by Marie Hall
Then he saw them, twenty of her most experienced guards, marching to block off the entrance to her room. Their steps were unified and absurdly beautiful in its precision. The lead guard, dressed in a tunic of burnished bronze and buffed brown leather, halted the procession by lifting his fist into the air, and as one, the group turned on their heels, all done in absolute silence.
They extended their spears, and like a coordinated ballet, slammed the ends onto the floor with snapping force. The sound of metal slapping stone reverberated through the room like gunfire. Austere faces gazed at him without emotion.
The Morrigan’s pretentious show of force and power nauseated him. It wasn’t enough for her that she command the most lethal, and loyal, battalion in all of faedom, but she couldn’t resist trying to prove her superiority even to death.
He stopped, eyeing the guards. It would be so easy to take them for granted. They appeared fragile, and too lean by half. Each had hair tied back at the nape in a severe queue. Their delicate features made them look weak, effeminate.
But they were lethal and always deadly, thanks to the sword attached to their dun colored scabbards. Resting within the hilt of each sword was a red stone. Mereth en draugrim: Feast of the wolves.
One knick from the blade and the victim went instantly mad--beginning to crave such things as bloody meat, marrow from bones. It was a sickness that only overcame the sufferers when the moon grew pregnant with light. The truth of the Weres was that they were the original creation of the fae.
Biting now spread the disease, and so the younger Weres had no knowledge of the truth. The ancients of course knew, but had always kept the secret for reasons of their own.
Cian had no fear the guards planned to use the swords on him, but the threat was redolent in the air.
“Grim reaper,” Cahal the lead guard, intoned in a deep, barrel chested voice.
His nostrils flared. She had to know the force was unnecessary. Red-hot heat snapped down his spine, turned his blood to molten lava. A tightness centered in his chest, the dread and hatred he’d harbored in his soul, awoke from its slumber.
“Let me pass, Cahal. I only wish to speak with the Queen,” he said, his words edged in steel.
Cahal lifted a snow-white brow as a glitter of antipathy flared through his ice-blue eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“Morrigan!” Cian yelled, knowing he was only multiplying the beating by refusing to come groveling to her heels, begging her forgiveness. But he no longer cared.
Cahal hooked his arm through Cian’s. Cian turned on his heel and slammed his palm against Cahal’s cheek. More guards jumped on Cian.
Fingers clawed into his flesh. Nails drew blood. He swung his fists, his feet, and yelled. “Craven whore,” he bellowed, praying the goddess would hear him. “Hiding behind your dogs. Meet me!”
Bodies slammed into his back, bringing him to his knees under the weight choking the air from his lungs. But the adrenaline was spiking, adding a ferocity to his attack that bordered on madness.
Cian writhed. This was a fury he’d suppressed for far too long. The indifference and hostility of the righteous fae toward his kind, the indignity of being called “dog” or worse yet, not being called anything at all, had the boiling hatred festering over.
Snapping of bones. Quick grunts of breath being released. The muffled noise of flesh striking flesh. It was a song in his ears, he grinned as he felt the of blood (his own, theirs, he had no idea) slid down his face.
He grabbed two heads and knocked them together. The dull sound was sickening as the bones crumpled against the other. A boot slammed into his face. His nose rammed up through his skull.
Then more feet connected, busting in his teeth, his cheeks. He was on the ground now, face down and being crushed under the pressure of a blanket of bodies. They slammed sword hilts into his face; the explosion of razor sharp pain inside his brain was immediate and excruciating. He hissed, finally blacking out as one connected with his temple.
Blessed oblivion.
***
Badb and Nemain returned, gliding toward The Morrigan. They landed on either end of her throne and cawed.
She caressed the thick rope of leather in her hand. “Is Cian shackled in the chambers below?”
She’d heard all the words the fool had spat as he’d fought with her guards. He’d pay for the remarks with blood--bright, crimson, and overflowing.
Nemain blinked her ruby red eyes.
