Blood Kin: A Novel of the Half-Light City

by M. J. Scott

  I stared at him. What game was he playing anyway? Why spy on the humans? The Veiled Queen was a tireless supporter of the treaty and maintaining peace between the races and wouldn’t look kindly on those who wished to take a different tack, from what I heard in the Night World gossip mills.

  Then my heart sank a little because I realized that if there were those arrogant enough to try and stage some sort of rebellion or coup amongst the Fae, blinded enough by their own sense of self-worth and self-importance to take on the might of the Veiled Queen, then my father would definitely be amongst their number. He had always been astonishingly certain of his inestimable value and exalted place in the world.

  “What is so important that you need me?” I asked. I phrased my question carefully. Nothing that could be taken as agreement. Not yet. You had to watch your words amongst the Fae. They didn’t lie, but they could misdirect with the best of them. They also considered someone’s word to be binding. So I wasn’t giving any hint of agreement at this stage.

  “You have heard of the sunmage, Simon DuCaine?”

  My heart took another little dive south. Shit. If the rumors were to be believed, it was trying to assassinate Simon DuCaine that had ultimately brought about Lucius’ downfall. Lucius who had ruled the Blood and the Night World with an iron-spiked fist for several centuries. And now my father wanted to tangle with him?

  More to the point, wanted me to tangle with him?

  “Yes, I know about him.” Most people did. Simon was a Master Healer at St. Giles, the biggest hospital in the human boroughs. St. Giles was a Haven, sanctuary to any who claimed it, and Simon was famous throughout the City for treating anyone who sought his help. Plus he was powerful, the strongest sunmage to come along for quite some time. They said he could call sunlight at night. Please, please, please, let it not be him.

  “Then you must know that he is suspected of being involved in the death of the Blood Lord.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” I said cautiously, brain working fast. Did Cormen have proof? That would be worth quite a bit to a number of my clients.

  “I believe the rumors to be true,” he said. “Sources tell me that he is living with Lucius’ shadow. That he is going to marry her.”

  His tone was incredulous. The Fae hate wraiths, which was what Lucius’ former chief assassin was. I’ve never quite figured out what makes wraiths different from the rest of us half-breeds—for one thing, I’ve never been able to confirm exactly what parentage a wraith has—but I know that they are abominations to the Fae instead of mere annoying embarrassments or mistakes to be largely ignored like the rest of us.

  For a moment I envied her—this woman who had such a fearsome reputation in the Night World for merciless death. If my father would only decide I was an abomination, then he might leave me alone.

  For good.

  “Is that what you want me to find out? If he is marrying the wraith?” I didn’t think it would be. Such a thing would be far too easy to confirm using whatever “sources” he maintained in the human world.

  He shook his head, so his hair shone redly in the sunlight filtering through the lacy curtains. He wore it long, past his shoulders, though not so long as the Blood Lords. Vanity.

  “No. I wish to find out why it was that Lucius marked him for death.”

  My mouth went dry. There it was. One of the biggest mysteries in the Night World. What had happened between Lucius and the sunmage? Lucius had apparently not survived it. Yet my father wanted me to poke around and see what I could find out.

  I had no illusions that something or someone powerful enough to put an end to Lucius would have no difficulty disposing of me if I came to their attention for trying to find out their secrets. I shook my head. “No. It’s too dangerous.”

  “This is not a request,” he said in a low voice.

  “The answer’s still no. I’m not risking my life by getting in the middle of this. It’s got politics and treachery written all over it.” My father’s interest was the ultimate proof of that.

  He cocked his head slightly, looking bored. “I was afraid that you would take this attitude. How many times have I told you that you need to cultivate the proper respect?”

  I straightened my spine. “Respectfully, no,” I repeated.

  He sighed. “Then you leave me with no choice.” He made a gesture and suddenly I was frozen in place, my brain recognizing the movement a split second too late to react.

  “You wouldn’t,” I spat.

