by Strong, Jory
“Please, no!” Derrick screamed, terror peaking, and Quinn promised himself Derrick would never beg again, unless it was in bed with him, and the words would be “Please. Yes!”
“Do it, Drooler,” someone said as Quinn rounded the corner and saw Derrick held between two teens, struggling as a third raised a gun.
Pop. Pop. Pop The rounds left Quinn’s gun in staccato beats, taking the immediate threat to Derrick down, before eliminating the others.
Shoot to kill.
Instinct. Training.
He was rushing forward when something slammed into him.
He took two additional steps before his brain interpreted what his body knew. He’d been shot. Realization came with the delayed impression of a man ducking behind a stripped, abandoned car.
Quinn hit the ground. His hand went to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop the escape of blood, his consciousness wavering. His vision was wet and blurry as Derrick dragged himself toward him on his belly, using one arm while the other trailed.
“No, no, no,” Derrick sobbed, his face was bloody and swollen.
Quinn wanted to scream Run! Get out of here! But a bubble of blood gurgled up his throat and prevented it.
The shooter stepped out from behind the car.
A roar of denial blasted from Quinn’s core. A determination to protect Derrick that held him to life and lent him enough strength to angle the gun upward and get off two shots.
Hits, both of them.
The man went down and didn’t get back up.
Satisfaction tempered the pain of having lost a future with Derrick. He’ll use my cellphone. He’ll make it out of here. Comforting thoughts as Quinn slid into the oblivion that was death.
* * *
Etaín seized without warning, the violence of it tearing her out of Cathal’s arms and throwing her to the driveway to flail and thrash, limbs wild and back bowing as though it would snap. He dropped immediately, grabbing an arm, pinning it to the cool concrete as his other hand pressed against her chest in an effort to hold her down.
Eamon was instantly there, kneeling opposite her. Etaín’s hand flashed out, grabbing Eamon’s wrist, her palm pressed to his flesh. Concern for her went to fear of her, a glimmer of expression quickly smoothed to hide its turbulence, but not quickly enough.
“Sire?” Liam said, stepping forward, Heath and Myk immediately flanking him.
“What’s going on?” Cathal managed, and yet he could feel it in the tattoos along his forearms. Magic.
Eamon stiffened, head snapping back, the muscles of his throat taut, his face reflecting struggle, as if he tried to break away from Etaín’s grip but couldn’t.
Terror crawled into Cathal’s throat. Survival instinct screaming for him to break contact with Etaín now, while he still could, demanding he flee because he was only human.
He held tight, denying everything, willing to sacrifice everything, believing in that instant that she needed him now more than ever, that magic, something intrinsically a part of her, had chosen him for more than a save from the Harlequin Rapist.
“She consumes you, Lord,” Liam said, voice urgent, determined. “Order me to kill her!”
* * *
The magic blazed a trail for Cage though he didn’t need one, given his close proximity to Quinn. He pushed through the opening in the chain link fence, urgent now with the scent of blood, Kestrel awake and hungry, the sound of a man crying, a body dragging chilling him to his core.
He did not limit himself to human speed in order to reach Quinn. Knew by the soaked front of Quinn’s clothing and pool of blood spreading next to him that only the magic held him to this life and this body.
Cage scooped Quinn up, taking in the three dead, one of whom Kestrel had hungered for outside Saoirse. Pity moved through him when he recognized Derrick, beaten and broken but dragging his body forward in an effort to get to his lover.
There was no time to offer comfort. And reassurance was premature even this close to water.
Cage raced forward, hurling Quinn into the bay.
Behind him Derrick screamed. A heart-wrenching, primal sound of such anguish that it silenced even Kestrel’s demands.
* * *
A wordless scream left Eamon and this time Cathal’s head snapped back as pain ripped through him as though he were being eviscerated from the inside out.
“Eamon. Lord. Order me to kill her!”
“No.” Cathal gasped. “Trust her.”
