Elusion (Facets of Feyrie Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Elusion
To my Children:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Part II
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Elusion
Facets of Feyrie: Book One
By
Zoe Parker
To my Children:
Without you, my imagination would have died a long, long time ago.
You can purchase a copy of this Ebook at: books2read.com/u/3GY28n
Copyright © 2017 by Zoe Parker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover design by Zoe Parker
Book design and production by Zoe Parker
Partial Editing by Penned In Ink
Elusion
To my Children:
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Part II
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Acknowledgements
About Zoe Parker
Click on the links
The First Prophecy
Seed of Death and Dragon's womb,
suffering, her fated tomb.
She, our savior, the Fallen’s soul,
shall shed her blood to make us whole.
A vengeful Darkness she will arise,
her love calls forth the Darkest tide.
Yet, if her heart has ceased to beat,
the world shall eclipse in Dark complete.
One
Iza
My Pretend Ma, Mary, always said that the terrible things done to me were for the greater good. That the “Prophecy” said I would save the world, I could fight for justice. I would be a hero.
I really wanted to be that person. So, I believed her.
To keep going and to hold onto that belief, I would sneak out of the house, into the comfort of darkness, and look up at the twinkling night sky. Over and over I told myself that it was worth it because I was saving other people. So much so that one day I started to believe it.
Kids are dumb. I was dumb.
Pretend Ma is dead. And I’m in one of the many Schoth prisons because of it.
Memories from so long ago—before the things that brought me here—still have the power to haunt me. I put my hand against the cool stone of the cell wall. Leaning my cheek against it, the cold seeps into my face. I try using the bite of it to force myself to come back to the now.
The reality of now.
The memories are reluctant to release me. I miss the night sky and the feel of the breeze on my skin. I miss the sounds of the forest outside of my childhood home.
I miss freedom.
Aggravated with myself and my useless thoughts, I’m able to turn away from the wall and most of the memories with a grunt of annoyance. Why am I thinking of this depressing crap? The past before this place isn’t something I think of often.
Something brought it on. Irritated, I swipe my hand through the dirt on the floor.
Maybe it’s the unexpected transfer to this private section of the prison?
One day, about 6 buckets of water ago, I woke up here, lying naked on the dirty floor, stitched up like some little girl’s dolly, caked with mud and dried blood. This wasn’t the first time I woke up caked in blood, or worse, but it’s the first time I woke up with stitches. Thankfully, they dissolved a while ago.
Someone took care of me for once, with real medical supplies.
There are still some bandages taped all over me from the last time the guards thumped on me. I woke up with those on too. Just like with the stitches.
No idea who did any of it.
I have no memories of the transfer itself. And my memories of the moments before are hazy. There was a fight in the ‘lunch hall’ that I may have instigated in a moment of stupid weakness. Whirls of motion, and a cacophony of glass shattering. Screams followed by the guards rushing in.
Ultimately overwhelmed, I fell to the ground watching helplessly as a boot headed right for my face. I must have blacked out because I can’t remember anything after that. Extensive internal damage was a result of that boot being planted in my person, multiple times.
A knife or two was mixed in there somewhere as well. Overkill but, hey, it’s their thing. The Light Elves. Humanoid, delicate. Golden skinned and shiny. Way too pretty and full of Light Magiks. The leaders of this realm—this shitty world—they are the Schoth Clan and absolute assholes.
Knowing this doesn’t stop me from doing dumb shit and getting stabbed for it. I heal fast but I’m not immortal. I still bleed, hurt, and can die just like anyone else.
I’m a slow learner.
My stomach growls loudly in the silence of the room, dragging me from the morose mood I’ve fallen into.
When I first woke up here, rats were everywhere. A full-on banquet of them. And a girl has to eat. Sadly, I haven’t seen a rat for several sleeps. They’re ei
ther scared of coming into my cell, or the worst option: I’ve eaten them all. Either way sucks. The only way I’m going to get back to full health is by sucking down lots of calories. No matter where they come from.
Well, as full of health as an inmate in a prison can be.
The only thing keeping me alive at this point is water which I ration carefully, only using as much as I need to keep breathing. The liquid lifesaver is provided, anonymously, every couple of sleeps. Bizarrely, I’ve never caught anyone bringing it to me. It’s just there when I wake up.