  “If you would be reasonable, I wouldn’t have to,” he said, making it sound as though this was all my fault.

  I tried to move, but everything below my neck had effectively turned to stone. For a moment I wondered, if I said that I would do as he wished, would he release me? But then he made another gesture and it was too late to do anything.

  I felt the spell settle over me like an invisible net, feeling sticky and somehow dirty as it clung to my skin. It clogged my mouth and throat so I couldn’t even scream the outrage I felt.

  A geas. A fucking geas. One of the nastiest forms of Fae magic, one most of them avoided.

  Rage flared, hot and furious, made worse because, by some quirk of nature, most Fae magics didn’t touch me.

  Part of the reason the Fae didn’t like half-breeds was that no two of us were the same in terms of what we could or couldn’t do. The Fae don’t approve of disorder and surprises. Not being susceptible to other Fae’s magic had served me well. I could see through glamours and avoid spells. Of course, the other side of that coin was my own talent largely being limited to working on myself and usually fading quickly on anyone else.

  But Cormen’s magic always worked on me. He said it was because of our shared blood. Another reason I had always avoided going to Summerdale and the Veiled World. I didn’t want to discover whether other members of his Family could bespell me at will.

  “Holly,” he said. It was the first time I’d heard him use my name in years. A geas requires a name. “Holly, you will hear my words and obey.”

  The invisible net sank a little deeper, burning my skin now as the geas tightened its grip. Tears stung my eyes as I stared at him, hoping the look on my face told him exactly what I thought of him and his stinking magic.

  A geas—a binding—overrides free will and forces you to do the caster’s bidding. Under the terms of the treaty, the Fae were forbidden to cast them on humans. Lucky for my father, I was exempt from that protection because of my half-breed status.

  “You will go to the sunmage Simon DuCaine and you will find out his secret,” Cormen said. “You will tell no one but me what you discover.”

  The geas snapped tight, searing pain, shooting through me as it clasped, snagging me with the sensation of sharp claws shredding my skin and brain. The sensation of something crawling through my brain, leaving a slimy trail, made me want to vomit.

  One final agonizing pulse and suddenly the pain vanished, leaving me free to move. I fell to my knees, retching, still feeling as though my insides were coated in slime.

  I didn’t actually throw up, much as I would dearly have loved to spatter Cormen’s perfectly shining boots. But I couldn’t find the strength to stand.

  My father continued to speak, this time muttering soft Fae words that I couldn’t quite make out. Adding some more nasty tangles to his magic. My stomach heaved, though the pain didn’t return.

  When he stopped speaking and I was sure I wouldn’t fall down again if I rose, I forced myself to my feet, hands clenched. He could drag me through the seven depths of hell before I gave him the satisfaction of one more second of reaction than I was forced to.

  “Now what?” I asked. “You can’t imagine that he’s unprotected, this sunmage. Am I meant to casually introduce myself into his world? I hardly have the right sort of connections for that.” The DuCaines were part of the upper echelons of human society, an old family that had both money and magic running through its pedigree.

  Cormen actually smiled at me. I resi
sted the urge to spit in his face.

  “As to that, I think the easiest way would be for you to go to St. Giles. That’s where he works.”

  “But I’m not hurt—” This time my brain wasn’t quite so slow. I got three steps toward the door before Cormen froze me again.

  He walked around me so that I could see his face. “As to that,” he said with another brilliant smile, “I have arranged matters.” His smile took on a nasty edge. “It will only hurt for a short time. They will heal you at St. Giles.”

  The door to the room swung open suddenly and a different servant stepped through the door. Not the pretty young man. No, this man was older and harder and, unless I was mistaken, Beast Kind.

  “Please, don’t,” I said, fighting rising terror. “I’ll think of another way.”

  Cormen frowned, smoothing his cuffs as he looked at me. His eyes might as well have been made of the bronze they resembled. They lacked any hint of compassion or remorse. “No. This is faster.” He turned to the other man. “I will loosen the hold a little so you can move her if necessary.”

