Into the Fire (The Unseelie Court Book 4)

by Gwen Rivers

  Into the Fire

  The Unseelie CourtBook 4

  Gwen Rivers

  Copyright © 2020 by Elements Unleashed

  Cover image designed by Covers by Christian

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

  1. Dark Dreams

  2. Burn it Down

  3. Mind Games

  4. Friends and Foes

  5. Empty Promises

  6. What’s Love Got to Do with It

  7. Plans

  8. Escape

  9. Road Trip

  10. Surprise

  11. Generations of Pack

  12. Guilt is the New Black

  13. Evil Insight

  14. Legends from the Mist

  15. Salt of the Earth

  16. Comeuppance

  17. Game Plan

  18. Parting Ways

  19. Snag

  20. Shattered

  21. Becoming Human

  22. Growing Pains

  23. The Final Crossing

  24. Animated

  25. The Face in the Mirror

  26. The One True Queen

  Epilogue

  It’s not my words that count…it’s yours!

  Also by Gwen Rivers

  Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

  Some say the world will end in Fire.

  Some say in Ice.

  From what I’ve tasted of desire

  I hold with those who favor Fire.

  But if I had to perish twice,

  I think I know enough of hate

  To say that for destruction Ice

  Is also great

  And would suffice.

  Dark Dreams

  The cave looms large in front of the woman, a forbidding mouth that will swallow all that is bright in the world. She doesn’t hesitate as she moves closer, her gait purposeful. Flanking her are two cloaked figures, their features obscured by the dark cowls. In front of her are the dead, a solid wall of corpses.

  Bodies that stand at attention, hers to command.

  She takes in their gruesome visages. Her hands come up and a golden light filters out of her palms. Her rune marks, the two symbols that allow them to walk long past the point when their souls have abandoned the tattered flesh.

  But it’s their flesh she needs. The physical forms that are as unstoppable as they are repugnant.

  Men, women, children all in different parts of decomposition. Faces half missing, wings shredded to gossamer strands of spider silk. They were fey once, forever young. Children of the goddess Freya. They schemed and fought, stole and laughed. Now they are the perfect army, never stopping to sleep or eat, a relentless wave of death.

  And they obey only her.

  At the smallest wave of her hand, they move apart as though pulled by giant magnets. She and her entourage continue down into the abyss.

  The light is blotted out as they twist and turn down into the suffocating darkness.

  A ball of light appears in the woman’s hand. Its glow illuminating her pale skin and midnight hair. Fey light—pulled from the elemental magic that all the fey possess. She is not one of the immortal fey, though her skin holds an ageless quality. She is tall, almost six feet in height with a voluptuous figure like that of a fertility goddess. But she is not a goddess either.

  A shudder rumbles the cave walls. The trio pauses, but they do not speak. When the tremors subside, they continue on down into the darkness as if nothing happened. This place is a prison, one of the oldest in existence. It is fraught with traps to dissuade any from unleashing the soul condemned within its walls.

  The company strides onward into the darkness. Their steps sure and purposeful. They don’t talk at all. Talk could give them away. No one must interfere with their purpose.

  As they wend their way into the bowels of the world, a dim green light appears. It is their destination, built by the gods to cage one of their own.

  His release will bring about the end of everything.

  There are two people in the cave. The one standing is a petite blond woman. She is wearing a white sleeveless gown several centuries out of fashion. She hovers by the side of the prisoner. A man. He is naked and bound to the slab of rock. A man with hair the color of flame. Above the man’s head, a serpent is coiled around a stalactite. From its overlarge fangs, a sickly yellow-green venom drips down. The woman holds the bowl out and the poison is caught before it can splash on the bound man’s face. Old scars mar his features from where the venom found its target.

  His eyes are a piercing green and are filled with madness.

  The female traveler moves forward. Her voice is melodic as she speaks. “Greetings Loki, Lord of Chaos and all that burns.”

  The woman in white starts, turning to face the newcomers. Those leaf green eyes lock on the newcomers. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he begins to laugh. It isn’t a pleasant sound.

  “What are you doing here, Pharaildis?” The woman in white asks. “You know it is forbidden.”

  The woman named Pharaildis lowers her hood. “Sigyn. Why the way I hear it, we are practically family. My daughter, your son.”

  Loki cackles. “I met her you know. She came here, seeking her immortality. Tricksy Underhill, land of the fey that they all worship and revere. How many deaths have you brought about on your little quest?”

  “You, my lord Loki, ought to know better than any that worship and freedom are not the same.”

  His laughter cuts off abruptly and he stares at her with a burning intensity. “You don’t have the means to free me, Underhill.”

  “Oh, but I do.” She gestures to the cloaked figure on the left. One hand reaches out and removes the cowl from the face within. “I and the ruler of the Shadow Throne. Together, we wield all the powers of the Unseelie Court. With Fire and Ice, he shall be freed.”

