by Lyra Evans
Niko felt ill and cold and raw all at once. He had limited sympathy for Sade in any situation, but however much he hated the man, he would never have wished that on him. He wished it on no one. What he had wanted for Sade was prison. He wanted Sade to spend the rest of his days rotting away, weak and trapped and without any of the power he thought he had. Niko had gotten what he’d wanted, and then the Woods came along and threw Sade back into freedom just to get back at Niko.
Preston nodded, the understanding friend. “I’m sure all Hemlock’s victims would thank you for that,” he said, though Niko was certain of the opposite. “How did you make it look like Spruce then? I mean, beyond the exact methods of torture. Did you get your hands on his gun or something?”
Noor shook her head. “He’s a cop. He’s not that stupid.” She studied her wall of tools and implements fondly, as though remembering the ones she’d chosen for the task of murdering Sade. “Gloves and warding to avoid leaving fingerprints or DNA. That kind of thing. Used the same brands Hemlock talked about using on Spruce. And the damn idiot was tailing Hemlock anyway, so he had no alibi. He put his own footprints at the scene, the moron,” she said, and Niko felt his neck burn. It was a police officer’s vulnerability—to run into danger at every turn, to put themselves in the line of fire, one way or another. That Niko had run in to check on Sade without worrying about evidence and boot prints was a testament to his training as a first responder. Lives came before cases. They had to. “But some of the other stuff I had to leave I don’t really get.”
Preston perked up. “What do you mean? What other stuff?”
Juniper shrugged. “Paw prints. I was told to leave paw prints outside the fencing of the warehouse. And not just regular ones. One had to have a scar down the middle of the pad and be missing a toe.” She shrugged here. “No idea what that was about, but I don’t ask questions. Not sure the police even found that.”
So the paw prints were planted. But Niko could no more identify the reason than Noor could. His eyes shifted to Preston and found the Werewolf still and serious. Noor wasn’t looking at him then, and perhaps he let his mask slip because of it. Because Niko thought he saw a flash of fear in his dark eyes.
“You were asked specifically to place paw prints?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he replaced the mask of his persona. “Why would anyone ask for that if you’re framing a Fae?”
Noor poured herself another glass of whatever she was drinking. “Search me,” she said. “Ask Phoebe. She’s the one who insisted on it.”
Chapter 22
Niko felt as though the world had suddenly come into focus. The edges of everything he saw were suddenly sharp and defined, almost painfully so, like he’d been staring at reality through a fogged lens without ever realizing it. His mind worked, clunky and overtaxed, to put together all the pieces he was being fed. Phoebe Linden had ordered Sade Hemlock killed. Which meant she was the one who had ordered Niko framed. She was the one intent on destroying him. Because that was what she was doing—systematically destroying every detail of his identity. She stole his job, his freedom, his credibility, his belief in the system…everything.
And she had set Sade free. Not alone, obviously, as there were two other Courtiers on that panel, but if she was orchestrating the frame-job, she must have orchestrated his release in the first place. She ordered Noor Juniper to murder Sade and plant evidence. And as Niko’s spinning brain focused on Preston, he realized that the Werewolf was entirely unsurprised by this information. He had been talking as if he wasn’t certain who ordered the murder—but of course he was. He had to get Noor to say it, to reveal them. She didn’t know Niko was the one asking. The magic binding her to the same contract Preston had wouldn’t work in this case. She thought she was only talking with another member of the Woods.
Which meant, of course, that the person in charge, running the Woods and pulling the strings of all the criminal enterprises of the conspiracy, was Phoebe Linden. A Courtier. A representative of Justice. A lawmaker. She had access to Queen Maeve herself, to all the power in the Fae kingdom, and to the people. And she was using it.
Her presence in the papers, the news, constantly warning of the dangers of a would-be Selkie invasion, demanding a closure to the borders, insisting Fae rights must be protected at all costs—it was all a push of some kind. But it couldn’t all be about Niko. That was insane. What did closing the borders have to do with framing Niko?
