“Stop,” she said, projecting her voice from that place deep inside her mind, blowing fairy dust into the vicinity of the dark one’s face. An iridescent nose, mouth and chin appeared. Bingo. She locked onto his eyes—shadowed shades of red. “You will stop your attack and call back your minions.”
The butt-plug cackled. “Your pathetic little fairy tricks do not work on me.”
Shit. He couldn’t be glamoured. She wished she had been able to finish her talk with Petúr, tell him who he was. However, they’d been interrupted by Wyndi as Bell tried to prove she was indeed a fairy. No time or choice in the matter now. She had to invoke the right on behalf of Petúr.
“I call forth the birthright of Princess Illia, rightful heir to the crown of the Seelie Sidhe Fae,” Bell said, lifting her chin in defiance.
“No!” the dark one roared. The other beings stilled.
“Petúr of the lost boys,” Bell said. “On this day, you shall know who you are.” A misty hand shot out of the shadow and slapped her to the ground; she hit hard, one wing twisting under her upon impact. Pain spiraled along her spine. She didn’t have time to wuss-out from pain. She fought past the ache and continued. “You are the firstborn and only son of Illia the Fair, born into the royal line as Petúr the Just. Prince of our land. The only male Seelie Sidhe Fae with the mark of supremacy. Rightful and future King, defender of the realm, and protector of your people.” She pointed up at the being in front of her, and knew who he must be. “And, you, Grapple the Dark, banished healer of the royal court, consort to the demoness of nightmare and shadow, shall bow at the feet of your prince and beg for his mercy.”
The remaining horde screeched, flashing into the void of night.
“Never!” Grapple shouted.
A barbed hook shot into Bell’s shoulder—a devastating projectile. She screamed, the agony so harsh she almost passed out. Yet that penetrating pain was nothing compared to what she experienced when the hook was retracted, filleting open muscle and flesh. She slumped. Strong arms banded around her, and then she was floating upward, blood flowing in a river from the nasty wound.
“You may have been saved on this night,” Grapple bellowed. “But I shall destroy you Petúr! You shall never live to claim the human woman, or your birthright.”
“Vibe. Those humans,” said her prince. She was jostled.
“On it.”
“Hang on, Bell.”
That was Petúr again. Her prince had hold of her.
On the verge of losing consciousness, with the ground becoming smaller and farther away, Bell saw a trail of her fairy dust as Grapple slithered into the shadows from which he came.
****
When Wyndi’s Prada covered feet hit the ground, she heaved from her toes, tossing her cookies out in front of her, hearing the disgusting splat on the broken and uneven concrete.
“I’m sorry,” Dash said, letting her loose from his hold and patting her back. “I know teleporting can be disorientating for some people.”
“I just—How? How is any of this possible?” she asked, hearing the warble in her own voice, and wiping her mouth on her torn and dirt-smudged suit jacket.
“I don’t know,” Dash said. “None of us really know. All I can say is we aren’t like you.”
She straightened, knees practically knocking together. “That’s putting things mildly.”
He chuckled. “Are you steady enough to walk, or—”
Wyndi raised her finger. “Give me a second.” Her rattled brain went to Petúr. She was worried about him. His safety. “Don’t you need to go back and help Petúr with those things? There were so many of them, and—”
“Trust me. Petúr, Vibe, and Firefox can take care of the darklings without me.”
“Darklings?”
“That’s what we call them.”
She looked over at him, and stared into his midnight colored eyes. “What are darklings? Some kind of demons?”
“I think I’m going to let Petúr explain things as much as he can when he gets here.”
She glanced around to see where “here” was. At the moment, the moon was out, illuminating her surroundings in silver-white light. To her left was a dead carousel, partially covered by overgrown weeds. A few feet from there, a broken down bumper car ride. The once brightly colored cars sat eerily still, coming apart at the welded seams from rust.
Neverland. She was standing in the abandoned amusement park. “Why are we here?”
“This is home,” Dash said, taking hold of her elbow.
“You live here?” She imagined the shock playing out on her face was beyond evident.
