Elusion (Facets of Feyrie Book 1)

by Zoe Parker

  With her being nude, I can clearly see that is a short, curvy thing even when half starved to death. She lacks that long-limbed grace of a pure-blood Feyrie. That alone proves she bears no more than half-blood. I doubt it is a full half. Considering what I know that “half” to be.

  There is no human in her, despite how much she currently resembles one.

  My senses are never wrong.

  There are other ways to find out where she comes from. I let out a little more Magiks to keep her asleep, something that becomes harder to do every time I use it. She is developing a resistance to it but for now, she is still susceptible.

  All creatures of Magiks hold a mark behind their ear that ties them to the pool they are born from. In this world, there are two pools of Magiks: The Dark, where the creatures called Feyrie are born from. And the Light, from which creatures like the Schoth are born from, all Light Fey.

  I lift her matted hair and move her right ear to expose the pale spot behind it. There are no marks there. I check the other side, nothing.

  “Hmm.” I lean over her mouth my face so close I can feel her faint breaths on my lips and breathe in her exhaled breath. Eyes closed, I disregard the myriad of smells of blood and sweat, focusing solely on the distinctive smell that belongs to her. That exclusive smell that all creatures possess that marks them from deep within. My eyes shoot open, illuminating her face in with their light.

  Cinnamon and the deep spicy scent of darkness. An unusual combination.

  This is the first time in a long while I dare get this close to her. Other than when I stitched her up, I avoid that intimacy. When she was unconscious I was more concerned with the fixing of her than what she is.

  What secrets do you hide, Iza? Blinking I clear my eyes. Mind racing with all the possibilities, I hover in front of her, unsure of what to do next.

  Annoyed with myself, I decide to check over her wounds. Some were caused by blades, some by blows. Yet, with all this damage, she managed to kill several of them. She damaged several others.

  All for some human girl that, ultimately, she killed and with compassion in her eyes. I don’t understand her motivation. Or her compassion.

  I don’t understand her, period.

  Only a few minutes which felt like an eternity had passed when I find myself shaking my head at my own thoughts. An impossibility, this—her. Yet, she is. How very unusual. This chaotic, tornado of a person has accomplished something no other creature in existence has.

  The minx drew me to her.

  A feeling as solid as the walls around me settles in my stomach. Her being this close to me changes everything. It puts me in a position I am completely unfamiliar with; feeling responsible for another life.

  So be it.

  I go back to looking her over for other signs of her mark. So many scars—arms, hands, all covered with them. Even her face bears marks of her past. The fight in her runs deep. Pausing in my search, I study her face, looking past the dirt to the skin beneath.

  A short forehead tops a small heart-shaped face haloed by dirty, blood red hair. Dark eyebrows, tinged with a spot of red, arch above almond shaped, violet faceted eyes that I know, when open, dominate her face. Her nose is small with a little upturn to it, flaring too much to either side to be considered delicate. Full lips, that although are a little too wide, are still plush and perfectly formed.

  There is not any classic beauty in her small face. It is too unusual for that. Instead, it strikes me as exquisite because of its unusualness.

  Minding the razor-sharp claw extending from my thumb, I touch the small cleft in her chin. Prying her mouth open with minimal pressure, I see that most of her teeth are indeed more sharp than normal. This only shores up my suspicions of where she comes from.

  Of what she is.

  Rolling her onto her side to stare at the tattoo covering her entire back, with the determination to solve the mystery she represents. The tattoo has changed, it is more clearly defined now. The Rune on the spider’s back…is now fully formed. The Magiks that was hiding it from me are no longer working.

  Fuck.

  The muscles of my back tense as I feel Jameson’s presence move down the stone stairs. The rest of my inspection will have to wait.

  In two steps, I am back in my own cell, moving through the bars as incorporeal as smoke. My Shadows wrap around me to keep me from his view. Jameson pauses outside of Iza’s cell and stares at her a moment before giving one furtive glance into my own.

