“Thank you for your sacrifice,” he whispered close to her ear before standing and bowing to her sleeping form. On exiting the room, he whispered a spell to bind the entrance until she woke.
The will-o-wasps glowed dimly along the hall ceiling in shades of pinks and purples with the occasional and rear blue. At the edge of his good eye, he caught a shadow. He waited with a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Address yourself.”
The icy breeze that caressed the old stone walls and polished, coffin wood floors brought a distinct smell. The Red Cap came around the corner, its face set in grim creases. It bowed, “Lord Aire’Si, Queen Sayen-ael requests your presence in her private chamber.”
He nodded and walked past the Red Cap, noting how it cocked his head and sniffed the air. The protection spell on the door would hold against the scavenger he left in the hall. His true nemesis was waiting for him in her private chamber. He debated changing clothes, but Sayen-ael wasn’t patient, and there was no use hiding what he’d been involved with.
He stopped outside her door and pulled the patch from his eye. The dim will-o-wasp light stung his sensitive cornea, but the initial irritation was gone. He collected his thoughts and cleared his head. Sayen-ael was a master at reading energy and he had no interest in giving her leverage. He entered the room.
The queen, dressed in a black, moth eaten death shrouds that left her skeletal body lithe and pale, stood at the center of her private chamber waiting for him. Her obsidian eyes roved over his body, taking in the details he knew were apparent. She’d fill in the blanks. “You went looking for him against my orders.”
He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to answer. Sayen-ael would never understand his desire to keep Wolffey alive. She was mentally incapable of bonding with other fey. Her instability was clear, yet he ignored the signs and gave her his name so she could heal her illness with his energy. The sly little girl knew the extent of his abilities and did more damage with his name than the intentional good in which it was offered. All the anger turned to a solid ball of hatred that gripped the pit of his stomach, heavier than the blood that filled his gut.
Her eyes narrowed and her voice lowered soft and childlike, sing-song in tone. “It was daylight and not even your sweet Seelie Queen came to your aid. Do you think she would mourn your death?”
He held his breath. She was baiting him, ready to exploit his reaction, but she already knew more than he wanted his enemy to know. He could see it in the way the edges of her mouth softened and her shoulders relaxed. He was her puppet, her slave. He could do nothing once she evoked his name.
He swallowed and tasted nothing but Topside dirt and blood. “I know where Wolffey is. I can retrieve the Roswell Amulet.”
“That is not your concern, Aire Sinsael,” she answered. His name was a mere whisper of words that physically bound him to her whim.
The metaphysical leash enclosed around his throat, constricting his breathing. He tried to draw his fingers into a fist, but his connection to his body wasn’t there. He was alert, but his body wasn’t his to command.
“Draw your blade.” Her words were as sharp in his mind as they were in the air.
Her verbal command trailed the back of his neck and down into his limbs giving way to motion. His hand grasped the hilt of his dagger and drew it from its sheath. In the silence of the room, the fire crackled in the fireplace. Light flickered through the grate and gave his blade a silver gleam. Despite the detachment, he could feel the weight of his weapon in his hand.
Her heels clipped the floor as she crossed the space to stand in front of him. “Push it just below your heart.”
His hand bent and his other hand met the hilt to aid in the command. The tip pressed through his clothing and into his skin with the ease of all fey made weapons. The pain was immense, but the command was stronger than his will to survive. With effort, the blade sunk farther into his chest.
“Stop,” she ordered. His body instantly followed the command. He remained frozen with both hands on the blade. Desperately he begged she’d order him to pull the blade out. She took that last step forward that put her chest against his hands and the pain flared anew. “You will always do as I say. Remember this when you try to go against my orders again.”
She waved her hand and the spell withdrew. He flung the blade in haste to get it out of his chest. It clattered against the floor, smearing his dark blood in splotches along the wood. He fought against the desire to sag, utterly exhausted from having his essence hijacked. There was no immediate way to bounce back from the toll it took.
