Run away. That is what Adam had advised. Eliza did not want to believe Adam. Not truly. And yet she felt ashamed. She knew precisely why she stayed with Mab. Until this moment, her entire life had been composed of “have nots,” forced to live on meager sums, clothes that needed constant reworking, winter nights that left her shivering because coal supplies had to last for months, until, finally, she’d been too poor to feed herself and she’d done unforgivable things. Deep inside of Eliza, there was a hateful, shameful lust for luxury.
From an early age, she’d coveted fine things. Sparkling jewels, silky textiles, luscious foods, costly items that she could never hope to possess, all called to her. Mam had called her a magpie. She used the moniker with affection. But Grandda Evernight had always frowned upon her roving eye. Only once had she heard him mutter that Eliza was too much like her grandmother. As she’d never met the woman, Eliza couldn’t feel offended on her behalf, but it stung nevertheless. It made her feel wrong and unsettled.
Was Mab truly her grandmother? And the fae queen to boot? Eliza snorted softly to herself as she walked along the shadowed path, the air fragrant with the scent of loam and sunshine. It all seemed so normal here. When her life had become anything but. Fairies, demons, men who could raise the dead, and men who could turn to shadows. Tales, if told around normal folk, that would have her packed up and sent to Bedlam. And yet she’d seen it all with her own two eyes.
As she drifted past the gentlemen’s beverage table, laden with all the tempting drinks deemed too strong for weak women, Eliza plucked up a glass of champagne and drank it down, letting the cool, tartness of it sooth her parched throat, not caring if anyone saw her do it.
“Swallowing nearly an entire glass of champagne?” said a male voice at her side. “I’m shocked.”
Eliza knew that voice and found herself smiling. St. John Evernight returned it. “And in public, no less.” He glanced around, taking in the crowd, all dressed in their finest as they ate their picnic food off of china plates and used silver to cut their fruit. “What will these crows think?”
“Perhaps they’ll banish me from ever attending another function,” Eliza said hopefully. And then she touched his arm. “It is good to see you again, Sin. It’s been too long.” Months, in fact.
When he’d first introduced himself to her, he’d called himself “Sinjin.” Or that’s what she’d heard him say, yet most of their acquaintances called him Sin. Later he’d explained that the English pronounced the name St. John as Sinjin. Thus, his friends and family called him Sin. An apt nickname, for he was constantly seeking out some form of mischief.
“English society is a bore,” Sin answered now. “If it were up to me, I’d be rid of it completely.”
“I’d hardly call the fast crowd that runs with Mab proper society.” Eliza thought of the disturbing dinner Mab has hosted last night. “In truth, I’m fairly certain you could do anything in her house and she’d not turn a hair.”
At her snide tone, Sin’s green gaze searched her face. “What troubles you, cousin?”
In a distant way, they were cousins, his grandmother being first cousin to her grandfather. Only she’d grown up in Boston, and he in Ireland.
She edged closer, hesitation warring with a need to confide in the only person she trusted. “I saw him.”
Sin, along with Will Thorne, had been the one to rescue Eliza from Adam. Instantly Sin’s nostrils flared. “Did he come after you?” He looked around the sunny garden as if expecting Adam to jump from the hedgerow and attack.
“No, nothing like that,” she assured. “He cannot harm me. He’s injured. In fact he’s —”
“Stop,” insisted Sin. “Don’t say another word.” Sin’s skin took on a pasty hue. “Not until I explain one thing.” On unsteady feet, he came closer. “I’m bound, by a vow, to tell Mab if there is a danger of you consorting with Adam.”
“What?” Eliza’s voice rose too high, she knew. A few heads turned, censorious frowns shooting her way. Sin hissed his displeasure, and Eliza struggled to temper her tone. “Why? And what do you mean you ‘vowed’?”
But Sin merely shook his head. “If you do not want her to know, do not tell me.”
Eliza frowned. If she wanted Mab to know she’d found Adam, Eliza would have gone directly to her and asked why he was chained and tortured. But Eliza hadn’t said a word. For the first time, she looked upon Sin anew, taking note of the agonized guilt that shadowed his eyes. Perhaps he’d finally let her see it.