The rationing is the only reason I’m still covered in filth. I can’t trust that the buckets will keep coming. They can stop at any time.
Survival always ranks higher than hygiene, especially in here.
Survival ranks higher than everything in here.
Luckily, they provided a waste bucket, so I don’t have to use the floor as a bathroom. A few rolls of toilet paper, too. An unheard-of luxury. Although, I’m not sure the guards who brought me here gave it to me. Seems out of character for them to do so.
It’s time to admit to myself that being in here has finally worn me down. Sighing, I realize why my earlier thoughts were so focused on my past. The thought of toilet paper being a luxury triggered it all. Something awoke in me I thought long dead.
The need for freedom is no longer just a wish—it’s an ache. I miss living.
I’ve spent most of my life in prison. It feels like a lifetime ago, since I laid in that old tree outside my bedroom window, dreaming about being a hero.
I try to picture that night sky, and I get a glimpse of lights in the darkness, but I’m not sure it’s right. To be honest, I’m not even sure what the night sky really looks like anymore. My imagination has a way of substituting things my mind can’t remember, too many things.
There is a good chance I’m not sane anymore.
The grinding sound of the outer door opening pulls my eyes open, echoing off the stone walls around us. We are the only occupants on this floor. The rest of the space is open and dark. Honestly, I have no idea why there are only two cells, but I know someone who does.
My eyes fall on the cell beside of mine. Well, more at the occupant of it. His lava colored eyes meet mine from inside of the unnatural Darkness surrounding him. Those eyes are forever burned into my memory.
When I was a child, a fresh guest here—a whole whopping 12 years old, I saw them glowing in the shadows, staring. After that, I often saw him watching me. He never spoke, never helped me. He was just there.
There was one specific time that those eyes held mine through something that…No, Iza, you’re not going down that path. You’ve gone over enough dark shit today.
Swallowing, I push the memories back to the black hole in my brain where they belong. I turn my full attention back to him.
Two
Iza
Killing the Schoth has become his hobby or at least a habit. And it’s my sole entertainment in this place.
Shamelessly, I stare at his annoyingly fascinating eyes. They’re the only part of him I can see in the Darkness. The only part that I’ve ever seen. Those eyes track the people walking towards us. People I can’t see this far away.
I can assume though, this is Schoth territory, and they all look the same to me. What most humanoid creatures seek and try to look like. I have no idea why—they aren’t all that pretty to me.
But they are in power, and power is coveted.
This group is probably made up of the Magikless guards, strutting around in their fancy, silver, and incredibly useless armor. Armor that doesn’t protect them from him. His claws of Shadow will slice through it like it’s made of marshmallow fluff.
Their deaths are part of the regular routine here. One of them is usually dumb enough to get close to him, sometimes more than one, then bada-bing, they’re dead.
I like that. I revel in it. How ruthless he is. Killing them every chance he gets. Our keepers have no one to blame but themselves.
Since waking up here I’ve seen him kill dozens of them.
Often, it’s the ‘new guy’, the one who doesn’t comprehend the special rule pertaining to Mr. Glowy eyes. He only obeys them when they have that shiny rock of theirs. The rock that glows the same color as the Magiks surrounding him, tethering him to it like a leash.
Every time, he gets a little faster, and they get a little slower. Maybe that stone isn’t working so well anymore? Spells tend to wear out over time, so theoretically, it’s possible.
Or the guards they send are getting dumber. Pretty is never synonymous with smart.
At this point, I figure they would at least put a warning system in place. A Magikal alarm that says, “Hey, Shadow guy is gonna kill someone” or “Stranger Danger”. But nope, their arrogance won’t allow that. It’s considered some type of weird weakness instead of practicality.
Idiots.
Given what he is they should know better. An apex predator hides in that Darkness. The minute I saw him…well, his eyes…all those years ago, I knew what he was, and I was just a kid. All you’ve got to do is look into them to know.
Those peepers of his are cold, so cold and ancient. It’s like gazing into the deepest, darkest hole in the most twisted, vile nightmares in existence knowing that at the bottom something is waiting there to utterly terrify you.
The damn glowing things have a tantalizing appeal to me, truth be told, something in them pulls on the Darkness inside of me.