The door opened and he shifted his stance so the guest wasn’t at his back. Dugald walked into the room dressed in Gold Guard wardrobe. The traditional vest was made for the captain, an honor someone as young as Dugald couldn’t possibly have achieved. For good reasons, he didn’t trust the young captain with the level of power Sayen-ael granted him.
“Return to your room, Aire’Si, or I’ll have you escorted to the dungeon,” she ordered.
They both knew she brought Dugald into the room to flaunt his new title, which was directly under his own hierarchy in the guard. If Sayen-ael wanted him in a dungeon, she could simply order it. He would do whatever she bid.
He bowed and sharply exited the room. The pain in his chest was tight, and the conjectural noose around his throat a constant reminder of her power. Something had to give. He’d die before he allowed Sayen-ael to keep her place on the throne.
TWENTY-SEVEN
There were over four hundred chambers in Chancellor’s estate. He didn’t have time or energy to check that many rooms. Sweat dripped along his spine and tension tightened his collar bone. Determination kept him on his feet, but his strength was wavering. He held his breath until the desire to vomit lifted.
Goddess grant him strength, he needed to finish this. He closed his eyes and whispered a small prayer. Sounds echoed in the tranquil realm. He could hear the werewolves whispering, but their words weren’t clear. It would be a matter of minutes before they came up the stairs. He pulled a pendulum from his velvet pouch and let the heavy amethyst stone at the end hang loose.
Wolffey focused his thoughts on Hota, the man he’d seen once in his life when he was twelve and still at the farm. The Mission Leader looked mid-forties, with black hair pulled into a low ponytail at the nap of his neck. His skin was almond brown, his eyes the same coffee brown as Mercer’s. He was broader in the shoulders with a barrel chest and solid legs.
From these faded memories, he will Hota’s image into the cord that held the amethyst stone at the bottom. Every ounce of his remaining energy went into the emphasis on finding Hota. The amethyst started to circle in short, curt movements. Now it was trial and error.
He had two false starts down the connection hallways before he found the right path. With each cautious step, he remained wary of his location. The stone started to spin harder on the end of its chain and he stopped. It was the smell of werewolf that drew him to his right. The door was twice his size with no latch to open it. He dropped the pendulum into his pouch and faerie blinked, using Hota’s image and his desire to be on the other side of the barrier.
There was immediate relief standing in a chamber that didn’t crawl with an alien species. The room was vast and dark, making it impossible to tell just how high the ceiling was or how far the room stretched. Six foot pillars stood marking the five corners of the star drawn inside a chalk circle. The black, rod iron pillars housed a concave disk that cradled a fire. The air was sharp with the smell of pine and incenses. A ritual was taking place tonight when the moon was at its peak. The manacles inside the star were empty.
With a hand on the hilt of his blade, he stepped towards the circle. “Hota?”
Movement drew his attention along the wall where the gloom swallowed the room.
A pained grunt followed a huff of disapproval. “And who are you; a fire dancer to complete this ritual?”
If he wasn’t so tired and their lives weren’t in danger,
he would’ve found the comment amusing. “Fire dancers wear fewer clothes; less of a chance to catch on fire. I’m with the rescue party.”
The Mission Leader moved into the light. Bruised and bloody, the fight wasn’t completely beaten from him, though someone tried. Hota’s eyes narrowed as he sniffed the air. “You’re a werewolf, but you don’t smell like one.”
“What makes you think I’m a werewolf?” The opinion of a werewolf should hardly matter to him, but that wasn’t completely true. Mercer’s opinion mattered a little too much for his comfort.
Hota used the wall to step forward. His aura was bright with aggression. “You’re older now, but you look exactly how my son described you.”
“Your son is with the rescue party waiting for you downstairs. Can you walk that distance?” Wolffey asked, ignoring the silver sheen in the alpha’s eyes.
“You brought my blood into this?” Hota’s voice rumbled low. The werewolf was at the surface. His skin rippled fiercely before settling back under his flesh.
Wolffey’s hair hackled in response. “Your argument is better suited for your son.”
