For a strangled breath, I think of the tentacle critters. Their skrt-skrt, slip and slap sounds. But then I pinpoint the noise; it’s coming the ground between me and the fae.
It’s only the torch dragging over the coarse earth. Fleetingly, I wonder if it works the opposite way of a match being struck; dragging it over something hard and coarse (like a gravel road) keeps the flames at bay, when it should be the other way around.
We reach the shed—and I know we have reached the shed because, suddenly, the warrior pauses. Before I get the chance to so much as blink, I feel the rope tug and it’s quickly followed by a crunching sound.
It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s done. Booted down the rotting door, hard enough to split fragments of wood clean off. I mean, he probably could have tried for a handle first or, you know, pushed the door open. It’s a shed, not like it’s all locked up tight.
The warrior slips inside; I hear his soft-soled boots pad quietly on crumbled splinters of wood. No ceremony of ushering us inside, the ropes just wrench us in after him.
Spike and I smack into each other at the doorway.
I throw him a glare in the dark and elbow my way in before him.
Don’t care that he’s exhausted from carrying all the weight of the satchels and torch, it’s me with the bruised ribs and cracked spine (it sure feels that way, at least) and throbbing head.
Besides, I simply don’t like him. And I don’t feel too comfortable being stuck with him maybe more than with the dark fae. It’s an evenly distributed unease, I decide.
The door slams shut behind me, and I jolt with a fright spearing through me. The warrior must have reached back to close it; too close for my liking, since I feel the warmth of a breath disturb my hair as he moves away.
In a heartbeat, light is suddenly flooding the shed. The glare is so sudden and fierce that my eyes snap shut, burning. I cringe away from the source—the torchlight that the warrior flicked upright.
Bringing my bound hands to my eyes, I rub the aches away as best as I can. But even then, as I lower my fists and squint out at the light, it glares against me like sunshine catching on glass. One blink, two, three and four blinks until the shed starts to come into focus.
In the middle of the crammed space, the dark fae is spearing the bottom of the torch into the wood floorboards. The force splits a wooden panel right down the middle, sending cracks all over.
My eyes widen at the sheer power behind that one impale.
I turn my gaze away from him, if only to spare myself the obvious display of his strength. I don’t need more to worry about than I already have, thanks.
Beside me, Spike fumbles with the satchels. Desperation clings to his slack, pale face and slumped shoulders; he’s dying to drop it all on the floor.
I wonder why he doesn’t, but then, he’s been with the fae before, hasn’t he? So he would know the customs and what is expected of us.
Guess it’s safe to follow his lead and simply stand by the rattling door, wind whistling in through the fresh gaps. We wait.
And as we wait for our commands, I look around the shed. Not sure what it was used for, if anything at all. Maybe storage, a long time ago, but it’s been looted already? Hard to tell, since it’s so sparse in here.
Some damp boxes are piled in the corner, slanting like the Tower of Pisa, threatening to topple over at one gust of wind too strong. Beside them, there’s a wood post sprouting from the floor and reaching all the way up to the leaking ceiling. On the post, I notice some rusted hooks, but I have no clue what they are meant for.
Only a bench fills the other side of the cubed shed, with a tin bucket tucked underneath it. On the walls, there are more of those rusty hooks and some ropes, but nothing else that I can see.
What I can feel is something else entirely; the icy wind creeping into the shed. It’s colder in here than it is out there—or I’m just starting to feel the chilly shift in weather now that we’ve stopped for longer than a few minutes.
Whatever it is, I’m suddenly freezing. The urge to wrap my arms around myself tickles me, but with roped wrists, I just can’t manage it without turning myself into a pretzel.
This summer dress is a blessing for when heat swells through France and pierces the darkness, but come night—without the cardigan left behind at the grocer’s shop—it’s a curse.
I hunch over myself, arms huddled against my aching chest, and I watch pale clouds of breath escape my trembling lips.
My moment is cut short.
