Taken

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “So, how about some small talk?” I asked with forced cheerfulness. I needed to talk, about anything. Anything to get my mind off what was waiting for me.

  “Has anyone heard from the kelpies?” I asked.

  The battle-axe paused, and something like pleasure glittered in her eyes. “Oh, aye. They’re back and in a right tiff.” She grinned at me. “Your man really shot two of ’em, eh?”

  “He defended the child,” I said.

  “Yes. And now that Marilyn has agreed to the human lawman’s stipulation about minors and contracts, the kelpies have no claim to the boy, nor do they have grounds to demand compensation from the one who shot them.” She chortled. “And his previous owner will not give them a refund!”

  They all laughed at that. Not a lot of love for the kelpies in this room.

  “Not going to help you, though, is it, child?”

  The tiny flame of amusement that had been chasing away some of the cold fear around my heart died a pathetic death. “No.”

  “Lucky for you, the red caps left yesterday. Most of the trash doesn’t hang around after the first day, knowin’ they’re not allowed to participate in the second auction.”

  Trash. By which she meant the Unseelie.

  A small thread of relief wove through me at that revelation. Most of the Unseelie were gone, and the kelpies had already spent their money. They weren’t a particularly financial race, so I doubted they’d have enough to win me. Small favors.

  Suddenly, I remembered another enemy. “Wait. What about Raphael?”

  “Raphael? Oh, him.” One of the younger maidens lowered her voice, speaking in the whisper of someone who doesn’t want to be overheard. “He’s old.”

  When a fey said “old,” it had an entirely different weight than when a human said it. Old usually meant they remembered the Old Kingdoms, what this world had been before the World Tree had grown. Before the past had branched out to form a new future. For some, it meant they were from one of the Old Kingdoms, though that was rare.

  “How old?” I asked.

  “He remembers Meropis.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “He is from the Old Kingdoms, then.” I was from the Old Kingdoms too, but not Meropis. And I was fairly certain I would remember Raphael if I’d met him before. So either he’d attacked me for no reason, or the target of his attack had been Grace. “Is there any bad blood between him and Grace?”

  “I don’t think so,” one of the girls said, tugging at my hair as she pulled the braid loose.

  “Keeps to himself mostly, that one,” the older woman informed me. “He like as not only came here because the auction hails back to the old days.” She snorted. “That’s sidhe for you, isn’t it? Always dreaming about the days they were put up on pedestals. There’s not many who watch where they throw their bathwater now, is there? No one dreamin’ of being Taken by the beautiful people.”

  The thin girl smiled. “No one to sing songs of how great they are. Pity.”

  A heard a sob. I looked around, but didn’t see anyone. None of the handmaidens seemed to have heard it either.

  “Are you all right?” one of the girls asked.

  “I… I need a drink of water. Excuse me.”

  I jumped off the stool, ignoring the shouts of protest as I ripped a few seams and tore loose a row of stitches. I darted across the room to where a blessedly modern water cooler sat in the corner. I helped myself to a cup of water.

  “Echo?” I whispered.

  I’m here.

  Her voice came from inside my head. I clutched the cup of water.

  “Echo, I thought I told you to stay with Andy?”

  Peasblossom is with him. Besides, he’s with the Vanguard. He’s as safe as he can get.

  Her voice sounded watery, as though she’d been crying. Neat trick for a ghost.

  “Echo, what’s wrong?”

  The songs! Echo wailed.

  “Songs?”

  She sniffed, the sound so loud I was afraid the others had heard it.

  “What songs?”

  My songs. The songs I wrote when I was young and stupid. A young, stupid, foolish girl!

  She hiccupped, and I shifted awkwardly. She had no physical form, no shoulder to pat, no mouth to drink offered tea, even if I had tea to offer. This was new ground, even for me.

  “What about your songs?” I asked gently.

  I wanted to be Taken. I wanted one of the shining ones to find me, to fall in love with my talent and whisk me away to a beautiful land where I would write poems and sing songs forever.