Her insides turned. “Sin,” she said carefully, “ought I have a reason to hide things from Mab?”
He grimaced, a mere twitch of his lips, before pasting a pleasant, carefree expression upon his face. He picked up a glass of champagne and made a show of taking a sip. “At this moment,” he answered as though speaking of the weather, “I’ve no reason to believe Mab would cause you harm.”
That did not mean she wouldn’t, Eliza realized with a racing heart. Inside of her silk gloves, her hands grew cold and damp. The urge to shout and cry nearly bubbled over. “Why,” she managed, “did you not tell me?”
He glanced away, his throat working. “I could not.” His pained expression returned to her. “I have watched over you as best I could.”
The sun came out, a rare occurrence for London, its rays a harsh yellow light, and Eliza blinked away a hazy blur of frustration and hurt. “I’d have preferred the truth.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I can only strongly suggest that you never agree to a blood vow with anyone you do not implicitly trust.”
She made a pretense of putting on a pleasant face, but still she did not look at him. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“You must learn our world, Eliza,” Sin murmured. “We are not like humans.”
When she looked up swiftly, he gave her a false smile even as his tone remained serious. “You are more than half fae, even if you’ve yet to believe it. Which means you can be bound by a blood vow. I am an elemental. Thus, I too can be bound.” Sorrow lined his handsome features. “Once bound, your vow is irrevocable, no matter how much you regret it.”
Eliza took a step away from him. “I think I’ll take a turn around the garden.” Her voice was wooden.
He frowned. But then nodded. “I understand,” Sin whispered. “I do.”
“No,” she ground out. “I don’t think you understand at all.”
Loneliness smothered her as she walked along an abandoned garden path. She’d thought Sin would be her one ally in this strange new world. She thought she could trust him. Enough. She was becoming downright maudlin. “Pity is for the weak,” she whispered. Especially if that pity was applied to one’s self.
“Yes, Eliza, it is.” The familiar masculine voice sent a shard of terror through her middle.
Eliza whipped around, her voice lost in shock. From out of the shadows, a figure slipped. And her dread increased, her insides threatening to heave. The man was of a towering height, his hair pale blond, and his eyes a deep, endless brown. Those eyes had once smiled at her, promising her the world. And she’d believe in them, just as gullible as the endless young men who laid upon Mab’s table like offerings.
Through dry lips, she found her voice, weak as it was. “Mellan.”
Mellan Marbury. Leader of the Black Death gang in Boston. Now her personal nightmare. She almost let out a laugh. And here she’d thought her demon captor was a bastard. She’d clearly forgotten what true bastards were.
His gaze, cold as ever, raked over her, lingering on her breasts, and his thin mouth curled. It was not a look of lust or even appreciation but of ownership, as though he believed he was entitled to do anything to her. Eliza did not flinch, even as her mind screamed at her to run. Gods almighty, she’d faked a death, traveled across an ocean, and he’d found her.
Mellan tilted his head, the angle extreme, calling to mind a crow about to peck at its prey. “You do not seem happy to see me, pet.”
She knew that tone. A fist wo
uld be accompanying his words soon enough. Eliza found she didn’t damn well care. “For once, you’ve correctly assessed my feelings, Mellan. Is it too much to hope that you’ll also turn heel and leave this instant?”
His slow chuckle was nails against glass. “I have so missed your sense of humor, Eliza.”
“I have no sense of humor where you are concerned.”
His patience vanished like smoke, and he took a hard step closer. “Your constant sassing wears thin.” His teeth showed with an ugly grin. “Here on in, I’ll be taking my pound of flesh for each snide remark.”
“I expected nothing less,” she snapped back as though her insides weren’t churning. “Only I do believe our acquaintance has come to an end.”
“Is that what you believe?” He chuckled. “Dear girl, you know so little. It’s pitiful, really.”
They glared at each other, laughter and the gentle murmur of conversation drifting over the garden, when the light scuff of a shoe sounded.
“Ah, Eliza,” said Mab – her savior. Mab’s doll-like face plumped with a smile as she looked toward Mellan. “I see that you’ve found Mellan. Excellent.”
