by Lynn S.
Killian parked the car. He was close enough to make a run for it. Even deprived of his powers, he had speed and strength superior to humans. He found the space to run and he did, not quite caring of the mortals who noticed the unnatural way in which he moved. If Brigitte required an explanation, he’d give it later.
Up to that moment, the prince believed Francis had challenged him at an isolated location. But he could hear the heartbeats of his hostages. Things would get complicated for all if the Sidhe decided to do them harm.
***
“I have things to do, and it’s quite hard for me to concentrate when I’m angry. So, for your sake and mine, don’t try me.” Francis spoke softly, composed and in control.
Susy had been crying. Veronica even tried to scream for help, but the music outside drowned her voice and Francis swore Susy would pay if she dared misbehave once more. He didn’t care much for Benny, discarding the man on account of his years. He simply told him to sit with the women in the back corner booth and keep them at ease.
Alexander was sure he had not made a mistake. Marissa had been there, probably in contact with the three people he had under custody. However, all of them kept vehemently denying it.
It was beyond courage, complicity, or sheer stupidity.
They were convinced of seeing nothing. The Sidhe recognized they must have been under some kind of spell. Though it didn’t give him the feeling of fairy magic, still he thought about Killian. The prince had enough influence of command to wipe memories. If it was Killian, then Marissa might be in the hands of the Seelie Court, and he couldn’t allow that. He challenged the prince, placing a sure bet. As Francis entertained thoughts of humiliating the envoy of Seelie, he had lost track of his human hostages.
Turning his sight upon the trio once more, the Fae noticed Benny had been scratching the surface of the table with the tip of a pen.
“And who are you trying to call?” As Francis drew near, he saw the man had been tracing a rough sketch, something similar to an S embellished with other symbols. It was halfway done, but the Fae could feel power gathering around it.
“Who protects you?” Francis demanded. “These are not the markings of Aval, but it’s easy to see you are trying to summon someone.
Benny looked up, but didn’t answer. His sight didn’t leave the rogue Fae as he kept tracing. Whatever he was doing, he knew by heart. Francis turned toward the street entrance and smiled.
“Sorry, my friend,” he told Benny. “I’ve done a summoning of my own and I’d rather meet my foes one on one.”
With one speedy movement, Francis grabbed a bottle of rum, smashing it against the corner of a table. He slashed Benny’s throat with the jagged edge. Blood spurted as the old man rattled in agony.
“Don’t even think of crying! Remember what I said!” His warning was also an order as the women, finally broken over grief, fell prey to his fairy thrall. “Now you, trouble maker. There’s someone coming. Open that door.” Francis pointed toward Veronica, who was still trying to fight him, her eyes defiant on a face she won’t soon forget. She made her way to the entrance, opening the bar for a man who walked in as if expected.
“Your bastard highness. It’s such a joy to see you. Would you care for a drink?” Francis curtsied mockingly. The prince had arrived a little too late.
“You look…slightly agitated for your usual, serene self.” Francis didn’t let go of his cat-like smirk. He had not concerned himself with Killian for the better of the past seven hundred years. His business with the Court of Seelie kept him away from the princes.
However, just giving this one a look, Francis Alexander knew what he had to. The Morrigan had invited Killian to track him. There was a chance the prince had been empowered by the Court to bring him back to Aval, if he ever got captured. In his estimation, Killian was neither physically nor mentally ready to fight him. But him being a prince and Francis a mere subject…the Sidhe was not about to vex his highness with warnings.
Alexander attacked Killian, the bloodied, jagged bottle still in his hand.
The prince dodged him, sliding his body backward in a humanly impossible angle just to gain back his balance and grab Francis by the arm, flinging the Sidhe against the heavy doors. Killian didn’t allow for Francis to react, hitting him at the height of his kidneys, making him double over and fall.
