Ascension (Facets of Feyrie Book 2)

by Zoe Parker

  My hands roam her body as I allow myself the privilege not allowed in the times I touched her before. I know I am bruising her, but I cannot stop. My clawed thumb trails down her stomach, dipping into her belly button before continuing its journey downward.

  So hot. I cannot wait to—

  “Iza, where in the hell are you? We have a problem. A lingire is here claiming to be the real Shepherd.” Jameson’s voice echoes in the chamber around us.

  I am going to fucking kill him!

  My Forlorn explode into existence, and the cavern echoes with a girlish scream.

  Iza takes a deep breath and pulls a little away from me. Her swollen lips part in a grin. ‘So, you have some of those too, eh?’ she teases.

  ‘The Forlorn are the male counterparts of the Fiends.’

  She laughs in my mind. “Un-fucking-believable,” Iza mutters.

  ‘No, Iza. This is un-fucking-believable.’ My thumb slides into her heat, and she moans in surprise. Mesmerized, I watch her face as I move my thumb once, twice. Then she is gone, standing a foot away from me a frown on her face.

  ‘I’ll not be ruled by my hormones, Phobe.’

  She is only delaying the inevitable and she knows it.

  ‘We will finish this,’ I say into her mind as I appear next to Jameson, who is clinging to the wall like it is a lifeline.

  With a growl, I punch him in the stomach, lightly for me, and disappear again.

  Iza’s laughter follows me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Iza

  It takes longer than I expect to gather my composure and digest everything Phobe said to me. And underneath it, everything he did not. This is all on a whole new level of unknown. The depth of it freaks me out a bit, but at the same time it feels so damn right.

  I just hate the feeling of fate mucking around in my life. It’s better than admitting I ran away like a big weenie too.

  Taking a deep breath, I climb my pruned ass out of the pool and cross the massive room to my clothing. A fluffy towel sits neatly folded next to them. The goblins are a thoughtful bunch. Drying off quickly, I dress in the plain jeans and black t-shirt just as quickly.

  Walking down the hallway, I find that Jameson is still lying on the ground groaning, so I stop next to him. I don’t even try to hide my amusement.

  “I see Phobe is back,” Jameson comments, as dryly as one can in his position.

  “He said hello, didn’t he?” I can’t keep the laughter out of my tone, not when Phobe did something I considered doing myself. Even though part of me is glad Jameson interrupted it.

  In a weird form of thanks, I put a hand out to help him up.

  “What did I do to piss him off? And what the hell were those big creepy things chasing me?” he asks, rubbing his stomach as he straightens and uses his Magiks to heal himself.

  I shrug and begin walking.

  “Wait, did I interrupt something?” There is a slyness in his voice that I don’t like. The jackass. I should’ve left him on the floor—or better yet punched him too.

  Ignoring him, I keep walking.

  Now that I can think about things that don’t involve Phobe naked or Jameson bleeding, I find I’m curious about a lingire showing up. They’re rare and the closest thing to a schoth that exists in Feyrie.

  Schoths are supposedly the top clan, in my old world—the Juras Realm. The pure of the pure and all that crap. Humans call them elves here, and those legends aren’t that far off. I’ve seen the movies, most of which really is fiction. They don’t run on snow, can’t shoot bows at lightning speed. But the humans did get two facts right: they have Magiks and they’re pretty.

  Like the schoth, the lingire are also reputed to be a snotty bunch, putting themselves above the normal Feyrie. All because they are humanoid and have cute little pointy ears.

  In my eyes, it makes them closer to schoth than Feyrie.

  I’ve only met one in person, a long time ago. He didn’t last long in the Mud Hole. He was a total prick and a complete wussy on top of it. Having an ego and no strength to back it up didn’t work out for him in there.

  I touch the Web within me and barely feel the lingire on it. More curious now, I pick up my pace.

  “Who is she saying she is?” I ask when Jameson catches up.

