The Shifting Price of Prey [4]

by Suzanne McLeod

  The boat shifted, rocking us gently on our feet, then settled.

  . . . I gazed down at his black silk hair, the obsidian gem gracing his earlobe, his lips teasing my breast. Desire flooded my veins, need, sexual and something more, something stronger, fluttered inside me at his nearness; and as his teeth nipped, I threaded my fingers into that black silk, wanting him to pierce my skin, wanting him to have my blood. To have me. I arched into him, physically and mentally, telling him with my thoughts I wanted all the pleasure he could give me, to share that pleasure with him, and telling him that I was his, however he wished. He complied readily, sucking me deeper into the heat of his mouth and biting down, hard. But instead of the delicate sharpness of fangs, clumsy human teeth tore into my flesh. The unexpected pain threw my head back in a scream. I shoved him away from me—

  And watched uncomprehendingly as Dessa stumbled back and fell.

  She lay there, panting, dark blood staining her lips, her irises solid golden orbs, gazing adoringly up at me.

  For a moment I gazed back, confused. Then, as the honey-copper scent of my own blood reached me, my mind cleared and it dawned on me what had happened— what was still happening. The Wishing Web I’d absorbed and spooled was unravelling inside me, its sticky fibres sliding deep as they hooked into my long-held fantasies . . . of Malik . . . of giving him my blood . . . not because I had to, not because the 3V forced me, not for any reason other than I wanted to . . . I shoved the thoughts away, hitching my bra up, heedless of the bloody bite – I’d heal – and buttoning my shirt as I did so. Now wasn’t the time for whatever fantasies the Wishing Web had pulled out of my psyche. Not when I had a more immediate and horrific problem to deal with.

  Dessa. I’d trapped her in my Glamour. Never mind that it was illegal and would win me a quick one-way trip to the guillotine. Never mind I could’ve killed her if we’d got as far as orgasm, leaving her daughter without a mother. Bad as both of those things were, I had an uneasy feeling that releasing Dessa wasn’t going to be as simple as I needed it to be. She was a witch. She had to have been Glamoured by a sidhe at least once before (during a fertility rite, otherwise she would never have become pregnant). And we were trapped in a Wishing Web. Despite Dessa’s Jonathan Rhys Meyers fantasy, it looked like, deep down, she wished for something else, but whether it was sex with another female, or with a sidhe, I didn’t know.

  Or really, for all I did know, she was gazing happily up at a creepy magically ’shopped merging of Jonathan Rhys Meyers and me. Which was kind of disturbing given the way she was lying half-naked on the sun-drenched grass—

  I blinked.

  The houseboat was gone. In its place was a manicured lawn, littered with early autumn leaves, half of it covered in bright sunshine, the rest deep in the shadow cast by the grey-stone walls of a half-ruined Norman manor house. To my right was a huge arched stone entrance, the door half ajar. To my left a copse of trees rustled in an almost chilly breeze. In the distance the deep waters of a moat sparkled.

  I knew where this was. Knew what had happened here on my fourteenth birthday, on my wedding night. It’s an illusion, the rational part of me cried, ripped from your memories by the Wishing Web. Memories I’d revisited in shocking clarity only an hour or so ago in the Dreamscape with Bastien.

  ‘My sidhe bride.’ His voice was light, chiding, gentle. A lie. ‘Mildly entertaining as it is to see you toy with the witch, I wish your attention now.’

  It’s not Bastien. It’s the cambion.

  A sword appeared next to me, its point stuck in the grass, its bejewelled hilt quivering as if it had been thrown there.

  ‘Unless, of course,’ Bastien’s voice said, ‘you wish me to cause her, or the other witch, some damage, with that pretty sword.’

  I glanced at Dessa, still lying oblivious in the sunshine. And across at Mary, still unconscious from the Stun spell. Horror choked my throat. I swallowed it back. He might be the cambion, but it was my memories the Wishing Web was channelling into this fantasy. And both of them were easy pickings. Innocent victims he would gleefully torture while he fucked them. It was what he’d done to Sally, my faeling friend, all those years ago, in the grand hall of this very house.

  Sweat broke on my skin. My heart pounded in dread. No way did I want to relive that horror.

  Illusion! Nothing more!

