Elusion (Facets of Feyrie Book 1)

by Zoe Parker

  I stare at him as he stands there staring at me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper the words.

  Knowing he can hear me and understand they are not words I say often.

  My gratitude is for more than him taking a beating meant for me. It is for everything. Something in me lessens a little, in a good way. I owe him even more now. A lot more. Something I’m not really thrilled about but accepting of.

  “You won’t be saying that for long,” is all he says before sitting down on the floor beside me.

  Without asking permission, he starts wiping off my shoulders with a cool wet cloth. Where does he get these things?

  I stare at his lean, muscled, tattooed body, unable to bring myself to look into those eyes of his again.

  Yes, I will, “be saying it for long”. I’m not stupid. Given the demonstration tonight, I know exactly what to expect in the future. This won’t be the last time one of us gets whipped—or worse.

  How can he possibly think I will blame him for anything they make him do? I’m not even going to hold it against him for not telling me about his tattoos, the matching Runes. Much, anyhow. I can’t lie to myself and say I won’t hold it against him at all.

  Or his damn magical heartbeats that make me want to purr like a kitten. I sigh and let my eyes drift closed.

  All I can do is let him figure it out for himself.

  Seven

  Phobe

  Iza’s sleep isn’t one of rest, unlike the near comatose state she was in while healing. This is a fitful and turbulent state. The one she is usually in. Eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids, her mouth slightly open as if to cry out.

  There are no peaceful dreams for her.

  Her back snags my attention. That tattoo. The damned thing seems to be everywhere I look. Surrounded by scars current, and past. It’s still as bright and perfectly formed, untouched by the mess of her skin.

  I stop my hand halfway to her with the full intention of running my fingers over the Rune that glares at me.

  What am I doing?

  Tonight, I glamoured us both while I took the beating intended for her. Some foreign chivalrous instinct drove me to protect her with my body. I have never been chivalrous. Ever. It was completely instinctual. I was not able to stop myself.

  Instincts that awakened by her own attempt to take my punishment. By her very presence.

  Never have I sacrificed anything for another. Never have I cared for another. Never has there been the urge to. This…thing she—SHE arouses literally in me is…my thoughts stall. There is no description. No explanation whatsoever to make any logical sense of it. I kneel beside her, stilling when her small, cold hand touches my ankle. So fragile, yet so strong.

  I have been in her mind. I know how chaos reigns in there. Seen the solid strand of strength underlying it. Part of me quite simply admires it, is drawn to it.

  Clenching my teeth, I belay my own disorganized thoughts to touch her, but I find I cannot move away. When her fingertips graze my skin again, I freeze.

  Touch is such an underrated thing. The slight brush of her fingers has me feeling things I have never experienced. A flare of desire among them.

  How can such a thing be? How can the touch of one like her make me feel desire when the skilled touch of hundreds cannot arouse a single erotic thought?

  Taken aback by the entire situation, I continue to sit there next to her, staring. With a feather touch, I give in and stroke the Rune on her back. I know that Rune better than any others.

  I should, it is mine. The Rune is my name. My true name.

  And she bears it. A woman who sees past the glamour that none other has been able to pierce. She sees the real me. Feels the real me.

  I force my eyes elsewhere and find them falling on her face that is turned a little towards me. She looks so young, but I know she has lived many lifetimes in this single one. She has seen so much, this mysterious woman who smells like cinnamon and Darkness.

  Accepting that some impulses I cannot fight, I slide my index finger slowly down her cheek. The skin is baby soft with the small, raised ridges of scars here and there. Faint, blue trails follow my finger on her skin.

  Can it be?

  Can I let it be? Is the better question. She sighs in her sleep, and I move away, not wanting her to wake up and catch me looking at her. Not even when I cannot define what I feel when I look at her.

  A small cry of pain crosses her lips breaking the silence around us.