  “Is she sleeping or dead?” It’s a rhetorical question. He is not speaking to me. I have spoken one sentence to him, ever. “She sleeps.” He mumbles to himself.

  Jameson relaxes a little when he sees her chest moving. Does the man care for her? The thought makes me clench my teeth and then clench harder once I realize my own reaction.

  Why should I care what Jameson feels for her? That thought doesn’t stop me from letting my shadows touch him. To see what is really in his mind.

  Vague concern for Iza. Thoughts of other women. Jameson is a base creature in most of his thoughts.

  “I brought her some food, could you let her know?” This is said to me. I remain silent. Without another word, Jameson tosses the bag into the cell and leaves.

  My eyes fall on her back.

  At least I know what I can blame now. It is all tied to that fucking tattoo. The one I did not see until the day she was brought in and dumped on the cell floor in a big heap of bloody meat.

  The one I didn’t see the full Rune on until mere moments ago.

  The tattoo that begins at the base of her hairline and takes up the space between her shoulder blades, the middle of her back, and ends right at her ass. A black widow spider perching on a spun web with an all too familiar Rune shining at me from its back. Red eyes look up from a body so detailed it looks as if it will breathe any second.

  It is undoubtedly a Magikal tattoo. No mortal-made tattoo could be so complex. It explains, too, why she bears no normal mark behind either ear. This is her mark. An exclusive mark.

  Iza will be the only one to ever bear it.

  I understand the significance of Magikal tattoos in a way most others do not. Several tattoos canvas most of my body, tattoos I was made with. They are signs of my power, and that spider is a sign of hers.

  I recall the memories of Jameson’s words the night she was brought in.

  ** **

  “That is a representation of a Nightmare, the black widow. I only know that because of a bedtime story my father read to me as a child. As far as I know, they don’t even exist. That Rune, however, it only looks partially formed—” Jameson points at the blood red Rune that stands out vividly amongst the black body of the spider. “—I have no idea what it is. I’ll admit, though, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen it before.” Jameson’s face is thoughtful as he studies the spider. “I should tell the Magistrate,” He grumbles.

  “You will not,” I hiss at him. Jameson’s eyes jerk up to meet mine, his face paling.

  “I will not,” Jameson says, unintentionally saving his own life. His Adam’s apple bobs nervously as he swallows.

  ** **

  The now complete Rune is very familiar. Having it on her body solidifies the suspicions that have been circling in my mind since I saw her for the very first time. It is not something I am willing to voice, though. Jameson might sometimes be friendly to her, but he is never trustworthy.

  A Feyrie wanting to be a Schoth is not someone I can or will trust with anything. But for now, he can come and go as he pleases.

  For now.

  Five

  Iza

  I’ve not spent every moment of my life alone here, but having someone constantly around is a new experience. Not that modesty or being self-conscious about anything is an issue. That was taken from me a long time ago. But sharing an ever-shrinking space, even with the bars between us, with a being that’s so…him, is difficult.

  Specifically, someone who hides mostly from my view, but is
always watching. Because I can feel it. No matter how hard I try I can’t see the bastard in his stupid shadows.

  If it were anyone else I’d think they were afraid.

  And it gets better. Since he spoke for the first time several weeks ago, there is a more deepened awareness of him now. Wait, I think it’s weeks. It could be months. There is no real concept of time down here. 5 buckets of water…a bucket every few sleeps, bah. Regardless of weeks or months, I’m not sure what to make of it all.

  He isn’t exactly volunteering any answers.

  Daily, he manages to take the whole strong, silent type to a brand-new level. An annoying level. One that is a fuzz shy of being creepy. He is just so freaking obvious about it, and I can’t help but shake my head sometimes.

  I don’t feel like he’s a threat—not to me, at least. He’s been a distant presence in my life for a long time. That alone doesn’t make me know him. Or trust him, not completely.

  My instincts, though, insist that he’s so different from everything I’ve known, that I’ll never figure him out. Unless he decides to let me. Maybe then I stand a chance, maybe. I’m not holding out hope for it.