  But it didn’t matter what I told myself. Between my memories, and the Wishing Web, the illusion was now as dangerous as the reality.

  I scooped up Dessa’s shirt, slapped it on her chest, and grabbed her head. Ironically grateful that my Glamour forced her to be my puppet, I told her to put her shirt on, get Mary, and get both of them, and the still stone-like Taegrin, out of the tent, and then to keep everyone else out.

  She scrambled to her feet, yanking on her shirt as she rushed to do my bidding.

  A sigh behind me. ‘You disappoint me. I was hoping for some entertainment while we continued our conversation, which you so rudely ended earlier.’

  I gripped the hilt of the sword, it wasn’t Ascalon but it would do, and turned. Keeping him occupied would give them chance to escape—

  My eyes met those of the sucker I’d always wanted dead.

  I smiled. As fantasies go, this one was turning out to be a killer.

  Bastien, my psychotic, memory-hijacking betrothed, and Malik’s – son? – smiled at me. A trickle of fear dripped down my spine. I reminded myself that he was just another sucker, not to mention that this Bastien was nothing more than the product of my imagination and the Wishing Web. Surprisingly, my conjured illusion of him looked different from when he’d ‘appeared’ in my Dreamscape daymare.

  Now he was wearing jeans and a Blondie T-shirt, of all things. It made him look more like the tall, gangly fifteen-year-old he’d been when he’d Accepted the Gift. His features and skin tone were a mix-up of Mediterranean and Middle East, and I searched them for any resemblance to Malik, disturbed when I realised they had the same shaped mouth, the same sharp jawline, though Bastien’s brown eyes were round, and heavily lashed, in a way that gave him a limpid, almost girlish look.

  In fact, now I wasn’t looking at him through panic-warped eyes I realised that, with his unruly dark hair and good looks, he’d probably be a candidate for a lot of people’s wet dreams. If they didn’t know how sick he was inside.

  His looks also reminded me of the crush I’d had on him at fourteen.

  Bastien grinned. ‘You always did like watching me, my sidhe princess,’ he said, the illusion evidently picking up on my memories. ‘Peering at me from behind curtains, inside wardrobes, all wide-eyed and innocent, like a timid mouse fascinated by a cat.’ He licked his lips. ‘It made dallying with your faeling friend even more exciting, hearing your heart flutter like a trapped bird’s, hearing your breath hitch at the things we did, all the while knowing that soon I would do the same to you, that I’d be the first to pierce you in every way.’

  Of course, once he opened his mouth . . . My hand clenched around the sword’s hilt, grateful Dessa and Mary were gone. ‘Her name was Sally,’ I said flatly, tightening my grip on the sword. ‘You killed her.’

  He shrugged. ‘I am rash and impulsive. I often regret the consequences. As I did after I dealt with the faeling: she met her death much too soon. I am sure she could have provided a few more days’ amusement for our wedding celebrations, if I had but curbed my impatience.’

  I suppressed a shudder. ‘I’m sure Sally would’ve been thrilled to know that.’

  ‘She thought she could take your place, my sidhe. It was an insult.’

  ‘You killed her because you got off on it,’ I spat. ‘You got off on torturing her. And you were going to do the same to me before Malik stopped you.’

  ‘Be ready to run, Genevieve. At my command.’ Malik’s voice came out of his mouth. They were the words I’d heard in my head that long ago night when I’d been standing in front of Bastien, in my wedding dress soaked with Sally’s blood, frozen with terror.
>
  I took a step back, surprise and dismay washing over me.

  ‘Be ready to run, Genevieve. At my command.’ This time Bastien said it in his own voice, his tone bored. ‘You presume, my princess, that I did not know what Malik, my ever-faithful commander, my always-loyal shadow, was doing. He told you to run, ordered you to so you had no choice. Then he chased you down like a frightened rabbit, feasted on your blood and your life, and threw your dead body down in front of me like a sacrificial offering.’ He tapped his head. ‘I was with him in here. Listening, watching, experiencing. So how could I not know what he was doing all along?’

  ‘No.’ I shook my head in disbelief. The bastard was trying to trick me. Again. ‘If you knew he was saving me, not killing me, you would’ve stopped him.’