  I paused. “But you’re glad they didn’t Take you now, right? You see now what the truth of your experience would have likely been.”

  And that’s what makes me evil! I wrote songs about my desire, trying to catch their ear. What if others heard my songs? What if I’m the reason they wanted to be Taken? How many people were contaminated by my dream?

  I didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t wrong. She may well have influenced someone, planted the seed of a dream that would grow to be the tipping point when an opportunity presented itself. But maybe not.

  “Echo, I don’t have time to talk about this with you properly yet,” I said. “But we will talk later. If you truly feel you’ve done wrong, then I can help you find a way to seek redemption. I’ll find a way you can help make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  The ghost sniffed. Promise?

  “I’ll help you.” I cleared my throat. “I’m glad you’re here. I mean, with me. Now. It’s nice not to be alone when… Well, you know.”

  I’ll stay with you as long as I can.

  I felt a little better, though my mouth was still dry as drought when I returned to the stool. I shifted uneasily under the looks of disapproval I got from the handmaidens. I really wished I’d been able to talk Marilyn into letting Peasblossom bid for me. The wretched woman had been all smiles when she’d explained that “wouldn’t be fair.” She’d actually wagged a finger at me when she told me Andy wasn’t permitted to bid with my funds either, only his own. I didn’t know how well off Andy was, but I knew he’d never win a sidhe auction. So now, I found the least of all evils was Morgan.

  “How rich is Morgan?” I asked.

  “Morgan?” The girl with the pink hair frowned. “You mean Mourning Star?”

  The other girls snickered.

  “Morning Star?” I asked. “I mean the one who was at the gatehouse. Black dress, feathered sleeves? I’m not sure how’d she’d get a sunrise nickname.”

  “Not that kind of morning. The grieving kind. And, yeah, that’s her. Always moping, that one. I don’t know why she even came here. She never attends parties.”

  “Not since her mom died,” another one added.

  There was a moment of sad silence.

  “Her mom died?” I asked.

  “Chose to fade. I don’t know the details, but Morgan took it really hard.” There was a trace of self-censure in her voice now. As well there should be, if she was mocking Morgan’s pain.

  “No one knows why?”

  “No one will talk about it. The older ones give each other looks if the subject comes up—which it almost never does. I heard a rumor there was a geas against speaking of what happened.”

  My eyebrows shot up. A geas meant it was forbidden. It was very rare for one to be laid against a group of people. If no one talked about it at all, that meant magic was involved to enforce the geas. I could only think of a handful of people with the power to manage that.

  “Anyway, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone richer,” said one of the girls. She grabbed the hem of my dress and, with an overly exaggerated sigh at what I’d done to it, started to repair it. “She doesn’t spend anything she’s got. Probably still has her entire inheritance.”

  I breathed a little easier. She had the money, then. As soon as that thought calmed, another worry rose to take its place. “What about Raphael? Has anyone heard anything about him?”

  A round of sig
hs traveled around the group of maids, halting before reaching the battle-axe.

  “Raphael is a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart,” pink-haired girl said dreamily.

  I made a mental note that unless your heart had stopped, a shot of adrenaline would kill you.

  “I can’t believe Flint shot him.” The other girl spoke this time, her eyes wide. She stared at me. “Were they fighting over you?”

  Everyone but the battle-axe stopped working to stare at me.

  “No,” I said flatly. I wanted to add that Raphael had been trying to kill me, and Flint had only been fulfilling his obligation under the rules of hospitality, but I didn’t. I couldn’t prove Raphael had been manipulating my and Grace’s emotions to keep our fight going. I had no reason to offer for why he’d do such a thing. I was, however, suddenly very interested in how much money he had. And whether he, like so many of his kin, held a grudge…

  “How rich—”

  “He’s the head of his house,” the pink girl answered. Her eyes glittered, and I couldn’t tell if it was pity or envy. “If he wants you, he’ll get you.”