The prince then turned around to ask the women if they were okay. The owner of the bar, once snapped out of Alexander’s influence, ran to the elderly man’s aid. She knew the man was gone, but somehow it gave her comfort to try to cover the gash in his throat. Veronica cradled Benny’s head in her lap like a mother would a child, pressing a piece of cloth against the opened wound.
The younger, dark-haired woman, the one called Susy, had a nasty bruise on her face. Her nose was probably broken and she had not even noticed because of shock, but none of them were in grave danger. Killian felt the urge to help the girl. It was uncommon for a Fae to care, but something about that face reminded him of someone else. Haunted, he held on to the hazel of her eyes and the dark of her hair. Killian touched her, immediately spreading a healing warmth, fixing all Francis had done as his fingers brushed her battered face.
“Watch out!” Susy repaid his kindness with a warning.
Killian had become distracted by his thoughts, giving Francis a chance to spring to his feet. As soon as he shed the initial daze, the Sidhe charged once more at the prince. Though Killian was fast, speed had lost its element of surprise. Francis grabbed him by his collar and head-butted him. There was a flash of vicious green in his eyes as he connected a spot-on jab to Killian’s face, throwing him against the table.
Killian caught up and didn’t falter as his opponent expected. The prince leaned against the table. It took him a couple of seconds to regain his footing. As soon as he did, he spewed, “You have always been a dishonorable piece of shit!”
He was not referring to Francis’s advance upon him, but to the cowardly way in which he had dispatched the old man. The Seelie Court might not have cared much about humans, but at least they valued a level playing field. Rage boiled within him, his eyes gleamed as green as Alexander’s. Killian no longer wanted to commit the rogue Fae to custody. He’d gladly kill him. But before doing so, he would make Francis feel what it meant to fight at a disadvantage.
Something told him these women could keep a secret. Hell, they might as well know already. The prince readied to shed his human guise, summoning his true form. His flesh became translucent and patterns of living ink started swirling underneath his skin. He could feel the surge of power buzzing at a threshold and then…
Nothing. He was unable to let go of his mortal disguise of Aidan Faraday.
Francis might have detected this unexpected weakness. Killian didn’t wait to find out. He simply threw a punch.
It failed. Swinging too wide, he left his core exposed and Francis connected another punch to his side, right on the geis mark. The prince had not fought anyone in hand to hand combat since the Morrigan marked him. Caught in the heat of the moment, Killian didn’t think about the consequences of the mark, how could it effect his response time or his ability to process.
Pain exploded through him, almost making him run out of air. In an effort to grab at anything, Killian struck blindly.
It was sheer luck. Francis slipped in the mess of blood and liquor on the floor and Killian pushed him in the chest with both hands. If he was going to fall, he’d take him along. They both crashed to the floor. Killian grabbed hold of Francis’s neck, planted firmly above him, and squeezed. He would win this, even as unbearable pain shot through his body in sickening waves.
Little did Killian know Francis had him just where he wanted. The Sidhe called forth his true form. The card that had been denied to the prince didn’t fail the herald. Short, sharp claws slashed at Killian, making him scream in agony.
Francis pushed Killian aside, turning the tables. This time the prince was on his back and he wouldn’t allow f
or regaining an advantage. The Sidhe produced an amulet, something he had kept hidden in his pocket, waiting for the right moment. It was a round, golden seal, which he showed to an off guard Killian. Francis touched the golden piece to the prince’s skin, immediately paralyzing him.
“You might think…it is loa magic that…kept you from changing. This has…nothing to do…with your visit to New Orleans.” Francis gasped. The fight had taken its toll but this was too satisfying to let go. “Time to get back home, sweet prince. When you get there, ask your mother dear…or better yet…your brother…how come you can’t summon your Fae form…in their absence.” A string of blood and saliva dripped from Francis’s lips. There was hurt, but oh, so much pleasure.
As he smiled, a couple of figures materialized close to the door.
Too late. As Brigitte and Bansit appeared to answer Benny’s summoning, Francis had opened a gateway to Aval, dragging the prince along with him.
