by S A Archer
A slight smirk stole across his lips. Where she could have expounded with poetry and excess, as the fairies had, Dawn spoke plainly and directly. The fairies might have taken pains to dress up their healer in the height of Seelie fashion, but beneath all the glitter, the earthborn hadn’t lost her Unseelie sensibility. Donovan accepted her offered hand and lightly kissed the back of it.
“Then consider yourself at home, Dawn.” As the young woman walked past him and then wandered the workspace, Donovan turned to appreciate the view from behind.
A soft whistle came from over his right shoulder. Under his breath, Tiernan said, “Now that is a nice piece of… craftsmanship.”
With a cocked eyebrow, Donovan glanced back at him. “You looking for your next piece?”
Tiernan’s wolfish grin answered that question. “Tried to recruit her to my services and she turned me down flat. Lucky mongrel.” Whether the services he referred to were healing or sexual in nature was left unspoken. “I want details if you tap that.”
“You don’t pay well enough for that kind of information.” Donovan turned at last toward the Unseelie that fancied himself a kingpin, rather than a prince, among the lesser beings.
Tiernan chuckled, an easy laugh that he shared liberally. He enjoyed himself and his life of questionable morals with full Unseelie relish. After the pretentious fairies, the unapologetically direct Sidhe was a welcome change. “I tell you what information I did pay well enough for.” He handed over a folded piece of paper, getting to the business of the meeting. “Apparently even the earthborns who manage to get a handful of decades under their belts can get themselves into trouble.”
“What flavor does this trouble come in?” Donovan unfolded the paper and examined the contents before crumpling it in his fist. “Bloody wizards.”
“Shadow weaver. Thought that to you, she might be worth the rescue.” He shrugged.
“She’s Sidhe. That is reason enough.”
Chapter Forty
London must have looked like she felt when she showed up at Selena’s. The vampire mistress ushered her back into her private chamber, the very place London’s world first frayed into a thousand threads. Ironic, since her life dangled by a single thread now.
“What happened?” Selena brushed her fingers over the dirt-smeared bandage taped to London’s throat.
Shock and exhaustion painted dark circles under her eyes. By the time London reached the small Brownie community, it was too late. With the legendary tidiness of the Brownies, they’d spirited away the bodies and Rico’s car, leaving no evidence. The fey hadn’t questioned her account of what occurred, but they made themselves scarce just as quickly as their work was done, leaving London with the hopeless reality. “Rico’s dead.”
The vampire mistress peeled the bandage away from London’s neck. The cuts from Bain’s claws had only begun to heal. Selena traced them with her fingertips. “I know what you want.” She nudged London’s chin so she could consider the pristine side of her throat. Tangling her fingers in London’s short hair, she forced her to arch her neck even more. “Say it.”
Never once had London permitted a vampire to feed from her. Not even Selena, who made no secret of her desire. Only their history and friendship ensured London the rare gift of choice. With no options left to her now, she said, “Change me.” Even as she spoke Selena lunged with the vicious speed of a vampire.
The bite hurt like hell. London cried out as the fangs lanced her vein. She clawed at Selena’s back, uselessly. With the pain and panic came second thoughts, but it was too late now.
Selena shoved London down against the arm of the settee, just as she had Rico when she fed on him. Only no one would stop Selena this time. This vampire, her friend, was killing her.
Selena gave a sultry moan as she drank. London’s blood was laced with Sidhe magic. Bain had said so. With a whimpering gasp, London surrendered. And in the surrendering to the pain, the pleasure finally washed through her. Her pulse weakened. And then it faltered.
Selena jerked her head back. Blood staining her teeth. Eyes wide.
The world blurred. London floated in a cottony haze, awareness slipping away. Falling… Falling into black… glorious oblivion welcomed her.
And then there was a taste…
The vampire blood tasted hot, as if mixed with a dash of Tabasco sauce. Her guts twisted and London retched. Dizzy and weak, London passed out.
The strength came back to her in measures. She blinked up at Selena. The vampire held a blood bag above London, squeezing it rhythmically. The tubing led down to the needle stabbed into London’s neck. Selena brushed away London’s hand before she could touch it.
The expression on Selena’s face confirmed what London already suspected.
London wiped at her mouth. “It didn’t work.”
“Fey can’t be infected with vampirism. You are saturated with fey magic. It has changed you. Every cell of your body.”
”But I am still human. I am not fey.”
“You are human, but not ‘just human’ anymore.”
London closed her eyes. “You should just have killed me then. There is no hope for me now.”
Selena stroked London’s cheek until she looked up at her. “You may not be a vampire, but your life will be like mine.”
“What life?”
“The life of a hunter.” Selena kissed her tenderly, giving the notion a chance to sink in. “There are other Sidhe in Ireland. Sidhe who have the Touch.”
“So this is what it’s come to? Rico’s curse… His legacy…”
“Do what you must to survive.” The predator in Selena showed in her soft smile. “Huntress of the Sidhe.”
