Shadowfae (10 page)

For four hundred years, Rajah would have sent any soul on earth to hell in order to be free. But Jade engages him like no other in all those centuries. Never mind that tonight he couldn’t take his eyes off the smooth inviting shape of her hips, her kissable breasts, that tiny bud of a mouth he wanted to claim over and over. Her heartfelt misery calls to him, makes him forget thrall and freedom and centuries of servitude. He wants to shield her from her sorrow, thrill her, prove to her with wits and humor and the sheer joy of living that death isn’t the only answer to thrall.

The hottest night of wild pounding sex she ever had might help, too.

He grits his teeth, painful, and in his turmoil he flickers in and out of sight like a misbegotten shade, the air shimmering and drifting around him. He’s thinking with his hard-on, and he knows it. His heart is his own. Not to be owned or shackled, no matter how enticing the chains. If he has to use all his wiles to steal Luna away from under Jade’s cute little nose, he’ll do it. Let her hate him forever. He’ll be free. That’s all that matters.

But for some reason his heart aches, and his thoughts seethe so dark and bitter that he doesn’t notice where he’s going, not until the yellow lightglobes of the theater glare in his eyes and crowds jostle around him. Tonight’s show of Lloyd Webber at the Princess is letting out, and chattering music theater fans mill on the footpath beneath the shining cantilever. He pushes through, fingers tensing at his sides, and slips down the side street into the dark.

A scrape behind him—a footstep?—makes him pause, glancing over his shoulder to listen. Nothing. A shadow. But even shadows follow, sometimes. He listens for a moment longer, sniffing the air like a fox, and walks on.

Icy tentacles wrap around the back of his neck.

He leaps against the dark brick wall, his heart thudding, syllables of warding stinging on his tongue.

Frigid fairy fingers trace his collarbone, yellow eyes glittering in reflected streetlight. “A moment, incubus. Please.”

He swallows an angry retort when he sees her face, pale and drawn, ice crystals clogging her lashes. “Watch who you surprise like that, sweetheart. You don’t know me.”

The fire sprite smiles, but the skin around her ample mouth cracks, flaking off to shatter on the ground like glass. Ice forms in the scar, stained with sluggish amber blood, crystals rapidly multiplying. “I’d like to know you,” she husks, but no pretty sparks fly on her breath, no flame curls in her crisp white hair or leaps from her cold broken fingernails as she touches his lips. “You’re so warm. Kiss me.”

“You don’t want that.” But Rajah’s skin burns, his fingers stinging. The body yearning into his is slender, delicate, girlish, reminding him of Jade. His cock hardens, too fast, painful. Rapture writhes hot in his blood even as he registers that she’s sick, disintegrating with unnatural cold, her flame dying. Maybe what he’s heard about fae poison doing the rounds is true.

She slips one narrow hand between his legs, sexy despite the chill radiating from deep beneath her marble skin. Her glassy wings jerk, amber shards splintering over him like cold petals, and she wraps her spindly leg around him, impossibly flexible, the joint cracking sickly. Compelled, he slips a hand beneath her, pressing her tighter. His cock strains against her failing warmth, where there should be searing heat, and he gasps as rapture increases the pressure to compensate, hardening him to bursting.

“It hurts,” she gasps, her voice weary and rough with pain. “So cold, so deep inside. They say you can suck out a girl’s soul. Do a girl a favor?”

Ice crackles on his lips from her breath, and he licks them, anger and misplaced Jade-lust heating his skin. There’s something perverse about this, he shouldn’t be dying to fuck this poor girl, but he is, see if he can’t make her overflow with his heat before the life drains out of her.

She strains closer, and he tries to pull away, sickened, sympathy butting hard against his callous lust. “No, don’t—” But her icy mouth clamps over his, her phosphorous taste tainted with salt.