  “Hello, Father.” The voice is feminine, with a soft Southern drawl. The round face belongs to a young woman, the eyes to an immortal beast.

  Sigyn blanches and in a horrified whisper mutters a name. “Fenrir?”

  Loki laughs even harder.

  “Nothing is impossible,” Underhill bends down until her face is inches from his. “Not when you have the patience and relentless nature of an immortal. Loki, by the blood and entrails of your youngest son you were bound. By the blood and bone of your eldest, you shall be free.”

  Sigyn’s gaze goes to the other figure. “Váli?” She breathes as though in disbelief.

  Underhill closes in for the kill. “Great Loki. The world is ripe and the gods are weak. Science has replaced magic beyond the Veil and the ancients are gathering for the final battle.”

  “Ragnarök,” Loki breathes the word like a benediction.

  Underhill nods. “The dead are walking and the great winter is at hand. We offer this sacrifice to free you.”

  Without warning, she grabs hold of the third figure. Fenrir moved behind the other and holds his hands captive. From the depth of her pocket, Underhill withdraws a silver knife.

  “Any last words you wish me to relay to my daughter, Aiden?” she asks.

  The figure shakes his head once, the hood falling back revealing shaggy dark locks and the same piercing green eyes as Loki.

  “I think a rib will work,” Underhill puts her free hand on his chest as though marking her place. The knife flashes in the torchlight and th
en is buried in his heart.

  I awake with a jolt, Aiden’s name on my lips. Had it been only a dream? Or had Underhill really captured my wolf?

  My love. I never should have left him.

  My body shakes with small tremors, making the chains tethering my wrists and ankles together rattle. A leg iron cuffs each ankle over my grubby and blood-stained jeans and bracelets connect my wrists. My shoulder throbs and so does my leg—both the sites where I’d been shot.

  Shot by the FBI.

  It’s what they do when fugitives run. Even teenage girls.

  And I am so much more than your average teenager.

  It helps, repeating my mantra. My name is Nic Rutherford. I live in the mountains of North Carolina. I am the Risen Queen of the Unseelie Court. I have died twice and been resurrected. I hunt murderers and rapists and kill them with my goodnight kiss. Aiden is my mate.

  It helps my confidence to recite my little mantra. At least it distracts me from the unforgiving reality. That I am cold, in pain and utterly terrified.

  I’ve been incarcerated. Captured. They know what I can do.

  Trying not to panic, I take in my surroundings.

  Four concrete walls with an oval doorway, like something on a submarine. No windows though, not even an arrow slit. All the light is manufactured and comes from the humming overhead fluorescents. The people who shot me have stuffed me in this cell, inside some FBI stronghold. Crusted blood cakes my clothing from where I’d taken a bullet to the shoulder, another on my thigh. The clothing has been cut away to expose the injuries, which are covered with thick swathes of gauze.

  I have no memory of the treatment or being dumped in this cell.

  At least the mask—that horrible thing they’d wrapped around my face—is gone. I take a full breath and try to slow my pounding heart. It was just a dream. Aiden is across the Veil, true. He has to stay there until he manages to break the evil spell of madness Pharaildis—aka Underhill—put on him.

  But she doesn’t have him. I would know it. We are mates, bound by fate and by choice. I can feel when he is in danger or in pain, just as he can feel me. We share a connection that carried over from my last life when I’d been the queen of the Shadow Throne.

  I’d been meant to rule again. But Pharaildis had tricked me into bringing Gretchen, Fenrir’s human host, to her. The Shadow Throne had accepted him and now Aiden’s half-brother, the wolf who is destined to swallow the world, rules in my stead.

  And I have been banished to Midgard, the mortal realm where the FBI waited to spring their trap.

  I picture Pharaildis in my mind and think, Mother, you are such a bitch.

  Prison. I look down to see my hands are shaking. Terror courses through me at the thought of incarceration and all it might entail. What will the mortals do to me? Tests? Experiments?

  I take a deep breath to steady my nerves.

  As a serial killer in the hands of the FBI, I am in seriously deep shit. And I don’t see a way out. What’s more, since my banishment, I don’t have access to my magic anymore. My allies, the fey of the Wild Hunt might come for me. Then again, they might not be able to leave. The Hunt is bound to the Unseelie queens, and I am not one any longer.

  Besides, it’s not in my nature to skulk around and wait for rescue.

  Shoving aside my clawing panic at being trapped in a windowless prison, I push to my feet to take stock of myself. They’ve taken my boots but I still have on the thick gray socks. My pants are shredded, my shirt hanging open. The garments had been torn along the sites where I’d been bleeding. Though I am filthy and aching, my rapid healing is already kicking in. It’s a good thing the FBI wants me in working order. Otherwise, they might not have bothered to patch me up.

  I’ve got enough explaining to do as it is.

  A wave of nausea rolls through me, but I shove it aside as I take in my holding cell.

