by Allison Pang
“Break the Contract.” Topher shifted, impatient with my histrionics.
The edge of the knife sliced at my neck. “I don’t know how. There isn’t one.” I gasped, the pain clearing my senses. I had a different sensation to channel—ice exploding into a burning rage.
He frowned. “Maurice never said anything about that. State it aloud that you release him, then. It might hurt you,” he conceded. “Possibly kill him, but I think you’ll live.” His face grew closer to mine. “You’d better live.”
“Funny words for a guy who’s threatening to slice my throat,” I retorted.
“I can cut you pretty badly and you’ll live for a while,” he pointed out. “Don’t make me.” His words were cold, but his eyes . . . his eyes were white and open and pleading. “I’m begging you,” he whispered. “Break it, Abby.”
I spared a glance back at Brystion, my upper lip curling. “Pie crust promise,” I spat. “Easy to make and easy to break.” He winced, but I was past caring. “The bond has been satisfied. I release you.” A snapping sound like the crack of a whip hit my ear and I shuddered. Brystion let out a choked growl, backing away. The sight of it pierced through me, despite my anger. “Looks like I should have trusted my Heart after all,” I muttered.
His head jerked up as though he’d been struck, but before I could say anything more, Topher grabbed a hank of my hair. “Good enough, honey. Let’s go.” He pulled me along behind him, the daemons slowly falling in after us. Topher grimaced and then shook his head. “On second thought, I don’t think you need to be awake for this.”
I struggled, wanting to bite the smirk from his face. “Asshole.”
“Probably,” he shrugged. And then the dagger hilt arced by my face, an explosion of pain slamming into the side of my skull. I had a dull vision of Brystion being held back by Robert, and then the darkness swept me away and I knew nothing.
Wet.
A soft squelching bristled distantly in my ears. It should have been a gentle, soothing sound, but my head was on fire, my ears ringing with pain. There was a hollow roaring in the distance, accompanied by a cool dampness on my forehead and another wet spot on my cheek. “Mmmmph,” I whispered hoarsely. I tried to open my eyes, but they were stuck together.
“Hush,” Topher’s smooth voice trembled. The moist blotting motion on my skin came faster now. “Nearly done, so please lie still.”
“The hell I will,” I croaked. I wrenched open my eyes, as flakes of . . . something . . . floated past my face. I tried to sit up, but my limbs refused to obey. Confused, I looked past my torso. My head felt very far away as I realized I was tied down. My legs were bound together at the ankle with duct tape and again at the thighs and knees. And I was naked.
I blinked for a moment as this information assimilated itself in the hazy remainder of my mind, glancing down again to confirm it. “Son of a bitch!” My arms were loosely bound behind me, and easy enough to pull apart, but the artist held them in a grip of iron.
“That’s quite enough of that,” he scolded. “You’ll spoil the paint.”
“The what?” I could only stare dumbly as he gestured at the mirror on the wall. Naked indeed. Bound. There was dried blood all over my temple, from where I assumed the fucker had cold-cocked me, a grim reminder of what had kept my eyes shut. Topher held a paintbrush and he’d clearly been running it down my flesh, but whatever was on the bristles was clear and shining and not really a color at all. Goose bumps broke out all over me.
“This how you get your kicks?” My upper lip curled. “Did you have fun raping me?” In truth, aside from my head and the discomfort of being tied I didn’t feel too bad, but I wasn’t just going to sit here meekly. Besides, the angrier I got the less likely I was going to think of Brystion, and based on the knot in my chest right now that would be a very good thing.
“What do you take me for?” He sniffed. “I merely needed you to be still so I could finish my work.”
“And I needed to be nude for that?” I spat at him, baring my teeth when he backhanded me across the face. His eyes widened and for a moment he seemed completely mad, but there was nothing mad about the way his jaw clenched, or the purely clinical way his vision strolled over my prone limbs. I rolled the blood in my mouth, not particularly interested in his answer.
“Yes, well, I assure you, there’s nothing I’m interested in less than ravaging you,” he sneered. “I’ve got a much bigger reward coming. Wasting you on something as pathetic as fleshly needs isn’t something I plan to do.”