Chapter Forty-One
Didn’t matter the time of the year, the Alps were always freezing. Donovan drew deep into the earth to catch a thread of magma and feed it up to the cliff where he perched. The heat from the pool of molten rock warmed him more effectively than a campfire, and without the telltale beacon of smoke giving away his position.
The tracks for the Artesia de Nuit train threaded through the mountains for a good six hours between Milan, Italy, and Dole, France. According to Tiernan, this was the route the wizards chose to transport their captive. The path carved into the rock passed fifty feet beneath him. Rock walls lined both sides of the track at this expanse, allowing only enough room for the train and a buffer for safety. The line ran nearly flat for a couple hundred feet before taking a downward curve.
Already Donovan sensed the vibration of the train pulsing through the ground. He crouched and gripped the edge of the crag.
Magic flowed from him. Merged with the earth. Felt the infinitesimal warping and up thrusting of the mountain range. His element. His magic. A perfect blending.
Donovan waited.
The train marched along at an even pace. Drawing nearer.
Focusing on the track beneath him, Donovan willed cracks to form around the railway spikes.
The train chugged into sight. To see Donovan, he appeared to idly watch the scene unfold before him. When the last car came into view, his magic flexed. His head turned to follow the train car. Timing its speed. Gauging when it would pass precisely below him.
The rock beneath the train suddenly sheared upward as if blasted by dynamite. The placement of the upheaval caught the joints between two lengths of track and lifted up at the exact moment to uncouple the last car from the train and pummel it into the far wall of the crevice.
The passenger car smashed sidelong, crumpling the metal sheeting. The crash tossed the occupants within the car, but should not have had enough force to kill. Only to stun.
The rest of the train curved the bend. Though the braking metal wheels squealed against the rails, it would take a while to bring the train to a halt, especial
ly on the decline. Even still, Donovan lifted his gaze to the rock wall past where the single passenger car had crashed. The cliff surrendered, crumbling into a rockslide that barricaded this section of track from easy access by foot.
Physically, Donovan remained still. A tremor shivered the ground as rock formed from compressed sediment released its tension and flowed like a liquid instead. The sides of the crevice melted. The mudslide flooded over and around the train car, burying it fully. It continued to rise until the new surface leveled evenly with the cliff where Donovan knelt.
Nothing to see with physical eyes now. Donovan wasn’t seeing with them at the moment, anyway.
Tentacles of mud burst through the windows of the buried car. He felt the movement fighting the rising mud. People attempted to swim in the quicksand. Magic fluttered against the mud like the wings of moths, but nothing hindered the flow.
No wizard left alive. Donovan knew that directive. Believed it. A single wizard would slay hundreds of fey in their lifetime. Mercy shown a wizard was a death sentence to all the fey they would encounter. The reign of terror for at least these few magic-stealers ended today.
He ignored those who struggled against the soil. Only when the magic-laced mud twined against something cold and ceased to respond to his will did Donovan close his eyes. His focus wrapped around that spot. The sediment retreated, following the shape of the body attached to that coldness and forming a bubble around it. Donovan brought forth the body. The soft mud pillowed around the form and coaxed its unresponsive shape through a window and up to the surface, where the bubble rose like a bud of a flower and then burst open and disintegrated.
Donovan crossed the ground to the person lying there. The earth below them solidified into solid rock once more. No one else would escape the car. No one else below the surface now lived.
Donovan knelt next to the mud-caked young woman. The mud ran from her in streams until she was completely free of it. She was curled on her side. Wrists bound behind her back. Unconscious.
With a tender stroke of fingertips, he brushed her hair from her face. A beautiful face. A face with fine, sculpted features few but the fey possessed. His fingers drew her hair back further, tucking her brunette tresses behind her ear.
A rounded ear.
Like a human’s ear.
Donovan traced the shape of it. Very unlike the Sidhe’s slightly pointed ears. Feeling the smoothness of a scar, he bent for a closer examination.
“Is this what the Sidhe have come to? Self-mutilation? To pass for a human?”
Of course, the unconscious Sidhe didn’t answer. He examined the bonds on her wrists and ankles. Just heavy-gauge zip ties. Easy enough to cut loose.
The silver the wizards used to bind her magic took the form of a collar. Donovan cupped the woman’s head, careful not to brush the silver directly with his skin. He lifted her enough to examine the device. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to release the simple catch. The collar dropped from her. The beginning of a silver burn ringed her neck with an irritated redness. Two distinct points blistered beneath her jaw. Donovan turned the device, ever careful of not touching it. “Silver shock collar.”