“Good.” The Morrigan’s strode toward the hallway. Her fingers twitched with anticipation. Her obsidian gown tightened at the chest with the excited rise of her breathing.
“Be well, Chaos,” Dagda called after her.
She turned and nodded toward her scheming consort. His eyes gleamed differing shades of gold and black. A smile cut his features, the white of his teeth in sharp contrast to the natural tan of his flesh. With a final snarl, The Morrigan turned on her heels and proceeded toward the rack room.
Dagda was keeping secrets. He never involved himself in her affairs. Now twice he’d done so.
Anger sizzled through her veins. She cracked the whip against her thigh in agitation. The burst of pain exquisite, and she grinned.
Hundreds of flickering torches lit the winding stairway of stone. Thin jets of light cut through the shadow at intermittent spaces. The gloomy, dank path had been designed with purpose--to create a sense of panic, of fear, to increase the heart rate into a pounding melody of terror. There wasn’t much that could scare an immortal centuries old. Nothing that is, except the rotten stench of dried blood, torn flesh of their kith, and knowing they’d soon be next. She bit her lip, her fury increasing with each step she took.
Finally, three flights down and in the darkest corridor of the castle, she arrived at the rack room. Two guards with crossed sickles stood before the door.
Her lips twitched at the sight of Cahal. One eye was beginning to swell with an overflow of blood. The white of his eye, now a shocking sea of busted blood vessels. She loved death. They were a lethal predator.
Cahal’s good eye was a startling blue in contrast. He remained aloof, but she could tell by the pounding of a vein in his neck that he was agitated by her cold perusal. A thrum of electrical pleasure hummed through her veins, she vibrated with the beginnings of blood lust and reached out a hand to caress the side of Cahal’s face.
He shivered under her touch, and leaned in just slightly. A perfect teardrop of blood slid from the corner of his eye onto her pinky finger. She held it up to her nose, inhaling the scent of autumn leaves. Excitement quickened her pulse, and with a delicate flick of her tongue she lapped up the drop. The sweet taste filled her mouth.
“Cahal,” she said with a husky tenor, “you are truly a prize to be savored.”
He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with breathless wonder. The redolent musk of his pride filled the air with the thick scent of turning leaves and sweet apple cider.
A feral need for more blood ripped through her. “Leave me now," she growled, wanting to save the fire of her madness for Cian.
“My Queen,” they said in unison, and not with a small amount of relief. As one they turned and marched off with exact precision.
She opened the door. Cian was shackled to the wall with his back toward her. A sliver of light fell across the sculpted beauty of his body. He shifted, and the locks of his long hair swished down his thighs in waves. Alternating strands of polished sable and ivory gleamed with unholy light. The long, hard lines of his body flexed with his movement.
“What are you waiting for?” His voice was like fine whiskey. Smooth, hot, and raw.
She narrowed her eyes, excited by the rising fury rolling through his veins, and walked up to him with cat-like precision. Already the taste of Cahal was making her crave more, crave death itself. She trailed the grip of her whip against his back, the itch flowing through her for the sight of his blood. “You know what you’re here for, don’t you?”
His body tense
d, and the rigid cording of his back flexed as he turned his head to glare at her. The midnight blue of his eyes turned black with rage.
That was when she finally got a good look at his face. His face was a bruised mess. His jaw nearly twice it’s normal size. Blood already covered his chin, and long gouges ran the length of both cheeks. She chortled, and grabbing his jaw, squeezed tight.
“Such tough words,” she spat. “I’ll enjoy making you beg for mercy.”
“You’ll have none from me,” he said low and menacing. He narrowed his eyes and his face twisted into a frightful mask of arrogance and fury. The look was enough to quell many, but not her. Not the Goddess of battle and strife. The Morrigan fed off rage; she lived for it. She inhaled the heady scent of his wrath and gave him a hungry smile.
“You’ve disappointed me, Cian.”
His jaw hardened. “That was never my intent. She is meant to live. Do not harm the mortal.”
She slapped him across the cheek. The power of the blow forced his head to crack against the wall. “How dare you make demands to me!”