“What is that shit?” I gestured at the paintbrush with an air of disdain.
“Ah,” he said delightedly. “Succubus blood, actually.” He dipped the brush into a dubious-looking ceramic container. “Very hard to get. Pure muse,” he chortled. “Distilled from the source.”
My heart clamped around my throat. “Jesus,” I whispered. “Is that . . . Sonja’s?”
“No, no, no, no,” he muttered. “Sonja is the anchor. Can’t possibly bleed her. Besides,” he sighed, glancing behind me, “I don’t think she’s going to last too much longer anyway. Best to hurry this up, eh?” He bent forward again, lovingly applying each stroke on my face with a graceful hand.
I shuddered and rolled my head away to see Sonja’s portrait. Her wings drooped in defeat; her eyes were dark and empty. “Oh,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry.” Regardless of her brother’s actions, she clearly had very little choice in the matter and was now paying the price.
“Don’t be, my dear.” My head snapped toward this new voice, and I frowned at the ancient man limping toward us. “It was the fate she deserved.”
“Maurice, I presume?” I kept my voice casual, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his face. He was so like the picture from Moira’s office, but his hair hung long and thin and wispy. Thick eyebrows and sunken cheeks showed the passage of time, but the beetle-bright eyes held a malicious sort of charm.
He leaned heavily on his cane as he bent to peer at me. “Not much to look at now, are you?” He wheezed hard, his rotting teeth glinting from between his lips. I winced at the stink of his breath, which was hot against my cheeks.
“I imagine I’ve looked better,” I admitted, fighting the urge to squirm away. “But then, I suspect the same can be said of you.”
His eyes narrowed, but I merely glared back at him. “You think you know it all, don’t you? You think that illusion of time she sold you will be worth anything when you go to leave?” A humorless chuckle escaped him, spittle flecking his lips. “You’re a KeyStone. The Fae will never let you go.”
“Jealous, much?”
“You know nothing,” he sneered. He glanced over at Topher. The painter studiously looked everywhere but at me. “A moment, if you would.”
Topher nodded, carefully placing the brush into a glass cup. “I can’t wait too long. If it dries out on her skin too much we won’t be able to use it.”
Maurice grunted at him, slumping down on an empty stool as Topher left. The old man’s mouth pursed in sad amusement. “You put up quite the fight, you know. Far greater than the other two. Hell, even Moira hardly managed anything at all. Rather pathetic for a Protectorate, wouldn’t you say? Although, given her condition . . .”
“Moira,” I gasped, turning my head to where he pointed. The other paintings leaned haphazardly against the wall. Charlie’s was the same as I remembered, but her eyes were widened in panic, one hand pressed up against the canvas. And Moira was . . .
“Pregnant,” I whispered. The elven woman sat before her mirror. The same one as in the bookstore, in fact, one hand cupped around the swell of her belly. Her face held an infinite sadness—anger and hurt lurking within—mixed with a mother’s tender ferocity.
“She wasn’t showing when Topher painted her,” Maurice said, his dark eyes boring into me. “That started after the fact. I’m surprised she’s even managed to carry it this far. But I suppose I have you to thank for that, my dear. You’re quite the TouchStone, from what I hear.
I wonder where all that lovely power comes from, eh?” His voice was low and crooning as he lowered his mouth to mine. “I could take it, you know. I know how . . . perfection in the art of removal.”
I recoiled and then thought better of it. Slamming my head forward I clamped down on his lips, tearing at them in feral satisfaction when he screamed. He punched me in the head, wiping away the blood on his chin, the tattered remains of his lower lip ragged at the corner of his mouth. “You filthy bitch!”
I blinked owlishly, my body stiffening as I retreated into myself.
I was dimly aware of him standing over me, a litany of profanities showering me like snow, but I was past hearing and certainly past doing anything about it. For a moment it felt like I was standing at a very great distance, watching him slap my face, screaming something about not dying on him yet. Inwardly, I smirked. Not likely.