The rope jerks me forward and, as I glare up at the dark fae, I see that he’s taking us over to the wood post in the corner of the shed.
With expert fingers, he unloops the silky black rope from his belt, then fastens it to the hooks on the post. Before he leaves us there—right where a gap in the wall is, and the chilly wind gusts through—he takes the satchels from Spike’s neck.
I stand there, unsure of myself, as the dark fae limps (and he does limp, now) to the bench. He dumps the satchels to the floor; they land with a thud as he straddles the bench.
Spike is first to move. He slides down the post, back pressed against it, and looks up at me.
With a lurch of the head, he tells me that it’s ok to follow suit.
I do.
At least he’s useful for something. Sort of—he’s quick to lean his head back and close his eyes. How can he rest during a time like this? We’re fresh prisoners of the warrior, the one I bloody shot, and he’s out for a nap?
I definitely don’t feel safe enough for that.
So I’m rigid against the post, watchful of the dark fae as he peels off his strappy leather armour. He lets it fall to the floor before he digs through the nearest satchel to him.
I’m a masochist for watching this. He peels away the strip from his side-wound, and bile crawls up my throat at the raw sight of it. The skin at the edges is torn; completely shredded around a gaping hole filled with black blood and godknows what else. Their anatomy never seemed important before. Maybe it’s something I should have paid better attention to, since my group failed in wiping out all four dark fae.
Better late than never, I think.
So I force back the bile with a hard swallow, and I pay close attention.
From the satchel, he holds a tiny phial of glittering black powder in his bloody hand. He fights off a grimace as he twists to better bare his wound.
Whatever that black powder is, it’s valuable to him—I see that in the way he’s careful to tip just the right amount onto his fingertips before he gingerly dabs it around the torn flesh. When he’s done, he uses the leftover stains of black on his fingers to—I retch—stick his fingers into the wound and swirl them around.
The retch is so violent that I’m thrown forward and it comes out in a gurgling, burping sound. The fae throws me a withering look, ember eyes burning with anger—he blames me for this wound. Maybe he should. I was as much a part of it as anyone in my group.
Looking away, he pops the cork-lid back onto the phial. But he doesn't put it away in the satchel. For a beat, he considers it flat on his palm. His gaze cuts to the side, where his bullet-ridden shoulder is. Two thin streams of tarry blood run down his olive-skinned chest, passing over his weapons belt.
My mouth flattens into a thin line.
This black powder is magical.
Already, the massive gaping hole on his side is starting to ... knit together. As though invisible threads are stitching it closed. I mean, it’s slow work, but it sure as shit doesn't escape my notice. How could it?
He decides against using the black powder on his bullet wounds, for some unknown reason. I can’t decide, because I can never pretend to understand the mind of a dark fae.
I watch as he pockets the pinkie-sized phial—then he looks at me, and my blood runs cold. Ice spears through my veins at the sheer burn of his amber eyes, firelight dancing off the shadows of his strong jawline.
I stiffen against the post, urges nipping at me to fight aga
inst my restraints. There’s something dangerous—furious—about the way he’s considering me.
My heart leaps up into my throat, thickening and choking me.
The dark fae pushes up from the bench, his gaze never leaving mine, and strides towards me. Already, his limp is gone. His advancement is confident and predatory once more.
I choke on the lump in my throat as he reaches me. Neck arched, aches sprout all over my body as I sink back against the post, wishing it would swallow me whole.
He swipes at me—
I flinch and...
The tear of rope rips through the air.
Peering through one eye, I glance up at him, at his hand. The end of my rope is loose in his grip. He watches me, his brows lowered, and commands one word with renewed strength, “Up.”
I don’t hesitate, though it fucking hurts, I tell you. Every muscle and bone in my body shivers with cries as I force myself onto all fours, then push up to stagger in front of him.
“Wrists.” He makes a gesture, then flattens his palm.
I try not to think about why. I try to shut my mind off and go numb. But the fear pumping through me is keeping me too alive.