  The door opened, and Marilyn swept inside. She had the beaming smile of a cat that had eaten the canary and a whole mess of baby birds. “It’s time, Mother Renard.”

  The girls around me muttered, moving quickly to fix what they could before stepping away. I stepped off the stool and strode toward the door with my chin held high. I stopped at the threshold without facing Marilyn. “Where are the children?”

  “Standing with Agent Bradford, waiting for you to fulfill your end of the bargain,” Marilyn said sweetly.

  “And how am I to know you’ll hold up your end?”

  She should have been offended that I would suggest she would lie. But she was obviously too pleased about my impending doom to bother. “Mac Tyre remains with him as well. The Vanguard seemed intrigued with your offer, and I believe they all stayed to see for themselves.” Her grin widened. “It’s not every day one gets to buy a witch.”

  “Well, let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”

  Marilyn clapped in gleeful excitement as she led me onto the stage. A bright spotlight beat down on me with near physical force, and I fought the urge to squint, to hold an arm in front of me. I would not let this room full of child slavers see me sweat.

  I am a witch. I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and gave the entire room my best witchy look.

  It did little to ease my nerves when I caught a hint of a few nervous murmurs, and one or two people shuffled back. It helped my pride, though. I fed that sliver of confidence into the witchy look and stared into the crowd of darkened, blurry faces as if I could see them. I swept my gaze slowly over the room, pretending to make a mental note of every face as if I would remember this insult. I would remember who had the nerve to bid on me.

  And I would.

  “We will start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars,” Oisean announced.

  “One hundred thousand,” a man said.

  I followed the voice. It was a sidhe, a man with thorny vines woven through his hair, and a red glint to his irises. He crossed his arms, stretching the lines of his white jacket. Red dots resembling blood spatter decorated the soft linen, and when the vines moved in his hair, I realized why. He was bleeding. And he didn’t seem to mind.

  An image of what those thorns could do to others blossomed in my mind’s eye, and my skin itched with anticipation of hundreds of bloody scratches.

  “One five,” a woman responded.

  This time the speaker wasn’t sidhe. She was a centaur. Her long blond hair flowed down over her armored chest plate, and she had a helmet tucked under one arm. A short sword hung from a sheath over her right-front flank. Centaurs as a rule were prone to battle, either because someone had encroached on their territory, or because they wanted to keep their skills sharp. I had no idea what they would want with a witch. But considering my somewhat squishy physical condition, I didn’t fancy finding out.

  There was a moment of silence, then Morgan’s voice. “Two.”

  The bidding continued. Morgan played it slow, letting the bidding climb and waiting for pauses before throwing in her bid. My eyes adjusted to the light, and I could make out the faces of the people bidding on me. The price rose to five hundred thousand, a million.

  When the bidding passed a million, I stared at Morgan, straining to see if she seemed worried. She met my gaze and nodded. I breathed a little easier.

  “Two million.”

  Raphael’s voice rolled over the crowd, and when it hit me, it raised goosebumps on my flesh. My pulse picked up speed, and I fought to keep my breathing even. The crowd didn’t physically part for him, but enough people turned to watch him that I got a good look at his torso. His suit jacket had been discarded, and what was left of his white dress shirt was bloody and hanging open. Some of it had been torn away, providing a perfect frame for the bullet wound in his side. The flesh had healed—Flint had used silver, so it would heal with the sidhe’s usual speed—but it was still there.

  A murmur went through the crowd and people looked around. I must have been more flustered than I thought, because it took me two solid minutes to realize who they were searching for.

  Flint.

  I frowned. Flint had vanished as soon as Mac Tyre had agreed to negotiate with Andy, and things had proceeded so quickly that I hadn’t thought to look for him. Now as I scanned the crowd, I wondered what he’d gotten up to. What had claimed his time now that he was no longer bound by hospitality to remain with me?