Chapter XVIII
Waking
She was lost to a dream that played with her perception and kept dragging her deeper into unconsciousness. Sometimes she’d open her eyes, and whatever images she managed to capture where soon lost to the rapid flutter of her eyelids. She remembered the ghostly white of walls, felt the velvet of threaded sheets upon her skin, right before conceding to sleep once more. Be it deep at rest or trying to wake up, her constants, that which anchored her to place and time, were the arms of a man, holding her firmly. Someone who pretended to breathe because he’d rather not scare her. Whomever he was, he’d kept the semblance of a man for her, even as she felt the deep rumbling of waters within his chest and the soft embrace of mighty wings.
There was an echo of music, beckoning across the hallway. Marissa opened her eyes. Even though the room was wrapped in shadows, it felt cozy. Safe.
Marissa could not recall the last time she had slept so soundly, so at ease. As she stretched lazily, memories came flooding in and her heart drummed unbridled. She flexed her left hand in the dark, accounting for five fingers. The one she had cut off to get rid of Francis Alexander’s influence had healed completely. She brought that hand to her face, smelling, even tasting. To her surprise, her brand new digit had the softness of a newborn’s skin. In time, it would adjust completely, but at the moment it felt foreign and weird.
There was only one source that could restore a dhampyr’s loss at a cellular level: a generous donation from a vampyr. Marissa’s instinct, now clear and in tune with her, warned that their savior had not been Adriana, but someone else. The musician, no doubt. Whomever played the violin across the hallway had all the answers to the blank spaces in her head.
Her instinct claimed not quite remembering what had happened during the time between escaping from Alexander and waking up in a stranger’s house. Marissa knew it lied. As to why, she’d have to find out for herself.
Marissa had perfect sight, even in the dark. However, turning on the light gave her a sense of normalcy she sorely needed. The hallway light crept into the living room. She made out the silhouette of a man playing a string instrument. He didn’t flinch at her intrusion, artificial light didn’t hurt him, but natural might prove a problem, as she noticed the windows were sealed tight.
She found it funny he had been playing a tune she knew quite well: “Farewell to Storyville.” Adriana had a soft spot for jazz and Marissa recalled the tune as one that brought a somewhat happy memory. The music was meant to be interpreted by brass and keys, but there was something quite melancholic about a violin that made her reconsider what she thought was an inappropriate choice. Adriana would have loved the interpretation, just because it was…fresh.
Marissa stopped, realizing how easy it had been for her to believe her mother might just leave her to her luck, and felt mortified. That unorthodox musical interpretation reminded her of the way Adriana had always been at odds with everything, just for fun. It dawned on her how much of a fuss she had made of it, and how, even if knowing that Adriana’s love came disguised as sharpened irony, she missed her.
“Ah! Sleeping Beauty has shaken her spell.”
Marissa was met by cerulean eyes that glowed in half light. The feeling she was facing someone more dangerous than her mother or Francis Alexander made her tense. She knew herself at a disadvantage. This was probably his house in God knew where, but she didn’t allow for him to see it. Mustering all her courage, she decided to take charge of the conversation the best she could.
“Keep your distance and turn on the light on your side of the room.”
The vampire shrugged. “Not even a please. Someone needs to be reminded we are in the South, dear. Manners.”
Something as mundane as a clap of his hands and the lights were turned on. It was as ridiculous as the situation could get. Lights on and she saw him completely. Tall, lean, easy on the eyes, dressed in dark t-shirt and jeans. Due to her experiences as of late, he might as well wear a sign that read ‘run.’ But there was something about him that felt familiar, comforting.
“Who are you?” Marissa crossed her arms, sending a signal with her body language. She was uncomfortable, and Garan read her well, because he immediately stopped in his tracks.
“You really don’t know?” There was a trace of bruised ego in his voice, which he played off with a shrug. “I am the vampyr who saved your life.”