Breaths shudder in my throat.
Gingerly, I place my bound hands in his waiting one. He tugs once, twice—then the rope comes spiralling off my wrists as delicately as a ribbon drifting to the floor.
Buds of fresh pain burn my skin. I draw my wrists in closer and rub them. With a curt glance down at them, I see the bruising in the torchlight; like blackened purple and yellow kisses all over my flesh.
I’m given a sparse second to nurse my wounds before he snatches my arm, then drags me over to the bench. He shoves me down onto it. A cry catches in my throat, eyelashes fluttering, as pain explodes throughout my entire body, from ankles to my pulsating head.
A dizzying moment wafts over me. I try to steady myself, force myself upright on the bench.
What does he want with me?
My heart is pounding in my chest, dizzying me more, and my breaths turn short and choppy.
As I blink my blurry eyes open, I see that the warrior has sat himself opposite me, straddling the bench, and leans over to dig through the satchel. He pulls out a loot of bandages and mason jars of salves and balms, then shoves them into my shaky hands.
Are these for me?
It’s clear that they are medicines of sorts, and I’m littered with injuries. But—
All thoughts of treating my wounds are swiped out of my head. The warrior lowers his lashes on me, then taps his fingers against his bullet wounds.
“You did this,” he growls at me, and a shudder seizes my spine. “You fix it.”
My mouth tilts into a grim line.
Buds of red sprout on my cheeks; shame from fooling myself for a moment that I might get a little relief.
I bow my head and let the loot in my hands rest on the bench between us. I turn to straddle it too, facing him. All that twisting around punched too much pain through my back and ribs, and I have to be as careful with my wounds as possible.
Before I pick through the medicines and dressings, I make sure to tug down the torn hem of my dress to cover myself down to the knees. Just in case. I doubt dark fae would think that way about my kind—but still, you never know.
Fingers trembling, I reach for the wooden pair of what looks to be tweezers. Only, this wood is smooth and polished, not a splinter in sight.
I have to remove the bullets first, it’s unavoidable.
Only when I try to pinch the slick tweezers in my fingers, do I realise how badly my hands are sweating. Gone all clammy, and the wood keeps sliding against my skin.
I suck in a choppy breath and shut my eyes.
I do what my therapist (the school one) told me. Count to ten.
The warrior is silent and still as I do this; he doesn’t interrupt, he doesn't rush me. But I can feel his fiery gaze burning into me as I ground myself, my lips moving along with the numbers in my head.
Finally, my breathing has settled into something mantric, and I lift my tired gaze to his fiery eyes; though the fire has dimmed, and left are pits of mostly black with orange flecks.
Biting down on the inside of my cheeks, I reach the pinched tweezers for his shoulder. The wounds are perfect holes; no torn skin, just holes that have stopped oozing blood. Around the wounds, perfectly olive-toned skin stretches over muscles and looks as smooth as butter to the touch. A spike of jealousy hits me that a brutal warrior can have better skin than I do.
Throwing all thoughts from my mind, I focus on the task at hand. I line up the tweezers with the nearest hole—but I know my strengths and weaknesses; I turn my cheek to his shoulder as I dig into the hole.
For a moment, I prod around until the tweezers connect with the bullet. Smaller than what I would have thought. All too easily, I slip it out and let it fall to the bench. It bounces off and lands on the floorboards.
I swallow back any singe of bile before I aim for the next hole. And I did this, over and over, swallowing back burning vomit, all the while with dark pitch-black eyes watching me too closely.
He shows no signs of pain on his stoic face. Looks like a bronzed mask has slipped over him, and it’s aimed right at me. I pretend not to notice for the last of my sanity.
It’s only after the last bullet has rolled onto the floorboards that the nausea starts to rise up in my chest. Before, I was battling only bile—but now fresh waves of nausea roll over me like foamy waves take a beach, as I bring a threaded needle to his shoulder.