  With a growl, I cross the room to her. As gently as possible, insinuate myself against her, maneuvering her head to rest on my chest. With a sigh, the tenseness she always possesses melts away and she relaxes completely against me.

  Magikal heart beats indeed.

  Eight

  Iza

  It’s hard to sneak looks at someone so damned good at catching me at it. Eventually, I resort to lying on my back with an arm flung over my head peeking through the bend in my elbow. The view is half-assed but it’s still a view.

  For some unfathomable reason, Phobe has officially moved into my cell. His few possessions, a dirty bag full of mysterious stuff and a comb, now take up the corner opposite mine. When I woke up they were just…there.

  What can I say?

  It isn’t like I can ask him to pay rent. Technically though, I guess he already did. Somehow, he found a blanket, and I’m now the proud owner of it.

  I don’t even mind that it smells like pee.

  I guess the first question I want an answer to is, why? Why is he here in this cell with me, when he has a perfectly good cell to himself?

  Too many unanswered questions. A common theme with him.

  And that damn Rune. It haunts me. Once in a while, he will move a certain way, and of course, I see it. Damn thing. It stands out like a fire in the dark. Red, the fucking thing is so red. Exactly like the one on my back.

  How weird is that?

  Starting below his shoulder, it wraps around his nipple to end right above his waistline. Every line, every curve matching mine perfectly. An exact replica.

  The impulse to ask finally won out, so I asked. He didn’t answer. My answers are grunts and often, not even that. Keeping himself separate, always.

  Although, sometimes when I wake up, there’s the strangest feeling that I haven’t been laying down alone. Yet, he is in his corner away from me when I open my eyes.

  On those nights, I don’t have nightmares. It’s got to be my crazy imagination. The weird feeling of sharing this very small space with him is making me imagine things. Has to be, right?

  I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Away from him and whatever it is I feel when I’m around him.

  “The bandages are ready to come off.” Immediately following his words, his presence fills the area beside me, startling me right out of my reverie.

  I keep my arm over my eyes to try and hide the effect he has on me. Without pause, he starts cutting the bandages off my chest and stomach.

  With his claws. I sigh.

  Other than the occasional tug, it doesn’t hurt at all. “Roll over.” Rolling over as directed, I roll my eyes as well. As the silence stretches, I look up at him. He’s kneeling beside me, looking at my tattoo in the oddest way. It's not disgust on his face or anger.

  Intense is the best word for that look.

  Struggling with the fact that there are so many unknown things concerning him. I hide my face in the crook of my arm again

  “Are those ready to come off too?” I ask instead of what I truly want to ask. Like, what does it mean…to you?

  “You were born with it?” A surprising question.

  “Dunno. Been there as long as I can remember. So possibly,” His warm fingers tracing it make me tense.

  With purpose, I relax under his touch. He isn’t going to hurt me.

  “Magiks have a twisted sense of humor. So maybe I was meant to be a pain in your ass,” I say, laughing a little. Did it sound wobbly? To my shame, I’m pretty sure it does.
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  “Were you born with yours?” I continue.

  The warm fingers disappear to be replaced by sharp claws cutting the rest of the bandages off. Silent I chew my lip—repeating questions gets me nowhere with him.

  If he wants to answer he will.

  “I was not born.”

  The humor in me vanishes with those words. Say what?

  “This Rune appeared on my skin as I became aware of a physical existence.”

  The urge to ask if he knows what they mean again rises but I catch myself. Instead, I say nothing. What can I say? Never heard of such a thing. Well, other than in books. But they were fiction, Right?

  All my questions manage to do are produce more questions that only he can answer. And doesn’t.

  “Do you know how to defend yourself, Iza?” Well isn’t he full of surprises today? Using my name and all. I push myself up and sit crossed legged facing him.

  “That depends, do you mean like, all honorable and shit or plain dirty?” I'm good at dirty. Exploiting any weakness, I can find. I’ll use a rock, shoe, or toilet plunger. Anything I can get my hands on to beat someone with.

