by Shona Husk
The Darkling Lord
Court of Annwyn 4
Shona Husk
Contents
Copyright
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Afterword
Excerpt
Other titles by Shona Husk
About the Author
The Darkling Lord
Copyright 2014 Shona Husk
Edited by Megan Records
Copy edit by The Grammar Smith
Cover by SelfPubBookCovers.com/FrinaArt
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A darkling with a lust for power…
Henry Saint shouldn’t exist. Every year on his birthday, he kills someone and takes their soul so that he may live another year. He is a darkling, not fairy… but not human either. Yet he is bound by the laws of both worlds. With a new King on the throne of Annwyn and the mortal world trying to rebuild after plagues killed so many, Henry seizes the opportunity to carve out a place of his own. He wants Detroit.
A spy without a soul…
Darah was Felan’s spy before he became King of Annwyn. Now he has one last mission for her. He wants her to join the darkling’s Court and discover what Henry’s endgame is. No one trusts the Banished when they gather in great numbers. As Darah gets drawn into Henry’s world she realizes he can give her the one thing she could never find in Annwyn—love. But is love worth betraying her King?
Chapter 1
The bar was an absolute shithole. A hole that charged a lot for the dregs it served. Henry sipped his drink. It had come out of a labeled bottle but it left the razor edge of home brew at the back of his throat. Real whisky was expensive these days, and wouldn’t have lasted an hour in a place like this. Anything of any value got stolen.
Henry’s gaze slid over the people in the bar, not lingering too long on anyone. He didn’t want to get knifed on his birthday. Most people kept to themselves, their eyes averted from anyone they didn’t know…unless they were working up the steel for a fight. That might have been him once, tempting fate and seeing how invincible he was. Or more correctly, how immortal. He sure as hell wasn’t mortal like these unsuspecting folks.
He drained his glass and signaled for another one. Last one. He couldn’t do what he needed to do sober…and he couldn’t be too drunk either. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sober on his birthday. Fifty years ago? Maybe longer. And he was always sick on his birthday, as if his body was fragile like a silk cocoon. His skin was cold and his muscles weak from soul fever. By the following morning he’d have chills and shakes, and by dusk he’d be dead.
Unless he took a fresh soul.
Which was why he was at the bad end of town. Though bad end may not be the right description. Most of Detroit had gone to the dogs. What wasn’t owned by gangs was run by the cops who were just as crooked. No one seemed to be interested in trying to revive the city—they just wanted to carve off whatever muscle and fat was left and leave it to die. Admittedly that was why he’d first come here. To see what he could take. To make money off the dying city and leave.
Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d lived through the plagues that had killed close to half a billion people. He knew that the epidemics were a side product of a battle for the throne of Annwyn. No human could understand that. Not the corrupt officials who were driving more people away and not the gangs who were killing anyone who looked at them wrong. The people that still lived and worked here in the city just kept their heads down and paid whatever bribes they needed to while thinking of ways to get out.
He’d expected better from humanity.
He was beginning to expect better from himself. That wasn’t a comforting thought.
A hooker with a sore on her lip and a faded bruise on her cheek smiled at him. He hadn’t had so much to drink that he’d even be tempted. She was too skinny and ill. He could take her soul and end her misery. For a moment he considered changing his plans.
From the corner of his eye he saw his mark leaving the bar. Murder, extortion, rape. The guy was a real charmer.
He pushed thoughts of the hooker out of his mind. She’d be dead in a couple of months. His mark would be a pain in everyone’s asses for years. If he was taking a soul, he would take one from someone who deserved to die. He liked to think of it as a community service.
He downed his fresh glass of whisky in one burning swallow then stood, taking a moment to straighten his jacket and make sure he wasn’t going to be followed by someone who thought he looked like an easy kill. He wasn’t. And he’d made sure to dress down, so as not to attract attention, for the illustrious occasion of his one hundred and thirty-second birthday.
Years ago, when the idea of killing and absorbing the suddenly stranded soul into his body had still been abhorrent to him, he’d only taken the best. Nice souls, smart, witty and honorable. He didn’t want something grubby inside him for a year. That had changed during World War II; he’d lost track of the days and had gotten very close to dying. It had been a choice between his death or the man in prison with him.
He’d thought he was ready to die. What he was wasn’t natural. In death, he’d be at peace. But damn, the will to live was strong. He’d lived and the other man hadn’t. And in the process he’d discovered that the quality of the person made no difference to the way the soul felt inside him.