This time, when I swallow, I can taste the sick rising up inside of me. For a beat, I shut my eyes, hand hovering near his arm, and force pleasant images into my mind; memories of the Alps dusted in early-season snow, Capri and Saint Tropez, yachts and table-dancing and champagne showers.
But it does little good.
I open my eyes and it strikes me like a punch to the gut.
I double over, craned to the side, and spew up mere drops of bile. Nothing left in me to be sick with. Not even water. Fuck, do I need water right now to wash away the taste in my mouth.
The warrior grows impatient. After my third heave, he snatches the threaded needle from my hand and stitches up the wounds himself. Then he smears a beige balm—the same tone as his skin—over the holes.
I right myself, my eyelids drooped, and use the back of my hand to wipe any bile from my mouth. It takes me some moments to fight off the sick.
Watching me, he wipes his fingers clean on the bandages between us.
He reaches down for the second satchel. As he plants it between us, I get the chance to scoot back on the bench, putting some safe distance between us. Well—what is safe? I’ll never be safe with him.
But for the moment, I won’t be terribly hungry either, I learn; he pulls out a lump of baked bread, mostly eaten already. The lump is about the size of my balled up fist.
And he hands it to me, his jaw tight, and his lashes lowered. I trace his gaze as it cuts to Spike at the post (who is apparently awake now, and watching us too closely) then back at me. To share, his eyes tell me.
Hesitantly, I take the bread with shaky hands. He doesn't snatch it back, so I bring it closer to my chest, as if to shield it from him, protect it.
Before I can bite into it or split it in half to share, he’s snatching up rope and grabbing my wrists. I wince sharply.
His grip loosens and a frown pinches his brow together.
He watches his work as he fastens my wrists together, then rises from the bench. Slowly, he takes me back to the post, keeping a pace that my aching body can manage.
Once he ties me up to a hook, he makes back for the bench, leaving me with Spike in the silence, broken only by the crackles of the torch.
I split the bread in half.
Spike’s hungry gaze follows the hard lump as I hand it to him. He snatches it with as much greed as what lights up his muddy eyes, and he’s quick to bite into it.
I drop down beside him and
nibble on the edge. My experience in this new life has taught me that, after a sick-episode, don’t eat so fast.
Apparently, it’s meal-time for the three of us. The dark fae fishes out some bread from the satchel for himself—and a jar of damp strips of meat, sort of like fish or fermented green ham. Super fucking gross. At least it doesn't smell. I don’t think my weak stomach could handle a stench.
I’m finished my meagre ration before the warrior has eaten half of his healthy spread. He’s dug out more; something that I suspect to be some sort of nut-like cheese, and berries so black that I’m certain they are poisonous.
Spike shifts onto his side after a while, his back facing me. He tries to sleep—and I mimic him.
Maybe it’s that I haven’t slept in well over some days or that my entire body feels as though it’s been hit hard by a bus or that I ate something filling for the first time in a long while, but my eyelids are fighting against me. And I’m losing the battle.
As I lean against the pole, drifting off to a world where monsters haunt me just as they do here, my fear creeps into my thoughts—is this my life now?
Before, I had every intention of working out some way of killing this creature. But if I’m tied up all the time, watched so closely, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance to go through with it.
The next option is to kill myself. But again, how and when?
I hate myself in my final conscious moments before sleep; I should have used those last bullets on myself. I shouldn’t have let the adrenaline drown me, take me for a victim. I got so caught up in the moment that I couldn’t stop to think.
I should be dead.
But I’m not. I’m resting against a post in a windy, whistling, icy shed, prisoner to a dark fae, and a massive creep beside me who might try to cop a feel while I’m asleep.
Still, despite all of that I do find sleep.
Sometime during, I wake to turn sides. That’s when I’m faintly aware of the warrior hunched over on the bench, reading a map.
He cuts his gaze to me.
I turn my back on him and a mist takes over me.
Dark Skies : A Dark Fae Romance, A Dark Paranormal Romance (Dark Fae: Extinction Book 2) Page 2