  He pulls a notebook out, which makes me smile. Nika insists that she can’t stand him, but she told me that Jameson is the best steward she’s seen. He’s meticulous, OCD clean and good with people. Most importantly, he likes the job.

  And he works hard at it. That I can’t fault.

  The Sidhe picked him for it, something I didn’t understand at first. I do now. Quite frankly, he can do the job better than anyone else.

  “The imps who came in last week were servants of hers. They were not treated kindly, either.” Righteous anger laces his words.

  Good, he is starting to feel the fire of a fighter.

  I’ve seen the imps he’s speaking about in the lunch hall several times. They look starved and damned near defeated. Jameson tells me they are the lingire’s former bondservants and good with the earth. Jameson made them the groundskeepers.

  At their request.

  “Aha, her name is Lady Mirelle, of the House Finley,” he announces proudly.

  Finally, that big brain of his spit out something I can work with.

  The sound of him flipping hastily through his notebook is entertaining. I need to get him a tablet. Not that the paper flipping isn’t entertaining, but he could fit so much more in that handy device.

  “She is the supposed great-great-great niece of one of the counselors of the Feyrie King. I could find no record of anyone from House Finley being on the council. I looked.” Of course, he did. It’s Jameson after all.

  “All of the dark king’s loyal council members were beheaded. My father carefully documented all the executions.” He pauses. “Personally, I think she’s full of it, and the beginning of a long line of many. It always happens this way when there is a chance at power.”

  Jameson mentioned before that he was going to find out who was related to whom from the old king’s counsel. Also, what family members were still alive—if any are still alive. It’s one of the reasons he gathered all the old records he could find in the Sidhe Library. He may not be a fighter, not yet, but he’s a damn good sidekick.

  I search again on the Web inside of me. This is all still new, but instincts guide me relatively well. And what I find is that she is born of the Dark Magiks, but that’s it. No kindness, no love for her people. This doesn’t bode well for her.

  She’s Feyrie but not loyal to the Dark. And that’s something the Magiks don’t like.

  “Not much from them. Let’s see what she’s about. Because honestly, as much as I don’t want this job—it’s mine.” My words ring with truth. It doesn’t mean I like it, but I don’t do anything half-assed.

  Without shame, I’ll admit I have issues with aristocracy in general. This one probably came to tell me I’m not pure enough or royal enough for the job I didn’t ask for.

  Ha, this might be a fun conversation after all.

  “You will need to set an example, Iza.” I stop and look at Jameson. Jameson, who never promotes violence but is right now.

  “What kind of example, Jameson?”

  “You know your kind.” He waves his hands around then blushes.

  “Jameson, I think I’m a bad influence on you,” I tease and start walking again.

  “No, my lady. You have been everything but.” The shock of his words stops me once again in my tracks.

  I look at him in surprise. He raises his chin a notch as I stare at him. Since when is he team Iza?

  “They have no right to come in here and try to take what is yours. They need to be dealt with accordingly.” As he speaks, he puffs up a bit like a little chicken ruffling its feathers.

  I smile and pat his cheek. People eat chickens.

  “I knew there was a reason I talked Phobe out of eating you, Jameson.�
� His smile broadens then he frowns when my words sink in.

  We start walking again. Well, I start walking again, and he scrambles to catch up. I don’t hate Jameson. I don’t even dislike him. But sadly, at this point, I don’t fully trust him. Whether the Sidhe likes him or not.

  Maybe one day soon, because he’s working so hard and asking for nothing in return.

  “What else do you think? I’m sure there’s more in that big brain of yours.” There might not be a lot of trust, but I can use his knowledge. That I know he has in abundance.

  God knows, mine is sorely lacking in some areas.

  “Well, her appearance seems planned. She wouldn’t have had time to get this mess of people together that quickly and get here.”

  He has a very good point. I wonder who’s plotting? I bet they’re probably going to try and be the boss. Whoever it is has a valuable lesson to learn about the Dark Magiks.

