Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Present Day

Inhale… stale, dusty, moist. Blink… Pitch black. Try to move… Pinned.

Magic flowing.

Jhaer flexed his awareness. The disturbed earth overhead shifted with a groan, threatening to settle into the pocket that entombed him. Jhaer touched the unstable rubble with his magic, calming it.

Alone in the dark silence. The foul air, stale with use, choked him.

Reaching with his magic, Jhaer ignored the useless senses of his body. The earth… his element… embraced him. Merging with it, his will taking form, the ground became as yielding as liquid. The bed of rock beneath him rose as the arch of dirt above receded. Higher and higher. Faster as the surface drew nearer. Until, at last, Jhaer rolled onto the open ground beneath a sky full of stars. Not the façade that had been cast overhead for so many centuries, but the real night sky.

Deep breaths of the fresh air cleared his lungs. Exhausted in body and in magic, Jhaer rested on the bed of earth miles above what used to be the courtyard of the Seelie palace. Slowly, Jhaer rose to his knees. What his eyes beheld wrenched his heart. Where the Mounds once formed great hills above the majestic home of the Sidhe now lay only an enormous crater. A few bits of magic still flickered. The ground rumbled now and then as large chunks fell into their final resting places far below. His home, the home of all Sidhe… gone. Destroyed. He’d warned them of this and the end had indeed come. It had come crashing down hard.

And for what? The Seelie’s insatiable lust for power? His body numb. His heart, his very soul, defeated. Jhaer surveyed the crater around him and found what he expected. No one. No survivors. If not for his mastery over the element of earth, he too would be buried in this mass grave. Turning from the devastating sight, he limped away.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The ruins of Meán Oíche were easy to miss. The hedges lining the winding roads formed a wall of foliage higher than the roof of her car. The break in the brush for the access road was hardly wide enough to drive through, as her scraped-up paint job attested to. London left her car in the shadow of the tower.

Her blazer was a bit much in the heat of the day, but she wasn’t going in without her gun holstered under her arm. Maybe it was the curse that made her feel more vulnerable than usual, or maybe the ease with which Rico had disarmed her that had her questioning her luck-to-skill ratio. The fey were not human and she couldn’t anticipate them the way she could humans and parahumans. In this line of work, what you didn’t anticipate could get you killed. The curse was a case in point.

London glanced up at the arrow slits and caught the glowing glint of eyes before they blinked away. The Ghille Dhu inhabited the ruins, if they could be called ruins. She’d seen a flicker of what was hidden by the Glamour. Beneath the disguising layer of magic, the opulent décor would overshadow the collections in Buckingham Palace. London knocked on the open wooden door that appeared to hang on rusted hinges, aware that nearly everything in this place was an illusion.

“Bain?” She called out into the gloom. They were not skimping on the Glamour this time. Not a careless flicker of the magic gave away the true appearance. It put her on edge. Last time she’d been here, they hadn’t closed her out so completely. “Bain Greim? You remember me, don’t you?”

The prince of the Ghille Dhu had entertained himself with his bratty antics last time she visited the tower. This eerie silence crept over her nerves as threateningly as a dog’s growl. “Come on, Bain. I know you’re here.”

The scuttling sound of claws and scales against stone came from above. London searched the shadows overhead. As the creature hung upside down from the rafters, its huge eyes glistened wetly. Humanoid in basic anatomy, the thing was skeletal thin. Arms and legs half again as long as a human’s and oddly jointed so the knees and elbows angled backward like a mosquito. The flesh, as best as she could make it out, was a nearly black green. The ears pointed a full hand span above the top of its bald head. The rows of teeth it bore in its gaping mouth were needle sharp and inches long.

Show… No… Fear…

London drew her gun. Two-handing the grip she aimed it at the creature. “I brought gold,” she told it, voice steady. Precious metal loosened his tongue before, but this time Bain didn’t even blink at the mention of it. Bain used Glamour to appear human before. This time, not so much. More like the fey equivalent of “get the hell out… or I’ll eat you.”

The creature made a slurping noise as if he was salivating. It blinked those huge, snow globe eyes at her. With a tilt of its head, London knew it was planning to attack.

The thunder of her gunshot shattered the silence. Too late. Bain blinked out, teleporting away.

Where he went was no mystery. The impact between her shoulders sent London sprawling. Her elbows suffered the brunt of the landing, but she hung onto her weapon. Rolling to her back, she brought up the gun again.

Not as fast as Bain. His bare foot caught her wrist and drove it down hard onto the stone floor. The twiggy fingers of one hand circled her other wrist twice and pinned it down above her head. He choked her with the other hand, keeping her down even though she twisted and struggled wildly.

Those evil teeth clicked together as Bain chattered them an inch from her face. His breath was worse than a festering peat bog. “Betrayer,” the word was almost lost to the grumbling hiss.