The slightest flicker of something in Preston’s eyes distracted Niko. The Werewolf’s expression hadn’t changed, but Niko could have sworn he seemed almost deflated. He nursed the last of his elderberry and rum, then set his glass aside and got to his feet. His shoes shone pristine black in the light of the room, and the silver-capped heel tapped a metallic sound against the mirrored floor. He looked as though he was floating, thanks to the reflection, but the weight of his steps told a different story. Something was heavy in him.
“There’s no knowing the ins and outs of the maze that is her mind, I suppose,” Preston said with a shrug. He reached for a canape on the table and popped it into his mouth.
Juniper nodded in agreement. “No point in trying. She hasn’t led me astray yet,” she said lightly. Then turning to Preston more fully, she considered him. “So have I got you sufficiently up to speed, or are you dying to hear the details of Ambert’s latest tryst to feel like you really haven’t missed anything?”
Preston laughed and shook his head. “No, please, don’t,” he said. “The blissful ignorance of what he’s been up to the last three months is one of the only perks of temporary exile.”
Shuddering, Juniper said, “If I have to sit through the despicable retellings of how he catches unsuspecting cleaning women unawares and does things to them, then the least you can do is join me in my miserable knowledge of it.” Preston laughed, but Noor seemed almost angry beneath her friendly complaining. “I’m serious, Preston. If I have to hear about one more young woman he corners in one of his office buildings late at night, I’m going to kill him myself. If he wasn’t Phoebe’s brother, I might have done it already.”
“I suspect if he wasn’t her brother, Phoebe might have done it by now too,” Preston joked, but Niko was caught on that. Ambert Redwood was Phoebe’s brother? He thought back to all the information he could find on her, and nowhere did he remember seeing her maiden name. If she was Phoebe Redwood, she too was heir to the Redwood fortune and empire. But if Niko remembered correctly, Phoebe was the elder. Traditionally, control of family properties went to the firstborn, or it was split accordingly amongst offspring. But to Niko’s knowledge, all the Redwood estate was in the hands of Ambert. Was it possible she relinquished control to him? Or was Niko missing something else? “He’s always been rather good to me, though.”
Noor snorted. “Sure. You’re a man,” she said, and the disdain was palpable. “And his sister’s ward, no less. She’s the only woman he’s ever listened to. The rest of us rely on our connections to her to shield us from him. I nearly gored him that first time we met before he realized I was Phoebe’s friend.” She shook her head. “What he was trying to do…”
Chilled to the bone, Niko felt his mind filled with flashes of a horror movie, all the possibilities of what Ambert Redwood got up to with women he made victims playing out in technicolour. The loathing in Noor was visible beneath her skin, purpling the lines of her veins and darkening the depths of her eyes. Niko didn’t have to think hard about what Ambert might have tried on Noor, but he did wonder how long ago that was.
“In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to work off some of that rage?” Preston asked, pulling the black case from his pocket again. Niko’s eyes flashed; why Preston thought now was the best time to turn Noor’s attention to him, he didn’t know. He hoped, however, it wasn’t Preston’s underhanded way of getting Niko killed.
Juniper visibly perked up. “So what is this toy, then?”
Preston’s mouth split in a toothy smile. “A wand of sort
s, you could say,” he said, opening the black case. He held it open to her like a jewellery box, and Niko caught sight of what would be used on him for the first time.
It wasn’t terribly interesting at first glance. Wand was probably the best descriptor for the object in the case. It was matte black in colour, much like the case to carry it, and it had the shape of a truncheon of sorts. Approximately a foot long, it was smooth along its entire length but for a wider ridge Niko could only describe as a cross-guard. It also seemed to taper very slightly toward the longer end. Other than that, there was nothing particularly significant about it that Niko could see.
“Are those runes etched into it?” Noor asked, stepping closer to study it. Niko hadn’t noticed runes and immediately felt a spark of concern.