Nope, not going there either, Iza.
Shifting my attention off that disturbing thought, I watch as the six guards walk into view, and in perfect formation, stop in front of his cell door. The ones in the front squinting into the darkness, trying to see him past the shadows that he wraps around himself like a second skin. Their golden eyes filling with contempt when it should be fear.
My upper lip curls with humor. Here comes the good part.
The soft clinking of his shackles draws my eyes back to him. I know that sound, even if I can’t see the cause of it. Iron doesn’t make that pretty tinkling noise, only silver does. A nuisance he could break if it wasn’t forbidden.
Their existence is simply to remind him of his enslavement. A token symbol of their ownership.
Jameson, the Magistrate’s healer/potion maker, told me that. He likes to talk, bless the nerd, and I like to know things. Especially about Mr. Glowy Eyes.
Jameson doesn’t know our Mr. Glowy Eyes’s actual name, though. I don’t think anyone does. Jameson did tell me that ‘Beast’ is used by everyone. The nickname I gave him is better.
Beast he may be, but he’s much more, too.
It’s not like Mr. Glowy Eyes is informative. The most I’ve managed to pry from him are grunts and the occasional growl. I get the gist of his cave man answers but no satisfaction from them.
I want something solid to sink my teeth into.
Jameson has no idea who treated my wounds either. He said by the time he was summoned I’d already been taken care of. Jameson did tell me how serious they were. He thinks if not for whoever doctored me up I’d have died.
Of course, I suspect Mr. Glowy eyes, and I asked him. No response, big shocker. But he’s the only plausible answer. I’ve seen him come and go as he pleases since I’ve been here. Walking right through the bars like they aren’t there.
The shackles clink again softly, I doubt that they hear. They have ‘okay’ hearing, better than human, but mine is...more.
A lot of my senses are sharper than theirs.
Physically, Schoth are barely above humans. Barely. Yet, Magiks run strong and deep in them; a fact that makes them arrogant in how they treat people, giving them a false sense of superiority above everyone else.
That false sense is one that he takes advantage of by choosing his moments of violence with care. So carefully that it’s a damn art form.
I’m definitely not an artist.
When the guards get bored of telling Mr. Glowy eyes what to do, they decide to poke and
grope me. I always fight. I always bleed. I always lose. My only saving grace is that I can do a little damage beforehand. Of course, this last time, I look at the bandages on my arm, I didn’t even scratch one of them.
Not that the losing part stops me; it never will. I fight them when they decide to put their hands where they don’t belong, as a point of principle. I fight because I will not give in. I fight because it’s all I know. So even if I’m not fighting with my fists, I can fight with my soul. I’ll fight with everything I am.
They will not break me. I won’t let them.
On cue, they open his cell door. He doesn’t move again. A silent hunter that I can no longer hear breathing. Still as a statue, he waits for his chance…so damn patient.
See, there are times when I have a bad habit of rushing in howling like a banshee. If I can be that deliberate, that patient, I might have better luck. I need to learn to use my brain.
It’s something to consider. I haven’t survived this long without adapting.
As the Schoth slowly step through the doorway, the smell wafting through the air catches my attention. With lips parted, I taste the scent with the glands on my gums. My brain sorts through the many stored scents to determine exactly what the source is.
In this case, it’s blood. An all too familiar smell here. Considering what I am, the smell doesn’t bother me either. I’m probably closer to being a beast than Mr. Glowy eyes next door.
Because I enjoy knowing it’s Schoth blood.
Rickher, the head of the Guard and lead clown of the Goon squad, looks into the darkness of the cell cautiously. As he should. Quickly, he drops the unfortunate creature that’s slung over his shoulder to the ground.
A quick assessing look gives me all the info I need or want. Delicate build with the slight curve of breasts. Well, she must have really pissed someone off. They only bring them down here for one reason.
For Mr. Glowy Eyes to eat.
The first time I witnessed him consume someone, I was barely awake. So basically, my brain didn’t register what my eyes were seeing. There was no gore, no blood.
Instead of gnawing on their flesh one bite at a time, his eyes glow an eerie orange, and the darkness crawls up the victim’s body and devours them.
However quickly or slowly he wants it to. Both have been demonstrated, thoroughly. Sometimes they just vanish into the Darkness instantly.