  No shame in surviving.

  “Never honorable.” He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Running his hand along my arms he pushes them to my sides and then wraps his arm and the chains attached to it around my neck. “Now, get away.”

  Normally, I would grab a handful of his boys…but not…not with him. I stomp his bare foot and wait for him to loosen his hold in reaction. Nothing happens.

  “That was stupid, Iza. Try again,” he chastises.

  Fine.

  With sharp teeth, I bite into his arm and elbow him in the gut as hard as I can. Twisting in his grasp, I turn enough to kick him in the balls, but he’s gone.

  Who the hell moves that fast?

  “Duck.”

  And for some reason I do. The chains whistle as they swing over my head.

  “Listen. Feel, Iza. Use what you are.”

  “Okay, how the hell am I supposed to defend myself against a damn invisible man?” His fist in my kidney shuts me right up and knocks me sideways.

  Shit!

  I take a deep breath. That’s how it is then? I roll my shoulders to loosen the muscles of my aching side and wait.

  Another punch to the back. God damn it! I dodge but not fast enough. A slap to the face. A painful tug on my hair. Around and around I spin trying to avoid someone I can’t see or hear. My temper is at the point of exploding when I finally have a moment of clarity.

  I can’t see or hear him but—he is right, I can feel him. Closing my eyes, my senses expand.

  So, we dance. During this borderline deadly dance, he gives me curt instructions, a lot of sore spots, and more than one trip to the floor. But not every single time. Occasionally, I’m able to actually dodge or block.

  I don’t know when I start to enjoy it, but at some point, I'm smiling and laughing as we fly back and forth at each other. I'm learning. He is showing me things I didn’t know I was capable of until then. Pushing me to react more with my gut instincts, to use them instead of being used by them.

  Breathing heavily, I hunch over with my hands resting on my knees.

  “Phobe, enough.”

  He appears out of thin air in front of me.

  “You are terrible. But you will be better.”

  Despite the insult, I smile. I love a good fight. There is something about violence, something that makes my blood pump. Makes me feel whole and capable.

  Although I’m fully aware, he’s not someone I’ll ever be able to take on. Phobe is holding back 99.9% of what he can do. Just the moves I saw are unbelievable. He moves like smoke. Vanishing into thin air to reappear in the right place to get me. Every time. With freaking shackles, for crying out loud.

  I can’t help but admire it.

  My bucket of water beckons me. I cross the room to get it and carefully drink. Barely enough to sate the dryness of my mouth.

  “You were designed to fight.” I choke on the water. Is that a compliment? “But you suck at it,” he continues.

  There it goes. I almost throw my bucket at him. Almost. It will miss and spill everywhere.

  “I will teach you to suck less.” With that said, he goes back to his corner and sits.

  Being taught to move the way he does is not something I’ll refuse. If he can teach me to move a little like he does, I might stand a chance. Might.

  “Okay, but only as long as you let me teach you something, Phobe.” Smirking I watch his face closely for a reaction.

  “What is it that you think you can possibly teach me?” So arrogant.

  “How to get that stick out of your ass,” I snark.

  He chuckles. Yes, chuckles. Frantically, I grab at the bucket that my numb fingers released in shock.

  “Maybe you will,” he replies, as the bucket hits the floor with a wet hollow thunk.

  Nine

  Iza

  There are moments in life when you meet someone, hate them, and you immediately want a house to fall on them. Well, with me it’s a rather familiar feeling, just not usually with this level of want. It’s an instant dislike without cause. The moment I laid eyes on Darvena, I hated her. Every gut instinct I’ve got tells me if given a chance this woman will be the death of me.

  Darvena is a fake Glinda the Good Witch, and I want a house to fall on her so damn bad that I’m ready to barter a limb to any god that can make it happen.