  The Web is never about the rulers. It’s always about the Feyrie as a whole people. The Web reacts to love for those people, to the loyalty for those people. It has nothing to do with power, riches, or fancy dresses.

  Having the title doesn’t get you the power.

  Pausing in the doorway, I take in the crowd of people in the entrance room. Something is holding their rapt attention. A quick look around shows me what.

  It’s a freaking parade of feathered, eye-watering crayons.

  There’s an entire busload of them. Each row of them passing through the door is dressed in more finery than the previous. A Feyrie version of monster fashion week from the 1800s, minus the cool music.

  Just as I’m getting bored with it, the last row of them enters the entrance room. The lingire that I’m waiting for is a purple eyesore right smack-dab in the middle.

  Her head is held uncomfortably high, and she’s dressed like the lady she’s claiming to be. Staring straight ahead of her, she strolls through the crowd of people, refusing to meet the gaze of anyone she passes.

  Isn’t she a peach?

  The woman is quite beautiful, there’s no denying that, but something is missing. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet. But I will.

  A Victorian hoop dress made from a gauzy, bright purple material sparkles like glitter in the brightly lit room, covering her from neck to feet. Trimmed with gold that glitters in the light and makes the purple even more bright. The trim itself is designed to match the gemmed golden crown on her head.

  Talk about counting chickens. She’s gone a step farther and crowned herself a queen.

  ‘She looks like a purple egg.’ The comment floats through my head in a very familiar male voice. I bite my lip to hide my smile.

  For the most part, I don’t want to be here—which everyone who knows me is fully aware of. But I am, and that’s all there is to it. So someone else coming in and wanting to take over can cause a big problem… for them.

  My eyes follow the wanna-be Shepherd. Seeing the disgust on the lingire’s face as her gaze skims the other Feyrie gathered to see her makes me grit my teeth.

  Oh, this is going to be a big problem.

  “You do what you must, and in that, you will make the right choices,” a quiet voice speaks up from beside me.

  I look down at Lidus, the head goblin who serves the Sidhe and in turn its Shepherd. Who in this case is me, yay. Lidus introduced himself to me the day I woke up… as this Shepherd person. He also told me how he is helping Rubi readjust to be among his kind again.

  All around he’s the coolest butler ever.

  “The Dark knows its Lady and it is not the imposter, for she is not you.” With that, he pops out of existence.

  Would be nice to have that ability. Dad can do it too. But not me. I have to do things the old-fashioned way and walk.

  “Why thank you, Master Yoda,” I mutter.

  I fought this, but in the end, I accepted it. Accepted it for the innocents who can’t defend themselves. Did it to save them. To fight for them. To protect them from people like this gaggle of neon-colored geese.

  One of the guardsman shoves someone out of his way. My eyes narrow. It’s Jameson he shoved, who now puffs up and looks genuinely affronted.

  “My Lady will be joining us shortly.” Jameson bellows out into the room.

  “She is already here, servant. Now fetch her something to eat. She is famished,” states an older imp woman who stands toe to toe with Jameson.

  Her connection with the Dark is so deluded that it can’t even tell me her name.

  It’s the first time I can say I’ve seen Jameson look menacing. His brown eyes flare with ire, and he steps right into her personal space.

  Good boy.

  “We will not be fetching you anything. But since my Lady insists on us being courteous, I will not stop you. If you wish to dine, feed yourselves—there’s the table.” He waves a hand at the old wooden table that mysteriously appears.

  The Sidhe really does like Jameson. A little, anyhow.

  I watch them set themselves up at the dining table. Their few servants struggle to keep up with all the demands of the heckling lingire and her obnoxious group.

  The food is in golden dishes, of all things.

  The costs of those dishes would buy groceries for months for the starving refugees that showed up before them. Not to mention the fancy food that the snotty woman keeps turning her nose up at it like it’s garbage. At least the wasteful bastards brought their own. There’s no way I’m feeding any of them.

  Looking around the room the lingire’s gaze fastens on the chair. She can sense the Magiks in it. The chair is plain-looking, but it reeks of Magiks.