“For now. Can you walk?” She nodded. “Then, come on.”
Dash never let loose of her arm. She wasn’t sure if he was hoping to assist her, if she should take a tumble due to her unsteady legs and the uneven mess of the concrete, or if he thought to stop her if she decided to run from him. As if she would run. Where would she run to?
When they came to the closed and massive wrought iron gate of the park’s haunted attraction, Ghost Castle, she stared at the imposing gothic structure. One side was missing a chunk of the roof, and a clearly rotten draw bridge dangled over putrefied water. She wasn’t real sure she wanted to take another step.
Wyndi figured Dash must have felt her hesitation, because they stopped, and he glanced down at her.
“We aren’t going in there, are we?”
“Yep.”
She shook her head. “No way. No how.”
He smirked. “Why? You’re not scared are you?”
“Yes, but not of ghosts.”
“Of what then?”
“It doesn’t look safe.”
Wyndi heard what sounded to be an electronic male voice ring out from what she suspected to be a hidden speaker. “Who’s the babe?”
Dash glanced up. Wyndi followed his gaze. A security camera, which she would have figured to be not at all functional, was mounted on the outer castle wall which surrounded the attraction. Slowly, it turned, the lens facing them.
“How does this place have power?” Wyndi stared up at Dash. “And who’s talking?”
“You’ll see.” Dash flipped off the camera. “Byte, unlock the gate.”
A different electronic voice asked, “What’s the magic phrase?”
“Kiss my ass, Tera.”
“Nope. That’s not it,” the voice replied.
“If you and Byte don’t stop jacking around—”
“Say, ‘open sesame.’”
It sounded as if two people were chuckling, only an odd distorted chuckle.
“We’ll just teleport in,” Dash said.
“No!” Wyndi interjected, sounding far too panicked in tone. “No more teleporting.”
Laughter buzzed from the speaker she couldn’t see. Dash didn’t look amused in the least.
Something clicked. The gate clacked opened with the classic sound of rusted hinges making a protest.
“Come on,” said Dash, taking her elbow yet again and walking her forward.
“The bridge looks too dangerous,” she protested. “If we fall into that water, we might catch botulism, or dysentery, or have some mutant fish attack us or something.”
“Walk, or teleport. You pick. But one way or the other, we’re going inside.”
A murky fog rolled in from the direction of the sea and hovered only a few feet away in the middle of the bridge. Wyndi grabbed onto Dash’s forearm with determination, nails sinking into flesh. “The darklings, they followed us here.”
“Naw,” he said, calmly. “That’s only Vapor.”
Long, inky-black hair took shape as if thrashing wildly in an invisible wind, followed by another angelic yet deadly looking face, naked torso, roped stomach, then a lower body covered in low-slung jeans and biker boots fully materialized. Her gaze danced over him. Muscled arms with swirling black tattoos flexed at his side.
She glanced at Dash. “He’s like you.”
“Ha,” said the guy w
ho just appeared out of the fog. She returned her attention to him, bare chest glistening with water droplets. “Dash only wishes to be as awesome as me, sugar lips.” He stepped forward, took hold of her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Vapor, the only one of this group who can pull water particles from the atmosphere and use them to my advantage.”
“You can harness and control water?”
Wyndi slipped her hand free of him, and noticed he smelt of the sea and exotic orchids.
“I can.” His crystalline eyes fringed in thick black lashes seemed to take in every inch of her body, and while this man was just as sexy as the others she’d met—she’d have to be blind not to notice—he didn’t come close to the appeal, or the magnetic pull Petúr held. “Amongst other things.”
“Well—”
Vapor winked at her. “Badass, I know.”
She would have gone with bizarre. Off the wall, weird, maybe. Perhaps, disturbing. For sure, not humanly possible. But, then, hadn’t everything about her night and the warrior men who were occupying it been out-and-out fantastical?
“Sure, why not,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Badass works.”
Beside her, Dash snorted. “Vapor, get your ‘bad ass’ a-movin’ and let’s get inside.”