  Snow-white hair brushes against her face as she moves. Thick and lustrous, perfectly curled to fall around her shoulders in a hair work of art. Shit smells like some exotic fruit, too. Her face is perfect. Delicate, plush lips, small pert nose. Golden eyes that shine with an inner light. Shorter than me, she moves with an elegance to her small frame that I can’t duplicate if my life depends on it.

  It makes me kind of want to throw up on her expensive, silk shoes.

  Darvena is the Magistrate’s head consort and has a taste for pain. Well, giving it anyhow. Sadism seems to be the constant theme here.

  Now that I’ve spent some time in Darvena’s “care” I know it.

  At this moment, I’m shackled spread eagle to the wall in the wannabe torture room. Darvena’s idea, of course. Arick, the Magistrate, and his twit posse are taking turns zapping me with a cattle prod. Their idea, of course.

  “Just the Tip”, they call this game. I thought of something else entirely when they first used the phrasing. The last time I heard that phrase a dick was getting shoved in my face.

  I’m so glad to be wrong.

  In fact, I prefer this one. Compared to the other kind of “Just the Tip” game, this is a picnic. Something sexually deviant, like the other, leaves marks beatings do not. Predators of that kind don’t like victims that bite hard either.

  They punish you for it, too.

  ‘You prefer this to sex?’ Phobe questions in my head.

  I suspect for a moment he's a mind reader too. Telepathy is in the same family group, so it isn’t that shocking. It explains that ‘being watched’ feeling. If someone is poking around in my head, essentially, they are watching. Well, Duh. I feel stupid for not putting the pieces together.

  ‘I prefer this to rape, not sex. There’s a difference.’ I snap out in my head.

  ‘What?’

  For a moment, I’m confused about his question. It hits me. He doesn’t understand the difference.

  ‘Well rape is bad—' I start to explain and then pause.

  Considering that my experimentation with consensual sex went wrong, on all levels, I don’t know how to correctly answer the question. There's also this thing between him and me—I grab at the thought before completing it. That part I totally don’t want him to know.

  Pain yanks me right out of my mind. A string of curse words slips out of my mouth as the electricity burns the skin above my navel. It hurts that bad. I grit my teeth and squeeze the chains until my knuckles whiten. I will not scream. They’ll not get the
satisfaction of that from me.

  It'll heal, it always heals.

  “She is rather dull, Darvena,” Arick says turning away from me, bored.

  Exhaling in relief I let myself relax a little. By now, he usually moves onto something else or sends us back to our cell. The need for the latter is building as the endorphins are losing effect.

  Rapidly.

  “Oh, Arick my love. Come here and show our guests your collection. I’m sure they would love to hear the stories of your conquests.” I watch through sweaty hair as Darvena steers the Magistrate over to a glass top case.

  Darvena has an agenda with these particular guests. People like her enjoy hurting people too much to pass on a chance to do it.

  “Remove them.” At Arick’s order, I relax a little bit more.

  Stumbling a bit as the guards unshackle me, I fight for my balance. If I can manage to avoid catching their attention I can get out of here. Before the chance to escape the room is lost, I head towards the door without a word. Burns hurt. They hurt in a way cutting or beating do not. I don’t want anymore.

  At least they didn’t use Magiks. This time.

  ‘Are you going to answer me?’ Phobe asks, his voice a whisper in my brain.

  I barely keep myself from looking at him. We are already halfway to our cell when I realize that tonight was rather mild compared to others.

  ‘Sex is supposed to be consensual, Phobe. And above all enjoyable.’ There, that sounds wise and shit.

  ‘Without pain?’

  Sigh, he’s Mr. Talkative today. This might be one of our longest conversations ever.

  ‘That depends on the people having it. Pain can be pleasure.’ That is part of my problem. I’m not about to tell him that.

  Shit! Too late. Damn mind reader, remember?

  ‘Haven’t you had sex before?’ I ask.

  If he says no, I’m going to have a heart attack right here.

  ‘Yes.’ Good, no heart attack for me.

  ‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’

  ‘Not really. Did you?’ He fires right back.