  The witch in purple waves at one of her servants who tries to move the big old wooden chair from the middle of the room to the table. He pushes and pulls with everything he’s got, and the chair won’t budge. I smirk as another servant comes to help and then another. After the fifth and no success, they give up and look up to their ‘Lady.’ She raises her head and struts over to stand in front of the chair.

  “Come, chair, obey your master.” She waves her hands around in circles. Nothing happens.

  She begins to glow as her Magiks rise. Again, she orders the chair to move. Again, nothing happens. Nothing will, either. She can be a glow stick all day long, and nothing will move that chair unless it wants to move.

  “Fine then. We will just move the table here,” she proclaims, pretending like she doesn’t look like a twit waving her hands around at an old chair.

  She turns around to sit in the chair and hits nothing but floor. The chair is gone. A snort breaks the silence. I cover my mouth and nose to try and keep another one in.

  “Who dares laugh at me!?” the woman screeches, like a stepped-on cat. “Find them,” she orders her guards.

  I snort again, stepping out of the shadows to stand between the guards and the people I swore to protect. Enough is enough.

  “I dared.” When I speak the people in the room murmur amongst themselves. Knowing what’s coming next.

  “My Lady, the Shepherd, the WebRider!” Jameson announces loudly from somewhere in the room behind me. Good lord, he has a big mouth.

  “This is your savior?” The lingire chuckles. “She is dressed as a peasant. Guards, put her in chains.” The older imp woman beside Queen-y orders.

  Every muscle in my body tenses. They’ve got another thing coming if they think to put me in chains. Up to this point, it was amusing, now it’s becoming something else.

  Annoying.

  As one unit, the people behind me step in front of me, forming a wall of protection. Even Knox steps forward, a growl coming from his throat. Now this, I can’t have. Even if it does give me that warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

  Casting a small smile over my shoulder, I move around them. My hands are out in front of me in a sign of peace. If a child can step in front of me to protect me, the absolute least I can do is deal with the problem.

  The woman will end up throwing a tantrum and try to have me beat or something hopefull
y more creative.

  Try.

  Knox grabs onto my arm, and the closest guard shoves him backward, he hits the ground but not hard enough to hurt him. I kneel to make sure he’s okay and then pass him to Alagard, who has smoke coming out of his nose.

  Biting my cheek, I keep calm.

  The only reason this room isn’t erupting into chaos is because I did not. Do these idiots not understand the danger they are in? A tremor runs through the Sidhe as the anger runs through me. It doesn’t like them either.

  I can smell fear coming from some of those around me. Nothing will stay here that causes them fear. Especially Knox, who is an incredible little boy who calls me beautiful and makes me necklaces out of crickets. He doesn’t deserve any more mistreatment in his life, from anyone. And will never, ever receive it again.

  A shiver creeps up my spine as a familiar Darkness enters the room. Damnit, mister comedian himself decided to join the party.

  “Pick on someone your size.” With those words, I turn and punch the guard who shoved little Knox right in his sneering mouth. He flies backward, his mouth now open in surprise.

  “Kill the insolent lot of them, you idiots!” the imp woman orders.

  With a horrified expression on their faces, the two guards moving towards me freeze. Darkness circles their necks in iron grasps. Two fiery eyes meet mine from between the two men.

  Hellllo, sexy.

  Knowing these two won’t cause any more trouble, I turn to face the mouthy ones of the group. Queen-y and her sidekick.

  “You know, when I first saw you strut in here like a giant purple peacock, I waited to see if maybe you needed help too or maybe wanted to help our people. Then I realized something is missing from you, something important.” As I speak, I clasp my hands behind my back and walk slowly towards them.

  “It took me a few minutes to figure out what it is, but now I know.” And I do.

  She has absolutely no goodness in her. No loyalty, no love, no honor.

  I let the mantle settle around my shoulders gladly, because the simple act of a child made me realize I’m tired of seeing others at the whims of people who mean them harm. This flock of morons means them harm.