neck and shoulders that were narrower than mine. He must have been invisible earlier, but was now clearly out in the open, and standing before me. He was also clearly the warlock.

  “A beautiful fairy,” he said with elation, while holding his hands (palms facing me) before him, emitting his power.

  His eyes were huge, like disks in his otherwise smallish face, and his nose was long and pointy. It matched his sharp chin. His body was the size of a ten-year-old and he was probably no taller than I was. He narrowed his eyes while he studied me, his face finally lighting up with jubilance.

  “A fairy,” he repeated again, his eyes glazing over with passion. “It’s true what they say about your kind.”

  While I wasn’t sure what “they” said about my kind, I was reminded of the power I carried in the Netherworld. Yep, I still had sexual fairy crack that I could turn to. Not that I wanted to, but when I noticed my guns lying uselessly on the floor, I realized they weren’t my only option to defend myself. Regardless, I didn’t possess enough strength to reach for them. Even if I tried, I knew the warlock would, no doubt, fortify his magical attack, and where would that leave me? Probably dead. I looked past him and saw that Knight was still involved with the were, although neither one looked to be gaining any ground.

  “He can’t help you,” the warlock announced in a nasal, high-pitched voice. “He can’t even see us.”

  So, my hunch was right. The little bastard had made himself invisible before and now he was doing the same, only to both of us. Yep, any way I looked at it, I had no choice but to use my fairy crack. I forced my hands from my neck and ran them through my hair, offering the warlock my best bedroom eyes. His eyes widened as he continued to stare at me, hunger dripping from his expression. He was very obviously about to become ensnared in my trap.

  Don’t give up now, Dulce, I thought to myself. You’ve almost got him!

  Strangely enough, my next thought was of Bram, and how he’d manipulated me by using his powers of vampire persuasion. I remembered how expertly he’d made me do and be something I wasn’t. And even though I hated Bram, I recognized the valuable lesson he’d taught me. I realized that I now had the power to do the same.

  “I,” I gasped, trying to talk even though I couldn’t get any air. My voice was barely a whisper. I trailed my finger down to my lips, hoping I had enough air left to maintain my charade. If I passed out, it would all be over. This bastard would do whatever he chose to with me, and then who knew what would happen? No, I absolutely had to stay alert so I could see my plan to fruition.

  The warlock continued to gaze at me as I stared into his eyes, running my tongue across my lips. I used my best body language to say, “I want you to make love to me.” His hands began to drop, even though his fingers were still actively splayed and his magic was still in effect. The strangulation in my throat began to ease slightly, even though I still couldn’t take in a full breath. Once the warlock dropped his hands a little lower, I managed to catch a shallow breath.

  Seeing the little bastard’s eyes glued to mine, I pursed my lips before running my finger across them. Nearing the grand finale, I dipped my finger inside my mouth, staring at the hideous creature sensuously. The warlock stared at me with ravenous hunger in his eyes and dropped his hands to his side. As soon as he did so, I inhaled fully and I took in so much oxygen, I thought I might pass out. Trying to stay conscious, I continued to gaze at the man, knowing the game was far from over. I had to maintain my act, lest the little cretin snap out of it.

  “What do you want?” I whispered, tracing the outline of my breasts above my shirt as I batted my eyelashes at him.

  He laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked in his nasal tone. “I want you, my little sexpot.”

  I giggled, or did my best version of one, because as a rule, Dulcie O’Neil didn’t giggle. Hoping the time for giggling would soon be over, I glanced out of the corner of my eye to inquire how Knight was faring. I could see the shape of the wolf, lying in a heap on the ground, and Knight standing above him. The Loki turned to face me and we made eye contact which meant the warlock had ceased his invisibility charm. Knight just watched me for a few seconds, as if trying to understand what the hell I was doing. But then he apparently got it, because he began approaching us stealthily, as if trying to be as quiet as possible.

  “If you want me,” I continued, spearing the warlock with my full attention. “Tell me what you want to do to me.” I finished, trying to channel Marilyn Monroe. I had to keep the little bastard’s attention while Knight came up behind him.

  The warlock chuckled again, but the laugh soon died on his lips as his eyes narrowed first on my face and then on my bust. “I’m going to tear those clothes off you,” he said, his eyes roaming my body.

  I giggled again and ran my hands all over myself, attempting to appear turned on. “I like it rough,” I said coyly.

  “You’re going to get it rough as soon as I get hold of you,” he said before he jumped at me. He managed to grip my collar before Knight bashed him in the side of the head with the butt of his Op 8, before tucking it back into the waistline of his pants. The warlock collapsed in a heap at my feet.

  “Are you okay?” Knight asked as he faced me with concern in his eyes.

  “I’m fine, but I’m not so sure about Quill,” I said, motioning to Quill’s still form, where he lay in the corner of the room.

