by S A Archer
And she had to know it was happening, the way she moved so tight against his lap. Her hands caressed over him now. Catching the bottom of his shirt. Slipping underneath. Reaching beneath the arch of his back. Gliding over his scars.
Malcolm’s heart beat harder, and not from excitement. He tried to say ‘no’, but his words muffled into her mouth. His hands pushed at her shoulders, needing space to breathe. But the magic of her shadows coiled about the leather bands on his wrists and drew his protesting hands away from her. Pulling them over his head. Anchoring them so he couldn’t move.
Her magic, her excitement, poured into him with her Touch. Her sex-want laced the power, making it tingle wickedly inside him. Made his stiffness ache for her, even though he didn’t want it to.
Malcolm’s insides recoiled from the Touch, twisting away from it. Rejecting it. Preventing it from saturating him even more.
Writhing beneath Trip, Malcolm struggled to get away from her. But the darkness kept pouring into him, even when he didn’t let it soak in. Like plunging into a black ocean, with the weight of the water crushing into his mouth and throat, invading his lungs and stomach, and driving him deeper and deeper into the terrifying depths.
Even with his eyes wide open, blackness closed in around him. Thick and impenetrable. Choking.
Total darkness consumed him.
Blinding him.
His breath froze in the pure black that imprisoned him.
Trapping him.
Just like he’d been trapped before…
In his mind the cold floor became a stone table. The magic that demanded sex from his body wasn’t the Touch, but a potion that had been thick like molasses. He could even smell the memory of the cinnamon brew as it burned his senses. And the person on top of him wasn’t a Sidhe, but a human, drinking his magic. Sucking at his being. Ripping away his soul.
His throat closed up tight, strangling the scream inside.
Malcolm struggled against the power that bound his wrists. Writhed to escape from beneath the body that pinned him.
His body, bespelled, demanded that he surrender. Demanded that he let the magic and sex burst out of him… but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t! Never! Never again!
In the total darkness, he heard a voice. Felt hands on his body. Sensed the pressure of someone hunching on his lap.
Twisting away, Malcolm clenched his teeth together tight. The mouth couldn’t follow him, he jerked away from it too hard. Unable to speak, he growled with his fury.
Wrenching his wrists with all his might, he broke the bonds that clenched him.
Shoving and rolling he crawled backward, knocking the body away from him. In a panic, his hand found the hilt of the knife strapped to his thigh. He jerked it from the sheath. As he punched out with it, the blade sliced through the air.
He didn’t feel the pressure of the blade hitting anything, but he heard a scream.
All was blackness around him. Darker even than the goblins’ cave.
Malcolm scrambled backward. Kept going until his back hit something and he couldn’t go any farther.
He heard a girl yelling, “Your eyes! Your eyes!”
Malcolm’s tongue stuck fast to the roof of his mouth. No words could come. He breathed hard, growling and snarling threats because he couldn’t make any other sounds. He blinked a lot. Tried to see, but couldn’t. Nothing but pure black.
He pressed back harder against the wall.
Like the wall of a cave.
Lost in the belly of the goblins’ nest.
He could even smell it again. Hear their scrambling, scratchy clawed feet on the stones. Hear their laugher. Endless, horrendous laugher.
Closer. They were coming closer. He knew it. He could feel it with all the terror shredding his mind. Their clawed fingers reaching for him. Going to grab him again. Going to drag him down into horrors and madness.
Unable to make a sound, he screamed on the inside.
Screamed and screamed against the darkness.
Knowing with sick assurance that he would never escape again.
Chapter Six
The workout room door stood ajar after some of the fey left the meeting. Tiernan stuck around, of course. Cormac, the dark elf lingered still, as did Eircheard, the dwarf.
“Knowing that we’re looking for relics from the first realm narrows the search considerably.” Eircheard tugged on his beard thoughtfully. “Dalton will send word back to the Keep, and see what can be mustered up.”
Tiernan hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his trousers. “Lugh’s hot on the trail of those artifacts himself. It’s a fair bet he’s got loads of them.”