“No!” Liam urged, tensed and coiled like a panther ready to spring. “No! Today’s events demonstrated that the magic controls her, not the other way around. Accept her loss for the good of those who call you Lord.”
Another wave of pain clawed through Cathal. Pulsing simultaneously to what was happening to Eamon. Building, building, then suddenly condensing, shattering in his chest.
* * *
Cage watched as the bubbles rising to the surfaced ceased, the body disappearing, sinking.
He caught himself holding his breath and forced an exhale, guilt settling into his chest with the next inhalation.
Brother. The sense of it was stronger now.
He had not been his brother’s keeper here.
It wasn’t too late. Not yet, though he could guess what the magical channeling was doing to the seidic changeling who’d made this possible with her ink. In the end, this might cause her death.
* * *
Jacko tried to use the car to get to his feet, but left only a smear of blood against metal next to concrete blocks and rusted axel. His thoughts drifted, sliding into the past with the memory of stabbing a shank into the last guy he’d killed in prison.
What was the motherfucker’s name? His thoughts blurred. He could remember the blood wet on his hand and wrist.
Reality blurred, he looked down and blood gushed out faster, his heart pumping hard at seeing the gut shots, his fingers splayed across his stomach though his intestines were leaking out.
Motherfuck. He dug into his pocket for his phone, hearing Cyco say, “I’m about finished my business. You done?
“Jacko! Jacko!” The shout brought him back. He shivered. Fear coming when he realized he was shaking, so cold now he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Couldn’t actually feel much of anything.
Motherfuck, they weren’t going to find him curled up in a ball. They weren’t going to say he went out like a pussy. When they talked about him, they were going to say he was a man.
“Dead. Guy showed up.” The words were slurred but he kept going, forcing more of them out. “I took him out. Need you to finish Cathal Dunne.” Couldn’t believe the asshole had survived the launcher attack.
“Him. His woman. Anybody else who’s with him.”
“Good,” Jacko said, the phone dropping away as the numbness spread and all awareness ceased.
* * *
Etaín opened her eyes to tranquility, if facing a Dragon could be tranquil. It rose from the water, creating a ripple, and in that ripple Etaín saw Eamon on his knees, body bowed, rigid, his image thin, appearing more apparition than solid man while Cathal—
Agony engulfed her at seeing him prone, still, sightless eyes staring at nothing.
There is always a price to pay. He is human, mortal born, not created to be conduit or vessel for magic.
“No!” she screamed, the sound of it reverberating, making her aware of the ebb and flow, the serration of her own heart, still beating while Cathal’s was silenced.
Clever changeling. The sigil of servitude appeared, writ in the air like a fiery brand. It’s what I can offer you now. There’s still time for your human. Take it and return to him, transformed into what you were meant to be.
Trust me to do the right thing, the words spoken before racing to Cathal mocked her now, everything inside her saying no price was too high to pay for Cathal’s life. But those moments when she’d lost control of her limbs, when the ability to speak had been choked off at the Dragon’s will, were too visceral.
Not slavery. The honoring of a promise. The righting of a wrong.
At what ultimate cost? In the water Eamon continued to fade, as if her touch was draining him of magic and gift, his accusation ringing in her ears that the lives of those who depended on him as Lord would worsen because he’d tied their future to hers.
“No,” she said, concentrating on the complex shapes Eamon had painstakingly taught her, building the sigil segment by segment in the hopes it would allow him to get free of her.
* * *
Sire!” Liam urged again, enough control finally returning that Eamon was able to speak.
“No.” The answer came from his heart, more gasp than word.
Liam’s face reflected understanding and grief even as he moved to disobey, willing to give his life for his lord’s. But Myk and Heath reacted as well, as if anticipating it, grabbing Liam, risking his gift, struggling though that struggle lasted only moments before Etaín’s body stilled in human death and the flow of magic abruptly stopped.
