Elusion (Facets of Feyrie Book 1)

by Zoe Parker

  I’m starting to think the slow bits are for show.

  If I were a different kind of person it might bother me, seeing something like that. Quite frankly, I’ve seen worse, much worse. And even if I hadn’t, this is just a natural function for him, a body has to eat. It doesn’t strike me as him being sadistic. Mostly.

  It helps that I hate the Schoth. I want him to eat every fucking one of them.

  A low growl brings the hair on the back of my neck to a stand. Deep and primal, the sound gets an instant reaction. Rickher’s face pales. I get goosebumps, and the other Schoth take a step back.

  He’s such a show-off.

  “Your meal, filthy Beast.” Rickher spits right at Mr. Glowy Eyes. His bravery is a front, though. The sweat leeching through his skin is saturated with the acrid scent of his fear, exposing just how terrified he is. Those glowing eyes hold Rickher captive as the seconds tick by. Then, without warning, they dismiss the Schoth guards and focus on the groaning woman at his feet.

  Well, there goes my fun for the day. He’s hungry. There will be no games played with the guards today. It’s disappointing but understandable.

  At least he’s getting food.

  I can’t help but be a little envious.

  The Schoth’s departure is punctuated by the loud clang of the cell door slamming shut. For once, they’ve shown some brains by taking advantage of his disinterest. Lucky bastards; they will live to die another day.

  Rickher isn’t very smart, though. He will slip up and end up on Mr. Glowy Eyes’ menu.

  Three

  Iza

  The darkness begins to trickle out of the being holding my thoughts without effort. I sigh and lay back on the floor to stare at the ceiling. His feeding might not bother me morally, but it does make me feel peculiar staring. Something deep inside of me likes it a little too much. I push my thoughts as far away from his eating habits as I can.

  But not away from the man, creature, or whatever he is.

  Combined with my own observations and what little Jameson has told me, I know he’s a killing machine. Against my will, my eyes are drawn back to him.

  Aren’t I a poster child for impulse control?

  Globes of liquid fire meet my eyes through the bars trapping me. Like she weighs nothing, he lifts her limp body from the floor by her arm. I’m unable to look away as the darkness grows thicker in preparation of what I know is coming. His eyes are flames and I am a stupid, stupid moth.

  I try to look away, I truly do. Even as screams echo around me, I can only lay there and watch. Trying in vain to stop being fascinated by it. “Try” being the keyword.

  Jerk. I swear it feels like he does that shit on purpose.

  Teeth clenching in determination, I pull my eyes away. Sitting up, I turn enough to be able to avoid meeting his gaze again. To avoid the temptation to look altogether. I’m a creature of the Dark, there’s no doubt about that, but I don’t want to be captivated by him. Or the way he eats.

  To distract myself, I inspect the dirty hand clutching my bare, bent knee. Dirt and blood are crusted all over it, including under my fingernails. Fingernails that are now much longer and thicker and turning black at the cuticles.

  Probably an early sign of malnutrition.

  Further up, the bandages on my wrist are now stained and dank looking. The itchy skin underneath them is proof of how much they have healed. Plus, their sensitivity to touch is gone.

  I’m so damn dirty.

  Going by the condition of my arm, I can only imagine what the rest of me looks like. Mind made up, I start peeling off the bandages on my arms. It’s not like I need them anymore. As I pull them off, I’m more disgusted by my condition. I’m so glad that the Feyrie part of me stops any kind of infections from taking root. Or I wouldn’t still be alive.

  Ah, what I’d give for a bath. Or even a half-assed one. It’s been so long I don’t remember what it feels like to be genuinely clean. But with only a couple of buckets of water a week, that isn’t going to happen.

  The water is my lifeline. It’s better to stink than die. Although, starvation might start to become a bigger issue soon. Really soon.

  Jameson has snuck in food for me before. Well, food that’s thrown out in the garbage and won’t be missed. Not that I’m complaining. My fascinating neighbor shoved some bread through the bars for me a few sleeps ago. I have no idea why, but I didn’t question it.

