by Leigh Kelsey
“He’s—” I croaked.
“Yes?” I felt Fear Doirche’s warm breath on my face and cried harder because I knew worse pain would come. But I couldn’t tell him anything about my Finn.
“He’s a thousand times the man you are,” I whispered, already shrinking in terror of what would come.
Pain carved deep into my thigh and I screamed, my eyes flying open to see a knife embedded in my leg. Blood gushed as he twisted it and pulled the blade out, and at the sight of my blood, I passed out.
STARVATION
I woke in my cell, shaking and cold and sobbing. I hadn’t dreamt. I hadn’t dreamt anything and I needed Oisìn. I needed my mate.
“Did you tell him anything?” Kwame asked gently, his deep voice full of compassion.
“No,” I choked out. I winced as I uncurled from the foetal position, points along my scalp and spine aching badly and my leg throbbing with sharp pain as I stretched it out. I whimpered, pressing my lips together to stifle a scream as the pain hit me full force. Blood moved sluggishly from the wound, so I couldn’t have been sleeping long. Even with an injury as deep as this, my healing would have fixed it if I’d slept overnight. Maybe.
To my right, Sceolan snarled suddenly, a vicious, monstrous sound that made me flinch. When he didn’t stop, hissing and growling like an animal, dread curdled my stomach.
“Sceolan?” I whispered.
“They’re starving him,” Kwame answered instead. “They’re starving all of us, but Sceolan has been here the longest.”
Three years. He hadn’t fed in three years… “How?” I breathed, gritting my teeth against another wave of pain. “How is he still alive?”
“They feed us drops, enough so we cannot die,” was Kwame’s bleak answer.
I screamed through gritted teeth as I hauled myself to the front of the cell, gripping the bars with white knuckles to keep from keeling over. The cell blacked out around me but I gripped the cold iron and forced myself to stay awake. I might be bleeding but I was alive, and so was Oisìn and everyone else I loved. And I hadn’t been starved of blood for three years.
“Sceolan,” I breathed, leaning my back against the cool bars as pain battered me from the inside, relentless in its force. I was so close to curling up on the floor and begging for release from this agony. But Sceolan’s starvation had twisted my heart, activated my protective vampire instincts, and I had to do something.
I pushed my arm through the bars, as far as it would go. I swayed, but gripped the iron hard with my other hand. “Can you reach my wrist?”
Nothing but snarling.
“Sceolan,” I snapped, as strong as I could make my voice when I was in excruciating pain. “My wrist. Can you reach me through the bars?”
“Yes,” he rasped, sounding as if he’d been screaming. I jumped at the feel of warm fingers closing around my own. He squeezed them gently, as if he knew what I was offering, or in apology of his reaction to my blood.
“You’re old, right?” I whispered, losing strength rapidly. Black spots flashed again. “Finn has claws. If you do—use them to cut me.”
Sceolan was silent for long seconds, then: “You shouldn’t offer this.”
“You shouldn’t be so stubborn to refuse help when I’m giving it,” I slurred. “Do it—before I pass out.”
Three pricks of pain pressed into my wrist, but it was nothing compared to the howling torment in my thigh, the pounding where my skull had been slammed into the wall, and the necklace of throbbing aches around my throat. I heard Sceolan’s breath hitch, and my heart crushed into a tiny, compact ache as he tasted more than a drop of blood for the first time in three years. His claws raked my skin and he captured the blood that rolled free in his hand; I heard him slurp it down and sagged, relieved, my instincts soothed. It wasn’t much blood, but it was something.
The next thing I heard was a grunt, and then blood was pouring over my hand—not my blood. Sceolan’s. “Drink this. It’ll help you heal.”
“I can’t move my arm,” I murmured, on the verge of passing out. “I’m too weak.”
“Try,” he said through clenched teeth.
I willed my arm to return to my body and it shifted, so slowly, over the floor and back through the bars. I brought my bloody hand to my mouth and as Sceolan’s blood slid down my throat, I realised he must have torn open a vein because I was covered in it. I felt better, stronger, but I was still going to pass out.