Wrapping it completely in the handkerchief, he ensured no silver remained exposed, then tucked the end into his back pocket. He scooped the girl into his arms and stood. The humans from the rest of the train finally drew close. He could hear their startled shouts of horror at the bizarre landslide. Paying them no mind, Donovan teleported away with the unconscious Sidhe in his embrace.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Are you sure he’s Sidhe? Not just some other kind of fey?” The very notion that the four young vampires across from her might lead her to a Sidhe catapulted her heart into a frenzied beat. It was all London could do not to reach across the booth and snatch one of them and demand they lead her to him. Knowing that they might still have a wisp of his magic embedded in their bodies had her fingers curling, wanting to tear open their flesh to get at it. That’s how horribly the addiction shredded her. Even the barest notion of Sidhe magic slashed at her sanity. The Sidhe Touch was the only thing that could give her relief from the growing, aching desire. London hated it. Hated that this obsession possessed her so mercilessly, destroying the life she’d once known, eliminating the freedom she’d once taken for granted.
Digging her nails into her palms, London fought within herself to pull free of the fixation long enough to focus on this conversation.
She leaned forward, her elbows on the more-clean-than-not table. The circle of faint light from the hanging bulb overhead left the corners of the booth in partial shadow. The bar catered to parahumans, so was darker than most. Vamps and weres, with their sharp night vision, didn’t require a lot of light to see by. As a human accustomed to the ways of the parahumans, it didn’t faze London. The place had a stripped down appearance -- all dark wood furniture and paneling, hardy furnishings that didn’t break easily. The seats didn’t even have any cushioning. No pictures or what-nots on the walls that would become debris when fights broke out, less to have to clean up. Clearly a bar owned by weres, rather than vampires. Not that they discriminated.
The young vampires in the circular booth glanced at each other, each waiting for one of the others to answer her question. London knew newbie vampires when she spotted them. The lack of confidence was telling. They were separated into couples, which was another giveaway. In another few decades they wouldn’t waste time playing the boyfriend/girlfriend game.
“Well, they said he was a Sidhe, you know? But for real, how would you know if he’s Sidhe or not? Is there some kind of sign?” Charnel, the blonde girl in the white leather bustier leaned forward, giving London a far better view than she wanted.
“All fey have magic in their blood. But the Sidhe, they are something special. Something more.” London understood parahumans. She negotiated their world almost like one of them. Not like the fey. She’d not been prepared for them at all, especially not the Sidhe. Even this barest thought of them sent her mind tripping compulsively back into unwanted remembrance.
Rico had barely brushed her skin with his fingers and London’s world shattered. Just like that. The bastard did it on purpose. Cursed her to enslave her. To make her work for him. Then he went and got himself killed, abandoning London to this endless torment.
She peeled the label off her bottle of Guinness in strips, gave her hands something to do other than tremble. The craving for the Touch twisted within her worse than anything she’d known. Not even a vampire’s bloodlust seemed to compare. She’d never seen a vamp curl on the floor, hugging themselves and rocking, weeping with the need. Then again, they had lots of prey options. For London, only the Touch of the Sidhe would suffice. Only the Touch would relieve the pain. Wash away the anxiety. Make her feel whole and normal for a little while. But the Sidhe were scarce, all but impossible to find.
The closest thing she could compare the curse to was heroin addiction. Now she understood the way the crawling under the skin made them twitch. The circular thoughts spiraled over and over. The nightmares. So close to the fringes of insanity that keeping it together to even fake normal grew increasingly impossible until all you wanted to do was scream and claw your own flesh.
Every day it grew worse. Rico was gone. If he was still alive she’d do anything… anything for relief. He could send her to face a thousand Changelings with nothing but a pocketknife and she’d do it, just as long as he Touched her again.
Shivering as the memories she tried to bury rose once more, summoned by the addiction, London brushed her lips with her fingertips. Rico kissed her once. Just once. Filled her mouth with magic. Made her inhale it. Swallow it. Seep into her body. Awakened her to a pleasure too intense to endure. She’d felt it change her. Curse her. And now bereft of it, she longed for nothing else but to experience the Touch agai
n. Only the power of the Touch could ease her agony.
She had to have it. She had to have it soon!
Struggling to find composure, London raked her fingers through her hair. No time to play games, she tried the blunt approach. “The Sidhe can Touch you with their magic right through the skin. You don’t even need to drink their blood to get high.”
Immediately, the girls squirmed against their guys. The guys had the “going to get laid” stupid grins. Oh, yeah. The fey they’d been telling her about was definitely a Sidhe. “Where is he? This Sidhe?”
“Well, that’s kinda the trick,” Colin, the shorter and darker of the guys, laughed. He was nearly hidden in the shadow of the booth, his arm around his girlfriend, Brandy. Tattoos sleeved his bare arms. A tiny hoop pierced his eyebrow. “You don’t find him. You get magicked to him.”
“Magicked?”
“Yep. Zip zap. There ye be.” Colin snorted a laugh, one a little too gregarious thanks to the shots he’d been downing.
Brandy, his girlfriend-slash-translator, rolled her eyes, which was more teen-dramatic with the glittery eye makeup. “There’s this bloke. Rand’s his name. He does the magic. He brings you there and he brings you back. He makes all the deals. Takes the payment. That kinda stuff.”
“Where do I find this bloke?”
Charnel obliged her by using her eye pencil on a paper napkin. She slid it across the table.
