by K. V. Adair
He didn’t remove his hand from my face. Instead, he stroked his thumb across my cheek. It was both intimate like a lover and comforting like a father.
Fucking weird dynamic.
The thought was enough to unfreeze me.
I brushed his hand away. “Don’t do that.”
“Why?” he asked, seeming genuinely unsure.
“It’s rapey.”
He laughed. “Morgan, I’m the last person in this place who would rape you.”
“Oh? Because you’re such a gentleman?”
“No,” he said. “Because it wouldn’t benefit me in the least.”
“Is that an admittance that you’re just trying to use me, too?”
“Do I need to admit something we both know is true?”
He lifted his hand, presumably to touch me again, but stopped midway to my face. He dropped it back into his lap.
Progress, at least.
“Everyone is selfish, my sweet queen,” he said. “The only way not to be used is to be the user.”
He spoke the truth. Now, I just had to figure out how to put it into practice.
Chapter Eighteen
My body ached like I’d ran a five-minute mile or something. Practicing magic—who am I kidding? Learning magic—took a toll on both body and mind.
Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense since it was mostly sitting in place trying to cajole the fussy child-like essence living inside me to play nice. Or at least sit still long enough for me to grab it.
Alas, my magic liked me about as well as everyone else here did.
It was hopeless.
I dragged my feet as I made my way back to my room. Fae of all types parted around me, keeping their distance. For the highest in power to the lowest, no one would risk accidentally brushing against their reluctant queen.
Or risk being seen talking to her. I was a pariah here, not unlike I’d always been.
Better to be avoided than the center of attention.
The castle was no longer a maze for me. I’d only gotten lost three times, mistaking one welcoming room for another. The illusion shielding the way to the royal chambers changed daily, but there was a pattern to it as well.
I hadn’t figured it out yet, so I had simply made a deep mark in the wall of the correct welcome room.
No one could claim I wasn’t a problem solver.
Today’s illusion was darkness. Complete, utter black. If you tried to reach out to the sides, there was nothing to touch. Even if you moved horizontally. You’d keep moving with nothing to block your path.
I’d learned that the hard way last Tuesday.
The only way out was trusting that eventually you’d reach the end. Eventually being the operative word.
I hated this place.
A crash from behind startled me into motion, and I sprinted down the dark hall. The assassin being clumsy was the only reason I hadn’t died.
Heavy footsteps clanked toward me sounding a bit like an armored knight. It spurred me faster.
Maybe the illusion wasn’t so bad. He—or she—couldn’t see me in the dark any better than I could see them.
I turned, heading to the right. Unlike Noisy Feet, my movements were silent.
A little help would be nice.
Nausea churned in my stomach. I’d begun to associate the feeling of needing to throw up with my petulant magic.
If I die, you die.
It must have had a wicked sense of humor because suddenly a bright gold light erupted out of me, lighting the path ahead.
And painting a giant, glowing target on my back.
The exit was about a hundred yards ahead. I risked looking behind me.
A familiar male wearing what appeared to be dark medieval armor rushed in my direction. Feoras’ iron boots clanged with each step.
I breathed a sigh of relief and chided myself for being such a scaredy cat until I saw his face.
Pure rage was etched on his handsome features, rage directed at me.
My heart pounded as my throat went dry. I urged my legs to move, to go toward the door, but instead I froze.
He pulled out a darker than his armor red sword from behind his back, grasping it in both hands as he continued to charge. What was with him and the color red?
Run stupid.
Name calling had no effect on my legs or my magic.
“Get the fuck down, Morgan!”
Feoras’ words clicked a moment too late when something slammed into my back. I landed on my stomach and whatever it was pounced, sharp heels digging into my lower back and a cold hand pressing the back of my neck.
“Come closer and I snap it,” a masculine voice said.
Feoras skidded to a stop and dropped the long sword.
“Seriously? Why don’t you make it easier and give them your sword,” I yelled. “It’ll kill me either way. Might as well chop it in half to avenge me.”
A hand wrapped in my hair, pulled my head back, and slammed my face into the carpeted floor. Carpet shouldn’t have hurt so bad. I was positive my nose was broken.