Eliza’s heart nearly stopped as she gaped at her aunt. “You… you know this man?”
Mab cocked her head, exactly as Mellan had done. “Know him? Why, my dear girl, he’s my brother. And your kin.”
The bottom dropped out of Eliza’s stomach. As if Mab hadn’t just voiced something utterly horrible, her expression grew beatific, and she gave Mellan a pleased nod. “I believe he’s been most desperate to see you.”
For an endless moment, Eliza simply stood, her hand pressed tight to her middle, her mouth open and silent. “I… How…” Her breath hitched, and her hand curled into a fist. “Aunt, you do not understand —”
Mab’s little nostrils flared in irritation. “I assure you, child, I understand perfectly well. Mellan has kept me apprised of the situation, and shame on you for running from him. That is not the mark of honor.” Her eyes were hard and unyielding. “I realize that you yearn, as all fae do, to be independent. But a child of my bloodline has certain duties, and certain customs must be respected. Make no mistake, Mellan shall be your husband.”
“You’ve healed nicely.”
Adam refused to react to the sly finger that slid along his chained arm and lingered along his collarbone. The very bone the bitch had broken in three places last night. Mab hummed, a pleased sound, as her touch moved to his nipple, and Adam ground his back teeth together. Given the choice between enduring her touch or meeting her gaze, Adam picked the latter.
Her beauty was flawless, an elegant rose in perfect bloom. And beneath it, foul rot. She smiled at him, her plump lips revealing black fangs. She liked to bite him with those fangs. Hard, deep bites in his most sensitive places. Bitch.
“Such hate in your eyes, Adam.” Mab sat back on her heels and tutted. “When your freedom could be gained by simply loving me.”
Unable to hold it back, he snorted with disdain. “Love? Is that what all this is about? Your undying need to be adored by those who refuse you?” He would be ill. He imagined splattering her fine satin dress with his vomit. An entertaining image, that. But Adam would not give her the satisfaction of seeing the depths of his feeling.
Mab stood, her small nostrils flaring. “Always so very proud, Aodh. To your downfall.” With the tip of her boot, she forced his chin up. Her eyes held the satisfaction of victory. “One day, you shall gladly kiss these boots.”
He ought to remain silent. If anyone knew how maddening silence could be, it was Adam. Eliza had given him a hard dose of that particular treatment for months. It had nearly driven him to madness. Often times, he’d pictured himself tearing apart a room, rage and hopelessness over her refusal to engage with him pushing him to the edge. Yes, Mab would detest a mutinous silence.
Unfortunately, Adam detested holding his tongue with equal measure. He simply could not do it. Which is why he found himself affecting a pleading voice, strongly laced with acidic sarcasm. “Oh, Mab, please spare me another round of torture. I cannot possibly stand another moment.”
Her lips pursed as she glared down at him. “You think you’re so cheeky. We’ll see who’s laughing when I finish flaying your skin.”
One of her favorite methods. Bile surged upward. “If memory serves,” he said as though his throat wasn’t burning, “that would be you.”
After all, the bitch had cut his tongue out during that particular session so he hadn’t been able to join in. And while Adam would rather not think on that time, or experience it again, he’d be damned if he’d let that show.
Her eyes narrowed, their color flashing from human brown to a fae’s pansy purple. “I clearly need to be more creative with my tricks.”
He simply stared back, tired of her games, tired of everything.
“Silence, is it?” she intoned brightly. “No pithy replies?”
“Perhaps you ought to tell me what I should say.” He shrugged his aching shoulders. “Write a script for me to read.”
The smack across his face was so quick and hard that his head rattled against the wall. It took all his control not to snarl at her, to try to rip free from his bonds. A useless endeavor at any rate. And she watched him, her eyes alight, as if waiting to devour his anger. Her rapt expression crystallized to icy disdain when he did nothing.
“What do you want of me?” he asked. “Truly? Are you not tired of this game you play?”
Her little fangs flashed, black and needle sharp. “To beg.”
He sighed, letting his head rest against his arm. “I will no’. Best you kill me now, fae.”
