by Rosalie Redd
Damian tugged on the edge of his glove. He didn’t share Sasha’s confidence, but he’d try anything if it sent him to Wynne.
He stepped forward. “Tell me what to do.”
Sasha adjusted her tight blouse that exposed far too much of her ample bosom, grasped a glass from the table and offered it to him. “Here.”
He glanced from the empty glass to the liquid in the pot then met her gaze. A bitter taste filled his mouth. “You want me to drink that?”
Sasha pursed her lips, irritation sparking in her eyes. “I want you to pour it on your head and dance a little jig. Of course, you need to drink it.”
Neira raised her head. Her yellow eyes glowed with a hint of amusement.
He snatched the glass, the muscles in his jaw tighter than a taut rubber band. “How does this work?”
Trixie bounced up and down on Sasha’s shoulder, and her wings shimmered, sending a rainbow of tiny particles into the air.
Sasha leaned forward. “Yes, I know.”
Damian groaned. Every second he wasted here could be another torturous moment for Wynne. “What did Trixie say?”
“That you need to relax for this to work. Sit.” Sasha held out her palm to the open seat next to her on the couch, the one with Neira resting on the back.
Neira stretched, pointy feline claws extending from her paws. Given the opportunity, she’d scratch him just for spite.
Relax with that cat hanging around? Yeah, right. Her claws wouldn’t hurt him, but that was beside the point.
Ignoring Neira, Damian planted his butt on the cushion and forced himself to breathe. He held out the glass. “Ready when you are.”
Sasha removed the ladle and poured the thick liquid into the glass. A dank smell, somewhere between two-day-old sweaty socks and overcooked fish, knocked into him. His gag reflex kicked in, and he grimaced.
Neira swiped her tail over his shoulder. Her soft fur tickled the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth and brought the glass to his lips.
“Wait!” Sasha gripped his arm.
Liquid spilled down the outside of the glass and onto his finger. The heat burned into his skin like acid.
He glared at her. “Now what?”
She stared right back and raised a well-manicured eyebrow. “How long have you been a gargoyle? I have to recite the incantation while you drink the liquid.”
He narrowed his gaze. “I don’t pay attention to the how and why of witches spells.”
“We don’t have time for this. We have to find Wynne.” Sasha clenched her jaw then touched the crystal hanging from her neck. “Ala toc, farna con pila.”
She motioned for him to drink.
“Ala toc, farna con pila.”
He brought the glass with its nasty-smelling liquid to his lips.
“Ala toc, farna con pila.”
Damian opened his mouth, and the thick, warm liquid slid onto his tongue. His gag reflex kicked in again, but he forced the horrible potion down with a hard swallow and set the empty glass on the table.
The skin on his forearms tingled, the scurry of ants’ feet tracking over his elbows and up his biceps. His dark pants became visible through his partially transparent hands.
He licked his bottom lip and scooted to the edge of the couch. This spell might work.
His gloves disappeared, and his arms gradually became invisible with each passing second.
Like the fizzle of an expiring sparkler at Fourth of July, the tingling in his limbs petered out. His arms reappeared, followed by his gloves.
Damian’s stomach rolled. “No! C’mon, work!”
He swallowed the bitter taste of disappointment and pursed his mouth. “That wasn’t supposed to happen, right?”
Sasha grabbed a paper from the table, the page quivering in her grasp. Her eyes tracked back and forth, scanning the message.
Trixie’s soft chitters flitted through the air.
The muscles in Sasha’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, I see it.”
Damian rubbed his gloved palm down his pant leg. “What?”
Sasha bit her bottom lip then glared at him. “This is a level five spell. It’s not easy.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What went wrong?”
“I have to make sure I’ve fully absorbed the meaning behind the words before it will work.”
He leaned forward. “How long with that take?”
She bit her lip, worry lines appearing around her eyes. “A couple of days, a week, maybe?”
Damian didn’t have that kind of luxury. Every second he delayed… He couldn’t go there. Wynne needed him, now. “Who else can perform this spell?”