  “He isn’t dead,” came the voice from above us. Looking up, I saw my father standing on the second floor of the library, leaning on the balustrade lazily and smiling down at us as if we were revered guests. I felt my stomach sour instantly. On either side of him were three guards, each pointing guns at us.

  “But Beaurigard’s life is most definitely on the line, should you decide to fight us,” came an English accent from the opposite side of the room. Glancing over my shoulder, I faced Bram.

  THIRTEEN

  “Throw your weapons on the floor in front of you,” my father said, his stern expression warning us we’d better comply.

  I noticed Knight’s face was blank, almost like he’d gone into automaton mode. The longer I watched him, the more I realized how well he’d perfected the art of the poker face. It was almost as if his lack of anger, sorrow and defiance was a defense mechanism—something meant to throw my father off in the same way it had thrown me off. Still wearing the façade of someone detached, he reached inside his waistband and produced an Op 8, which he tossed on the floor. Then he faced my father with a look that said, “Okay, what next?”

  My father turned his beautiful green eyes from Knight to me as he arched his left brow, and appeared anything but amused. In fact, as soon as his eyes settled on me, he looked disgusted, repulsed and even appalled to see me. “An
d yours?” he demanded.

  I simply pointed at the polished hardwood floors where my two Op 6s lay idly, still in the same place they’d fallen when the warlock magically choked me and I, inadvertently, dropped them.

  At the sound of Bram’s chuckle, my attention flashed from my father and landed squarely on the haughty vampire. He stood in front of Knight, his expression one of mirth as he regarded us with interest. He was dressed for an elegant soiree, or a funeral. His expertly tailored Italian suit matched the midnight pitch of his hair perfectly. His black ensemble was only interrupted by a charcoal gray dress shirt and the sparkling azure of his eyes. Yes, despite being enraged with him, even hating him with all my being, I couldn’t deny what a handsome bastard he was.

  “All of your weapons, Vander,” he said, picking up Knight’s Op 8 from the ground. He stood up and faced the Loki again. “Allow me to remind you that we have our own ways of disarming you.”

  Knight didn’t say anything, but reached inside the waistline at the back of his jeans and withdrew an Op 9, which he then threw to the ground. “That’s it,” he muttered.

  “Very good,” Bram said before daring to assault me with his arrogant grin. Stepping right up to me, until we were my face to his lapels, he smiled as if we were old friends, reuniting after years of separation. I felt my eyes narrowing as my jaw tightened so much, I was afraid of shattering my teeth.

  “You backstabbing bastard,” I ground out at him. I still found it difficult to speak after basically being strangled by the warlock’s magic. My throat and neck still throbbed and stung.

  The vampire just chuckled with indifference, as if my trust was immaterial and his betrayal was of no consequence. Instead, his eyes seemed alight with humor, as if it thrilled him that I now knew he’d been playing me all along.

  “What did you expect, Sweet?” he asked while shaking his head at my supposed stupidity. “You, yourself, remarked that my situation behooved me, so why should I want to upset it?”

  Rage brewed inside me and I could feel my hands fisting at my sides as I glared at the vampire whom I’d been thoughtless enough to believe in. But, even now, I couldn’t help the surprise that registered within me, just beside the anger. Bram had just seemed so genuine when he’d given me the portal ripper and his pocket watch. Everything he’d told me about his feelings towards my father had seemed so authentic, so honest.

  Honestly bullshit! He’s just a good actor, you moron! I chided myself. But as ridiculous as it sounded, there was still a part of me that refused to fully believe it. Why? Because there was still one piece to the puzzle that didn’t make sense. That piece was the reasoning behind why Bram hadn’t just killed me or turned me over to Melchior when he’d had the chance. And he’d had numerous opportunities. Furthermore, if Bram was truly allied with my father, why had he returned Christina to us? And why wean her off the Blueliss?

  They were unanswerable questions, and after struggling with them, I remembered that Bram enjoyed making things difficult for people in general. Being linked to my father didn’t mean he would hand The Resistance to him on a silver platter. No, Bram had always made me work for my information, and I was sure he’d do the same to my father, and anyone else, for that matter. That was just the way he was.

  Seeing him smiling down at me, rage began building within me until it erupted into a volcano of anger and accusation. When my cheeks flushed, my jaw tightened, and I lurched out at him, pummeling my fists into his face. But I never made contact with him due to the superior speed inherent to his race, which allowed him to easily sidestep me. Losing my balance, I had to ricochet off a nearby wall rather than crash into it.

  Once I regained some stability, I heard the sound of weapons being cocked coming from the second story. I kept my attention on Bram, though, who continued to chuckle, while shaking his head like I was making a big mistake.