  Infuriatingly, my snoopiness pushes me to interact with him. Which is weird. I’m not much for seeking anyone out. That fact makes my feelings sharper, more noticeable.

  Uncomfortable.

  “Why are you here?” The question pops out of my mouth before I can catch it.

  Well, shit.

  A slight clinking sound breaks the silence from his cell.

  “Why do you care?” Well, that isn’t exactly an answer. Not really having one for him either, I shrug.

  “Curiosity?” It’s the truth if nothing else.

  “I am a slave.”

  “Well, not to be a dick, but duh.”

  A noise comes from his direction. Did he just snort?

  In a blink, the entire mood changes. A blanket of tension falls heavily between us. I sigh. Right as I’m getting somewhere.

  “They are coming,” he warns in that echoey-whisper-weirdo voice he can do. It’s the first time he’s foretold their arrival to me. This makes me cautious.

  Still a little sore from the last beating my big mouth earned me with the guards, I climb stiffly to my feet.

  My muscles begin to twitch all over my body. My feet shift around on the floor, restless. I want to run. I want to fight. This doesn’t bode well for me to have that fight or flight instinct so soon after waking up.

  If I go after one of them now, though, I’ll get my ass handed to me. Running the scenario through my head gets me the same result every time. Failure.

  That creepy bastard is rubbing off on me.

  I weigh my feelings on the situation to be sure. I’m not afraid, so fear isn’t holding me back. Death doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m practical enough to know it’s a definite in my future, regardless of the next few minutes.

  Death comes for everyone.

  I prefer to see it coming. Maybe I’ve actually learned something from watching Phobe. I look over at him.

  “To kill me?” Stating my suspicions out loud helps break some of the tension.

  I’m not a fan of the unknown. To me, it’s easier knowing bad or good.

  “No,” he answers after a slight hesitation. I relax.

  “Then what’s the big deal? They are probably bringing you another juice box.” My frustration bleeds into my voice.

  Why put such warning into his words if the Schoth aren’t going to do anything?

  “No.”

  That isn’t the answer I’m expecting. It’s been a few days, a week, or whatever since they brought someone down. To feed the…well, him. I don’t care for the name they use for him; it bothers me to call him that. Even in my head.

  So freaking weird of me, right? He eats people. And it doesn’t bother me one bit. So, what does that make me?

  Stupid brain.

  “Then why?” I ask, to see if he knows.

  “Entertainment.”

  The way he says that doesn’t make me think it’s the ‘pulling a rabbit out of a hat’ kind of entertainment. Sounds more like one of us bleeding on the floor kind.

  I’ve been the star of those parties. Lots of times.

  Before I know it, “You know exactly what they are going to do, don’t you?” Blurts out of my mouth with a touch of accusation.

  Subtlety is not one of my strong points. Twin glowing, fiery orbs light deep in the shadows that hide him. I take that as affirmation.

  Annoyed with him, I don’t comment. I’ll ask him later how he knows. That’s if I can stop visualizing hitting him with the bucket. Or a metal bar. Yeah, definitely a metal bar. It will hurt more.

  Why stop at the bar? I can grab a big fat brick, too. Give him four good smacks right in his smug, too pretty face.

  The shadows lighten around him enough to expose his face to my view. His full top lip curls up into something that resembles a smile. My eyes follow him as he turns to stand and face the door. Irritation forgotten I watch as the thick short claws on his hands lengthen by several shiny, sharp inches.

  Damn things look like daggers growing out of his fingertips.

  Phobe is going to hurt someone today. I do a happy dance in my head, temporarily forgiving him for being a jerk.

  The shackles binding his wrists pull tight, the metal flexing with a creak, pushed right to the breaking point without breaking. He knows exactly how much pressure to exert without disobeying the great shiny rock of power.

  That level of control is rather genius. Maybe even a little sexy. Sexy? Did I really just think that? Shit, where is that damn intervention?