“I’ve never heard of another witch sending anyone to the Otherworld. We could try someone else, but they’d just have to go through the same process.” She gripped his arm, determination lining her features. “Wynne is my sister. No one will work harder than me.”
She was right about that. The familial bond between witches latched on tighter than a tick.
Neira’s tail flicked over his ear, the soft fur tickling his lobe. As much as he wanted to throttle the pesky female, he refused to acknowledge her.
He rose and tugged on the end of his glove. “Contact me when you’re ready. If I don’t answer, that means I caught a ride on a fae.”
Not waiting for a reply, he strode out the door and dematerialized to meet his partner, the hot, molten rock of determination to get to Wynne in the Otherworld burning in his gut.
This time, he wouldn’t fail.
Damian materialized on one of the quieter streets in Old Town. This time of night, everyone with half a brain remained cooped up in their homes. Across the street, an old Chinese restaurant, The Red Dragon, had a flickering light in its sign. The “R” seemed to tremble as if it feared the dangerous beings that roamed the streets after the sun set.
The crash of a dumpster echoed into the night, followed by a muffled groan. He’d found Grayson.
Damian raced across the street and toward the nearby alley. He turned on the camouflage, taking on the red-brick hue of the surrounding buildings. The smell of rancid food, sweat, and the distinct metallic odor of fae drifted into his nose.
The muscles in his body tensed. He slid his gloved hand over the dagger at his waist, unclipped the blade, and palmed his trusty weapon. Senses on high alert, he slipped into the alley on a whisper.
“Hey! You sliced off one of my curls.” Grayson’s familiar voice echoed over the clash of metal against metal. “That’s so not right.”
At the far end of the alley, Grayson fought two fae. He held the one wearing a Cubs hat at bay with his long bayonet. The other, dressed in an old Led Zeppelin shirt, jumped on top of a dumpster. A war cry erupted from the fae, and he bared his teeth.
Damian sped down the alley.
The Led Zeppelin fae launched himself at Grayson. His sharp claws glinted in the streetlamp’s glow.
Damian caught the fae around the waist and tackled him to the ground. Dirt, rocks, and bits of broken glass scraped Damian’s exposed arms. His skin burned at the site, but he relished the bitter sting. Pain focused his mind as it always had.
He hardened his fist to stone and pounded the fae in the ribs. The snap of bone and a loud cry were his reward.
“Glad you decided to join the fun.” Grayson laughed. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out.”
Damian released his camouflage and wrapped his hand around the fae’s neck. “Looks like you needed the help.”
The fae hissed and struggled beneath him.
“What? I’ve fought worse odds. These two are a piece of cake.” Grayson tossed his fae into a dumpster. The crash reverberated off the buildings and into the night. “Let’s pierce their bloody eyeballs then meet up with Drake. There’s a nest of fae after the homeless under the Kennedy Expressway.”
Damian’s gut tightened. Kill the fae? Hardly. He wanted to maim the creature so it would return to the Otherworld and take him with it. There was no way he’d te
ll Grayson that, though. The guy would think him suicidal. Hell, maybe he was.
Instead, he bluffed. “When I’m done, I’ll come help you with yours.”
“We’ll see who finishes first.” Grayson chuckled and jogged toward the dumpster with his enemy.
The fae bucked beneath him. Clearly, the guy wasn’t on board with this idea. Death would come for him, but not quite yet.
Damian tightened his grip on his dagger and plunged the tip into the fae’s thigh.
A scream that could rival fingernails on a chalkboard burst from the creature’s lips.
Damian twisted the blade. What’s a little more, right?
The fae’s howl intensified.
“C’mon, buddy. Anytime now.” Damian squeezed his fingers tighter around the fae’s throat, cutting off the creature’s wail.
“I finished mine. You ready to…” Grayson’s brow furrowed, and a long lock of curls slipped over his shoulder. “What’re doing there, Dame?”
A swirl burst to life around Damian and the fae. A shot of adrenaline heightened Damian’s senses. He ripped his dagger from the fae’s leg and placed the tip alongside his enemy’s cheek.