They made their way forward, Vapor in the lead, Wyndi watching her feet, trying to be careful not to step on one of the gaping holes where the bridge had disintegrated. She held her breath. The stench wafting up from the water was horrific.
Stepping over one really bad spot in particular, all of her hair stood on end, as if she’d been zapped by lightening. Electricity seemed to snap over her skin one moment; the next, the sensation was gone.
“What’s going on?” she asked, wondering how many times she was going to ask that specific question tonight, glancing up to see what should be the spooky ruins of the haunted castle attraction, not in ruins at all. In fact, it appeared a real gothic castle which had been restored.
“We crossed over the hologram threshold,” Dash replied.
“Hologram?”
He shrugged. “That’s the best way to describe what the techno twins created.”
Wyndi blinked, rapidly.
“See,” Vapor interjected. “If the place looks abandoned and falling apart like the rest of the park, we don’t draw attention to ourselves and no one knows we’re here.” He opened the large, ornately carved doors to the castle. “Ladies first.”
Slowly, she walked inside, shocked to find herself standing in a grand foyer. Overhead were intricate chandeliers, dripping with crystals. Beneath her feet, polished onyx floors.
“This is…” she uttered, not sure she could find the right words.
“Quite something, ahi?”
She spun, turning in the direction of the deep voice she didn’t recognize. She rubbed at her eyes and looked again. Indeedy. There were two of them. Identical twins, with wavy chestnut colored hair, stood shoulder to shoulder within the archway to her left. Their clothing was even the same. White muscle-hugging TShirts. Baggy designer jeans.
Wait. She studied them a little bit closer. They weren’t exactly identical.
“Tera,” Dash said. “This is Wyndi.”
“Hi-ya, Wyndi.”
“Wyndi,” Dash continued. “That’s Tera and Byte.”
“The techno twins, I presume,” she said.
“At your service, milady,” said Byte, brushing his fingers along his jaw.
The only way she was going to be able to tell them apart was Tera had one bright green eye and one navy blue eye and Byte had one bright blue eye and one snowy white eye. Yet even with their strange mismatched eyes, they were, like every one of the other men, tall, built, and fabulously handsome.
Chapter Five
Petúr carried Bell’s limp, bloody body into the home he and his brothers shared, having covered her nudity the best he could with the remains of his mutilated shirt. When she passed out, her wings did this disappearing act, shrinking until they became the tattoo his palm had caressed upon her back earlier in the night, warm to the touch, and slightly raised. What worried him, she felt too cold now, and her flowery, sweet pea scent was dulling.
“Oh God,” said Wyndi, coming to his side, eyes rounded. “Bell!”
“Tera. Byte,” he said, looking at the twins who were manning the computers of the control center. “I’m going to need your doctoring help.”
“You’ve got it,” said Byte.
“Sure,” said Tera.
“Grab the medical kit, Dash,” Petúr instructed, watching him nod right before he disappeared from sight. “Vapor?”
“Yeah?”
“Vibe stayed behind to do his thing with a couple of humans who stumbled into the aftermath of our scrimmage tonight, but he and Firefox should be here soon. Unlock the gate for them.”
“Will do,” said Vapor.
“What happened to Bell’s shoulder?” Wyndi asked. “Why is she naked?”
“We’ll talk later,” Petúr said, heading for the first bedroom he came to. Wyndi was right on his heels.
He placed the petite creature on the bed as carefully as possible, before turning his attention to Tera and Byte who were both staring down at Bell, brows crinkled, nostrils working.
“What is she?” Tera asked.
Dash appeared, handing over the medical kit to Byte.
“She said she’s a Demi-Fae,” Petúr answered.
“What?”
That came from Wyndi. He didn’t respond. As much as he wanted to give the human woman his full and undivided attention, he couldn’t at the moment. The little one had tried to protect him. Even put herself between him and Grapple. He had to make sure Bell would be okay.
“As in, a fairy?” asked Byte.