  ‘Saving you?’ He laughed, derisive. ‘Malik wasn’t saving you, princess. He was saving me, from myself. It is what he has always done. What he still does.’

  Saving him? Did that mean Bastien really was Malik’s son? I wanted to ask, but couldn’t force the words out. ‘What the hell does “saving you” mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘We had waited so long for you.’ He shrugged. ‘As such we would have regretted using your death for a mere few days’ entertainment. So Malik prevented me from doing so.’

  Icy betrayal slid into my heart. I tried to ignore it, but the voice in my mind said the bastard was speaking truth, that Malik hadn’t saved me out of an altruistic sense of honour, but because it was all part of whatever game he and the Autarch were playing at that time. And were still playing now. If the psycho was right.

  Briefly, I closed my eyes, breathed in the scent of smouldering leaves, and remembered this was my fantasy, dragged from my subconscious by the Wishing Web. Was this what I feared deep down? That Malik’s interest in me was all part of some psychotic blood-sucker’s plan? That I was just a pawn? That even though I’d accepted a relationship with him, wanted him, I didn’t trust him? If so then I was seriously messed up about him. Though, if I thought about it logically, nothing about this fantasy made sense. I wanted to kill Bastien. I always had. If it hadn’t been for the feelings of panic and terror that overwhelmed me at fourteen I’d have searched him out in his daytime sleep and, instead of running away, I’d have killed him then.

  So, why wasn’t I trying to kill him right now? With the sword, my bare hands, or whatever, instead of discussing the ins and outs of plots that might not exist, and worrying that my psyche, when it came to Malik, was really fucked up. Either this Wishing Web was more sophisticated than most, or something stank. And it wasn’t the burned . . . meat?

  No, not meat, but flesh.

  My eyes snapped open.

  There was a figure on the grass between us, on its back, arms and legs outstretched, the hot sunshine beating down on it. Twelve silver-dipped daggers had been driven through the figure’s wrists, ankles, forearms, calves, biceps and thighs. The blades all missed bone, but sliced through the thickest part of the figure’s muscles. I could tell because the figure looked like one of those anatomical drawings, the ones where the skin’s been stripped to reveal what’s underneath. Except the bodies in those drawings don’t look like over-cooked meat. They don’t smell like it, either. Their eyes don’t roll in their sockets as they look at you. And they don’t have a full set of vamp fangs: two sharper canines either side of the needle-thin venom fangs.

  ‘Genevieve.’

  And they never speak.

  Malik?

  ‘As you can see, my lovely princess, Malik even took your place to ensure I was distracted while you made your escape.’ Bastien smiled like the cat that got the cream.

  My stomach heaved, and I lunged away as I doubled over, vomiting on to the grass, and thankfully not on . . . was it really Malik? Had the sadistic prick done this to him back then?

  I heaved again. Forced myself to stop, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. I pushed to my feet, reaching in the same motion for the sword I’d dropped—

  It was gone.

  The Autarch was grinning. A wide fang-filled grin that asked if I’d got the joke yet.

  I did. The Autarch was here. In this tent. Controlling what illusions the Wishing Web put out, maybe even adding to them, if that was one of his vamp powers. That realisation settled me. I didn’t care how or why, or that most vamps couldn’t go out in daylight, just that now I’d have a chance at the psycho. The other sword might be gone, but I clenched my hand; I still had my ace up my sleeve, or rather, ring on my finger. Ascalon.

  ‘So your fantasy is watching me puke my guts out,’ I said flatly. ‘Can’t say I’m impressed by your imagination.’

  He flung his arms wide. ‘This is not imagination but another cherished memory, my princess.’

  Well, that answered the question of whether the sadistic prick had made Malik suffer . . . He had. I clamped down on my desire to run the psychotic monster through. First I needed to find out what he wanted. Because this was the reason for the phone call telling me ‘my dog’ was at the Carnival. To get me here, to Bastien. The only thing that didn’t mesh with that scenario was Mad Max’s kidnap and subsequent escape, presumably, from the Emperor’s werewolves. That suggested some sort of pact between Bastien and the Emperor . . . Or the werewolves. Which was more likely, since Bastien and Dilek a.k.a. Fur Jacket Girl were apparently brother and sister. And, if Bastien’s words to me in the Dreamscape were anything to go on, he wanted me to save him, Dilek and Malik too, from the Emperor. Bastien was no doubt going to tell me his ‘save us’ plan next. Though whatever the plan was I seriously doubted it was going to have my best interests at heart.