“We’re not going to stand for another Seelie-controlled realm.” Cormac crossed his arms. “Danu abused her position. It’s why no dark elves died in the Collapse. We’d not dwelt in the Mound since the beginning.”
“There are far more Unseelie fey now than Seelie ones.” Eircheard agreed. “Less than a handful of Seelie Sidhe.”
“That we know of,” Tiernan corrected. “More could be hiding in the shadows, pulling strings like the Seelie do.”
Their discussion halted as Trip rushed into the workout room, her thin legs pumping in a full-on run. Upset tinged her cheeks a hot pink and the start of tears shined in her wide eyes. She didn’t stop until she collided headlong into Donovan, who caught her without even losing an ounce of balance in the impact. Grabbing his arms, she jerked at him. “Something’s terribly wrong with Malcolm! Come on! You have to come!”
The girl was frantic. Given the bloodhound’s history, Donovan could only imagine what had happened. And none of those imaginings were good. “Show me.”
Trip raced ahead of him and Donovan kept up at a run. He heard the footfalls as the others followed him down the short hallway into the war room. Once inside, Donovan braced his arm across the opening, barring the others from rushing in.
The lights in the war room had been dimmed. Only the soft accent lighting highlighted the floating array of objects. Off in the far corner, Malcolm huddled. His arm outstretched, the knife held sideways before him like a barrier. As he blinked rapidly his head flicked side to side, as if he strained to listen. His focus didn’t seem to fix on anything, though he made strangled upset noises.
“Has the boy gone mental?” Tiernan whispered to Donovan. “This magic’s been eating at his brain.”
“Everybody out.” Donovan placed a hand at Trip’s low back and propelled her out against her reluctance. Then he closed the door and flipped on the main light. The boy jerked at the sounds, slashing with the knife at nothing. Donovan walked softly to him and then crouched down well out of striking range. In a calm, deep voice, he asked. “Malcolm? What’s wrong?”
The lad jerked at his voice, but his eyes fixing on nothing. And Donovan could see why. They were solid black with no whites in them at all. Like they’d been coated in tar. “I…” Malcolm managed and then lost his voice into panting. He shook his head a little, blinking faster, struggling within himself. At last he managed an agonized whisper, “Donovan?”
“I’m here. You’re safe. What’s going on?”
Malcolm lowered the knife. Putting it onto the floor, but not releasing the handle yet. “I can’t see you.” He shook his head, blinking rapidly as if that might clear his vision. He rocked a little with the internal turmoil. “Not… No goblins?”
“No goblins.” Donovan’s voice was calm and reassuring.
Malcolm dropped the knife with a soft, metallic clatter. Then he hugged himself and rocked more. “Blackness… inside me.”
Donovan reached out, pinched the back of the blade, and then lifted it out of Malcolm’s reach. Coaxing things from the lad had never been easy, but Donovan was accustomed to it. “How did that happen?”
Looking around him, as if he might figure it out if he could see something, Malcolm hesitated. At last he confessed, “Trip. She… She Touched me.”
Donovan frowned. The magic of the Touch, the gift that belonged solely to the Sidhe, shouldn’t have done this. When the Sidhe magic passed from them into any other fey, it dissipated and absorbed, feeling glorious and renewing. Like drinking a cold glass of water after a dry day. The Touch could carry emotion, even thoughts, but that shouldn’t have caused this kind of reaction. And certainly not in another Sidhe. “Is that all? Just Touched you? Why didn’t it absorb?”
“’Cause I don’t want it!” Malcolm slid down onto his back, grabbing at the space in front of his chest and straining like he pulled on something.
“Malcolm…” Donovan reached out a hand and pressed it to his shoulder. When the boy fought the invisible thing harder, grinding his teeth and growling with the effort, Donovan shouted, “Malcolm!”
But the bloodhound kicked and ripped at the space before him like he wrestled some unseen enemy. “I want it out!”
“Malcolm!” Donovan shook him, even as the lad screamed with the agony of the strain.