“Thank you,” I said hoarsely, and collapsed against the bars.
CLOSE
“What happened?” Oisìn seethed as I groaned and curled tighter around his warm body. We were home, in my bed, and my leg had stopped trickling with blood thanks to Sceolan but the cut was still raw and open, a slash in my jeans. The slices on my wrist had healed but left behind streaks of dried, brown blood. And as for my head, my neck … they ached with a dull, bone-rending pain I ground my teeth to ignore.
“Doesn’t matter,” I muttered, pressing my lips to his shoulder. God, it felt incredible just having him close again. His heat, his strength, his arm binding around my waist and pulling me as close as I could possibly be.
It didn’t hurt that his skin was smooth, unblemished—unhurt. I knew he’d let his skin burn after Glen had taken me, knew he’d punished himself for my capture, and I burned with anger over it. But he’d stopped, he was healed, and if he was strong enough to do that, then I would be strong enough to let it go.
Oisìn spread his hand over my thigh, massaging reassurance with his thumb as his faerie magic prickled my skin and warmed me from the inside. I sighed, relaxing into the cushions as the pain receded.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” I mumbled, laying another kiss against his skin because I couldn’t help myself. “You can’t keep healing me.”
“Watch me,” he said in a low, growling voice.
I pushed back to look at him and saw the panic in his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad,” I lied.
He narrowed his eyes, brushing dirty hair off my face as he kissed me soft enough to break my heart. “Liar.”
I looked away, pressing even closer to him. He was shirtless, I realised, and I wondered… “Oisìn,” I asked, running my hand through his dark red hair. “Are you sleeping in my bed? Actually? Outside this dream.”
He glanced away, and my heart softened.
“I miss you too,” I whispered. “And … I need your help.” I leant closer to kiss him, sliding my hand deeper into his hair as I poured everything I had into the kiss. “That was just in case I wake up before I get to kiss you,” I said breathlessly.
Oisìn’s eyes were closed, but I knew he was close to tears. I knew what it was like—I couldn’t bear it when we’d been separated for an hour, let alone days. I knew how much it hurt, and not just the ache in my chest but the helplessness, the need to save him. I gave him a moment, and smiled when his eyes peeled open.
“What can I do?” he asked, his voice rough. His eyes went to my throat, where I knew bruises had formed and not faded even with his magic warming me.
“I’m in the Mistress’s Castle.”
His jaw tightened. “I suspected.” He looked angry enough to kill someone, his green eyes flashing dangerously. “He has you in the cells, then?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “And I’m not alone. Kwame is here with me, the man who owns this house. Finn knows him—he’s Kwame’s sire. And Sceolan, Finn’s cousin.” I went on cautiously, “You’ve met him. You took him to the portal to the castle.”
His face shut down, his voice flat. “I took a lot of people there.”
I kissed his throat, wrapping my arms tighter around him. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the cells, the castle, and how to get out.”
“There is no way out,” he said.
“So there are no doors whatsoever? No windows? Not even a secret tunnel?”
He sighed. “Fine, there are doors.”
I hugged him, laying a kiss against his heart. “We�
�ll be alright, Oisìn. He’s not … he’s not going to hurt me permanently. He wants me to tell him about Finn. He won’t kill me until I have.”
Oisìn let out a long, steady growl. Maybe mentioning killing hadn’t been the best idea.
I sat up, sighing and wishing I could keep holding him, kissing him. But I didn’t know how much time we had. “Oisìn,” I snapped. “I love you, but I need you to be … calm. Rational. Please.”
He pushed himself up against my headboard, his face wiped of anger and his eyes hard. I hated having to do this to him. “It won’t be easy to explain the exit routes to you when you only know the cells.”
“I went to a study,” I offered. “I could probably get there again.”
He nodded, calculating. “There’s a bedroom attached to the study he uses, with a window that would bring you out close by the stables.”
I nodded, going through the path from the cells to the study again and again until I was sure I knew it. “How many vampires are there in the castle?”