Eamon felt as though his own heart had been ripped out of his chest. Searing pain spread through him, growing in intensity as moments passed instead of the barely perceptible seconds that had marked his own change, the tattoos on his arms inert, nothing more than ink, giving him no way to call her back.
“Fight, Etaín, fight.”
* * *
The lake, the Dragon, the burning sigil and the complex one she’d been building disappeared in a white burst and an echo of pain. Nothingness followed, an inky blackness that drained into the vines on her arms, and in its wake she again faced the Dragon—except this time there was silence. So she was dead now too.
* * *
Cage smiled when the water began churning violently, smoke rising from its depths along with bubbles and blackened debris. The thrashing continuing, creating a whirlpool that sucked them back in. A light show of color only he could see as a Dragon battled to regain a human shape, to make sense of facts and divergent realities, though those born in this rare, rare manner were born old.
Behind him Derrick sobbed, the slow scrape of his body marking his determination to reach his lover even now. Quinn had chosen well. Or the seidic had with her ink.
Cage turned away from the water, using his true speed to reach Derrick, offering comfort with a whispered, “He lives, and so will you,” before offering merciful oblivion with a spelled charm he’d gained from Eamon.
* * *
In front of Etaín, the water rippled again. Only instead of images of Cathal and Eamon, the slaughter at the bar was replayed and she felt the phantom flare of heat at her wrists and along her arms, burning hot and fierce as Vontae and his killer became aware of each other. I woke and you shared in my awakening. Not your gift to see the endpoint of magic. Mine.
The sigil representing servitude flared between them again. Take it and you can find the killer you seek.
Even to find justice for the innocent, she couldn’t. “No.”
* * *
Eamon couldn’t accept that he’d lost her. Physical survival from the change itself wasn’t what he’d feared. Not for her. Not for any changeling. Death came by his judgment.
Too much time had passed. Transformation was marked in seconds, not minutes.
He pressed her palm to his heart as if he could will magic into her, could use it to summon her back, praying in that moment that the Dragon did indeed exist, and that Etaín merely visited at the shore of the lake she’d drawn.
Liam knelt next to him, freed now that the danger to Eamon was past. “Let me attempt it, Lord,” and despite the wild struggle and intended disobedience, Eamon trusted his third, but said instead, “Cathal first,” in the hopes it wasn’t already too late.
Liam reached out and placed his hand above Cathal’s heart. Once, centuries earlier, Eamon had felt the punch of magic that was Liam’s gift.
An explosive gasp signaled Cathal’s regained consciousness.
* * *
Etaín staggered and went to her knees as if she were an insubstantial piece of wood suddenly tethered by an anchor tossed into the ocean.
The scene in front of her wavered. The Dragon roared, the sigil of servitude melting into flames encircling her.
So your Elven lord has chosen to save the human. For another of the seidic it would be enough. But not for you. I can hold you here. You were born on the shores of my lake and bathed in its water. You aren’t only of Elfhome and Earth.
Trust. There hadn’t been time to show Eamon the picture. Hadn’t been time to discuss the sigil at the corner of the playing card.
Etaín’s feelings about her mother were as complicated as those she felt for the captain, but in that instant, remembering the feel of the collar-like necklace still adorning her physical body and the way her mother’s hand rested at her throat in the first picture but not in the second, Etaín took a leap of faith.
She drew the sigil she’d seen on the card in the sand. “This binding I’m willing to accept.”
Clever, clever changeling.
Fire rushed toward her, fully engulfing her, though the force of it was met by other magic that tasted of forests and smelled of spring air and sunshine, that danced and entwined, primordial and new, Elfhome. But also the place she called home, a blending of worlds that turned into sunshine traveling down a pathway and illuminating everything around it, becoming the liquid pour of ink into her own arms.
Twenty-seven
Etaín opened her eyes to find Cathal and Eamon hovering above her. “Jesus, Etaín, Jesus,” Cathal said, hands shaking as he pulled her into a sitting position and then into his arms, not all-encompassing but angled so Eamon could embrace her too.