  Time to cut through the bullshit.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you and your pet dog have got me here. What’s the deal?’

  He threw his head back and gave a fang-filled laugh. ‘You are delightful. Naïve, but delightful, my princess, if you think I’m the one with the plan.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I see I shall have to spell it out,’ he said. ‘I am the Autarch. I have a certain mercurial reputation, well deserved and well maintained.’ He pointed down at Malik— no, not Malik, just an illusion. ‘When he deprived me of the enjoyment of your body, your blood and your death – in all eyes but his, mine and yours – my subjects would have considered me weak if I had not vented my anger on someone. Malik insisted it be him and no one else. Personally, I always prefer someone else; his constant need for atonement detracts from my own pleasure.’ He gave me a look as if to say, ‘Poor me, no one cares what I want, I have to suffer so.’ I grimaced in disgust. ‘But if terror no longer fills my subjects’ hearts and minds as their thoughts turn to me, they would soon plot for my messy demise.’ He shrugged. ‘And we cannot allow that.’

  ‘Fine. I get the politics. You’re not the one with the plans. Malik is. You’re the figurehead and he’s the power behind the throne. The kingmaker. Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me?’

  He tilted his head, considering. ‘Kingmaker?’ A happy, if scary, smile spread across his young-looking face. ‘Yes. This is true. I was a prince. Malik made me his king. Remind him of that, my sidhe, next time you speak to him.’

  I shook my head, not believing him. ‘Why the fuck would Malik make you king? If he was that powerful, he could make himself king.’

  He arched a sceptical brow. ‘With his curse?’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘What’s his curse got to do with it?’

  ‘My princess, do you really think that vampires anywhere would accept a revenant, someone who could turn into a bloodthirsty mindless corpse at any moment, as their liege lord?’

  ‘They accepted a psychotic, murdering bastard like you.’

  ‘Those that lived did, yes,’ he agreed prosaically. ‘Those that Challenged me to my face died horribly. As did those that plotted behind my back.’ He threw his arms out with a flourish and gave a low bow. ‘You see before you the magician’s assistant, my princess. The pretty distraction to divert the eye. No one
sees my loyal shadow coming, not until the darkness takes them.’ He grinned. ‘You see, I am not the only psychotic, murdering bastard.’

  Was it true? Was Malik the one in control? Or was Bastien still playing games, trying to make me think that? But why? What did it gain him, to make me distrust Malik? Or was that it? Was Bastien trying to drive a wedge between us? But again, why? Especially after he’d seemed so disappointed we hadn’t had sex. I swallowed back bile at the memory of how the bastard had violated me, and tightened my fist around Ascalon’s ring. And what the hell did it all have to do with the Emperor? Though really, second-guessing Bastien was a waste of time; he was the type to sell his own mother, so anything coming out of his mouth was suspect. Time to poke back.

  ‘If Malik’s the one in charge,’ I ground out, ‘then he doesn’t want me to know, otherwise he would’ve told me. So why are you enlightening me?’

  He licked his lips. ‘The pleasure of knowing you know.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Not entirely. I do derive pleasure knowing this causes you emotional pain, princess. Not as much as I wish; I much prefer to cause physical suffering.’ He plucked a dagger from Malik’s— no, the figure’s left thigh, held it up so the sunshine hit it. The blood glistening on the blade bubbled, and smoke spiralled. He plunged the knife down into the figure’s stomach. The figure made a strangled noise as if stifling a scream. I stopped breathing for a moment. Illusion, nothing more. Wasn’t it? Bastien met my eyes. His were flat and hard, all signs of insanity gone. ‘You are here, bean sidhe, because when the time comes for you to choose, I want to ensure that you know what your choices are.’

  Now we were getting to it. ‘What do I have to choose?’

  ‘Not what, but who. You think Malik al-Khan is your dark knight, your protector. I am here to tell you, he has taken on those mantles for our sake, his and mine, not yours.’

  ‘Seriously, if this is meant to make me save you and Malik from whatever you’ve got going on with the Emperor, trying to turn me against him is going the wrong way about it.’