“Take me with you or you die here,” he whispered.
The swirl built, dragging a brown paper bag and a red plastic straw into the undertow.
Damian’s heart pounded. This had to work.
“Dame? What in the Otherworld are you—”
The fae disappeared beneath him. His vile laughter echoed in the empty space. The churn slowed, and the plastic straw rolled under a dumpster.
Manic energy propelled Damian to do the unthinkable. He dematerialized and followed the fae into the remaining swirl, hoping his soul wouldn’t disintegrate into the ether in the process.
CHAPTER 17
Damian materialized, his molecules slipping through the air and reforming into his physical body. Pain ruptured at his temple and blood pounded and blared in his ears. He slid against a hard stone wall until his bottom connected with the floor. He forced himself to concentrate through the agony and surveyed his surroundings.
Wall sconces lined a long stone corridor. Firelight danced over the chiseled rock, casting shadows that seemed to morph into grotesque images of fae. Was he in the Otherworld?
He inhaled, and the thick, acrid scent of his enemy burned his nostrils. If that were any indication, he’d landed in the right place. What a trip. Not something he’d recommend to any of his buddies. The good news, though, the fae stink would mask his natural gargoyle scent, and now that he’d arrived, he could dematerialize out of here at any time.
Muscles tense with strain, he focused on finding Wynne and rose to his feet. With each beat of his heart, the pain receded. Thank Rhiannon for his strength and adaptability. He was alone in the hallway. The fae he’d caught a ride with had long disappeared.
He peered left then right. Which way should he go?
Muffled voices from one end made the decision for him. He shifted his skin, taking on the dark color of the surrounding stone, then headed toward the pair. With each step, his stride increased in pace, and he would’ve bolted full force if not for the need to approach in silence. It wouldn’t do him any good if he ended up one of Gwawl’s prisoners or dead.
“Did you hear the latest rumor?” A male’s voice drifted by on the breeze.
His buddy laughed. “Tristan got laid. Yeah, I heard about that.”
“No, that’s not it, but good for Tristan. I heard Zain caught a witch.”
Damian’s heart stuttered, crashing against his ribs. They must be referring to Wynne. Who else could it be? He slowed his pace and inched forward, his ears straining to catch every syllable.
The male coughed. “A witch? Why?”
As Damian approached, the two fae became visible. They stood outside an entrance carved into the stone. A blond with a short mustache, wore a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt. The other one towered above the first. Scars lined his cheek, and his well-worn Harley-Davidson jacket and black boots made him appear sinister as if he’d seen his fair share of fights.
The guy crossed his arms, and his muscles bulged beneath his leather coat. “Rumor has it he needs her to replace his pet witch, Victoria. I hear Marco’s involved, too. All I know is that Allie took two food trays to the dungeon yesterday.”
Blondie whistled and toyed with the end of his mustache. “We should take a look.”
Harley blinked and uncrossed his arms. “You got a death wish?”
“No, but I bet we could sneak down there.” Blondie slapped Harley on the arm with the back of his hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Damian’s fingers tingled within his gloves. He’d hit the lottery tonight.
Harley gripped Blondie’s polo shirt, and the material wadded in his fist. “Unless you want to face Gwawl’s wrath, you’ll do no such thing.”
The blond guy bared his fangs. “Release me. Now!”
“You’re an idiot.” Harley let him go then curled his lip and strode down the hall.
“Smarter than you.” Blondie smirked. He hurried toward Damian, his designer boat loafers squeaking with every step.
Damian plastered himself against the wall and held his breath, hoping the fae couldn’t see through his camouflage.
The fae slid by without a second glance.
An urge to slip his hand along the guy’s throat and snap his neck made Damian’s hand flinch. As a Gargoyle Night Guardian, it was difficult to fight his primary directive to kill fae and protect humanity.
He trailed the fae through corridor after corridor and deeper into the Otherworld. They’d passed a few others along the way, but not many. Blondie stopped in front of an open doorway. Light spilled from the entryway along with the raucous sound of heated voices and clinking silverware.