Henry followed the drunk man into the street as a breeze chased litter down the road. Many of the cars here hadn’t run for months. Gas was too expensive. Most no longer had tires, or seats. They’d been stripped and the parts sold off. He doubted that anyone in Annwyn had spared a thought for the havoc their war would have on the humans. While civilization as he knew it hadn’t ground to a complete halt, it had certainly been gravely wounded. Some countries had taken advantage of the unique situation to invade or otherwise pick at the scab. Despite the turmoil, someone was always jostling for power. In some ways fairies and humans were no different.
The man walked a little faster as if he sensed the danger on the street, but Henry was the only predator out so early. He quickened his steps, moonlight guiding his way, knowing that he couldn’t afford to let the man slip away.
His footsteps were silent as he caught up with the man and then slammed him against the rough wall of an abandoned shop. No one would miss this guy. One less thug on the streets. The man struggled and tried to pull a weapon. Henry knew he wouldn’t have the strength for a long fight. He never did on his birthday. The soul he’d used for a year was dying, a transplant that his bo
dy was finally rejecting. A graft of life that refused to take in his hollow flesh.
Henry kneed the man in the balls and pressed his forearm across the man’s throat. Before his mark had a chance to renew his struggles, Henry kissed him. He tasted of beer and unbrushed teeth. Henry almost gagged and pulled away, but then the soul was flowing into him in a hot rush of life. The man stopped moving as the last of his soul left for the vacuum that was Henry. He released the man and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That wasn’t enough to get rid of the taste, so he spat on the broken sidewalk. He should’ve had another shot of whisky before doing leaving the bar.
The man slumped to the ground with no obvious cause of death. A human without a soul was just an empty, fleshy shell.
Fairies had no souls; he knew that because one had taken the time to tell him what an abomination he was. He was neither human nor fairy. His father had been a banished fairy, a Grey cut off from Annwyn, his mother a human he didn’t remember. He’d been told she died on his first birthday.
She must have kissed him as she nursed him. Had she wondered what was wrong with her baby that day? He closed his eyes. He hated his birthday.
The new soul squirmed inside him as if trying to settle into its new home.
It was easier when he was injured and acting on instinct. While the soul he had gave him life, he didn’t heal like a mortal. Any major injury needed a fresh soul to fix the damage. He was more careful these days than he had once been. He had too many scars. Had survived too many close calls.
He flexed his fingers, already feeling better, stronger…more alive. It would be nice to be able to kiss someone without killing them. With a kiss any soul came to him came to him, as if trying to fill a void that could never be filled, and they never lasted beyond his birthday. He’d tried that a couple of times. Had stocked up on souls, so to speak, only to be taken ill the same as usual as all the souls had withered and turned to ash, unable to retain the spark that gave humans their life and mortality in his barren body.
He walked back into the bar and ordered three more glasses of whisky which he intended to drink faster than was wise. One to wash the taste out of his mouth. One to celebrate having a new soul. And one to forget the price.
When you were even part fairy, nothing came for free.
Chapter 2
After spending a mortal year and a day as a shadow servant, being free should’ve been a relief. Darah sidestepped a pile of rubbish that had been left to accumulate on the sidewalk, and tried to hold her breath so she didn’t gag on the smell. She failed. The particles of rot had somehow still managed to enter her nose.
She’d never liked the mortal world and Detroit was not altering that opinion. Why couldn’t King Felan have sent her to Paris, or Istanbul? Somewhere with history and style instead of industry and failure.
After only a couple of weeks, she was beginning to regret accepting Felan’s offer.
Spy on the darkling and you’ll get a place on my Council.
That was all she’d wanted for so long. She’d risked everything for him…for revenge…and paid the price. She shivered even though the early autumn days were still warm. Being a shadow servant in Annwyn had been unpleasant.
But this was worse.
And there was no way she could show her face in Annwyn until she was done. Failure would be noted and remembered, and that wasn’t what she wanted Felan to associate with her. He already didn’t trust her, thus this test. She was here to find the darkling and insinuate herself into whatever he was doing. Spy.
It seemed to be the one thing she was good at.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. She was being followed. It was daylight in what had once been a thriving shopping district—surely she wouldn’t get attacked here. She glanced in the broken glass on a shop front to see who followed. Five men. Other people looked away. While she’d felt Annwyn’s winter in her blood, even as a shadow servant, she was colder now.
Darah walked a little faster. All she needed to do was drop the glamour that made her visible and she’d be safe. It was tempting. She was supposed to be exiled from Annwyn. She wasn’t, not yet anyway, although if she failed that was a possibility. At the moment she still had full access to her magic. If Felan had chosen to banish her, she’d be cut off from the magic of Annwyn and eking out what little she had.