  I found him. And my heart nearly stopped.

  Flint stood behind Morgan. His hazel irises held the wet shine of a polished tiger’s eye stone, and he cupped Morgan’s right shoulder with one hand, his other gripping her left hip. As I watched, he held my gaze and lowered his lips to brush Morgan’s earlobe as he spoke.

  Morgan’s eyelids fluttered, but she shook her head and pulled away. Flint’s grip tightened. He whispered again, this time laying a kiss on her neck. Again Morgan struggled, but the movement was more sluggish this time. Flint drew his mouth over her bare shoulder, up her neck. She sucked in a sharp breath.

  When she opened them again, her eyes were solid black, without a hint of white to be seen. She melted into his arms, her lips parting in a moan that was lost to the general noise of the crowd. Some people watched Flint with their noses wrinkled in disgust. Others appeared excited, and a few of the older sidhe shared amused glances. I wanted to scream that he was cheating, but I’d be laughed off the stage. There was no cheating through manipulation among the sidhe. You were either smart enough and strong enough to withstand the influence, or you were weak and deserved what you got.

  “Five million,” Flint called out, not taking his attention off me.

  “Sold for five million!” called Marilyn.

  My mouth fell open. She hadn’t even given anyone time to outbid him. Oisean was leading the bidding; he should have called it. Should have… But she’d…

  She’d closed the sale.

  I stared across the crowd at the leannan sidhe staring at me, peeling himself away from. Flint Valencia. Serial killer. My bribed escort. And now…

  My master.

  Chapter 20

  I normally don’t swear a lot, but if there was a time for it…

  One of the sidhe nearest the stage studied me with new respect, his orange eyes glittering with hints of flame. I didn’t pay him any attention. All I cared about right now was the rotten, no good, self-serving, murderous son of a rat bastard who’d tricked me.

  You don’t know he planned this. How could he have planned this?

  I balled my hands into fists. No. No, he had to have planned this. Nothing worked out this perfectly for someone by chance.

  “How dare you.” Morgan’s voice barely sounded human, the grating rasp prickling my nerves even from where I stood across the room. She whirled to Flint, but he only gave her that small smile I was growing wretchedly f
amiliar with, the little lift of the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have your heart for this,” she snarled.

  “You will have to wait in line.” Raphael stepped closer to the stage, his gaze locked on Marilyn where she stood grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. “You ended the bidding prematurely.”

  If Marilyn was worried about the dangerous edge to Raphael’s tone, she didn’t show it. “It is my auction, Raphael. I will run it as I see fit.”

  The crowd fell silent, watching the growing acrimony between Morgan and Flint and Raphael and Marilyn. The centaur shifted, her hooves clacking against the floor, her gaze lit with anticipation. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. The sidhe who’d first bid on me also seemed engaged with the growing tension. The vines in his hair grew longer, swaying in the air around him, filling the air with a faint hissing.

  Morgan took a step toward Flint, but thought better of it at the last second. With a look that promised a fate worse than death, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the auction room, vanishing into the hallway beyond. Marilyn gave a put-upon sigh and turned as if she’d follow her.

  Flint moved closer to the stage, a single sauntering step that oozed confidence and promise. Against my will, I met his eyes, noting that they still held a faint gold glitter of power. I didn’t know if he’d merely influenced Morgan or if he’d been so bold as to feed off her energy in the middle of the crowd, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was he’d won.

  “You will pay for your crimes!”

  Raphael’s shout boomed through the room, shattering the grin on Flint’s face. I tried to turn, but I wasn’t fast enough. A low feline growl startled me, and suddenly my vision was blocked by an enormous black body sailing through the air. My mouth fell open as the cat sith landed on the stage beside me, twisting to face the front of the stage. I gaped at the dagger protruding from its side—the dagger that had been meant for me. The cat gathered itself and sprang into the crowd, blood dripping from its side as it careened through the air…

  Straight at Raphael.