“Hundreds.”
My stomach hollowed out and I stared at him. “Hundreds.” My breath caught, faster, but I couldn’t freak out now. I started to shake and pressed my hands under my thighs to hide it. “Okay, hundreds. Can they all fight like you?”
“No. But most can fight like Glen and Hall.”
I frowned. “Hall?”
“The one who—staked me.”
Red fury filled me and in seconds my teeth had become fangs and I was hissing. Oh. Maybe this was what happened to Oisìn when I mentioned being killed. His fingers trailed down my face to cup my jaw as he looked at me steadily. I made myself look into his eyes, feel his touch, smell his blood pounding through him—healthy, alive—and I calmed. “Sorry,” I mumbled around a mouth full of sharp teeth.
Oisìn captured my mouth, his thumb caressing my cheekbone as his lips moved gently over mine. My fangs receded. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, guilt in his eyes.
I poked him in the chest, feeling … better. Surprisingly okay. “Neither do you.”
His mouth set into a stubborn line. “Fine.” He skimmed my shoulder, no doubt testing that it was still healed, before sliding down my arm to entwine his fingers with mine. I held on tight. “Once you get to the stables, you’ll have to fight three guards. There are always three, and usually the large, brute force kind rather than the swift or clever.”
I nodded, struggling to switch my mind to be focussed on escape. “Okay. Oh—Sceolan, I think he’s like you and Finn. Faerie made into a vampire. And he can still use his magic, but in the cells—”
“He’s repressed.” Oisìn nodded. “There are dampers around the cells, in the walls themselves, and a spell around the castle. It drops off halfway between there and the guardhouse. The spell will lessen your strength too, so don’t try anything foolish, please.”
“I won’t.” I couldn’t make promises though. “Is the portal in St. Mary’s still open?”
Oisìn’s eyes darkened. “In a sense.”
“Which means…”
“No one can pass through from this side. But vampires have been steadily coming through from the other side.”
“You tried to get here,” I said.
“I followed … I’m not sure. Something led me to you, but I couldn’t go through the portal.”
I nodded. “It did the same with me. Must be a mate thing.”
Oisìn’s hand tightened on mine, then I was suddenly flying through the air, his hand on my hip as I was rolled under him. His lips met my tender throat, pressed searing kisses so carefully down to my collarbone. “Say it again.”
I was only confused for a second. “Mate,” I breathed. “You’re mine. My mate.”
“And you’re my mate,” he replied fiercely, surging up to kiss me breathless again. My toes curled and my hips bucked up against him, seeking friction as his tongue made me gasp and groan.
The bed dropped out from around me and I woke with a jump back in my cell, a frustrated growl escaping me. Goddammit!
“Elara?” Kwame asked.
I breathed hard, my neck hurting from where it’d been pressed against the bars at a funny angle. “I know a way out,” I muttered, scowling.
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
Sceolan snorted, sounding more good natured than I’d ever heard him. “I think Elara was having a very good dream. Am I right?”
I grunted and told him to shut up.
HARRINGTON
We had an escape route, but it was useless when we were still locked in the cells. Even if—when—we got out of the cells and the Magic’s Ruin wasn’t dampening us… I didn’t know anything about witchcraft, so I didn’t know if it was possible for us to take out the spell that kept Sceolan’s power in check, but judging by the way Rita worked spells, didn’t think so. I got the feeling only another witch could bring down the spell. Which meant our only chance was when one of the guards came back to take us to Fear Doirche.
Two days passed, or at least it felt like two days, before anyone returned. I straightened at the sight of a man who looked like a Disney prince. Golden waves of hair, model handsome in a girlish way, not a blemish on him or a wrinkle in his elegant tan suit and long coat. I swallowed and backed into a corner to get away from him. Of course he stopped outside my cell.
Kwame, I had a feeling, was large and muscular even with his strength drained, and Sceolan used to go hunting with Finn once upon a time. Both of them could fight better than me, but the universe was laughing at us today as Prince Charming swung my cell door open, pulled a stool from outside, and propped it in front of the door for him to sit on.