Defeated, he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, kissing her hard, closing his eyes to the sudden urgent shimmer of rapture in the air. A whisper of her poisoned chill soaks into him along with her energy, and she moans brokenly, her lips cracking under the pressure. Urgent now, he squirms his hand under her dress, searching for the last remnants of heat. She’s wet, but it’s cool and his fingers are burning. He finds her knotted little clit and presses, making tiny circles. She gasps into his mouth, moving against him, her brittle skin crumbling against his wrist, and after only a few seconds she cries out, shuddering. A dark mass of sour liquid flows into Rajah’s mouth, running cold down his throat, and she slumps against him, still.

The rapture sizzles in triumph, and Rajah chokes, his pulse throbbing. He pushes her aside, trying to lift her gently to the ground, but her bones crack, her skin ruptures like thin ice on a pond. Her broken body sags to the ground, her head lolling, her amber wings splintering to dust.

A fist of pain thrusts into his guts. He doubles over, and black acid spews forth, searing his throat. He coughs and spits, his mouth burning. The poisoned soul puddle writhes on the dusty pavement, shrinking, hardening to a crisp black crust.

Rajah reaches blindly for the wall, the rough brick skinning his palm, and cool male laughter grates in his ears. Panting, he looks up into empty blue eyes.

“So it’s true what they say. There really is a fae-murderer at large. I do believe I’m aroused.” Sweat glistens on a pale brow, drops sparkling in dark curly hair. Crisp blue jeans, silver belt buckle, white shirt splashed with a few drops of blood.

Rajah spits, deliberately close to the man’s shoes. Got a fucking nerve, slinging around the word
murderer
like he gives a shit. “She was already sick, DiLuca. Fuck off.”

Dante leans his shoulder against the wall, casual, his cool smile revealing nothing. “I heard you were asking about me. No, I said, it can’t be true. He hasn’t finally come to his senses.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m just looking for a guy you might know.” Rajah straightens, catching his breath. Luna will surround himself with a false, glittering crowd of liars, con artists, and vacuous beauties to prove how superior he is. The kind of people Dante delights in baiting. He’d thought it worth a try.

Slim dark eyebrows lift. “I believe your last words to me were an obscenity involving my mother and something about a cold day in hell.” Dante leans closer, and Rajah can smell him, salty and strong with blood. “Well, it’s warm in hell, Rajahni. Warm and excruciating. I’ve been there. I’m not going back. If you want my help, you’ll earn it.”

Sour guilt gnaws at Rajah’s guts, alongside fear that Dante’s been following him, has seen him with Jade. He’s always thought he’ll do anything, give anything. Any soul on earth. Any bloodstained bargain. Anything but thrall. But imagining his sweet Jade in Dante’s hands has him twitching with rage and sorrow.

His Jade. It sounds good. “I told you before, I won’t play your games.”

“Even to spare your luscious little whore of a girlfriend?” Dante shows his teeth at last, sharp and gleaming in the streetlight. “Fuck or feed, that’s always the question.”

Fury ignites, flickering like static along Rajah’s already taut nerves. Worms of irritation wriggle in his skin that Dante always knows exactly how to taunt him, but Rajah can’t let it lie. He steps closer, their shadows mingling like ink on broken concrete. “Listen to me, you sick prick. I don’t want your blood, I don’t want your screwed-up life, I sure as hell don’t want you. And if you ever threaten her again—”

“You’ll what?” Dante sniffs, testing the air, inhaling Rajah’s scent, and licks fine scarlet lips. “Finger-fuck another fairy to death?”

Rajah’s temper explodes, melting his common sense, and he slams Dante back into the wall with a vicious swipe of his gold-wrapped forearm. Dante hisses, reddish spit running on his teeth. His dark shape blurs like a spiteful shadow, and the next thing Rajah knows, he’s retching on all fours, his guts cramping and sharp grit digging into his palms.

Iron fingers yank his hair, dragging his head down, and wet vampire breath burns the back of his neck. Bloodstink sears, sickening. “Don’t provoke me, slut-boy. I’ll tear you in half and bathe in the mess you make.”

Rajah chokes, kicking, but Dante’s grip is fast. “Fine,” he gasps, slick phlegm coating his lips. “I’ll find him myself. Just leave her alone.”

“We’ll see.” Dante’s wet tongue flicks down along Rajah’s throat, tasting, and in a rush of warm breeze he’s gone, an empty space where his shadow lay.