Petúr nodded, watching Tera grab at the kit Byte held, plucking out one of his tiny med-tech creations with some tweezers, and saw Wyndi sort of slump into a chair out of the corner of his eye, hand over her mouth. He supposed he could have Vibe change her memories again when he got home, but he didn’t want the warrior in her head anymore.
“The nano will repair all the tissue damage,” Tera said.
Forget about Wyndi for now. Concentrate on Bell.
“She’s lost a lot of blood. She’s going to need a transfusion,” said Byte, placing the device onto Bell’s arm. Because Petúr’s eyesight was superior, he could see the microscopic legs on the nano pop out. It scurried up a trail of blood, then dove into the gash, disappearing. “But since she’s not human, I’m not sure—”
“I’ll give her my blood,” said Petúr.
Byte squeezed the back of his neck. “We can’t know if that will work.”
Petúr held out his arm. Determined. “It will.”
****
From the darkened corner of one of the lower caverns, Kros peeked around a boulder, observing his father pacing back and forth in front of Ariette who sat upon her throne of leathered flesh and bones, rotting corpses stacked up, creating a partition behind her.
Torch light flickered on the walls around the throne, highlighting hair as orange as the glowing sun. The silky looking strands tumbled past her slender shoulders and caressed her angular face, while elongated claws of burnt umber thrummed against the femur which made up one arm of the ceremonial chair.
“How dare you come to me, reeking of man,” the demoness said in a voice as sharp as shards of glass, eyes of molten lava, gazing down her aquiline nose at him.
“Ariette,” Grapple said.
“Do not speak! Obviously, your plan to distract Petúr and the lost boys with a horde attack, while you swooped in to take the human, didn’t work.”
A wicked smile stretched across Kros’s face at the news. He reveled. Hell, he basked in the knowledge the great and mighty Grapple had failed.
“You have promised me entry into the land of Fae, where I am to be queen, yet I am still here in the under-verse, waiting.” Her eyes narr
owed. “I hate to be kept waiting.” She tapped her foot on the rock beneath her feet. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Many of our darklings were lost this night.” She scraped a sharp claw along the femur. “And since my sister Narvon is no longer alive to bear us replacements, I have decided you will pay for this loss, Grapple the Dark.” The demoness waved her hand. “Approach.”
Grapple briefly closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line before he smoothed out his features into neutrality, turning to walk up the rock steps to the throne.
“On your knees before me,” she said, rising to her feet in a graceful manner.
Surely, his father, the man who considered himself all mighty, all powerful, wouldn’t go to his knees, subservient to a female.
He did.
Kros smirked when Grapple complied. Oh, the feeling of seeing this, his brute of a father with his head bowed, dark hair falling forward, hiding his face, was better than feeding. Better than fucking. Satisfaction, all encompassing, danced over Kros in grandiose fashion.
Ariette tugged at the belt around her waist, freeing it. The flowing, purple robe gapped, showcasing pale, porcelain skin. Two perfectly shaped breasts, larger than a hand full, and tipped with cinnamon colored nipples the size of ripe raspberries, greeted him.
Kros took her in and reached for his hardening cock. As she moved, a line of orange colored snake-like flesh appeared between her breasts, flowed downward, and disappeared just above a small, lickable, slit of a navel.
His gaze dropped lower, finding a fine strip of fiery pubic hair and supple looking thighs. Kros gripped himself, feeling his body swell, blood pumping through his veins.
The demoness stepped forward. One step. Two. Circled Grapple, slow and saucily. Grabbed a hand full of his hair and pulled. Grapple hissed. She yanked at his hair until his head went back and his throat was exposed, tracing the tip of a claw along his jaw.
“Do you desire me?” she asked.
“You know I do.”
She lashed the belt around his father’s neck—leashing him.
Ariette walked to his kneeling father’s side, tugged, walking him on his knees, then stopped. Never letting loose of the belt around his neck, she positioned herself in front of him, lifted one foot up, and pressed the pointed toe of her purple spiked-heel shoe to Grapple’s lips.
Rise of the Lost Prince Page 4