“Stay away from my son, gestohlen!” He pushed away from the wall, gaining his second wind.
Wolffey held his ground with his hand on the smallest of daggers. It wasn’t the werewolf blade he carried. As much as he hated the Mission, he wouldn’t defeat Mercer’s purpose for being here.
“Your son was adamant.” It wasn’t a lie. Mercer’s trade with Sayen-ael would follow him.
“What trade do you have with my son?” Hota asked.
Wolffey cocked an eyebrow. Everything inside him said to leave without the werewolf, but the better part of him let that thought go. “We’re wasting time.”
“You have time to say what you wish,” a female voiced from the shadows of the tall ceilings, webbed with spider silk. “No one is going anywhere.”
Wolffey dropped his shoulders in disappointment and rolled his head, trying to loosen the muscle in his neck. The darkness receded exposing little mechanic bugs that scurried through thick webbing. Their metallic shells caught the flickering light from the fires.
Wolffey cocked his head to the side, trying to gage where that voice came from. “Chancellor, it’s nary like you to be coy.”
Long, prickly limbs slowly unwound from the bulbous ball. Chancellor’s hard anthropoid shell was nothing like the metallic bugs. Though her body had similarities to the Beithir, her upper portion was humanoid. Her drastic change didn’t surprise him.
Chancellor moved slowly down the thick webbing. “I can free you from the fey, assassin, but you’ve outgrown your usefulness to me.”
Wolffey plucked a throwing blade from his waist and held it against his side. “You’re mistaken. I’m nary interested in leaving the fey.”
Chancellor dropped from the ceiling by a thread much thicker than the thinner webbing on the ceiling. Her feet silently touched the floor. Hota’s face twisted with pain, the werewolf was there, staring through reflective, yellow eyes. The skin around his mouth peeled back, exposing the lower jaw bone.
“Hota, stop,” Wolffey ordered. The werewolf twisted, shaking its body as it tried to relieve itself of more than just the clothes.
She came straight at him with her tail curled overhead, ready to strike. “Charity isn’t one of your stronger attributes, assassin. Why are you here?”
There wasn’t time to dip the blade with pure Beithir venom, the only way to kill another Beithir crossbred. “You don’t know my attributes.”
Her tail wiped forward and he jerked back to escape it. The minute his foot crossed the threshold of the chalk lines, hostile energy spiked through the soles of his shoes and up through his legs. It twisted along his muscle, freezing him in place. He held his breath until the tension eased and the energy matched his steady pulse. On the outside, the circle looked flat, but inside, the symbols drawn along the stone were three-dimensional, rising around him in a colorful array. A very curious part of him wanted to reach out and catch the symbols like bugs, but he didn’t dare budge. The circle wasn’t closed, not yet, but it was activated.
Chancellor moved along the outside of the chalk circle, her many legs in sync. “You’re still pretty, but not the way I like them.”
Hota crept forward, one large paw in front of the other. His head was down; his ears were pressed flat against his skull as he stalked. His lips curled over a maw of sharp teeth. The werewolf was acting on instinct, which would get him killed.
Pure adrenaline kept Wolffey on his feet. He had to keep her attention focused on him. “We can’t stay young forever.”
The clawed tips of her feet stopped clicking on the stone as she paused to regard him. Her human arms folded across her concave chest. Her sternum was hollowed. Heart valves kept her ashen, withered heart suspended where her organ belonged. “You underestimate my power.”
The werewolf growled low, drawing Chancellor’s attention. Wolffey jumped from the ritual circle, dagger drawn and aimed for her chest. His right shoulder was knocked with such force, his feet slid out from underneath him. The ground came up fast. His head and shoulders smacked the stone floor, leaving his head humming as he tried to draw air into his painfully tight lungs.
oOo
Stay, like a trained dog. That’s what Kivah meant. It wasn’t a command Mercer would follow.
