Scorched by Darkness: Eternal Mates Series Book 18

by Felicity Heaton

  He risked a sip.

  His eyes watered as sharp needles pierced across his face and punctured every millimetre of his tongue. His right eye twitched viciously and he grimaced, wanted to growl as the torture didn’t abate when he swallowed the tiny sip of liquid. It only got worse. He choked and coughed as acid blazed up his throat.

  Rosalind grinned from ear-to-ear. “That never gets old!”

  Vail pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Little wild rose.”

  Her smile faded. “I know. I know. But it’s funny.”

  She drew out that word.

  Hartt failed to see how it was funny. He also couldn’t believe it when Vail took a glass for himself and drank it without it affecting him. Had the male built up a tolerance to whatever infernal ingredient the juice contained?

  Vail shrugged. “She uses a spell to enhance the acidity and effect of the grapefruit, but it is quick to fade and the juice is then safe to drink.”

  Hartt regretted taking it so quickly now. He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask his prince as he risked another sip, such as what a grapefruit was and why the witch found the effect it had on their species so amusing.

  Vail was right, though. The second sip of the drink was sweet and rich with the flavour of passionfruit and mango, and other fruits he could identify from his visits to the mortal realm.

  His body screamed for nourishment of another kind, bringing to mind the tempting scent of Mackenzie’s blood. He ignored the hunger it ignited in him and focused on the juice. It would be enough to tide him over for now, until he could return to the guild and eat some fruits and vegetables to give his body the nourishment it craved. A diet of such things was enough for most elves. Blood was only necessary for regular elves when they were injured or in need of a boost to their healing for some reason.

  For the tainted like him, a regular intake of small quantities of blood was vital. It helped him control the darkness, satiated it and calmed it. However, restraint was needed. Too much blood could trigger bloodlust and give the darkness a firmer hold over him, causing it to spread its tendrils deeper into his soul to squeeze out the light.

  The line between not enough and too much was dangerously thin.

  “Please, Rosalind,” Fuery murmured as he took a drink for himself, but didn’t touch it. He ran his free hand over his overlong blue-black hair, in danger of pulling the top half of it free from the silver clasp that held it back as his violet eyes implored the witch. “Will you take a look at the spell? I was not aware of it… if I had been, I would have… I do not know what I would have done.”

  Hartt wanted to reach for him as he dropped his hand to his lap, gripped the hem of his black tunic and twisted it into his fist, an agonised and desperate edge to his expression.

  The wounded look Fuery gave Hartt stirred acid in his chest worse than the grapefruit had and he looked away from his friend, dropping his gaze to his knees as that hot feeling scoured his insides.

  “There was not time to ask your permission.” He was deeply aware that wasn’t an excuse for what he had done or the fact he had failed to tell Fuery about the spell. It had bound them for centuries now and he had kept it from his friend that entire time. “I should have, and I am sorry about that, but I could not lose you.”

  He lifted his head and locked gazes with Fuery, hoped he saw in them how deeply he loved him and how he couldn’t live without him. He had lost too much in this world.

  If he lost Fuery, he would be alone, and gods, he would easily lose himself to the darkness.

  Would let it take him.

  He struggled to hold Fuery’s gaze as he added, “I should have told you sooner, but… this… this is what I feared. I made a decision that day, a choice for both of us. It was either lose you or risk losing myself… and I will always pick your welfare over mine.”

  Thick silence fell as Fuery stared at him, as his amethyst eyes warmed and glittered.

  “Aw… you guys are so sweet.” Rosalind knotted her hands together in front of her heart. “You want a room?”

  He frowned, unsure what she meant by that.

  When it dawned on him, that frown became a scowl. She was insinuating that he and Fuery were engaged in more than a friendship.

  “Little wild rose,” Vail gently admonished.

  She shrugged. “Just asking. They’re as bad as you and Loren. All moon-eyed when you’re around each other. So many bromances in the elf world.”