“What did I do?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She brought up her legs, hooked them around Bain’s head and flipped him over backward. His limbs flailed like a squid in every direction, but in the end his body followed his head and whipped down and away from her.

His claws ripped through the flesh of her neck. London shouted as the acid pain if the razor blade claws sliced thin gouges that bled like crazy down the front of her shirt. Cupping her hand against her throat, she brought the muzzle of her gun up once more. “Some hospitality you show your friends.”

Bain ignored her, too engrossed with sniffing at the blood on his claws. He flicked a serpentine tongue out to wrap around the claw of his forefinger and steal away the blood. After the first taste, Bain curled his claws together and cleaned them like a cat.

London backed closer to the doorway. Running was pointless against a teleporter, but if she made it out into the open he might not risk exposure to follow her. “I need to find the Changeling again,” she stated her business, not sure if Bain paid her any heed.

He paused mid-lick, tongue still coiled around a claw. His impossibly huge eyes blinked at her. Like the dissipation of mist, Bain changed.

Several inches above six feet, Bain appeared as he had before, a human male in elegantly tailored black slacks and a suede beige tunic that reached down to mid-thigh. A sash wrapped his waist in purple silk and draped down one hip. His blue black hair was loosely swept back and tied with a leather cord just below his shoulders. Even though his eyes were shaped as a human’s the color was still the golden green they were before. What his true form was, she didn’t know. Was it closer to this? Or to the creature from a moment before? In truth it didn’t matter.

Either way, London wasn’t falling for it.

“You’ve been Touched.” One last lick at his nails and then he fixed that feral gaze at her bloody shirt.

“You taste it in the blood?” Her gun aimed center mass, right at the solar plexus. Best chance of hitting something if he moved fast.

With an amused snarl, he said, “You will suffer plenty then.”

“Glad someone finds that a comforting thought.”

The curl of his lips lost any hint of a smile. “You delivered the fey into the hands of wizards. The Sidhe enslaved you for it. Nature finds its balance.”

“Enslaved me?”

Bain crossed on silent, leather-booted feet toward her. He did not slow even when she pointed the muzzle right at his heart. She backed away a step as his hand rose, and then she held her ground. Bain only halted his advancement when the gun pressed into his breastbone. Her arm was out straight, but his was longer. He reached up and stroked his fingertips through her hair tenderly. “What wouldn’t you do for the Touch?”

What could she say? There was no point in admitting that it had been the single most intense experience of her life. No point in reminding herself how after only a single taste, she’d ached for more. That ache only hinted at the agony to come. The magic was still in her now, as Bain had tasted. While it lasted, she’d be ok. When it faded… and it would fade… She didn’t even want to contemplate that.

“Deacon meets your wizards on the Isle of Man. In Douglas.” Bain’s fingers trailed over hers, where she still covered her wounds. “Your wizards are growing bolder. For centuries the fey have kept them off the Emerald Isle.”

“I don’t care about your politics.” She watched Bain draw back his hand, a fresh coating of her blood on his fingers. He licked at it once more, savoring the taste as if it were chocolate. “I’m not choosing sides. Just doing the job I’m hired to do.”

“Mercenary.” His eyes moved to her bloody clothing. She could see the thoughts brewing there. Time to make herself scarce. “Slave now.”

“I’m not a mercenary and I’m not a slave.” London backed out of the tower. Bain watched her, but declined to follow. For that she breathed a sigh of relief. A relief she worried would be short-lived.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Year Earlier

With no way to track night and day, Malcolm couldn’t figure how long he’d been locked up. If they fed him once a day, like he guessed, it had been about four days. No one came into his cell in all that time. He’d managed to struggle out of the ropes. Now Malcolm used those coils as his pillow.

The cell was nothing but a crag where the cave ceiling hung low and bars separated him from the large, main chamber. No furniture. No toilet. A bowl of kinda clean water in a metal dish and an armful of leftovers were pushed through the bars periodically. The food was picked over. Leftover meat on bones already gnawed on. Always meat. Never anything else.

While his cell was cramped, the chamber beyond his wall of bars could have held a feast. Leastwise it was big enough for it. A big stone table sat right in the middle. Metal rings were screwed in it at random places along the perimeter. More rings were in the walls at various heights and from the ceiling. Not much else out there except a couple random piles of chains and ropes.

After the first couple of days, Malcolm gave up shouting for help. No one heard him. No one who cared, anyway. No one who would help him. The goblins just laughed and jabbed sticks through the bars or threw rocks at him. So he shut up. Since then, they mostly ignored him.

The silver shackles were the worst part. Couldn’t shimmy out of them like the ropes. They burned constantly. Blood seeped out from under the metal and dripped lazily from his fingertips. He could jam a few bits of cloth torn from his shirt under the tight bonds, but just on the soft insides of his wrists, not over the back or sides.