  “You should rein in that famous temper of yours, my pet,” he said. Before I could respond, my ears were assaulted by a cacophony. It was impossible to locate the source at first, but it seemed to be coming from right outside the house, or maybe just inside the entryway. The longer I listened, the more I realized it was the noise of battle—bullets being fired and derogatory epithets being yelled. I quickly concluded our soldiers must have invaded Willoughby house and were now in active combat with my father’s guards. I wasn’t sure if I’d failed to hear the sounds before because I was so focused on defending myself against the warlock, or if our soldiers had just now made their move. Looking up at my father, I noticed the expression of surprise in his widened eyes. Hmm, so maybe he hadn’t been expecting us? Maybe our soldiers had just begun their attack. Either way, it didn’t really matter because Melchior had us exactly where he wanted us.

  “I’m tired of prolonging this charade,” my father called out hastily, seemingly alarmed by the sudden surge of our soldiers. “Vander, call off your men off or I will shoot my daughter on the spot.”

  Shifting my murderous eyes from Bram’s smug countenance to my father, I had a fleeting thought that Bram’s immediate reaction to my father’s words was angry shock. Instead, I reminded myself that Bram didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone besides himself, and least of all, me. Once I’d settled that score in my head, I bit my lower lip as I faced the monster that was my father. His eyes were riveted on mine and we just stared at one another for a few seconds, each of us reading the truth in the other’s eyes. In my father’s eyes, I saw that Quillan had been right—I was nothing to Melchior, but a tool—potentially an arrow in his quiver, but now gone astray. My father didn’t know the meaning of having a daughter because he didn’t possess the ability to love. Consequently, all people were disposable to him, even his own kin.

  As easily as I could read the truth in my father’s eyes, I genuinely hoped he read the truth in mine … that as much as I loathed Bram, I despised my father even more. Just in taking in his expertly tailored grey suit and expensive black leather shoes, I wanted to throw up. Maybe the biggest disappointment of all, though, was that I could see him reflected in me. I had the same wavy honey-colored hair and the same emerald green eyes that were now alight with fire. Yes, my father absolutely was a stunningly handsome man, but to me he was nothing more than a heartless monster. Much worse than either the bird predator or that thing living in the bottom of the swamp.

  “I will call off my men,” Knight said, his lips a straight line. As I watched him look at my father, I could see the hatred burning behind his eyes. And it was a hatred born from long association, from experiencing just what type of man my father was and despising him for it. Given his boundless loathing for my father, it suddenly surprised me that Knight could love me, especially when the physical similarities between my father and me were so blatantly obvious. I didn’t understand how Knight could look at me and not think of the connection between father and daughter every time he saw me. But somehow he didn’t, which just spoke to his own magnanimous personality and his strength of character. Not to mention the power of love.

  “Yes, you will call off your men,” my father stressed, seeming to savor each word. “And then you will remain in my custody, residing in my own personal dungeon, where, I trust, you will not suffer for long.”

  “You won’t touch him!” I screamed out. My father’s thugs took a few steps forward, warning me I was the target of their artillery. But I didn’t care. There was no way I could stand by and say nothing after my father’s words. “No one touches him!”

  “It is more than obvious that you and your cabal have been defeated,” my father chided, eyeing me hollowly. “I expected so much more from you. I must admit this little uprising has thoroughly disappointed me.” Then he laughed heartily, shaking his head as if The Resistance were no more than an anticlimax. “You really believed you could remove me by attacking Squander Valley and then waltzing in here?”

  I found it curious that he didn’t mention Tipshaw, or the surrender at the airport, but made no comment. Instead, I watched hi
m say to the man on his right side. “Take care of Beaurigard, will you?”

  The man nodded before disappearing through the doorway of the second floor. It led to a spiral staircase that connected to this one. The man took the stairs two at a time, and reaching Quill, he bent over and hoisted Quill’s still body over his shoulder and left the room. Where he took Quill, I had no clue but I intended to find out.

  “What are you doing with him?” I demanded of my father. “Where are you taking him?”

  “He and your Loki can rot, for all I care,” my father spat back at me, his eyes livid. Turning to Knight again, he suddenly smiled, as if he’d completely lost his mind. Who knew—it was probably as close to the truth as anything else. “Believe me when I tell you, Vander, that I will absolutely revel at your death,” my father managed between gritted teeth. “You have caused me nothing but trouble, between your silly Resistance and that blasted Sabbiondo.”

  Hearing my father’s words, Knight didn’t respond or react. His expression remained completely unchanged. He simply continued to stare at my father, his face a blank slate. “Whatever your gripes with me, I don’t care, O’Neil,” he said at last, taking a deep breath. His voice sounded heavy, but as melodically beautiful as it always was. “I just don’t want Dulcie harmed.”

  I felt tears stinging my eyes and shook my head, trying to deny the thought that this precise moment was all because of me. Had I never trusted Bram, maybe we never would have gotten into this situation.

  If Knight dies, it will be on your conscience, a nasty voice inside me admonished.