For a clean, bright moment, he thought she might, as her arm raised and black claws sprung from the tips of her fingers. One good and true swipe and his head would topple. Some wounds even an enchanted man did not come back from. But she collected her wits and took a visible breath.
“Too easy, Aodh. By far.” Mab’s lips lifted in a cruel smile. “There is another way to earn your freedom.” Her tone and the bitter twist of her lips spoke of reluctance. “Return what you stole from my people.”
Ah, yes, Adam’s stolen artifacts. It always came back to that. When he’d been a knight, charged with collecting heathen artifacts for the Church, he certainly did not view his quest as theft. Now, he simply had no desire to give Mab what she wanted. He smiled, with teeth. “I did not offer them up when you first threatened to curse me. What makes you believe I shall now?”
Her red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Why would you not? You prefer to live this way? Prefer being a dog on a leash?”
Adam merely raised a brow and stared back at her.
Mab sniffed. “Fine. Have it your way. This shall hurt you far worse than it hurts me.”
The bitch actually believed she was amusing.
Smiling, Mab strolled across the cellar and picked up a hammer. Adam eyed the thing, sick dread spreading through his gut.
“Tell me” – she hefted the hammer’s weight, testing it with a light smack against her palm – “where is the Horn an Bás?”
Surprise hit Adam. The Golden Horn an Bás, the horn of death. It was said that to hear its notes was to be instantly struck down. No being of this earth or of the fae could fight its power. Death to immortals.
Adam nearly laughed. He bloody well wouldn’t be hanging like a side of beef on a hook if he had the horn. But it wouldn’t go well for him at all were he to admit that. Then again, it wouldn’t go well for him either way, so he was bolloxed.
Best to irritate the bitch and let her vent her frustration until she tired. So Adam grinned with teeth. “Nuair a thiocas an bás ní imeoidh sé folamh.” When death comes he won’t leave empty. The Irish had used that proverb in regard to him at one time. He’d relished it. Now, he gloried in the frustration and rage gathering over Mab’s too pretty countenance.
“Lest you want an bás to come for you now,” Mab said lightly, “you’ll tell me where it is.�
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“Best you go fuck a goat.”
And that ended the conversation. Mab’s narrow boot heel stomped down upon his gut. Absently, Adam watched the crescent-shaped bruise bloom, growing darker as blood seeped below the surface of his skin. Adam did not know where the horn was. But that triviality was not going to stop him. If the fae wanted it that badly, he was going to get it. Somehow.
Chapter Three
Eliza had returned. Adam could scent her drawing closer, feel her vibrancy light up the pitiless grave they’d left him in. He kept his eyes closed and remained still, barely daring to breathe. It hurt to breathe at any rate. Perhaps she’d see him sleeping and leave. It would be better that way.
The rustle of her skirts and the scent of luscious pears surrounded him, his senses stronger now as he was a dog. The ruff along the back of his neck lifted, his skin prickling beneath the fur. The urge grew worse as she knelt down next to him and the silk of her gown settled over his hind quarters.
“Lord above but you look worse for wear.” A soft, tender hand settled upon his hip bone, and he whimpered. Damn dog reaction.
A massive shiver scattered agonized shards of pain throughout him as he dissolved and then reformed as a man. It took a moment for his vision to clear, to focus in on the perfect oval of her face. Concern pulled the gentle arches of her brows together, and the pink curves of her lips puckered into a small pout. He wanted to lick, suck, and bite those lips, feast on them as if they were sweetmeats. He also wanted to shove her bodily out of his cell and out of his sight.
He settled for remaining as he was, sprawled upon the ground, his arms wrenched high overhead by the chains that bound him. Her hand had not strayed from his hip, and while it was one thing for her to touch him there when he was a dog, it was quite another to feel her palm resting upon his bare skin. The muscles along his lower abdomen tensed, a sweet-sharp pain. With a lazy air he knew would irritate her, he glanced down at her hand.
“Planning on moving that hand lower, sweets?” He allowed himself a leering grin. “There is one part of me uninjured. Yet I can assure you it aches all the same.”
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