  Food is food. I stretched that hard crust of bread for as long as possible. Now there is nothing left to stretch.

  Frustrated with the inability to help myself, I throw the filthy bandages on the ground. Swiping a hand through my tangled, greasy hair, with annoyance.

  Being in the Juvenile Sector wasn’t remotely easy and then the Adult one…well, I don’t want to think about it. But here, here it’s all Schoth. Is this the boogeyman sector the prisoners whispered about? The one where people are taken to and never come back from?

  I’ve heard stories, prisoners gossip like old women, of torture and sadism. Of prisoners becoming playthings for the Aristos. I’m fully aware of how Schoth Aristos like to party—ugly clothes, food so raw it sometimes tries to crawl off the table, and pain.

  Lots and lots of pain.

  A bubble of self-pity tries to rise, but I smash it. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I knew the cost when I killed them. Mary and Paul, my fake parents, who used me for awful things that turned me into the monster I’ve become, they deserved to die. If I’d been older, bigger their deaths wouldn’t have been as fast, or clean.

  But at least, not every moment here has been a fight.

  There were libraries in the other sections I was in. Unwanted books or “boring” books were tossed to us like scraps. Because of being in here, I can read and speak several languages. I’ve always had a knack for picking them up. Right now, I speak one-hundred different languages. Some of which aren’t in words. That’s the only good this place has wrung out of me.

  Then there was the TV and disk player they brought from the Earth Realm. Using Magiks to make it work, it played constantly in the cafeteria. There was a little bit of everything on it, the TV kept us prisoners occupied, most of the time.

  I loved the old Ree-Runs—I think that’s what they were called. My favorite one was about the family with the hand that ran all over the place, and the super tall butler who only made that weird mmm noise. I used to sit in there for hours and watch it.

  The humans have it lucky. No Magiks, no Schoth. And they have TV.

  I take that back. Not too lucky. A few thousand years ago some of them ended up here. Magikless they gave birth to the Blood Locks by perverting Light Magiks. It shortened their lifespan significantly. Anyone who uses Blood Magiks either has to sacrifice someone or part of their own life force.

  I don’t get it, why seek power that rots you from the inside-out?

  The only human I’ve spent very much time with was in here. There was some fondness for him, just a little. That same human who was kind enough to teach me how to read also eventually tried to rape me. I did give him a proper ‘thank you’ before stabbing him, to death with a fork. What? He did try to rape a child. That child was me, but still. By then, I’d already learned the most valuable lesson in this place: kill or be killed.

  Morals have no place here. My regrets are far and few.

  The first few months in here were hell. A child tossed to the wolves. So ignorant, I tried to make friends. Yeah, that didn’t work out well. My ‘reading’ teacher is one awesome example.

  As a teenager, I stupidly tried to have sex a few times. It’s a valuable commodity in this place, and when in need…well, ya know. That didn’t work out well either. I have issues breaking things. Or breaking people. Depends on how you want to look at it.

  Then again, they also didn’t turn my crank. Not in the least.

  Of their own accord, my eyes fall on the creature standing in the darkness staring at me. I know this because I can feel those haunting eyes of his.
>
  There is a good chance my crank only turns for monsters.

  “Why are you in here and still alive?”

  I startle at his words. Goosebumps pop out all over my skin. Talking is not something I expect him to do. Ever. And that voice of his is so flipping hot it can melt rock. Carefully he pronounces each syllable like talking is a brand-new thing to him. That accent, too. I’ve never heard one like it before.

  My mouth snaps shut. I sarcastically answer. ‘Luck?”

  “You have no luck.”

  Can’t argue there, that’s the truth. Frowning at him, I choose to not continue the conversation. It might be the truth but I don’t need him to remind me of it.

  My thoughts turn darker. Maybe dying isn’t such a bad option. It will give me control of the how and the when.