  Blood pounded in my ears and for a moment I thought I would faint as the man started rolling up his shirtsleeves. For one surreal moment I wondered what would have happened if I had fainted while my father had frozen my body. Then the terror drove any thought other than what was about to happen from my head.

  “Not the hands. And try not to damage her face too much,” Cormen said as he headed toward the door. “She’s a pretty thing for a hai-salai. There’s a shield on the room so no one will hear. Do what is necessary.”

  As he reached the door, the Beast reached for me with a look half sympathy, half anticipation on his face. He gripped my arm and, as my father left the room, neatly snapped my forearm. I screamed my father’s name before the next blow connected with my face. But I knew no one was listening.

  Chapter Four

  I came to as I landed on something hard. Tears blinded me as I lay, half-winded, struggling to breathe and to adjust to the pain consuming me. Tentatively, I flattened my right hand and felt around me. The pain bit even harder and I froze again, gasping. Beneath my damp palm, the surface was smooth, faintly warm and slick.

  Marble, perhaps?

  Hospital, something in the far reaches of my brain managed to mutter.

  I opened my eyes a crack. That hurt too. But it confirmed that I was indeed lying on marble somewhere out in the open. Sun glared into my eyes, making everything blurred and dazzling through the tears. In the distance I could see more marble—steps leading to a building with a dome rising from the roof.

  St. Giles?

  My location didn’t really concern me. No, what had my attention was the way everything hurt. I wanted to surrender to the waves of dizziness and let them carry me down into the darkness. But I fought them, unwilling to give in. Not when I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. I might still be in danger.

  Footsteps tapped across the marble toward me. I curled reflexively into a ball. Which only made everything hurt more. In my next life I was going to try being a boring everyday person who didn’t get beaten up. A real live shop girl. Something normal. But even as that thought rose, I remembered my father’s face as he instructed the man to hurt me and everything came flooding back with a vengeance.

  The beating. The geas. My task.

  Bile rose in my throat and I coughed, trying not to retch.

  “Miss?” The voice was male. Carefully soft and nonthreatening. Reassuring. “Miss, can you hear me?”

  My throat hurt. But I swallowed and somehow managed to croak, “Yes.”

  “You’re at St. Giles,” the voice said. “We’ll take care of you now.”

  Good. That was good. More footsteps and then hands lifting me. At which point, the world went black and everything went away again.

  When I woke for the second time, I lay on something soft. All right, so that was a small improvement. I still hurt, though, every inch of me aching or throbbing, so maybe I hadn’t been unconscious for very long. Surely they would have healed me if I had been? I opened my eyes carefully.

  A man wearing a healer green tunic stood at the foot of my bed watching me. His eyes were a summer-sky sort of blue, warm and comforting.

  He smiled at me with a friendly nod. “Good, you’re awake.” His voice was soothing, a warm, low tone that somehow projected reassurance and confidence.

  “Doesn’t feel good,” I managed.

  “No, I would imagine that it doesn’t,” he replied, smile vanishing, eyes cooling. He ran a hand through darkish gold hair, then fished a notebook out of his pocket. “I’ll do something about that shortly. Who did this to you?”

  His voice was edged with anger. Not directed at me and for that I was grateful. He was tall, this healer. Not quite as broad-shouldered as the Templar but still strong. For a moment I saw the Beast lifting his hand to strike me and had to close my eyes and swallow hard. I was safe now.

  “Who did this?” the healer repeated, his tone gentled somewhat.

  I felt the geas tighten my throat with greasy claws. Apparently Cormen had indeed included some extra commands in those last Fae mutterings. I couldn’t make my mouth work to tell the truth. I ransacked my brain for a plausible story, and the pressure eased when I decided on one. “N-no one. F-fell,” I said shakily. “Stairs.”

  The healer’s mouth went flat. “You can tell me the truth. St. Giles is a Haven. If someone’s hurting you, we’ll keep you safe.”