Spittle and blood spattered his lips, dripping in my mouth. Abruptly, my body relaxed and I shuddered, pain racking my limbs as I was shoved back into place.
“Stop . . . shaking . . . me,” I mumbled.
Maurice slumped. “Join me,” he said suddenly. “You’re a KeyStone. If you were free and clear of Moira’s influence, you wouldn’t be limited to this town, to this life. OtherFolk would trip over themselves trying to Contract with you.” His mouth slipped into an easy smile. I could see a ghost of an old charm, something he was used to wielding as a weapon. Even at his advanced age it was formidable. “You could name any price you wanted.”
My head spun with a muzzy sort of comfort, even though my inner voice was screaming at me to get up. “If that’s the case, why would I need to join you at all?” I went to rub my eyes and then realized I was still tied up and settled for rolling my face against the table. “Let’s cut the crap and pretend we’re never going to work together and move on. What do you really want?”
He gave me a sour look before glancing up at Moira’s painting. “How much do you know of the Faery Court? How it works?”
I stifled a snort. “Nada. There’s a Queen. Everyone is scared shitless of her. That’s it.”
He bared his jagged teeth at me, and spun away to pace in front of Moira’s painting. His feet slapped hard against the linoleum. I had the distinct impression this was something he’d done a number of times. There wasn’t a trench burned into the floor or anything, but the rhythm of his legs spoke volumes.
“Why?” he muttered at Moira. “You aren’t as stupid as all that to choose an untrained child.” He paused in front of the Fae woman, her cold eyes glittering down at him. “What is she to you?”
“Good question,” I slurred, my eyes growing heavy. “If she answers you, let me know. In the meantime, I’ve got places to go and people to do—so if you wouldn’t mind moving this along? Otherwise, I might just have to die of boredom to escape.”
“The Steward,” he snapped. “The Steward is always mortal. But to think she was grooming you for such a thing is laughable.”
“I get that a lot,” I retorted dryly. I knew a steward ran the day-to-day stuff for a king or queen, at least as far as medieval terminology went, but what would that have to do with me? Or Maurice, for that matter. “I don’t get it. I haven’t even been to Faery.” I paused, as it suddenly struck me. “TouchStones. The Steward is the Faery Queen’s TouchStone?” I snorted. “You don’t aim small, do you?” He stepped toward me and I hurried to change the subject.
“What about Brystion?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
“What about him? I hadn’t realized he would prove so tenacious. But he did what he was supposed to—more or less.” He sneered at me. “You were merely a complication—and quite clearly an easy one to remedy.”
I blanched, remembering Brytion’s words to me on the dock. Hatred sparked to life in my chest. This is a complication I don’t need, Abby. Shamed at my idiocy, I turned away. He’d known all along . . . and yet I’d fallen for it.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but if we don’t get this finished the paint will be wasted.” Topher slid up next to us with an apologetic simper.
“Very well.” Maurice stared down at me for a long moment and then shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll be getting anything out of this one. Let me know when it is done.” He shuffled out of the room, leaving Topher to reclaim his seat.
“I trusted you,” I said softly, hoping I might be able to convince him to let me go. “We all did.”
Topher’s hands stilled for a moment. “I know. And I also know that it doesn’t matter what I tell you right now, but I do have my reasons for it.” He slopped another slimy trail across my cheek, chewing on his tongue as he concentrated. He bound my wrists tighter this time, draping a sheet over my prone form.
“Why? Why are you doing this?” My gaze flicked to Sonja. “You were her TouchStone. How could you do that to her?”
He studied his hands. “I can’t paint anymore,” he said finally, putting the brush down. The handle struck the edge of the table with a ring of finality. Sighing, he picked up a rag and started tying it over my face, covering my eyes. “So they don’t get damaged,” he explained.
Damaged from what? Fear swept over me.
Keep him talking, Abby . . .
Trying to keep the tremble from my voice, I turned my head toward him casually. “Brystion said you couldn’t paint,” I agreed. “Looks like he was right.” The hot stink of Topher’s breath brushed against my ear as he tightened the rag.