So when the goblins escorted a young woman into the chamber after four days, Malcolm just stared at her. They didn’t restrain her. She’d come under her own power, not dragged there like he had been. Her arms crossed over her middle, as if the stench of the place made her sick. Probably a few years older than him, he guessed she was early twenties. Nothing fancy about the dress. Reddish hair falling out of a haphazard ponytail. Not unattractive, but worn out looking. Dark smudges under her eyes. Kinda gaunt in her cheeks. Hungry looking.

She just watched as the goblins opened Malcolm’s cage. Though he remained outwardly still, Malcolm’s muscles tensed.

The goblins scuttled along toward him. No rush. No worry. Malcolm didn’t resist as they lifted up the chain between his shackles. Didn’t even risk breathing as they unlocked first one and then the other.

Like giant broken blisters the shriveled skin around his wrists had a shiny wetness to them. Malcolm shivered, but not from the pain or the chill of the exposed wounds. The urge to run shuddered through his impatient body. The second the shackles clanged to the stone floor all the pent up panic burst free. Malcolm vaulted over one of the shorter goblins and bolted for the exit.

Outside the chamber dozens more goblins loitered about. Malcolm shoved through them, knocking them aside and trampling a couple. With a burst of excited shouts they tackled him. One on one he could kick a goblin’s ass, but not so much with a rugby pile of them. Too joyfully the little monsters dragged him back into the chamber.

They tossed him onto the table as he kicked and screamed. The cold of the stone cut into his back muscles. The goblins yanked his arms over his head. Loops of heavy rope twisted around his damaged wrists. Malcolm shouted and struggled with every ounce of animal determination he could muster, every bit of it wasted. Ropes were lashed to his ankles and jerked through the rings at the foot of the table, stretching him and keeping him from kicking.

The woman leaned over him. Her cool hands cradled his face. “Shh… It’s ok. It’s ok.”

“How is this remotely ok?” Malcolm snapped.

She shook her head. “Shh… Listen to me. Just listen. Please? This won’t hurt. I’m not here to hurt you. Trust me.”

“Bite me! Who the hell are you? Let me go!” Malcolm twisted against the clench of the rope, gnashing his teeth and not caring about the tears stinging his eyes and face.

“Be still, please!” She stroked his face, staring at his mouth, leaning so close that strands of her hair tickled his forehead. She kissed him. Hard. Forcing her tongue between his lips until Malcolm jerked his head to the side. She drew back, but nothing changed in her urgent expression. “All you have to do is Touch me, okay? That’s all.”

Malcolm yanked against the ropes. “How can I touch you like this?”

Her hand curled around his. She kissed him again quick, before he could flinch away. Her words tumbled out fast. Desperate. “Just Touch me. Touch me now.”

“You are already touching me,” Malcolm protested.

“No. You have to Touch me, Sidhe,” she insisted, breathless with urgency. “Touch me. Touch me. Just Touch me.”

He tugged against the ropes again. “I can’t touch you like this.”

“Let his hands up,” she told the goblins.

They didn’t release his wrists, just let a couple feet of slack into the ropes. A goblin, one on either side, forced Malcolm’s hands into the woman’s.

“Touch. Touch.” The goblins chanted.

“Now, Touch me.” She curled her fingers into his dirty palms.

“I am touching you.”

“Touch me, already!” She gripped his hands until her nails stabbed into his palms.

“I am touching you!”

“He’s not doing it!” She snapped at the goblins. “You promised he would Touch me!”

“Touch… Touch…” The goblins chorused louder. Viciousness dripped like venom from their snarls.

“But I am touching you!” Malcolm searched her face, and then the goblins’, for some kind of clue. Any hint at all. They weren’t making any sense!

“Liar!”

The goblins unbound his feet. They flipped him face down. Always so freakin’ many goblins. Fighting always useless, but Malcolm fought against them still. With his arms and legs stretched, they bound him to the table once more.

The woman snatched a fistful of Malcolm’s hair and yanked his head back. What had been pretty about her before was gone with her red-faced fury. Her lips curled back with hatred. “You have to Touch me now!”

“But I did!”

The first strike of the whip sliced across his back. The thin material of his t-shirt shredded. Malcolm screamed.

“Touch!” The goblins spat at him.

“Touch me, Sidhe!” The woman yelled, clutching his hand.

“I am!”

“Again!” she snapped.

The whip cracked again. The white hot burn of it lanced across his flesh. Malcolm trembled, unable to process the fullness of the pain. His own agonized outcry a foreign sound. Over and over they demanded the ‘Touch’. Over and over they beat him. Malcolm lost count how many times. His throat screamed raw until it closed up and he couldn’t make any sound. Teeth clenched. Tongue swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Pain beyond his ability to support it. Until… mercifully… he blacked out.