His back arched up as he shoved out his hands from him, crying out with the effort. And then the boy slammed back down onto the ground, his arms fully extended as if having broken the connection between his torso and his hands. Blinking, Malcolm turned his chocolate-brown eyes up to Donovan, the blackness gone from them. He panted, “I got it out.”
Unsure what the boy meant by that, he asked, “You alright, then?”
“Yeah,” he gasped, catching his breath. “Yeah, I’m good.”
The whole thing had been strange. But then again, the bloodhound often did and said strange things. At a loss for anything better to say, Donovan mumbled, “Ok, well, try to be more careful next time.” Inadequate advice, but he didn’t have more to give. He didn’t fully understand what had caused the problem, nor what Malcolm had done to fix it. The bloodhound instincts ruled Malcolm’s life more and more, but whether that was for good or ill, Donovan could only guess. And he feared that he’d find out the answer all too soon.
Chapter Seven
London didn’t even try to talk to Lugh on the drive. He loathed her compact car, and with his long legs she couldn’t really blame him. Though, she suspected that it was the indignity of using any transport other than his own personal magic that irked him most. So as he leaned against the passenger door, half dozing, half staring out the open window, London focused on following Mckenna’s directions.
The back roads were little more than wagon trails in places, but the fey liked their seclusion. When they crested the final rolling hill before the expanse of pastureland to which they’d been guided, she saw nothing of the wood elves waiting for them. Only two farmers hanging out by a weathered wagon half full of hay tethered to a bored looking mule. The scruffy farm clothing they wore would have fooled a human unfamiliar with the fey. The wood elves hadn’t bothered with Glamour to hide their chiseled features and bright eyes. Their pointed ears barely showed beneath their over-long hair and flat caps. London rolled down her window. “Mckenna is expecting Lugh.”
They just gave her a nod of acknowledgment, touching the brims of their caps, before resuming their cover.
London drove on and in a few meters the very air about them seemed to flutter as if they moved through some unseen curtain. And then before them the empty pasture that filled the valley below transformed into what appeared to be a gypsy campsite. Brightly colored wagons and tents created a makeshift village, which crouched against the hill that rose up behind it. Possibly a hundred or more elves milled about the campsite.
“Tuck the auto out of the way. Beneath those trees.” Lugh instructed.
London complied. She put on the parking brake just to be sure, since they were on the incline. “Want the sunglasses?” He’d borrowed them before to hide the black veins that bloodshot his midnight-blue eyes, far from the cornflower blue they’d been when she first met him.
Lugh’s mouth tugged up in a wicked smile, showing off his fangs. And then his Glamour shimmered and he changed before her eyes. His dark-blond hair and coppery skin shifted back to the fair shades they’d been before. The fangs seemed to disappear beneath the illusion. Even his eyes returned to their healthy, lighter shade.
But the wickedness in the twist of his lips remained. He climbed out of the car, ignoring her mumbled protests about preserving his magic against the Fade.
London got out, resettled her single holster under her arm, and then started after Lugh, who hadn’t waited on her, but just started down into the village on his own. The Sidhe garnered most of the attention as he moved into the temporary village, but London, the lone human among the fey, was a close second. No one messed with her, though. Not while she wore Lugh’s symbol.
“What’s wrong with Lugh?” Kev nudged close to London, even though his eyes never left the Sidhe that they trailed.
London twisted toward him, still walking, but giving him an incredulous look. “Oh, are we speaking now? Because last time I checked, you had a stick up your bum.”
He did look at her then, a little surprised. But he couldn’t hold the look for long. Not with their history. “This is serious. Something’s not right.”
“Then go ask Lugh, if you’re so concerned.” She pushed onward, following her patron and pointedly ignoring the wood elf who kept beside her, even after she’d all but told him to shove off.
Kev persisted. “Rico was a friend and he was important to the entire grove. I can’t say that I forgive you for your part in his death. Even if it wasn’t your intent.”