He glanced at the ancient looking artifact Kivah gave him. The piece was solid, trickling a low static pulse over the surface of his skin. The nature of the essence was murky. He couldn’t read its intention, good or malevolent. Beyond the low key disruption of his second sight, he felt the pull of Kivah’s aura. It gave him something to follow.
True mate, his human conscious whispered, on the verge of merging with the werewolf. He caught Axel’s shoulder, drawing Rider’s attention too. “I’m following him.”
“He did that faerie thing and disappeared. How are you going to find him?” Axel asked.
Wyatt joined the group, keeping his voice hushed, though everything echoed in the quiet. “You took something when you were with the Unseelie, didn’t you? You’ve felt him this whole time. That’s why you always know when he’s close.”
“We can discuss this later,” Mercer said.
By the time he reached the staircase, Pembroke had the same plans. His werewolves moved cautiously ahead of their leader, blocking the staircase. He gritted his teeth. They didn’t have the same sense of foreboding that sat in his chest urging him blindly forward. The Mission Leader glanced at him and he swallowed his impatience. The Mission would ask too many questions if they suspected his ties with the fey.
He fell in step behind the group with Rider at his side. The wariness that settled in his chest became pure exhaustion. He put his hand on the banister for support and pain shot through his left shoulder. The white hot flash stole his breath, making it difficult to pull air into his lungs. It was the smell of his forest and pack that drew him from the sweltering white haze.
“Shock, maybe,” Wyatt answered someone’s question.
As he gained back his sight, he realized Wyatt had his penlight shining in his eyes. He put a hand on Wyatt’s, forcing him to lower the light and brought his other hand to his shoulder. The pain was gone as quickly as it’d been there. It wasn’t his.
“Kivah.” He absently rubbed his shoulder.
Wyatt nodded in understanding and leaned in close. “When we get back to the farm, you’re going to have to tell me what she gave you in the Hill.”
He nodded and when the younger man stepped back, he led his betas up the staircase. The Mission and their betas were already at the top, exploring the hallway. His episode had been in private.
The dim, receding light at the top of the stairs showed an endless hall of doors that stretched in both directions. The werewolves were split, which left him uneasy since Kivah gave the weapons to his group to hold onto. With the Mission split into two groups, it left the whole vulnerable.
He hissed when t
he pain went from his shoulder into the lower portion of his head. “There isn’t time.”
“Where is he?” Rider asked.
He repeated the question to himself, but it didn’t make the connection stronger. The link he shared with the assassin was growing weaker. They were running out of time and he had no idea if his father was alive. It was a long shot, but he could use the amulet the way he saw Kivah use it. It was all connected to energy and with it; even the weak connection had a visible line.
Mercer lifted his arm to show them what he wore. “I know how to find him.”
Tristen caught his wrist. “You don’t know what this thing can do. You shouldn’t be wearing something that belongs to the fey.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.”
Tristen’s hold tightened. “Are you forcing us to take that chance too? You are next in line as the North American Mission Leader. Be smart about your decision.”
Mercer turned his attention to Rider and Axel. “Collect the others and tell them to be ready for anything.”
When they were gathered, he hit the same spot he saw Kivah hit. Sheer heat slid through his forearm and into his chest. The stabbing pain was quick, but intense. Mercer’s heart ticked loudly against his eardrums as he registered the magnitude of energy that mixed with his blood and agony. In his weakened state, his werewolf spirit pressed through his skin, adding to his sweat and discomfort. His humanity hung on a thread and he used what was left of it to push the feral spirit back within.
Blood drizzled out from underneath the cuff bracelet. He sagged under the tenderness of his injury as hands gripped him under his arms and hauled him to his feet. The bleak world spun, forcing him to grip the wall to keep from going back down. Now he understood what Kivah felt when he was on all fours, vomiting. He couldn’t do this again too soon.
“What are your symptoms?” Wyatt’s tone turned clinical. He looked his young age without his thin, black rimmed glasses.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” he answered. There was another brief touch of nausea when he pushed away from the wall. They were still in the hall but the doors were different. These ones didn’t have handles. The betas fanned the Mission, who stood too close for his comfort.
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