  “The spell.” Fuery’s tone had darkened, gaining a sharp edge that revealed his impatience.

  Hartt again wanted to tell him to let it go and forget trying to learn the words that would activate the spell. Fuery must have sensed it, because he levelled a hard look on him, one that said what he wouldn’t—if Hartt would tell him the words, he wouldn’t have to get the witch involved.

  There was no way in this world, Hell or Heaven, that he was going to willingly tell Fuery the words, giving him a method of drawing the darkness from Hartt. Fuery would mean well, but he would try to draw all the corruption from Hartt’s soul, and it would destroy him.

  Rosalind shuffled to the edge of her seat and he glanced at her, froze in place as their eyes locked. The lighter blue that filled most of her irises sparkled, silver stars twinkling brighter and brighter and beginning to move as her magic rose to the fore. He fell into them, could feel it as a physical action, as if he was dropping towards her.

  Or she was pulling him in her direction.

  Her hands came up and framed his face as she peered deeper still, and a brief tangled thought crossed his mind, there and washed away in an instant.

  Was she trying to see the black stains on his soul?

  “That’s strange,” she murmured, her voice distant in his ears, so far away that it couldn’t rouse him.

  He drifted in the warm haze, floated on it, calm and at peace even as some part of him tried to remain aware, desperate not to be left vulnerable or open to attack.

  She blinked and everything shattered, fragmented into a thousand shards that rained down to reveal the drawing room of her home.

  Hartt sucked down a hard breath, followed it with another one when he felt as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if he had stopped breathing at some point. Maybe he had. He looked around and forced himself to see where he was in a vain attempt to ground himself in the present just in case Rosalind wasn’t done. He couldn’t leave himself open like that again.

  Not with Mackenzie out there.

  She could teleport and she knew who he was. She had been injured, but her condition could be better than he believed it to be. It would have been easy for her to follow him back to the guild when Fuery had teleported him. He exhaled hard, expelling the tight knot in his chest with it.

  She could have followed him to the guild but not here. Elves left no trace of the path they had taken when they teleported. There was no way for her to follow him here. He was safe.

  He idly lifted his left hand and rubbed his right shoulder.

  “Is it still bothering you?” Fuery’s low voice held a note of caution, a wary edge that revealed he knew the reason Hartt had touched the place where the female had stabbed him.

  His friend might as well have come out with it and asked if he was thinking about her. Was she still bothering him? Yes. For some godsdamned reason, he found it impossible to keep his mind off her.

  Had he hurt her?

  Had Fuery?

  Rosalind cleared her throat. “I said, that’s strange.”

  He looked across at her, growing aware of her again. She didn’t look pleased.

  “What’s strange?” he said, before she could unleash a spell on either him or Fuery as payment for not responding when she had spoken earlier.

  “I can sense other magic on you… like a… lingering trace.” She looked him up and down, her gaze turning scrutinising, tinged with mistrust. “You been near witches when they’ve been using spells?”

  He shook his h
ead. “No.”

  Then paused.

  “Maybe. I was at the celebration at the Fort William fae town, tracking a mark. I don’t recall encountering any witches using spells though.” He had brushed past a few, but the scent of magic hadn’t been strong on them, and he would have sensed it if they had been using spells.

  “It’s definitely the trace of a spell.” She stood and bent over, leaning towards him as she peered into his eyes, her blue ones narrowing as her rosy lips compressed. Her right eyebrow slowly rose. “Definitely a spell. Too weak for me to know what it was, but it was strong when they cast it.”

  That wasn’t a comfort.

  Vail frowned at him. “Who have you been in contact with recently?”

  “It needs to be physical contact to leave a marker like this,” Rosalind added.

  Hartt thought about it and could only come up with three names. “Fuery, Shaia and Mackenzie.”

  “Is she a witch?” Vail’s deep voice gained a dark edge and Rosalind gave him a pointed look. His expression shifted towards sheepish. “Witch with a W.”