  God, stop being an idiot, Iza.

  An eerie feeling brings me right back out of those thoughts. He is staring at me again, intently. Why is he being talkative all the sudden? I can’t help but be suspicious of it.

  “What do you want me to say?” I question as neutrally as I’m capable.

  Polite conversation is something I’m not well-versed in. Being locked up in a prison most of my life, with only a TV and convicts as companions, has stunted my social skills.

  His too, I gather.

  “The truth.”

  At his words, my eyes slit. Why is he pushing?

  “I murdered my supposed parents.” There. There is a fact for him.

  “Self-defense isn’t murder.”

  How can he possibly know that? No one, knew that, except the people who put me in here.

  “As for the rest of it, you should know, creeper,” I say with a bite in my voice that’s softened by a wee bit of humor.

  “You are alive because you fought to stay alive. There is no shame in admitting that.” Well, bully for him. “You carry human misconceptions.” he continues.

  “Well, duh. I’m at least half.” I wave my hand down my body to give example.

  “You are not human,” he counters in that same emotionless but super sexy voice.

  Why is that word popping up in my brain again? Sexy. No, nope. Not. Stop it brain!

  How does he know these things? Repeating the question in my head a second time makes me ask it out loud.

  “I smell no human blood in you.”

  The crazy bastard, all it takes is one look at me to know I’m too plain for a Feyrie.

  Feyrie aren’t ethereal and golden, like Schoth. Or other creatures of the Light half of this wretched world. They’re of the Dark half, born from the Dark pool of Magiks. But Feyrie, all species of them, are just as beautiful in their own ways. Primal. Monstrous in some cases.

  We, they, are the “bad guys” of the Juras realm. What’s left of them. The Schoth have done a great job at taking an ax to Feyrie family trees.

  I’m lacking all that Feyrie-ness. Except for the Dark part.

  “You’re nuts,” I mutter.

  “No, I’m…Phobe.” For once, he’s in a sharing mood.

  Weren’t you wishing for him to be more talkative, Iza? Shut up brain, I’m aware. You’re being awful snarky today inner me.

  Pausing for two heartbeats, I stare at him. Then proceed to blurt out what I’m thinking. “Okay…Phobe,” I draw out his name because I’m pretty sure he’s lying about it. “What made you talk to me after all this time?”

  Being a direct type of person, I just gaze at him waiting for an answer. Much like he did me.

  Large clawed hands wrap themselves around the bars separating us. The shadows that have always concealed the features of his face evaporate as he moves closer. In surprise, my breath catches. Good god, his face is…just…exquisite.

  Choppy black hair halos a pale, blue-skinned, sharply angled face. A short forehead topped by a small widow’s peak crowns all that otherworldly beauty. My eyes take in every detail of his face. The dark, perfectly arched brows. A regal nose that flares just slightly on either side. The whole package is wrapped up by a downright sinful mouth that is so well formed and full it’s damn near feminine.

  A solid, square, completely masculine jaw is the only thing that keeps his face from being, well, too pretty.

  A woman will do a lot of things for a face like that. Probably had.

  Those eyes, though, they are the icing on the cake. Oval with just a slight upwards tilt to the ends of them, surrounded with long, thick black eyelashes. A startling shade of orange that pulls right at my gut. Making an exotic face look more so.

  They carry so many secrets. Layers upon layers of secrets.

  Completely belying the youthful appearance of his face. His voice even sounds older than his face looks. There’s no stubble, no lines around the eyes or mouth. Just a deceptive, youthful face. I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, especially in here. Some were just as pretty in a different way. But none who look like him. Who feel like him.

  This man is something else entirely. Something dark and enthralling and…I think I need an intervention.

  Deliberately digging my nails into my palms, I curl my fingers tightly. Fighting the unacceptable urge to crawl across the floor and touch that face.

  Totally unacceptable. Touching him is the last thing I want to do!

