Brush of Darkness (33 page)

I hesitated, watching in horror as the tattered remains of my friends were encircled by the daemons. Brystion and Robert were back-to-back, Robert still swinging his sword and Brystion slamming the business end of a mic stand like a club, an unconscious Phineas cradled in one arm. For a moment they were frozen in time, and I marveled—two sides of the same coin, each an exact opposite on the Paths. Topher nudged me again. “They’re outnumbered. Come with me and they’ll survive.
He’ll
survive.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured. “Of course it’s a trap.” His mouth curved into a lopsided smile, all the more painful for remembering it bestowed upon me in friendship. Or so I’d thought.

“Fine.” I spat the words between gritted teeth. “Call them off.”

“Good girl.” He raised his head, some tiny gesture fluttered at his side, and the fighting stilled. The daemons retreated a pace, weapons raised to the defensive. They surrounded Topher and me, their backs to us as though flanking us like flower petals made of blades. Questioning glances spiked toward us, echoed by sighs and groans and a sobbing gurgle from the floor.

A throbbing began beating at my temples. I swallowed and turned away from the carnage. The pixie huddled in the corner,
one gossamer wing bent defiantly. A golden spill of hair was cradled in Brandon’s lap, the werewolf’s eyes haunted and sorrowful. It lanced me to the core, the accusatory anguish nestled there, but I’d already done what I could. Still, it smacked of betrayal, even to myself. Topher’s fingers dug into my shoulder, and I spoke. “Brystion, Robert—put your weapons down.”

The two men stared at us, neither lowering their guard. Topher cleared his throat, his smile broadening. “Everyone ease up. She’s coming along quietly.”

“Abby, no!” Brystion’s eyes widened, his face disbelieving. “You cannot go with him.” He took a step toward the bar, ignoring the daemons’ weapons as they pressed tight against his chest.

Topher’s mouth tightened. “You’re TouchStoned to him, aren’t you?”

I hesitated, my gaze meeting Brystion’s for half a second. He snarled, but nodded once.

“That won’t do,” Topher mumbled to himself. “Goddamned KeyStones.” He jabbed something sharp against my throat. My eyes pressed down, catching sight of the jeweled pommel of an elaborate dagger. “Maurice will not be pleased at your insubordination,
incubus
.”

The world froze, chilling me in the depths of my bones. My focus found Brystion’s midnight gaze, but the flash of admission had already come and gone. The last piece of the puzzle slammed into place. Beside him, Robert growled a heated promise of death.

Bile choked my throat and I retched, swallowing back the urge to vomit. “No,” I whispered, my knees starting to buckle, images of this morning playing through my head. My skin twitched in response, recoiling.

“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.