For good measure, the asshole did it again.
Definitely broken. Oddly my thoughts went to the huge stain my blood was making. This carpet was ruined. Strange how a little light head trauma puts the weirdest things into perspective.
Throbbing pain spread from the center of my face. The assassin still had a good grip on my hair but hadn’t smashed my face against the floor again.
Progress.
We stayed frozen in time. Assassin on my back, Feoras at least fifty feet away, and me, bleeding and broken face down on the floor.
A mad giggle burst through my throat.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked. “You’re a pretty shitty assassin.”
The male growled but didn’t respond.
That told me exactly what I’d needed to know.
Whoever this jerk off was, his intention wasn’t to kill me.
Which was worse. Death was final. Even with a slow death, eventually it would end.
Torture lasted forever.
“Do you think you can outrun this guy?” I asked Feoras.
Feoras looked at me, questioning. I worried for his intelligence that he hadn’t figured out the game yet.
“Can you get to me before—”
The not-assassin lifted my head by the hair and pressed a cool blade against my throat.
“One more word, child, and you’ll end up like your brother.”
My fingers and toes went numb. Cold serenity flowed through my veins. All the pain vanished. My nose no longer hurt. Even my fatigue faded. Nothing like a bit of rage to make everything else disappear.
“Bite me, asshole.”
The blade bit into my flesh as he slowly swiped it across my throat. The cut was shallow; I’d live.
But fuck me, it hurt.
It must have been a good show because Feoras gave a shout, bent down, picked up his sword, and charged with a bellow.
The pressure on my back lifted. I clasped my hand against my throat to staunch the blood flow. The ‘my bark is worse than my bite’ asshole leaped over me, landing silently on his feet. He stood in a ready position between Feoras and me. Droplets of fresh blood slid down his knife and fell to the floor.
My blood. Staining the carpet. At least, no matter what happened next, I’d have left my mark on this place.
I struggled to lift myself up by the hands. All the pain had returned with a vengeance.
Maybe staying down was the best decision.
Feoras had reached my presumed kidnapper and swung wildly at the male’s head. The male easily dodged each clumsy attempt. Both ignored me.
If everything didn’t hurt so much, I may have been able to take advantage of that.
I watched, fascinated at how badly Feoras fought. The other male made no move to attack, seemingly as amused as I was horrified at my attempted hero’s fumbling.
It was only a matter of time before the unfamiliar male ended t
his with Feoras’ death.
Realization hit me. Feoras was doing this on purpose, giving me time to escape. It really was the only explanation. I found a grudging respect for the tactic, and a new appreciation for him.
No one in their right mind would have given this guy a sword otherwise.
The room spun, and I didn’t think I could walk so I crawled, well more like I dragged the lower half of my body with my upper half toward the far door. I looked over my shoulder to keep an eye on the fighting. I didn’t want to be taken by surprise again. As I moved further away the light faded making it harder to see what was going on.
The other male, tired of the defensive, moved to offense. His blade whipped out in front of him, swiping at Feoras’ midsection.
Feoras’ armor prevented any contact. The other male made another ineffective swipe but pivoted at the last moment to bring his knife up to the side of Feoras’ neck.
Feoras must have sensed the diversion because he blocked the attack with his forearm pushing the kidnapper behind him so he now stood between me and the attacker.
The game was over, and Feoras stopped playing around.
With precise movement, Feoras’ sword made contact with the attacker’s flesh. The other male jumped back clearing at least ten feet with one leap.
Impressive.
Mesmerized by the fight, I’d stopped moving. For better or worse, I wanted to see how this ended.
My money was now on Feoras. His sword was bigger.
Feoras charged forward again, weapon raised, intent on striking down his opponent. The attacker leaped back again, this time with his hands outstretched. Behind Feoras, thick tendrils of black rope sprung from the ground and wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso, stopping him in his tracks.
My eyes widened, and true fear gripped me close. Magic. Mother freaking, holy balls magic.
And not the kind I’d seen before.
Feoras struggled against the constraining magic-chains. My stomach clenched. I expected my attacker to take advantage of Feoras’ vulnerability and end him.