So far she’d chosen to be visible because there was no point in hiding from the person whose organization she wanted to infiltrate.
The men drew closer. “Hey baby. I got something for you.”
She doubted he had anything she wanted, so she ignored him.
“You can’t ignore me, bitch. You’re on my street and you have to pay the toll.” His voice grew louder.
Darah turned. For a heartbeat she was tempted to glamour up an ugly visage to shock the guys. Then she had a better idea. A more fitting punishment. The man gave his crotch a rub and leered at her chest.
“I didn’t know this was your street. Or that you were the troll collecting tolls.” She smiled icily. The mortal fools had no idea what they were toying with. She was a Court fairy who hadn’t had a chance to use her power in far too long.
As a shadow servant she’d been a faceless, powerless, status-less no one.
The man looked confused for a moment before fixing his face in a snarl. “Did you call me a troll?”
Darah raised one eyebrow. She could talk them out of their souls in less time than it would take for them to unzip. However exiled fairies didn’t take souls. She had to keep up the charade.
“You’re going to pay for that insult.” He jabbed at the air with his finger.
“You insulted me first. You called me a bitch.” Did he have no idea how these things worked? She had offered no insult.
The ringleader let go with a string of expletives. “You better fucking run.”
“Or what?” The need to do something to put these dogs back in their place built like static on her skin.
As expected, he charged at her. She sidestepped and her hand brushed his arm. That brief contact was all she needed to take control of his mind and redirect his thoughts. He looked around confused, unable to see her at all even though she now wore his likeness.
His friends however, saw him as their prey as he wore her likeness. The mortal’s minds were easy to fool. She didn’t need to touch them to trick them. They wanted violence and sex…so be it.
Never mess with a fairy as you will get burned.
Darah stood there long enough for the other mortals to reach their disguised ringleader then she dropped all glamours and vanished from their sight. She doubted they’d break through the illusion until after they were done brutalizing each other. A smarter mortal would realize something was wrong, but their minds had felt odd as if muddied. The leader started shouting, but they didn’t stop, choosing to believe their eyes.
She walked away with a smile of satisfaction on her lips. Would the darkling be as easy to manipulate?
She was sure his Greys had already noted her presence in the city. She’d spent weeks travelling here because arriving through the nearest doorway would’ve been suspicious. Now it was time to get the job done and get home.
The darkling had no idea that Annwyn was on his heels.
When selecting his base it had been a toss-up between the abandoned theater and the abandoned casino. The former had style and a certain forgotten charm. Like anyone with fairy blood, Henry appreciated the dramatic. And making the theatre his home did have a certain appeal. However, it was also the more run down of the two, smaller, and would be harder to turn around into something that could eventually make money. The latter was all sleek lines and shiny surfaces and ready to reopen.
So he’d bought the casino.
He rolled the dice on the glass surface bar in front of him and watched as they came to a stop. One silver, one bone, just two out of his collection.
He’d immediately set about trying to get a license only to be blocked by the
people who thought they ran the city. They were running it after a fashion, straight into the ground. He could’ve done a better job blindfolded, and with his mouth taped shut and a criminal’s soul squirming inside of him.
He’d learned something of value over the years. The soul he carried didn’t change who he was. It was merely the spark that kept him alive. Of course, what he did while in possession of the soul altered the soul and by the time it died within him, it was calmer and gentler. Or at least it was these days. He was sure he’d damaged the nice souls he’d once insisted on taking. He knew he’d definitely damaged the humans he’d taken them from.
Last night’s drinking session throbbed in his head as he sipped water in the empty bar of his almost vacant casino. He picked up the dice again, enjoying their familiar weight and texture. He knew each of the twenty five in his collection by touch. This silver one was slightly weighted to fall with one up. Most people couldn’t discern the change. The bone one was pure, and smooth from being handled. These days few appreciated the craftsmanship of a good die—they were all made of cheap plastic.
A few banished fairies, Greys, crept around the bar. They’d arrived soon after he’d settled in the casino, and he’d let them live here on the condition that they spend some time fixing the place up. After a few months, the casino was looking better. Some nights he opened up the gambling tables and they all played. While he didn’t trust most of the Greys and they weren’t his friends, it was better than being on his own. He’d had too many decades of solitude and self-imposed isolation.
Keeping the Greys busy restoring the casino meant they left the mortals alone. The citizens of Detroit didn’t need more fairy drama to deal with while they were struggling to get over the bleed-through from Annwyn’s power struggle over a year ago. Now the Greys looked at him as if he was some kind of leader. He wasn’t.