Rajah spits and hauls himself up, twisting his neck with a crack. Dante’s spit slides on his skin, and he rubs it off, wincing. He’ll just have to find Luna himself. Stupid, to imagine DiLuca would soften at a decent request. And the thought of Dante stalking Jade with his warped and vengeful appetite churns sick disgust into Rajah’s aching stomach. He wants to seek her out, warn her, protect her, keep her for himself.

But she’s a big girl. She can take care of herself, and she never asked for his help. For all he knows, she’s into that kind of thing. It’s none of his business. Right?

He shakes his head, bile bright and sour in his mouth, and walks stiffly away into the dark.

8

T
he queue outside the club stretched down the street inside a black velvet rope, blue neon glowing overhead. Bats flapped in the streetlights. Cars cruised past, drivers hanging out the window to check out the scenery, and there was plenty to check out.

Unseelie Court

attracts the finest and freakiest Melbourne has to offer, and the line was a flashbulb forest of Lycra-bursting breasts, tanned female legs in fishnets, buffed boy muscles in rainbow colors, and the glitter, glass, and glamour of gorgeous fae. The hottest action, the coolest drugs, the most expensive drinks in town—the Court had it all.

The other thing about

Unseelie Court

is that on paper it was neutral territory. Owned by neither DiLuca nor Valenti, it wasn’t off-limits to anyone, so either everyone was safe or everyone was fair game, depending on which way you looked at it.

I ducked under the rope, attracting some envious glares and a sneer or two. It wasn’t actually true that you couldn’t get in unless the bouncers thought you were hot. But it was a useful myth for management to foster, and in any case, I had a certain advantage when it came to first impressions.

I stalked up and smiled at the big black-shirted troll on the door, igniting my glamour with a crackle of static. “I’m expected.”

He flushed darker green, his beady gaze fixed on my chest, the vein in his biceps pulsing. “Sure, honey. Go on in.”

I winked. “Thanks, big guy.”

He pushed the metal door open, releasing a warm breath of smoke-stained air from inside, and I hopped up the stairs and into the Court.

Music throbbed, dark art rock, the off-rhythmic beat vibrating in my lungs. The dim air flashed with colored lasers and sweet white smoke. Brilliant strobes stabbed at the shining floor, snapping shots of sinuous bodies moving to the rhythm, glittering off oiled muscles, piercings, lissome limbs, iridescent fairy wings. Along one side, the bar glowed, girls in tight black T-shirts serving colored spirits and sparkling fae-drenched wine.

Fragrant remnants of my rapture turned heads as I sidled through, and I didn’t stop or look. I thought I looked okay, in a tight black halter dress that reached only halfway down my thighs and a pair of low heels—that is, if you liked skinny, no breasts, bony hips—but I knew they weren’t really looking at me.

I could do with a fix, after once again so nearly screwing Rajah’s brains out last night—didn’t look like I’d learn the no-Rajah lesson any time soon, not the way he made me ache and burn and moisten—but my golden bangles buzzed, Kane’s slick insistent whisper creeping in my heart. I wanted to scratch myself all over, the pestilent itch of thrall maddening me. It would only get worse until I found Dante DiLuca and did as Kane ordered me. I hankered to hunt down Detective Quinn, too, suck his hate-filled soul into my trap and begin this horrid freedom ritual, but as always, thrall overrode my own wants. My black lust for Quinn’s soul would have to wait.

I shouldered through to the glowing glass-topped bar, impatient, and ordered a tequila shot, leaning my elbows on the warm surface. The place was pumping tonight, and as usual no one cared much what anyone did or who saw. On a couch in the dim corner, a peach-skinned water sprite with long tapered wings like a dragonfly’s was going down on some moaning mortal girl, her leather skirt twisted around her waist. Her ankles were locked around his slender neck, his long pointed tongue lapping at her glistening sex, feeding. I wondered if she could see through his glamour to what he really looked like, like I could, or whether she just thought she was getting it from some hot mortal guy with an acrobatic tongue.