  Hartt had been around a few times when Rosalind had accused people of saying ‘Witch with a B’, something she took particular offence from. Hartt suspected it had to do with how Vail had probably acted when they had first met. His prince didn’t trust witches. In fact, he tended to prefer they were dead and it had been by his claws.

  “No.” Hartt shook his head again and then slowed as he frowned. “I don’t think so. I am not sure what she is, but I am sure she isn’t a witch.”

  That was explanation enough for Rosalind. “Anyone else?”

  He pursed his lips, sighed and ran back over the last few days. Mackenzie kept popping up. Mackenzie’s fist striking him. Mackenzie’s fingers gripping him. Mackenzie’s lips pressing against his. He banished her, but she refused to go, kept tormenting him, right at the front of his thoughts. Fuck, she was trouble. More than he needed. Maybe he should have talked to his client about her.

  “My client,” he muttered, his black eyebrows pinching hard. “I met with him close to five days ago.”

  Rosalind pulled a thoughtful face, poured herself a cup of tea and added a hefty spoonful of sugar with the smallest dash of milk he had ever seen.

  When she caught him staring, she smiled. “I like it sweet and dark, what can I say?”

  Her blue gaze slid to her mate.

  Vail growled low, one filled with hunger that Hartt could practically feel thickening the air.

  It filled him with a need to hurry the witch along because he really didn’t need to get another eyeful of Vail and Rosalind locked in each other’s arms. Not when his mind was still being traitorous, flashing replays of Mackenzie and rousing a need to find her and see her again.

  Kiss her again.

  “Is five days too long?” Hartt prompted, eager to leave.

  Rosalind shrugged. “Probably not. Depends on how strong the magic is. Is your client a witch?”

  “I don’t think so.” But he was starting to suspect that he was and it rang alarm bells in his mind. “We don’t tend to probe into the lives of our clients.”

  “Maybe you should.” Rosalind leaned back in her armchair, taking her tea with her, and crossed her legs, flashing a lot of bare skin.

  Hartt averted his eyes. Vail snarled anyway.

  She flashed her mate a saucy smile and demurely covered her thighs, taking her time about smoothing the black material over them. Drawing another low growl from his prince.

  “There’s nothing wrong with running background checks on your clients, you know? I do it all the time.” The witch sipped her tea and sighed as if she had just tasted the sweetest ambrosia in the known world. “That hits the spot.”

  “Is this Mackenzie you mentioned an assassin too?” Vail finally managed to drag his gaze away from his mate, although it retained the hungry edge it had gained.

  Hartt nodded. “The client hired both of us to take out the King of Death.”

  Rosalind came dangerously close to spitting her tea everywhere. “Woah, hold up, what now? Grave is your target?”

  “You know him?” Hartt found that difficult to believe, but stranger things had happened. “Did he hire you in the past?”

  Rosalind made all kinds of spells and potions for people. It was possible she had crossed paths with the vampire that way.

  “No. We ended up fighting on the same side in a demon war. I wouldn’t say we kept in touch, but we’ve bumped into each other a few times since then.” She waved her hand dismissively but then she sobered, her light air falling away as she stared him down. “I was wrong about you. You have to be crazy. Going after Grave… Have you met his mate?”

  “I know he’s bound to a phantom.” And when he had learned about it, he had debated whether or not to turn down the contract after all, but then he had decided his plan would involve luring the vampire away from his female and eliminating him before she could intervene.

  “He knows, he says so casually… as if the phantom won’t eviscerate him for even looking at her mate funny, let alone laying a finger on him. I’ve met his mate. We’ve met his mate.” She looked at Vail.

  Vail frowned and then the dark slashes of his eyebrows rose and he nodded. “Isla. She was with her sister, the First King, when the dragons tried to start a war in the elf kingdom. I recall her being a skilled and fearless fighter. She led the demons of the First Realm well that day.”