“Let’s take this private,” she whispered, the clothing she wore an irritant to her skin, and their clothing, an unacceptable separation.
“Let’s,” Cathal said, nearly a pant, and Etaín became aware of the hard ridge of his cock against her, the minute tremors coursing through him.
“A lesson first,” Eamon said on a husky laugh, easing away and making her aware of the glow coming off her skin. Like sunshine. Thick and golden like the rush of it she’d been caught up in, returning her to life.
Her heart skipped a beat then knocked in rapid succession when Cathal’s mouth found her ear, lips capturing the pointed tip. Desire streaking downward, causing the violent clenching of her channel.
Eamon traced a quick sigil on the back of her hand. It was a dousing spell he’d mentioned the night before but hadn’t taught her because there’d been no need then and she’d been exhausted.
Her magic blocked his until she mentally made the sigil her own. Elven luminescence faded, but not Cathal’s desire. Nor Eamon’s.
Her need matched theirs though curiosity had her rolling up her sleeve. The visual change to her tattoo turned Eamon’s face into a smooth mask.
He caught her hand, examining vibrant entwined strands of gold and emerald green anchored in the ink on her wrist then traveling up her arm, the sigil she’d drawn in the sand writ now on her skin. “Alliance,” he said. “An irreversible magical bond.”
Peordh. Predestination. Possibility fulfilled. A promise kept.
Cathal rolled up his sleeves to reveal the changes to the tattoos. The bond forged by Eamon’s magic had locked shades of red and blue and gold in them. Now emerald green streaked through the center of every black line, glittering like Dragon scales caught in the sun’s rays.
“Sire?” Myk said, question in his voice, concern, a reminder that they still had an audience.
Eamon shook his head. “The ink remains inert.”
His tone was cool, unconcerned, but Etaín’s throat closed, tightened by the pain of what his answer meant.
He didn’t resist when she unbuttoned his shirt, parting it and pulling it off one shoulder. The band encircling his upper arm was ink and unhealed skin. Unchanged, though because it
was hers, because of her gift, she felt the low hum of magic, a connection she shared with hundreds of others, not the same as the one she shared with Cathal.
“Why didn’t it…” The answer came before the question could be fully formed. Because of the sigil she’d offered the Dragon, the bond created in that surreal time between human death and Elven birth had taken the place of what she might have had with Eamon.
She met Eamon’s eyes, hers damp with sorrow, with loss, her heart aching for him, for her, for them. “I’m—”
He silenced her with a kiss, lips tender against hers, vibrating with echoes of pain. His tongue a soft stroke against hers, eloquent strength in the face of disappointment, exclusion, the poignancy of it freeing her tears.
“Stop, Etaín,” he said, brushing them away. “The meaning of the tattoos is unchanged by the lack of a magical bond. This is a time for celebration, not sadness or regret.”
His hand cupped her side. His mouth went to her ear, tongue darting into the canal, before lips captured the tip. Desire returned in a molten rush. Streaking downward so her cunt clenched and she reached for Cathal, pulling him into the embrace.
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
Hers rang until it went to voicemail.
His rang immediately afterward.
“It’s a conspiracy,” Cathal said, but icy foreboding had already gripped her.
She answered when hers rang again, desire chilled at hearing Quinn say, “We’re ten minutes out and on our way there. Derrick’s hurt. It’s bad. Really bad. External and internal. Tell Eamon he needs a healer. Tell him Cage will arrive with us.”
He hung up before she could ask more. “I heard,” Eamon said, and Myk was already making the call on his lord’s behalf.
“Fuck,” Cathal whispered, tension running through his voice and his body where it still touched hers. “Fuck.”
Guilt nearly bore Etaín to the ground. This was her fault. She’d known, she’d feared for Derrick when there’d been no sibilant promise of safe, my gift as there had been when she hugged Jamaal.