My brow wrinkled. I wasn’t being taken to see his master? What the hell?
“Hello, Elara Wood. Do you know who I am?”
I shook my head, revising my initial assessment of him when his power hit me. He was old, and deadly.
“My name is Graham Harrington,” he said congenially—and I snapped.
I launched forward, fangs out, snarling, and before he could even blink, my teeth were tearing out his throat. He gurgled, sliding off the stool, but I was possessed by a haze of fury. This was the man who’d tried to take Oisìn from me, who’d threatened and tricked him and killed his best friend. He’d kidnapped Janna, manipulated Scarlett, and hurt Finn and Allen when they tried to stop him fleeing into the bay. I hadn’t seen the bruises that had spread across Allen’s ribs after that fight, or the slash on the back of Finn’s leg, but I’d heard about them. He’d hurt them—all of them—my family.
I sank my teeth into what remained of his neck and tore, and kept tearing until his head detached from his body. I’d learned from my last mistake, from Hall in the alley in Whitby.
Harrington’s head rolled, his face fixed in a rictus mask of shock, and as it stopped at my feet, my haze of fury ripped away, and I fell to my knees and vomited. I retched and retched until my stomach ached and my throat was sore, and my whole body was shaking. What had I done? What had I done?
“Elara?” Sceolan asked.
“I—I—” I sobbed and folded my knees to my chest, pressing my bloody face against them. “He’s dead.”
“Good,” Kwame replied coolly. “Are you hurt?”
I gasped a breath, then another, falling to pieces.
“Elara,” Sceolan said gently. “You need to pull yourself together. Get up.”
“This could be our only chance,” Kwame added.
Still hiccupping and shaking badly, I used the bars to haul myself upright. Escape—the open door, the corridor beyond. I could get out. I could get us all out. “I can’t think,” I breathed. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright,” Kwame replied in his deep velvet voice. “Can you see any keys? He must have opened your cell somehow.”
A sob fell out of my mouth at the thought of touching Harrington’s headless body. But I pushed my hand against my mouth and knelt, searching him until I found a pocket that rattled. My skin cra
wled as I fished out a set of keys, and I scrambled away as soon as possible, my eyes going to his head and the gore that had been his neck before I could slam them shut.
“Elara?” Sceolan asked, more urgent. “Everything alright?”
“Fine,” I sobbed, getting to my feet and stumbling around the fallen stool and into the corridor. I tried five keys on Kwame’s cell before the bars opened and let him out. He was massive, as I’d suspected, his arms bulging and his chest as big as a barrel, and he was handsome, his skin smooth brown and features elegant. I wanted to hug him close and thank him for making me be brave but I flung myself at Sceolan’s cell, finding him waiting for me, his vivid blue eyes frantic, as if he didn’t believe this was happening.
I couldn’t help throwing my arms around Sceolan’s thin frame for a second—he’d fed me, healed me—but I drew away quickly and led the way up the stairs to the door at the top.
“I’ll go first,” Kwame said, his brown glare sharp. Pausing to listen at the door for movement on the other side, he whispered, “Thank you, Elara.”
I shook my head. This wasn’t a calculated escape attempt. I’d just lost it, instinct taking over at the sight of the man who’d threatened my mate.
Sceolan brushed my arm from behind and I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was rangy thin, and beautiful in a sculpted, rugged kind of way with his long dark hair, beard, dirty clothes, and wild blue eyes. I nodded at him, trying to smile as he attempted to reassure me. I think he knew that I hadn’t meant to kill Graham Harrington, that it had been instinct and not conscious thought and decision-making that had driven me.
“It sounds clear,” Kwame murmured, and I turned around, my heart in my mouth, to watch him push open the heavy wooden door.
Cool, dry air washed into my lungs as I crept into the level above. I flattened myself against a wall, my pulse spiking at the sound of footsteps. Kwame pressed a finger to his lip to signal us to be silent, though he needn’t have bothered. Neither Sceolan nor I breathed a word as the footsteps passed.