  Goosebumps rise on my skin as his uncanny, glowing eyes meet mine over his shoulder. Sometimes it’s like the bastard reads my mind.

  And these stupid goosebumps got to go. Right out the door with the word sexy.

  “Well, well, you pieces of shit. The Magistrate has finally summoned you.” My gaze snaps to Rickher, an unwanted familiar face, opening the door to Phobe’s cell. Phobe moves and freezes halfway.

  Rickher holds out the great shiny rock of power, a smug smile on his face. The Magiks in the rock spread out to form a purple tether, that I can clearly see, running from the stone to the darkness that perpetually surrounds Phobe. The more I see it, the more it seems familiar, but I can’t place it.

  Something inside of me tells me that I need to touch that stupid rock. Staring at the tether harder, I can see where the spell is starting to fray, to wear out.

  I have no idea why he’s bound to it. I just know it controls him. It took a lot of juice to bind him to the rock. A lot. I really don’t think it was an easy accomplishment.

  What in the world is he?

  In this place, I’ve seen a lot of different kinds of critters. He’s nothing like any of them. Do they know what they have? He doesn’t get any kind of special treatment. He’s treated as crappy as any other Feyrie. Probably worse. Hmm. There’s something suspicious going on here. I bet a million bucks there isn’t a drop of Feyrie in him.

  He’s a whole lotta something else entirely.

  Come to think of it, he reminds me of a character in the books I learned to read in. Detailing this gallant hero coming in to save the damsel in distress. But it wasn’t the fake ass hero that I cheered for. In my imagination, the bad guy always came to my rescue.

  Phobe is every inch a bad guy. Unfortunately, he won’t be riding in to save me anytime soon. Like, well…ever. He’s a prisoner, like me.

  “Kneel.” As Rickher speaks the word, Phobe begins to fight the power of the command. And he fights it hard, too. But within minutes his will is overcome. He sinks to his knees, his face an expressionless mask of calm. Those eyes, though, those eyes hold something else entirely.

  Death.

  “Grab her.” Rickher snaps off to his goon squad. Shit. My muscles lock as I struggle to keep myself from doing something stupid.

  Two of them stomp into my cell and grab my upper arms.
For a split second the urge to fight almost overrides my new-found caution. I stop it in its tracks. A lot of hard lessons were learned in this place, the most recent one is to choose my battles with more care. There is a time for a fight, and a time to just survive.

  As weak as I am, I’ll be about as useless as tits on a boar in a fight. There will be another chance--I got to wait for it. Watching the methodical care Phobe takes with everything he does, is starting to finally rub off on me.

  A rough push towards the door makes my poor, sore body stretch more than it’s comfortable with. I bite my tongue. With the ease of practice, I seek out that cold, dark place inside of me that lets me escape the pain.

  It gives me the strength I need to stand up straight and not fall on my face right there. Drawing my shoulders back I raise my chin with as much pride as I can muster. I stand buck naked before them but I refuse to cower.

  Fuck that. Fuck them.

  “You two are going to a party,” Rickher says. “You should feel privileged the Magistrate invited you.” Rickher’s words shoot a jolt of apprehension through me but I keep my face blank.

  One of the guards standing next to the door elbows Phobe as he walks past him. Phobe barely moves, and the man falls to the floor, dying. I smirk. I can’t help it. I knew he’d get one sooner or later.

  “What have I told you about fucking with him? Only the holder of this stupid rock is safe from him, you dumb-asses?!” Rickher yells as they lead us up the long stairway, leaving the body of their companion on the floor where he fell.

  I don’t miss the shadows creeping around the dying guy, shadows they haven’t seen.

  A snack. Interesting.

  I hope they are all dumb enough to fuck with him.

  Six

  Iza

  All the tapestries lining the walls of the circular room, that we’re taken to—above the prison, depict the same scenes over and over. The pictures on them showing a posed Schoth, standing with a glowing sword pointed at the neck of a fallen enemy. It’s not hard to deduce who this particular Schoth is.