  A bed with a lumpy mattress that looks like it was stolen off some dorm curb on trash day sits on a metal frame. A minuscule sink stands in the far corner. I trudge that way, ignoring the pain in my leg. The shackles that encircle my wrists and ankles give me enough wiggle room to take care of my personal needs over the single toilet. A camera is mounted in one corner, the red light indicates that it is on.

  Perverts.

  Otherwise, the place is bare. I’m a minimalist by nature but this is ridiculous.

  Another lurch in my stomach and I lunge for the toilet. The smell of the chemicals within is the final straw and I heave, emptying the meager contents of my stomach down into its murky depths.

  When is the last time I ate? I can’t remember. So much had happened, what with me going from prison in Underhill to one here.

  I’ll send her back and she can resume the course she was set upon.

  That had been the deal Underhill had cut with Aiden. But not really Aiden. My Aunt Addy had glamoured herself to look like my wolf.

  Another ripple of nausea goes through me. What if it was Addy who’d been stabbed in the heart? Can a silver knife kill a Norn—one of the goddesses of fate?

  The chains rattle as I turn on the water and splash some on my face and rinse the taste of bile from my mouth.

  I take a deep breath, trying to scent the air. It’s all canned, recycled through a vent system. So, we’re underground somewhere. Even without fairy queen magic, I have always had an affinity for air. The details are foggy, the haze of pain that infected me clouds my memory of the journey to this place. Sooner or later someone will have to come. To feed me, to interrogate me.

  To vivisect me.

  I shy away from that thought. The one notion that keeps panic clawing at my innards is the idea that these people knew enough about me to cover my mouth when they’d captured me. How had they found out how I kill?

  My goodnight kiss has been my biggest secret for most of my life. Up until last spring, I’d used it only in self-defense or to protect an innocent from a monster. I’d been the butterfly no one suspected, the stalker in the shadows, the being who went bump in the night and took out the biggest predators around.

  No one who saw me guessed the petite blonde with cornflower blue eyes was capable of killing full-grown evildoers. And had been since I was six-years-old.

  Men. Women. Those who hurt others for no reason other than they were scum. I’d laid the traps, often using myself as bait, and closed it on those who fell into it. They culled the herd like a disease, and like a vaccination, I destroyed them.

  Really, it had been a public service.

  My aunts, Chloe and Addy, had helped cover for me. They disposed of the bodies whenever possible. A couple had slipped through our grasp though and the FBI had been tracking my victims. But I hadn’t killed a mortal in months. So how had they caught on to me?

  My hands clench into fists as the answer surfaces. The diary. That damn diary where I’d stashed the licenses of all my prey. I’d done this to myself, kept those trophies and incriminated myself. How many times had Addy warned me that doing so was foolish? That I was helping the feds build their case?

  Note to self. When a Fate says something is a bad idea, listen.

  So okay, they have the diary. It had my fingerprints all over it0 and the IDs inside. They knew who and how I killed. But still, I could get away.

  I just needed to find an angle.

  “You’re awake,” a disembodied female voice says from a tinny speaker.

  I stare straight at the camera and will my eyes to water in fear. It isn’t difficult to conjure a few tears. “This must be some kind of mistake.”

  “No mistake,” the being within says. “You’re Nic Rutherford, adopted child of Chloe and Addison Rutherford. You live on a farm in the North Carolina mountains. And I have been hunting you for a very, very long time.”

  A chill goes through me at those last words. “Who are you?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Gas filters down through the vent in the ceiling. I cough and choke, eyes stinging, lungs
burning. This is why the room was airtight, so they could gas me whenever they chose.

  I fight, trying to hold my breath, even struggle to reach for magic. But it’s no use.

  Terror courses through me as the world around me tunnels and I slip into oblivion.

  Burn it Down

  Through the Wolf’s Eyes

  He sees his destination ahead. The fortress that holds the Green Throne and his target. The man who shares his skin cautions him to use stealth. There is wisdom to the man, an ancient knowledge that comes from his long years. Perception and many times courage as well.

  The wolf hadn’t appreciated those traits before.

  The place is set in a valley, surrounded by trees and a mystical enchantment of protection. A blockade of air. The magic smells of his mate. The wolf had run for leagues, intent to get what he needs from the place and then cross back through the Veil to Midgard so he can be with her. She needs him, he can feel it in his bones.

  He knows she is not within but her spell crafting has held fast. And would until the new queen of the Shadow Throne arrives, waves her hand, and obliterates it.

  No time. The man thinks. The people don’t know what has happened. Don’t know that a new queen sits on the Shadow Throne and that she is really an immortal wolf who hungers for their blood.

  How many people still live within the boundary? He has come across no others. Underhill is a wasteland of corpses.

  He studies the scene in the valley below his perch. This place should be abandoned as lost. The wolf is a survivor and the unnatural dead things walking are growing in numbers.