“They’re embedded into the shaft. The surface is completely smooth,” Preston answered. “You could touch it to see for yourself, but I don’t think you really want the contact with the shaft.”
Her hand hovering over the surface of the item, Noor’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and that in itself left Niko afraid. “I can’t believe you got your hands on one. How did you track down a Sluagh Staff?” she asked in awe.
Blood running cold, Niko was temporarily disconnected from his own body. He’d heard of the Sluagh Staff before, though he hadn’t thought there were any remaining. Invented for military use centuries ago, during the First Wars, the Sluagh Staff was named long before Sluagh Penitentiary existed. Though today inmates at the jail often used the term Sluagh Staff as slang for a shank of some sort, the actual Staff’s history was much more dangerous.
They served a variety of purposes, but largely the Sluagh Staff was meant to cause pain. The intensity and repercussions of that pain were entirely in the hands of the wielder, but the military had originally proposed it as a tool to be used on prisoners of war. In short, a torture method. The stories spoke of the lightest touches, the simplest contact of the shaft of the Staff to exposed skin, and the victim would scream violently enough to cause their throat to bleed. Applying it to particular positions on the body could cause near-instant, irrevocable damage. Against the nape of the neck, it could sever the spinal column. Against the throat it could destroy the vocal chords and make someone permanently mute. Any direct contact with the testicles could effectively castrate. Against the lower belly on a woman, it could terminate a pregnancy and make her barren. Held against the left breast for long enough, it could stop the heart. And pressed to the inner ear, it would cause instant death.
“The originals were all destroyed centuries ago,” Preston admitted, and Niko eased slightly. “But in searching for one of those, I did happen to come across some early designs for them. Took the schematics to a friend of mine—”
“A friend of yours?” Noor interrupted.
Preston smiled. “Very well, someone who owed me,” he amended, “and had them tweak the design to my specifications. This little beauty is one of a kind now.”
“So it doesn’t do what the original ones were meant to?” Noor asked.
Preston took hold of the Staff by the hilt, wielding it somewhat like a short sword. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it can do all that,” he said, and Niko felt himself jerk in his bindings. It was an unconscious reaction, as was the flashing reel of memories playing out in his mind. Thoughts of Cobalt took over him, reminding him of the pleasure they’d shared, of the brief moment of true happiness he’d experienced when he and Cobalt had agreed, standing in the surf, that they were Soul Mates. The pain that followed after weeks of hearing nothing was dim in comparison to that brilliant, shining moment in Niko’s mind. And for a second, nothing else mattered. Not the fighting or the disagreements or the hurt. Not the lack of communication or the secret siblings or complicated pasts. All that mattered was that Cobalt was the other part of his soul, and he was waiting for Niko in a cabin in the jungle-forest. Niko would get back there.
“So what else does it do?” Noor asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Niko’s throat was dry; he could smell ash on the air from somewhere.
“Shall we find out?” Preston asked with a smirk. Noor gestured for him to start, but Preston was already approaching Niko, Staff in one hand, his eyes alight with excitement. Chest tight, Niko pulled his muscles taut, bracing for the inevitable pain. Preston had made a promise to him, to Cobalt, and Niko had no choice but to trust him on it. But the effects of a Sluagh Staff shifted the landscape of survival significantly. “Where shall I touch you first, slave?”
He was standing within inches of Niko now, his breath ghosting over Niko’s face. It smelled sweet, from the drink, and caught in Niko’s throat. The heat rolling off Preston offered a false sense of safety to Niko’s nearly naked body. Preston was in no way safe. And Niko continued to remind himself of that as he made eye contact with the Werewolf, teeth gritted, determined not to let himself break.
Preston’s mouth drew further into a smile, and he leaned in and pressed his nose to Niko’s hair, inhaling him deeply. Niko shuddered, a sensation caught between disgust and excitement. The hollow part of his chest suddenly felt cold and sharp, the way his breath felt after chewing mint gum.