A slew of silent curses formed on Damian’s lips. Blondie had taken him to a cafeteria. He curled his fingers, once, twice, three times. Come on, asshole, take me to Wynne.
The fae’s eyes widened then he stepped aside, and a smirk curled his lip. “Marco, so good to see you again. On your way to visit the new witch?”
The dark fae strode into the hall. Dressed in a blue pinstriped suit with a pair of Ferragamo dress shoes, he placed the handle of his cane over his elbow and studied Blondie with cold, hard eyes. “That’s none of your business, and you should be careful with your sarcasm. You never know when it will be shoved up your—”
“I gotta go.” Blondie disappeared into the cafeteria.
“You do that.” Marco’s smile revealed a set of long, pointy fangs. He hurried down the hall, his overly priced shoes clicking on the stone floor.
Damian wanted to throttle Marco until his eyes bulged then stab him in one of those ice-cold orbs. But that wouldn’t accomplish his goal and would only draw attention he didn’t need. So, he parked his killing desire in the back of his mind and trailed after Marco.
As they traipsed down the hallway, the distance between the sconces along the walls lengthened. Fewer doorways and less fae milling around were an added bonus and eased his tension. The rhythmic drip of water accompanied Marco’s footsteps, offering an odd counterpoint and masking Damian’s nearly silent footfalls.
Wynne was in this dank, dark place surrounded by fae?
A chill crested over Damian’s shoulders and lingered at the back of his neck before running down his arms. Dearest Rhiannon, I pray she’s not injured or… He didn’t even want to think about what tortures she might’ve endured.
Marco arrived at the end of the hallway. A T-intersection branched off in either direction. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
Damian froze. He reinforced his glamour, blending in with the rough, gray walls. Fae had the ability to sense a gargoyle’s spark stone, but from what he’d learned over the years, it took a lot of energy to accomplish.
Marco’s gaze tracked over the wall and right through Damian.
Damian held his breath, his fingers hovering over the hilt of h
is dagger. A part of him wanted this fight, here and now, but Marco rubbed the handle of his cane and resumed his trek, turning left at the juncture.
He exhaled long and slow then pursued his enemy. He passed an empty cell. Bars stretched from floor to ceiling and dug into the deep rock. The room contained a cot, the stuffing discolored and shredded, a toilet, and a sink. From the looks of it, no one had inhabited the place in years.
He fisted his hand, and the muscles in his arm quivered. Is this where Gwawl kept the gargoyles prisoner? Would he find some of his brethren here, wasting away? What about Wynne? If Wynne was sick or hurting in one of these disgusting cells, he’d raze the entire place with the force of his anger.
He continued after Marco, passing cell after empty cell. A few feet down the hallway, several lit wall sconces brightened the area.
Damian’s pulse picked up speed. He quickened his pace, drawing closer to his enemy.
Marco stopped outside one of the cells. “We need to talk.”
“I told you all you need to know,” a sharp feminine voice replied.
The woman wore a navy cardigan over a brown top with matching pants, and some of her thin, gray hair covered part of her features. Damian didn’t recognize her, but anyone in these cells had to be on his side. He stepped closer, using the shadows for extra coverage.
Marco’s face reddened. “Hardly. You can’t drop that kind of bomb and expect me not to ask questions. Which you will answer even if—”
Two indistinct, but feminine, voices filtered toward him.
Marco glanced toward the sound, then returned his attention to the female in the cell. “You have a reprieve, for now, but I will obtain answers to all my questions.”
Damian unclipped his dagger. If the fae so much as—
“Marco, you’re just in time. I took Wynne for her shower.” A young fae with too much eyeliner and purple hair strode into view. A strange, high-pitched laugh bubbled from her lips.
Wynne stood behind her, the light reflecting off her beautiful blonde hair.
Damian held his breath and assessed her in an instant, his gaze raking from her gorgeous features, over her low-cut, long-sleeved sweater, and down her tight-fitting jeans that hugged every curve.