I didn’t want that. Not that I knew him all that well, or anything, but he’d risked his life to protect mine. Without his warning, and distraction, I’d probably be half-way to wherever my kidnapper had been trying to take me.
The up-to-no-good male’s gaze went over Feoras’ shoulder and settled on me. A wicked smile crossed his lips. He jumped. If there had been a ceiling in this place, he’d have hit his head against it.
He flew over Feoras and landed a couple of feet in front of me.
“Where were we?” he asked, all menace and poisonous.
“I’m pretty sure I told you to bite me,” I replied, surprised I sounded normal, considering I’d had my throat slit.
He laughed, knowing he had the advantage now that Feoras was otherwise occupied.
My attacker squatted. His eyes were a light blue, but the gold of my light shone in the iris, creating an effect that was both awe-inspiring and deadly.
My throat went dry, and my body heated up. A woman could get lost in eyes like that.
What the actual—
A blaze of red and orange and gold struck the back of the male’s head lighting his hair on fire. He turned, too late, as Feoras’ blade sliced through his midsection.
His body split in two, the top half landing against me and the bottom at Feoras’ feet.
“Thanks for the distraction,” Feoras said with a smile, as if what had just happened was nothing more than a minor annoyance.
He pushed the dead body away from me with his boot and helped me up.
I was pressed against his body and could feel the rhythmic beat of his accelerated pulse.
“Overexerted or just happy to see me?” I mumbled. I hadn’t intended to say that out loud.
He chuckled softly but there was a tinge of pain it in. “Most people say thank you when a male saves their life.”
I pulled my head away from his chest and stared up at him. “That’s sexist.”
“Okay, when someone saves them.”
“Better and thank you.” I looked down at one half of the attacker’s body. “Who is he?”
Feoras ignored my question, dragging a finger across my throat.
I expected pain, I mean what else would I feel?
“Careful, or you’ll infect it. I don’t know where your hands have been.”
He wetted his lips, eyes wide, amazement on his face. “There was blood. I swear there was blood.”
I reached my hand up to touch my skin. Nothing marred it.
“The hell?”
A smile broke over his face. His excitement was infectious.
“You healed yourself. You fucking healed yourself.”
“I… I did?”
I noticed all the pain was gone along with the wound.
At least, you’re useful for something.
In response, the gold glow vanished, and we were plunged into darkness again.
“I’m sorry!” I said to my temperamental magic.
A flicker of red and orange appeared, illuminating Feoras’ left hand.
“Don’t worry. I got a light.”
Chapter Nineteen
“How the everliving fuck did an Unseelie get through the wards and past the enchantments and to our fucking queen? Who fucked up? I’ll have their head.” Eoin ranted as he paced the hallway.
It was no longer impenetrable darkness. In fact, it looked like any other hallway you’d expect in a castle. Portraits of different Fae stared from the walls. Plush, plum colored carpet stretched across the floor. A dozen doors lined both sides of the hall. There was another door at the end of the hall, the familiar unreadable script from the welcoming room scrawled above it.
Fire flickered in scones against the wall, a juxtaposition from the hanging lights, which looked like Christmas lights, strung on the ceiling.
I had no idea why they needed both sources of light. Seemed wasteful.
Eoin’s hands were tightly clasped together and pressed against his lips. His curly hair was a tangled mess on the top of his head, his clothes were rumpled, and his eyes had a wild gleam that reminded me of patient at an insane asylum.
A patient that actually belonged there.
“Calm down,” I said to him. “Everything’s fine.”
He turned his glare to me. He’d already reamed out everyone else standing in the now cramped hallway. Apparently it was my turn.
“Fine? Everything’s fine?” His voice was low, dangerous, on the brink of an explosion. “You know what would be fine?” He gestured toward Feoras. “If the dumbass over there hadn’t cut our only chance at answers in half.”
“That dumbass is the only reason I’m standing here. Unless you’d rather I not be here. Keep up the attitude, and I’ll make that happen.” I paused, realizing what I said was clearly an empty threat. It wasn’t like I had anywhere to go. “Only it’ll be you who’s gone.”