  That didn’t instil confidence in Hartt. If anything, it only shook the confidence he did have. If Vail had thought the phantom a skilled warrior, then she was far more formidable than Hartt had thought. He was going to have to be extremely careful if he wanted to come out of this contract with his soul still in one piece and his head still on his shoulders.

  Rosalind gave Fuery a pointed look. “Surely you have an opinion on this? Your guyfriend is trying to get himself killed. I don’t know why I bothered patching you up. Wait!”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Was Grave the one who tried to turn you into a shish kebab?”

  Hartt had no idea what one of those was, but he presumed it involved being skewered many times over. “No. It was not the vampire.”

  “It was the assassin.” Vail’s voice held a calculating note, and his expression did too as Hartt glanced at him. “She is exceptionally skilled?”

  “No. Yes.” He grimaced and rubbed his eyes with his index finger and thumb. “Look… I was… The darkness took control. I wasn’t trying to kill her.”

  “You weren’t?” Fuery sounded horrified.

  Looked it too when Hartt risked a glance at him.

  “I was… I don’t know. Just… I don’t want to talk about it.” Hartt knew he couldn’t leave it at that. All three occupants of the room had leaned towards him, curiosity rising in their eyes to warn him they were going to keep probing about Mackenzie until he cracked. He gritted his teeth, sucked a breath through them and then closed his eyes and clenched his fists in his lap. “I wanted to convince her to drop the contract.”

  He writhed inside as he waited for someone to break the silence that followed, dreamed up a million responses from each of them and feared which one would come true.

  In the end, it was Rosalind who spoke.

  “Is she pretty? I bet she’s pretty. It’s always the same with you elves. See a pretty face and you want to save them.”

  Vail loosed a long, weary sigh. “I saved you because you are my mate, little wild rose, not because I thought you beautiful.”

  She gasped. “You don’t think I’m beautiful.”

  Vail’s sigh was exasperated this time. “Rosalind.”

  “Sheesh, he called me by my name. I’m in trouble. Moving on.” For a female who believed herself in trouble with her mate, she certainly sounded bright and amused. “Um… searching for a suggestion… searching… still searching… oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you just ask Grave about the client? If it’s someone he’s wronged, well, the list is probably a
s long as my mate’s—”

  Vail growled.

  She cleared her throat. “I meant to say arm. I was going to say arm.”

  She most certainly had not intended to say arm. Not judging by the rosy hue on her cheeks or the heat in her eyes.

  She tipped her chin up in a way that reminded him painfully of Mackenzie.

  “The list of people Grave has wronged is probably rather long, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Hartt didn’t think it was. “Your plan is that I discover whether my client is a witch by asking my mark about him? I have a mission—kill the King of Death. That is what I intend to do.”

  “I do not like this,” Fuery put in. “Something about it just does not seem right and it never has.”

  They’d had witch clients in the past and there was no reason for him to feel suspicious about this one. His friend was just being jittery and was upset because Hartt had taken on the client while he had been away.

  Fuery placed a hand on his left knee, his violet gaze imploring Hartt, silently begging him to listen to Rosalind. Hartt’s gaze shifted to her and then her mate, and then drifted back to Fuery, an unsettling feeling growing inside him too as he considered the possibility that the male he had met might have been a witch.

  The witch.

  Chapter 9

  Mackenzie sagged against the ground, her left cheek pressing to the black grit as she released the breath she had been holding. Her left leg ached, her hip on that side throbbing madly from the blow Hartt had delivered to it, and her nose was sore, stuffy with blood. Those weren’t her only injuries. She stared at the nasty gash on her right forearm, but her focus was elsewhere, on the burning grooves carved across that side of her chest.

  Four long streaks.

  Made by claws.

  His claws.

  A wave of fear washed over her, had her heart pumping harder even though she was alone now and she was sure he wouldn’t come back. That other elf had taken him, disappearing in jagged black lines that had streaked the air long after he was gone.