“Watch yourself.” The lilt in his voice became dangerous and feral. I’d touched a nerve. “But as to why I’m doing this?” A sad chuckle escaped him and in my blindfolded state it was like I could hear every rattled nuance of it, from the way it guttered in his mouth to the low vibrato in his chest. “I owe Maurice a debt.”
“Must be one hell of a debt.” I choked, hysteria threatening to bubble over. “What’d you do? Welch on a bet?”
“I had pancreatic cancer,” he said shortly. “He had the cure. A cure,” he corrected himself. There was the sound of liquid sloshing, something grating on the floor. “And pay my debts, I have. The cost for my life was my talent.” His laughter was humorless. “I’m not sure how fair the trade was, honestly, but I am alive, so there is that. Tell me something, Ms. Sinclair—are you so ready to stare death in the face that you wouldn’t give up everything you had to jump at the chance of being able to live?”
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. The words were so close to what Brystion had said to me just a few hours ago. “Once I might have said yes,” I said slowly. “But to betray those I love to do it? I’d rather die.”
“And so you shall,” he said amiably. “Not right away, of course,” he assured me, patting my cheek. “In fact, I imagine it will take a rather long time, most likely through starvation. I doubt you’ll last as long as Sonja though.” I heard the smug pride in the words, and I fought back the urge to vomit.
“Are you going to capture Melanie now?” My lips moved numbly, trying not to babble.
“No point. Last night was a clusterfuck of rather epic proportions, due in no small part to you. But no matter,” he said. There was a note of doubt rippling beneath the cocky tone of his words. “Her violin was really all we needed, wasn’t it? I’m sure she won’t last too long after we destroy it.”
“But why capture any of us at all? Maurice already had Moira.”
He looked at me as though I was daft. “Control,” he answered softly. “What better way to make sure Robert behaved himself than to capture you and Charlie? Or to try to bribe his way into the Faery Court?”
In answer I lashed out with my feet, wriggling like a worm on the sidewalk, burning with the need to smash his face in.
“Now, now,” he admonished. “Are you ready? This won’t hurt a bit. Or maybe it will, but in either case, I’m sure I don’t care. You’re the last of them and as soon as you’re finished I’m out of here and heading for a beach somewhere. Fuck the lot of you.”
“Talentle
ss hack,” I spat.
“It’s true now, but then at least I’ll be alive. Off you go.” His fingers dug into my hip and my shoulder, heaving my body with a slight grunt.
I was falling. In a matter of seconds, I was unable to see, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The sweat of my fear stung the cut on my head, my eyes burned with rage and unshed tears, and a wretchedness of shame at my own stupid ignorance.
I didn’t have time to think on it. I plunged into something cold and fluid. It wasn’t quite water and it smelled a bit like the succubus blood on the paintbrush, but more elastic. Instinctively I kicked, flailed, and my mouth clenched tight. Topher gripped my head and held it beneath the surface. To breathe was death; my heart lurched painfully against my ribs. I could hear him shouting something, but it was all a fog as my senses dulled, faded. Liquid poured in through my nose and mouth.
Air! My body was screaming for it, but there wasn’t any, and still the artist pushed me down. Then I was sinking, everything fading into black. Something battered at the edges of my consciousness, images of Brystion and his gleaming golden eyes filling my senses, and my heart shattered.
Nothing but darkness, cold and velvet black. It was quiet and comforting; my mind felt sluggish as I curled around myself like some kind of fetus, cradled in the dark womb of the ocean. My lungs stung with each shallow breath full of burning pain. It was easier to just lie here in that strange torpor. Something niggled in the back of my mind. Something I needed to do. Someone I needed to save? I closed my eyes and drifted away, rocked to sleep in the shelter of the cool waves.
Abby.
I rolled over, brushing the seaweed from my face.
Abby.
The voice was getting persistent. Who was it? I was sure I knew. My eyes fluttered open. Everything was as it should be. Cool. Blue. Softly lit. Protective and safe. I closed my eyes again, nestling into the soft scales of my tail, and gently told the voice to hush. I was a mermaid, like I’d always been. I rolled back into the welcoming shadows.
