Cruel Enchantment (40 page)

Aislinn contemplated calling the sluagh into the throne room; as a necromancer, she commanded that army of unforgiven dead. But the Summer Queen was right: Emmaline was her subject, not a member of the Unseelie Court. By the laws they obeyed, Aislinn had no recourse here. She couldn’t call the sluagh or the goblins, which she also commanded, without declaring an all-out war between the courts and that was something they couldn’t afford right now.

Gods, sometimes she hated being Shadow Queen.

“We would not have that piece of the
bosca fadbh
if it weren’t for the help this woman has given us,” said Aislinn loudly. “This is no way to repay her for risking her life several times over.”

The Summer Queen smiled. “And now her life is in Lars’s hands. I cannot say what he will do with it.”

“You bitch,” Aeric yelled from the floor. “You fuck—mumpf!” One of the guards brutally smashed Aeric’s head into the floor. His hands were handcuffed at his back and the five Imperial Guards still had to hold him down. He was as enraged as Aislinn had ever seen him and—Aeric was a hot-head; she’d seen him that way often.

Lars approached Emmaline, who was retreating steadily toward the back of the throne room, an expression of pure terror on her face. Obviously just the sight of this man was enough to send her into shock.

Silently, Aislinn willed her to fight and fight hard.

“Why are you doing this?” Aislinn asked the Summer Queen, genuinely mystified.

“Lars has been a loyal servant to me for hundreds of years and he has always fancied Emmaline. I’m just giving him a little reward.”

A little reward, like Emmaline was a treat for a rabid dog.

Aislinn guessed there was more to it than that, though. The Summer Queen had prided herself for so long on the effectiveness of her assassin, and then her assassin had run away from her. Had chosen certain poverty and destitution over life under her command. It must have been humiliating for her. This was personal revenge.

Lars laid hands on Emmaline, fouling her gorgeous gray silk dress, and Aeric went insane on the floor.

Emmaline didn’t say a word. She looked like a small animal confronted by a wolf. Lars gave a low, dirty-sounding laugh . . . and, then, all of a sudden, she moved.

Like some graceful but deadly dancer, she brought her arm up to break his grip in a motion almost too fast for Aislinn to track. Then she brought her fist forward into his throat. He gurgled and staggered to the side. Pressing her advantage while he was stunned, she drove her opposite fist into his kidney. Giving a strangled yelp, he went down on one knee. Whirling on one foot, she gave him a solid roundhouse kick to the head and Lars collapsed, motionless. All of it seemed to happen in less than a second—in one smooth movement.

Emmaline bolted for the door, but the Summer Queen motioned to the Imperial Guard and they surrounded her immediately. She fought and kicked like an animal, but there were too many. A moment later she was handcuffed in charmed iron.

By that time Lars had recovered. Holding a hand to his injured back, he advanced on her. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He took Emmaline by the upper arm and yanked her forward, dragging her out of the room.

Aeric made a noise of anguish and renewed his futile efforts at obtaining freedom until she was well out of sight and the door they’d disappeared through was shut.

The Summer Queen inclined her head. “Queen Aislinn, always a pleasure. Our business here is concluded. If the Blacksmith agrees to leave without fuss, I will not be required to keep him in my dungeon.”

Aislinn said nothing. She only favored the Summer Queen with an icy glare and walked toward the door. Aeric and Gabriel stood with aid. Still handcuffed and pissed as hell, they were both a bloody mess.

“Aeric,” Aislinn said softly as she paused, “don’t do anything rash. You can’t go after Emmaline if you’re locked in a dungeon.”

“Yeah, I know. Pity, though. I was thinking about some very creative ways to kill her,” he murmured as they exited.

As soon as the Unseelie entourage was once again in Piefferburg Square, Aislinn drew Aeric to her. “Think about creative ways to kill
Lars
. I know two things about him. He’s a nature fae woodcutter who lives in the Water Wastes and he loves to torture. So go, Aeric. Take whatever you need, whoever you need. My Shadow Guard is at your disposal. You have weapons enough or I’d offer those, too.”

“I need to know where his lair is in the Water Wastes. It’s a big place.”

“That I don’t know, but I know of someone who might. Go to the Piefferburg witch. You’ll need to pay her and it won’t be cheap.”

“I’ll pay anything.”

“Then go. You don’t have any time to lose if the stories about Lars Elof Thorin Anderssen are true, especially if he’s off the Summer Queen’s leash.”

 

 

THE
last thing Emmaline remembered was being pushed into the bed of a truck. That was when she’d blacked out, but she didn’t think that Lars had done anything to cause it. He hadn’t hit her or given her any drugs. She’d just . . . fainted. How embarrassing.

Though as Lars lifted her from the truck, hurting her shoulders because her hands were still cuffed behind her back, she really felt like passing out again. Maybe it was a good idea; it would be easier to endure what was to come.

He set her on her feet and she tried her best to stay aware, looking around to take stock of her location.

He’d driven her to a place where, instead of the majestic, ancient trees of the Boundary Lands, there was scrub and marshland, giving way to a brackish, swampy area. They had to be somewhere near the ocean, maybe the Water Wastes.

A small house stood not far away. It was built of wood and stone, with a thatched roof in the old style of the fae. It appeared ancient and hadn’t adapted well to the passing of the centuries. Lars yanked her toward it and her feet squished into the mud.

“I killed the Will o’ the Wisp, Lars. Did you know that?” Her voice promised him the same fate. She was proud that she sounded so confident. “Me, I did that. All by myself.”

Lars laughed. “The Will was nothing to you but a thing from boogeyman stories.” He grinned at her, baring his straight, white teeth. “I’m much more threatening because you and I have a past. To you, I’m a very real monster. That gives me more power over you than the Will ever had.”