  “Stairs,” I repeated.

  He shook his head at me. “If you insist.” He paused and watched me silently, giving me time to change my story. I stayed quiet.

  “Do you know your name?”

  “Holly.” Apparently I was allowed to keep that much. “Holly Ev-Everton.” I couldn’t get my real surname out. Seemed Cormen had thought of everything. No chance of anyone tying Evendale—the bastardized human form of his name—back to him.

  “I’m Master Healer DuCaine. Simon.”

  Lords of hell. I managed not to react. Just.

  Damn. Why did it have to be him?

  As much as I wanted to complete my task and free myself from the geas, I hated the thought of giving my father the satisfaction. A pain shot down my arm as I shifted slightly on the pillows, and I bit my lip, trying not to moan.

  “All right,” Simon said. “Enough questions. I’m going to examine you now.”

  I eased my head down to the pillow as Simon did various healer things . . . touching my arms and face gently and making rumbly disapproving noises to accompany the frowning disapproval on his face. When the door suddenly opened, we both turned our heads. The motion made me groan. And the groan deepened as I recognized the man who stepped into the room. The damned Templar. What was he doing here?

  “Simon, I have—” He stopped suddenly and stared at me. “What’s she doing here?”

  One of Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you know her?”

  The knight nodded, a curt up and down. “We had an . . . encounter last night.”

  He stared down at me with a look of disapproval far more personal than Simon’s. As he did so, I was suddenly struck by the resemblance between them. Both tall, strong. Both blue-eyed and blond though the Templar’s eyes were paler and his hair much lighter. Far more like winter sun than summer.

  But they had the same square jaw and strong, square hands. The Templar was maybe an inch shorter than Simon but made up for it with muscle. His face, a darker shade of gold than Simon’s, had stronger angles that, combined with the scar, made him look far more ruthless than the healer. But the resemblance was unmistakably there. Which meant my mystery knight was most likely Guy DuCaine.

  Simon’s brother.

  A Templar almost as legendary for his unrelenting stance against the Night World as Simon was for his unstinting generosity as a healer.

  A man whose dedication to his faith and calling was etched into the very skin of his body.

  I stared at the blazing red cro
sses tattooed on his hands, cursing the Lady and anybody else who came to mind. I’d fallen into the arms of not just any knight but one of the most ruthless of them all. Brother to the man my father had sent me to betray. As Fen would’ve put it, it seemed the Lady was spitting in my eye today.

  I let my eyes flutter closed, trying to look innocent.

  “You know her?” Simon said, sounding surprised. “It wasn’t the Templars—”

  “We don’t beat up women, little brother, you know that.” The Templar sounded disgusted. His words confirmed my guess at his identity. “She was perfectly well when I left her.”

  Heavy footsteps approached the bed. “What happened?” he went on.

  I wasn’t sure if Guy—for it was his deep rumble doing the questioning—was addressing his question to Simon or me. Better to stay silent, I decided. Less chance of messing up while I was muzzy-headed from pain and shock.

  “She was dumped outside about half an hour ago,” Simon said. I heard him come closer to the bed. If I was following things correctly, the brothers were standing side by side, probably staring down at me. Wonderful. I did my best impression of properly swooned young lady.

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I’m still assessing her. But she’s got broken bones. She’s going to be here a little while.”

  Yet another reason for my father to be pleased. I tried not to frown, focusing on keeping up my pretense of insensibility.

  “She give a name?”

  Guy’s accent had shifted a little, become longer and drawn out. Not a City accent. I wondered where he’d picked it up. Simon’s voice was standard wealthy educated human without the slang and slurs of the poor.

  “Hers? Holly Everton.”

  “No. Whoever did this to her.”

  “She says she fell down some stairs.”

  Guy snorted at this. “I can see you’re not asleep,” he said, and this time there was no mistaking whom he was addressing. “Might as well open your eyes.”

  I did so grudgingly. Pale blue eyes bored into mine. I fought the urge to burrow under the covers.