He studied her like a predator ready for the kill. Silent, and with an undercurrent of lethal power.
For answer he spat by her foot. The sight of the crimson streaked saliva made the barely suppressed blood lust rise to the surface.
“Oh, my death. That was most unwise.”
The Morrigan stepped back and snapped the whip through the air. Its shrill sound like the crack of thunder. Cian never flinched. She threw her head back and laughed. “You were always my best. So heartless, so perfect.”
Then she struck him. The metal tips at the end of the cat o’ nine tails tore into him. When she pulled back, chunks of flesh flew through the air. Thick crimson spilled down his back.
Cian’s fists clenched, his body went stiff. Tremors traveled the length of his legs. The Morrigan licked the blood that settled against her lip. Its sweet, metallic taste only made her want it more.
His blood was the sweetest of all. It wasn’t just scent, it was memory. The memory of every soul he’d taken was within each drop. She relived it all through him and couldn’t contain the rushing need for more. He was death, life, and power, and she wanted it all.
She walked up to him and laid her hand against his lacerations. He hissed and hung his head. “Now imagine how much more the rest will hurt. You’ll never disobey me again, Cian. I vow it.”
***
Dagda glanced up as the door to his chamber cracked open with a loud boom. The Morrigan stood in the entranceway. Blood and gore covered her from head to toe.
He stood and held out his hand. She walked toward him and dropped a gentle kiss against his cheek. “It is finished,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Now?”
She eyed her clothing and sneered. “I clean up. Then I’ll send Frenzy to finish what Cian could not.”
Dagda blinked.
An explosion of magick took her breath. The aftershocks of so much power sped through her veins. She pulled out of his embrace and gazed at him. Her brows lowered. “Why have you sifted the strands of mortal time?”
“To make the fight fair.”
She cocked her head. “How very, very interesting. Whatever are you hiding from me, Consort?”
He raised a brow, though the rest of his face remained impassive. “Why would you think I’d be hiding anything?”
“You won’t win.”
“Who said this was a contest?”
She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.”
He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckle. “Take your bath, Chaos. I have matters to attend to.”
She eyed him and turned. “Whatever it is you have planned, Dagda... don’t.”
His lips curved as he walked from the room.
***
Cian lay in a puddle of his own blood, spots danced before his eyes. A rush of vertigo had the room moving in circles. The burst of energy that had ripped into his back from the witch at the club, paled in comparison to the madness of the Queen. She’d been possessed and torn almost all the flesh from his body. White bone stood out against the red of his muscle.
The door to the room opened, and a shadowy figure entered. Its movements were lithe, fragile. Like a delicate bloom on a stem. Not The Morrigan.
He blinked. A gentle voice drifted towards him, and a soft hand touched his face. “Cian. It is me.”
“Wistafa,” he croaked. Now recognizing the mass of riotous brown curls. “Leave before she catches you here.”
She kneeled, pulling his head into her lap, crooning softly. Instantly Cian became drowsy and closed his eyes. Wistafa was the great healer to the house of feathers of the royal court. Her scent of mint and sage wrapped him up in a comforting cocoon. Like a mother’s warm embrace.
He took a deep breath, wanting to inhale more of the intoxicating aroma. Fire sizzled through his veins. He felt like the needles of a million scorpions had suddenly stabbed him, and every breath was agony. His eyes opened sharply.
“I’ve come to help,” she whispered, her brown eyes twin pools of compassion. Her fingers massaged a circular pattern on his temples, distracting him for the pain. “Close your eyes and simply relax.”
Cian gripped her wrist. “Why are you doing this? I’m a grim reaper. Death,” he stated with emphasis. Even the fae had always treated him with contempt and spite. A dark smudge to the beauty they worshipped. Power play with death, fine. But show any mercy or compassion, goddess forbid.
She just smiled, a small curling at the corners of her mouth. “You are just a man. What you do is not who you are, Cian. I would have come had I not been commanded.”
“Commanded? By whom?” he demanded. Who could care?