“I know vampyrs. You are not one.” She’d never seen eyes so blue. The bloodsuckers of her bloodline had to struggle to hide traces of furious red in their irises.
“What would you take me for, then?”
“I don’t know,” Marissa answered as her mouth curved into a smirk that would have made Adriana proud. Whoever he was, her instinct approved, and it was made clear with her cheeky answer. “With that piece you were playing, I’d say a destitute from the Red Light District.”
Garan frowned for a second, internalizing what he had just heard, but soon enough he was laughing. As his lips parted, Marissa saw his extended incisors. He had been talking about manners and yet had forgotten all about courtesies between vampires. Exposed fags meant a threat, and even if he was not aware, she perceived the obvious.
He might not have meant any harm, but he was starved for blood. Healing her had taken a toll. She could guess he had been counting the hours to sundown. Maybe playing curbed his hunger. Marissa wondered if it was wise to interrupt him. However, his easy mood didn’t show signs of changing. He approached her, ignoring her warnings but still finding the humor in it all.
“I can’t tell if you get it from your mother or your father. After all, they take turns to use that silver tongue of theirs. At least it is satisfying to be surprised. I thought when I drank your poison, it told me all there was to know about you. It’s good to know you have it in you, that you are not just a blood doll, darlin’.”
His lips were kissed by the blue of cyanosis and she recognized the scent of evergreen on his breath. It made her sick. It was as if he were drunk on Francis Alexander’s essence, still fighting the poison that she passed into his skin. She remembered then the reason for her pleasant sleep—those arms she believed to have dreamt about were his. Still, she didn’t find it within her to be grateful. She had grown tired of guessing at men’s intentions.
“You just mentioned my mother. Do you know where she is?”
“As close as your own reflection. Last night we had the pleasure of discussing your altered state. Don’t worry about it, you are excused. We all know how much of a little pervert the instinct can be.”
Marissa breathed heavily and averted her eyes. Memories of the night before rushed in rapid succession as she remembered several strategies of her instinct, being desperate to get its sought-after anchor vampire. Her natural shyness took hold and she felt the humiliation of losing the higher ground against this stranger.
But he meant what he said. As he touched her, brushing aside a strand of her hair and fixing it behind her ear, Garan’s voice had lost its cynical edge. Even as he clearly ventured into her pers
onal space, ignoring her initial warnings. She looked at the vampire once more and he was taken with the charcoal of her eyes, noticing the soft gray deepened with her bottled emotions.
“I’m sorry.” It was more old Garan than his vampire self, but there was no way for her to tell. “I have not much to offer other than a pair of my jeans and a t-shirt. As you can tell, I’m not much of a day shopper. But you are welcome to take a shower. We’ll figure out the rest after sunset. There are people you want to see and others you need to meet.”
“Thank you. It was kind of you to stay up for me.” She realized he was solely a night creature. Some vampyrs could stand hours during the day if properly sheltered. However, this one, whatever he was, had a true aversion to the sun, almost as if he could feel it working its way through the sky. “I hope it’s not am imposition, but before you leave to rest…is there a way I could speak to my mother? Adriana is safe, and somehow with you. But still, I can’t…”
“Sure.” He was tired, but not enough to work on getting her trust. After all, Garan had thought of the possibilities of Marissa either making a run for it without knowing who might protect her in the city or turning against him while he slept. Both scenarios spelled the worst for her. The vampire told her he’d show her something, asking her if she had noticed the venetian mirror in the room.
Marissa was about to answer when the echo of a scream tore through the city. It was a haunting voice, full of rage, bitterness, and pain that reverberated with the force of wind and water.
Garan’s first reaction was to grab Marissa’s arm and walk toward the hallway. As he did, the agony of that scream had turned into a war cry, as windows exploded and showered glass everywhere. Beams of light crisscrossed the room as daylight flooded in.
“What the hell is that?” Marissa ask as they both crouched into whatever was left of the dark, seeking protection. “Is that Francis?”