And he was right.

It hadn’t been easy to kill the infamous Will o’ the Wisp, but it would be a hundred times harder for her to fight Lars because of the psychological baggage that came with him. She had to get past her fear of this man and tap into her rage. Find the rage and she would find her courage and her strength.

“I have missed you, my sweet. Thought of you often,” he murmured. “I’m excited to have this time with you now. When it’s over I plan to keep you close to me forever, so I can always remember it.”

She gave him a look of disgust. The man was insane. Half the time she couldn’t even track his meaning.

Lars pushed her into the building and the sharp scent of chemicals mixed with the nauseating sick-sweet smell of death bit into her nose. She gagged and pressed her lips together, trying not to throw up.

The house was composed of one large room. A small kitchen stood in the corner, with a fireplace and cauldron instead of a stove. A narrow bed rested against one wall. The rest of the place was dedicated to Lars’s occupation of taxidermy. Tools and bottles of chemicals rested all over the tables, along with half-finished “works” from which Emmaline quickly averted her eyes. The walls were “decorated” with all the different kinds of animals that she would rather cuddle than have stare at her with dead, glassy, fake eyes.

“Do you like my trophies?” Lars asked, staring around the walls.

“Lovely,” Emmaline replied in a flat voice, curling her lips. “You’re truly an artist.”

“I am.” He forced her down into a straight-backed chair. “And you will be my greatest creation.”

Emmaline looked at the tables filled with chemicals and gore-coated knives, her mind fumbling drunkenly for a moment after his meaning. Her gorge rose and she lost her breakfast all over the floor.

THE
Piefferburg witch lived in the shadow of the Black Tower, not far from the outer limits of Goblin Town. Her magick was not unlike that of Ronan and Niall Quinn’s, though no one knew her origins. She was a strange mix of Seelie and Unseelie fae, the genetics of whom had produced a unique, powerful—and somewhat deceitful—woman of extraordinary power.

Aeric pulled his cycle up in the alleylike street where her shop was located, a narrow cobblestone passageway only big enough for the smallest of cars. He parked his bike out front and knocked on the door. The witch answered in the guise of a maiden, a lithe young woman with long chestnut-colored hair and big blue eyes. She appeared innocent in this of her three appearances, but her eyes showed her true nature.

She leaned up against the doorway and a sly expression came over her face. “Oh, Blacksmith,” she growled, giving him a head-to-toe sweep. “You are very nice on the eyes, just like they say. If you’ve come on personal business, the answer is yes, a thousand times, yes.”

Aeric was in no mood to flirt, and even if he wasn’t in a race against the clock for the life of the woman he loved, he wouldn’t flirt with Priss, the Piefferburg witch. He grabbed her firmly by the upper arm and guided her inside, letting her know he was not to be swayed from his purpose.

“I need to know the location of Lars Elof Thorin Anderssen’s house in the Water Wastes.”

She pushed her lower lip out in a pout and pulled her arm away from him. “Well, if you’re all about business . . .” She transformed into the guise she wore most of the time—the crone. Holding out a wrinkled hand, she said in a broken voice, “That will require payment.”

“How much?” He got out his billfold.

“For the life of the assassin?” She put a hand to her chin and pretended to think.

He paused with the billfold in his hand. “How do you know about that?”

She cackled. “Everyone underestimates me. I know much more about what goes on in Piefferburg than anyone thinks. You wish to save Emmaline Siobhan Keara Gallagher from the amorous violence of Lars Anderssen. I know that much. For the information you need, I require five hundred dollars.”

Aeric opened his wallet and counted out a thousand. Pressing the bills into her hand, he said, “Here’s double to ensure you’re quick and accurate. If you give me the wrong location, I’ll come back here with a charmed blade. Understand?”

She raised her hands in the air, money gripped in one gnarled claw. “I understand. I have no reason to steer you wrong.”

Hmm. Yes. Except that the witch liked to make chaos for the sake of chaos. She was more a sociopath than a saint.

Still, he had no choice. He was going to have to trust her.

“Okay, then steer me,” he replied. “And do it soon.”

She clucked her tongue at him and turned into the cluttered room. Tables lined the walls of the large area, all filled with vials, boxes, and bowls. “The information doesn’t come into my mind instantaneously. I have to work a spell to divine where this man resides. It would be helpful if you had something of his.” She turned and gave him a toothless, hopeful smile. “Do you?”

Aeric gritted his teeth. “No.”

She turned away, waving a hand at him. “Then it will take longer.”

“Just move, woman. Do it.”

 

 

EMMALINE
was almost naked and kneeling on the cold, hard floor of the little house. Her mind kept threatening to shut down, flipping back to her adolescence and young adulthood, and she kept fighting it tooth and nail. She couldn’t lose it now. To lose it now would mean her death.

Still, kneeling there shivering in front of the man she feared most in the world, it was very, very difficult not to escape into the recesses of her mind where she could find safety, as she had so many times before. When she was younger it had been the memory of her parents—warm and alive—who had occupied that safe corner of her mind. Now it was Aeric who resided there.

The material of the beautiful gray dress ripped a little more. Lars sighed in contentment, his boots shuffling on the floor as he moved around her. He was unwrapping her like a Christmas present, though one didn’t normally cut into the flesh of the gift being revealed and watch in fascination as the blood welled and trickled down its bare skin.

Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut and was grateful for her loose hair shadowing her face. She needed courage now.

“Stand,” he ordered roughly, yanking her up by the arm.

“I remember you,” Lars said in a low voice. “When you were first given to me to shape according to the queen’s request. You rested in my hand like the finest piece of wood, so smooth, so easily malleable. It was a pleasure to take my knife to your psyche and carve you to fit the curve of my palm.”