“Get on with it, Preston, I haven’t got all day,” Juniper chastised, and Preston pulled slightly back. His eyes searched Niko’s briefly, then he made a face as though considering.
“They say the back is the least sensitive area on the body,” he said. “Perhaps it’s a good place to begin.” He raised the Staff inches from Niko’s body, and Niko’s eyes tracked it as it approached. Then Preston arced his arm around Niko, toward his back left side. Heart racing, Niko tried to keep his breathing even, trying to brace for impact, hoping Preston wouldn’t—
The cry tore itself from Niko’s throat without warning. He couldn’t quite remember even opening his mouth, as though he screamed before he actually felt it. But the pain itself was not something he could ever forget. Like being stuck by a molten hot poker, the point of contact to the Staff radiated agony. Whiteness blotted out Niko’s vision, and for what felt like three long years, he experienced nothing but the searing pain.
Except it had only been a second or so. When Preston pulled back, Niko’s entire body went slack, held up only by the cuffs around his wrists. The spot where Preston had touched him with the Staff throbbed still, and Niko struggled to breathe. It was only then he realized Preston had only touched the side of his back, not even his spine. Sweat slicked his skin, and his chest heaved, and beneath all that was a sparking, bubbling sensation he wished he could ignore.
“Enjoyed that, did you?” Preston asked in an undertone, his lips close to Niko’s ear. Niko’s eyes were closed, though he didn’t remember shutting them, but it didn’t matter. He knew what Preston was looking at. The pain had been brutally intense, but his body didn’t care. With a resigned heave, Niko swallowed. His cock was hard and straining against the mesh jockstrap, and he wondered if this was conclusive evidence he was irreparably broken.
“That was barely a tap,” Juniper said with a dismissive noise. “I want to see what this thing can really do. You’re not worried about blowing out your plaything, are you?”
The fog in Niko’s mind that seemed to follow intense pain barely allowed him to understand her question. Preston ran a finger up from Niko’s navel to his mid-chest, and Niko barely felt it at all.
“I’m not done with him yet,” Preston said, his voice affecting a subtle whine. “I want to play, not to ruin him. Not yet, anyway.”
Juniper huffed. “Boring,” she said. “Get on with it, anyway. I want to see if it builds or not.”
Preston hummed softly. He took Niko’s chin in hand and tilted his head up until they were barely an inch from one another. From this close, Niko could make out the little flecks of green in his brown irises. “Let’s see how much you can take,” Preston whispered, flicking his tongue out as he did. The tip of it grazed the inside of Niko’s parted lips, but he could barely manage a reaction. Even one touch of the Staff
had him wrung out, his body caught between lust and lethargy.
A hand smoothed up Niko’s side and wrapped around his wrist, as though holding tight to him, and the Werewolf pressed the Staff into Niko’s abdomen. Instead of holding it in place, he dragged it slowly along the skin, drawing out some incomprehensible shape. Lightning rocketed through Niko’s body, surging into the singular point of contact and exploding outward from every direction it could. He arched in his bindings, pulling so violently at them he shook the entirety of the X-frame. The pattern the Staff drew scored into his nerves like a rusty knife doused with lye and set on fire. Niko heard nothing, not even his own heartbeat, and thought for a moment he’d died. But the surge of pleasure beneath the pain reminded him he couldn’t be dead. Death couldn’t be that fucked up, could it?
Preston let off, releasing him, and Niko would have collapsed entirely but not for the X-frame holding him up. His hair dripped with cold sweat, his eyelids too heavy to force them open. There was fire in his lungs, as though he’d run for three straight days without slowing or stopping or drinking. But he had also never been so turned on in his life. His body rutted weakly at the air, needing something to relieve the intense hunger, the pressure in his balls, desperate for release. He couldn’t think straight anymore, couldn’t formulate even a safe word, if they’d had one. He didn’t think so.