  With cold precision learned from years of practice, I push and shove at these mushie gooshie feelings until I manage to lock them away.

  For now.

  “You cannot die here, Iza,” Frowning at his words, I wait for an explanation. “You should rest.”

  The words are a breathy whisper. For a second he studies me then turns on his heel. Stepping into the shadows he disappears and although I can see in the dark I can’t find him in it.

  We aren’t going to be fast friends but I don’t think we are enemies either. After struggling until my eyes hurt, I give up and let the heavy lids drift closed. Sleeping sitting up isn’t a new experience.

  It isn’t until sleep already has its claws in me that I realize he knew my name without me telling him. So, who told him?

  Four

  Phobe

  She always falls asleep quickly. Her body tensed, prepared to fight if need be. Watching her, I think back to the first day I saw her, 10 years ago. That first day, I was looking for food for myself when I saw them drag her in the main hall. A terrified, yet, defiant child covered in blood that was not hers. I was curious about her then, too.

  Before laying eyes on her. I had, at no time, felt that precise emotion, curiosity. None of the creatures of this world, or any world, mattered. Merely food. Until her.

  The order is for me to remain in the prison. It was never specified where in it. So, I used that loophole and followed her, watched her over the years. I use it, now, to steal water and food for her when I can, but the only way to get that well-guarded source is to kill someone. I have to be cautious or they will suspect.

  I am not sure why, but something draws me to her, has always drawn me to her.

  Seemingly overnight, she was grown. The years flew, and she is no longer a terrified, defiant child. She is a predator. Feared now by the ones who would once have tried to prey on her—or did prey on her.

  Now they will feel her wrath if they try.

  That predator watches me with fascination that she fights to control. She does not look at me with repulsion when I feed. Does not fear me when I am close to her. Which pleases me, and finding pleasure in that confuses me.

  Pleasure is not something I am accustomed to, in any form. Which draws me to her further.

  Giving in to the impulse to be closer to her, I sneak into her cell and stand above her, staring down in confusion. Why her? Why do I watch her? Why do I follow her?

  Too many questions. Not enough answers.

  Unable to deny the want to be near her anymore, I finally close the last vestiges of distance between us to study her with more than my eyes.

  The Magiks still under my control tendril out and weave towards her. The response, once they
reach her, changes every misconception I have about her. Surprised, I watch as it coats her in milky darkness from head to toe, undulating in caressing waves across her skin. The feeling it gives me is…incredible.

  And completely unacceptable.

  With pure willpower alone, I pull it back to me. It takes genuine effort. Something that I have never had to extend with a simple exploratory sensing.

  My Magiks have never been able to touch her before. They have always been blocked by an unknown type of spell. Something has changed to allow me to now. Needing answers, I push forward. Now more prepared, I try again with a wisp of Magiks and find the same reaction.

  What in the bloody hell is this?

  A woman I should give no second thought to is what. And yet, I give many of my thoughts to her. Too many. Clenching my jaw, I squat there continuing to stare at her. A part of my mind pushes to get away from her. To simply look away and forget she exists. Kill her. Something! Anything to separate me from her.

  While something else deeper, older inside me rebukes the very notion.

  The feeling of hot liquid dripping on my toe draws me momentarily out of my thoughts. I flick a glance down to see a single drop of blue blood on my toe. I open my hand, unclenching it and releasing my sinking claws. A cursory glance at my palm shows a streak of blue where the wound was seconds ago.

  I am not one for losing control. Ever.

  I hedge forward, so close to her my bare toes touch the warmth of her skin. It feels good, touching her. Evidently, this decision is already made for me. Unable to resist it any longer I breathe in deeply through my mouth with my lips peeled back. Death lingers around her. It’s not from her death to come, although it is coming one day.

  No, this is an old smell, a part of her.

  My hand rises of its own accord to touch her cheek softly. A faint blue color lights her skin following the touch of my fingers.

  The determination to know more pulls at me to look deeper. To look beneath the filth covering her.