“Dagda.”
He narrowed his eyes. Instantly distrustful. What game were the Gods playing at?
“He said that you were to be healed and sent to the mortal woman immediately.”
Was this a trial? It didn’t make sense. Why would Dagda want to help him?
“Your eyes, Cian. Close them now. Or I’ll force them shut,” she said with an authoritative tone.
Normally her tone would incite Cian into a riot of anger, but her words possessed a lyrical, soothing quality that instantly calmed the beast within and stamped out the fury of resentment. She’d laid the full charm of her healing magick upon him. His response was immediate and instinctual.
He closed his eyes.
A warm heat spiraled from her fingertips throughout his body. It was a soothing balm. Healing the throb traveling his limbs. It felt like tiny fingers manipulating the ache in his joints, tendons, and muscle. The next breath he took was free of pain. He opened his eyes and saw he was healed. His flesh looked firm. Smooth. What would have taken him days on his own to mend, had taken only seconds.
He stood up and patted himself to make certain it was real and not some illusion. There was no pain. There were no lacerations. He was whole.
Unaccustomed to kindness, he was unsure of what to say.
“Thank...you,” he hissed, the words foreign on his tongue.
Wistafa shook her head. “No thanks required, reaper. Find the woman, Dagda will come to you in a couple of days. Go now.”
She stood and turned to leave.
There were too many gaps. He hated being kept in the dark and knew something was amiss. If the God wanted him to go to the woman, why not come to Cian himself and demand it? The secrecy and subterfuge had him on edge and made him uneasy.
“Is that it? Is there no more? Does The Morrigan know of this?” He grit his teeth in frustration.
She stopped but never turned. “If you don’t leave now, all will be lost. Find the woman.” Then she was gone. Her soft scent the only clue that she’d ever been.
He marched from the room, dressed himself using his essence, and opened a portal between the here and there with a swipe of his hand.
Curiosity, an emotion he’d buried long ago, rose to the forefront. What game were The Morriga
n and Dagda playing, and why was he involved?
He stepped through the portal. The witch’s lifeline beckoned. Already familiar with her spirit he attuned himself to her. Perhaps it was as simple as finishing the task he’d been sent to accomplish in the first place. His gut clenched, could he even do it? He’d tried once and failed.
He glanced at his hand. It was flesh. Not skeletal. Small comfort, which only compounded his confusion. What was going on? Dagda and The Morrigan always had an agenda, but usually they worked on the same side, having Dagda act so secretive made Cian troubled.
The Morrigan had not stripped the flesh from his body because she planned to easily forgive in the next breath. Her anger and ability for revenge were legendary. Which meant everything Dagda was doing now was without The Morrigan’s knowledge. Cian--whether he’d wanted to or not--had now become Dagda’s pawn. A game piece easily sacrificed for the greater good.
When he stepped through the portal he expected to arrive back at the gruesome scene he’d left. Instead he found himself peering at his witch through a shop window with the words Witch’s Brew stenciled across the front.
She looked healthy, full of vigor. Her hair was longer, hanging well past her lower back. A rosy flush encompassed her pale cheeks.
The sight caused his heart to twist painfully against his chest.
Then he frowned and shoved his hand through his hair. Who’d sifted time? The Gods rarely manipulated mortal time. The instances were rare, few and far between.
All the scenarios he’d anticipated suddenly took a turn for the worse. Dagda’s conspiracy was greater than he’d at first imagined and a black chill rushed down his spine.
“What have they done?”
“Argh! If I have to make another effing love charm I’m gonna tear my hair out.” Eve eyed the dangling piece of clay with disdain.
Tamryn snorted. “Don’t worry. In another hour we’ll be sipping on Gorilla Farts and man scouting. Life can’t get better than that.”
Eve wrapped her hand around the charm and dragged it to her heart, almost as a protective shield. Not again. Her sisters were gonna try and force the issue. She wasn’t ready. Period. End of story. Not wanting to wax on again about a subject she’d rather see dead and buried, Eve switched topics.