London turned on him. “I would have done anything to save him!” She blurted it out with the conviction of truth and she meant it more than she would have thought before the words came bursting from her mouth. Rico may have been the jerk that first cursed her, but if he’d have lived, she wouldn’t have stumbled through as many messes as she had trying to deal with her addiction to the Sidhe Touch. One of the big ‘what if’s of her life was ‘what if Rico had lived?’ She wouldn’t be Lugh’s druidess now if he had. She wouldn’t be here to carry Lugh’s token, and watch his back. There wasn’t much she knew about fate and she wasn’t sure how much stock she put into destiny, but being here now wasn’t a fluke. She believed that ever since the Scribe Willem told her about it. And she believed it even more every time Lugh paused to glance at the token she wore.
She had to believe it.
It was all she had to hold on to.
Kev paused, searching her eyes. The wood elf was tall and handsome, although he wasn’t as insanely gorgeous as the Sidhe. His blue eyes were light, but not cold. At last, he nodded. “So would I,” he finally admitted, and from the strain in his voice she knew it pained him to do so. “I should have known those were Changelings.”
And she got it now. He’d not been able to stand the blame he meant for himself, so he’d shifted it all on her. Admitting his own fault cracked the wall he’d erected between them. London gripped his forearm and squeezed, both as a forgiveness and as a reassurance. No one had had it easy in the past few months. Lugh needed allies, and she needed friends, or they were on their own in the big bad that threatened to overshadow them. London returned to his original question. “It’s not my place to speak for Lugh. It’s only my place to serve and I mean to do that to the best of my ability.”
Kev nodded an acceptance, even as he cast a cautious glance toward Lugh. The wood elf made no move to go talk with the Sidhe himself. Just studied him closely as they followed him to the largest of the wagons that centered in the field, set off from the rest of the camp behind it. Not even Lugh’s attempt at Glamour could disguise the wrongness about him. Everything from the movement of his gait to the wicked smirk gave him away. When she’d vowed to bind herse
lf to him as his druidess, and he as her patron, she swore to preserve his secrets, and she would. Not that she’d fully tested the bond forged between them, but from the strength of her conviction, she suspected the magic he used to seal her vows would ensure that she kept them. Even with the vow, she was glad Kev could see some reflection of the truth for himself. Then likely the others would too, and take the needed precautions.
“Has anyone tried this new technique to stop the Fade yet?” London climbed the steps to the built-in balcony hanging off the back of the wagon. The building was as big as a double wide trailer.
“Three so far.” And there was an undercurrent to what Kev said.
“How many survived?”
That struck home and Kev hesitated. “One.” He pushed back the curtain covering the doorway to let London precede him.
She didn’t move. “One?”
“They are fairly certain they have perfected the potion now.” Kev’s warm hand settled on the curve of her low back, and ushered her inside.
Chapter Eight
The inside of the wagon was like stepping onto Peter Jackson’s movie set for Lord of the Rings. The elves spared no craft in their decoration of the rooms. London figured the wagon must belong to King Mckenna himself, just based on the lavishness of the furnishings. The first room boasted a parlor with deeply cushioned seats, silk wall coverings, an abundance of pillows and delicately carved tables, lamps, and more decorations than she could take in at a glance. Although a few elves, dressed in exquisite gowns and tunics, waited in this space, Kev guided London onward to the next room.
This one appeared to be the location for the procedure. A low, wide bed commanded the center of the room. Satin and silk covered the thick cushion of the mattress as if just cast on in haphazard layers. A long, narrow table of bottles, herbs, and concoctions lined the far wall beneath the short window looking over the campsite behind the wagon. A thin elven woman hung out next to the table, her hands worrying together even though she tried to hold herself still. Like many of the elves, her hair hung in a long braid down her back and her dress seemed like something out of Camelot. London recognized her as the healer, Niamh. King Mckenna was the only other elf she knew on sight, and he gave her a soft smile and a polite nod. London returned the gesture, knowing it was probably insufficient for a human to offer to a fey monarch, but she wasn’t a mere human anymore. Since he seemed satisfied, she didn’t worry about not knowing more about their protocol.
