“Oh,” he said, echoing Zorah’s earlier exclamation.
The petite Fae’s brows drew together, as he or she regarded Len curiously. “Why have you involved a human in this matter?” The newcomer’s voice was piping, almost childlike.
“He may be of use to us,” Nigellus said.
Len didn’t much like the implications of that, but he filed it away for later with the rest of the questions he wanted answered.
Zorah cleared her throat. “Len, this is the cat-sidhe. They’ve, uh, helped us before in some tight spots... though I didn’t realize they knew Nigellus.”
Taking note of the gender-neutral pronouns, Len tipped his head up in greeting. “Hey. Nice to meet you... assuming you have no plans to influence my mind, kill me, or destroy my planet, anyway. Want some coffee?”
The cat-person’s nose scrunched up. “I do not want coffee.”
“The sidhe are another kind of Fae,” Rans said. “Separate from the Seelie and Unseelie.” His gaze turned rather pointedly back to Nigellus. “They don’t generally have much contact with outsiders.”
“Indeed,” Nigellus replied, neatly sidestepping the implied question. “It occurred to me that the sidhe might offer a unique perspective on our current situation.”
Though he was aware of the irony inherent in the thought, Len couldn’t help noticing that Albigard looked like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The reason for his pissiness became obvious a moment later, when he crossed his arms and addressed the cat-sidhe.
“This house is warded. Though one would not know it from this morning’s intrusions.” A muscle in the corner of his jaw jumped. “Has my magic suddenly become so feeble?”
“Your wards are adequate, a leanbh,” said the little Fae. “As well you know. But they are still nothing to me.”
“The Wild Hunt,” Rans said, bringing the conversation back to the point. “I assume Nigellus already filled you in. What can we do about it? Anything?”
The cat-sidhe pondered the question for a few moments, wandering around the echoing kitchen and stopping to examine random items with apparent fascination. “The Fae realm of Dhuinne is sick,” they said absently. “You already know that, vampire. Its magic is out of balance. This is merely the newest manifestation of that sickness.”
“That’s not really an answer,” Rans pointed out.
The pixie-like figure turned to him. “As this Unseelie has doubtless already told you, in his case the Hunt was intended as a sentence of exile, rather than one of execution. The Court had to be seen to take action against him after his many infractions, but he is far too valuable to kill outright.”
“Really? What’s so valuable about him?” Len couldn’t help asking.
“My family breeds twins,” Albigard said through gritted teeth.
“An unusual attribute among the Fae,” agreed the cat-sidhe. “And one that is highly sought after.”
“We’re straying from the point again,” Rans interjected.
The cat-sidhe made a vague gesture of agreement. “The point is, the fundamental underpinnings of Dhuinne are breaking down. The magical imbalance is spilling over—affecting the other realms.”
Zorah looked troubled. “When we were in Dhuinne last year, the plant life was completely out of control. It was like a jungle, but it was taking over the towns, too—not just the wild places. Is that what you mean?”
“That is another symptom, yes,” the cat-sidhe replied placidly.
“All of this still doesn’t tell me whether you can help stop this thing from eating my city,” Len said. “Because—not gonna lie, here—the answer to that question is kind of a big deal from where I’m sitting.”
The androgynous Fae met Len’s eyes with a gaze that held the weight of ages, and he shivered despite himself.
“If we cannot cauterize the rip between the realms and prevent the Wild Hunt from tearing new holes in the veil, it will not be a single city at stake. Life in the human realm dies too easily. As it grows stronger, the Hunt will transform Earth into a mirror of Dhuinne—one realm with life multiplying out of control... the other with death creeping across the land until it swallows everything in its path.”
Silence fell over the room like a pall.
It was Nigellus who broke it—the only one present without a direct stake in the answer, since it wasn’t his home being threatened. “Your use of the term ‘cauterized.’ Is it literal or metaphorical?”
The cat-sidhe looked thoughtful. “Both, perhaps. I will need to travel to this breach in the veil and sense it for myself; then speak to others whose skills may be helpful in our endeavor.”
“Do that.” Albigard’s tone was ice-cold. “And do feel free to let yourself in whenever you return.”
With that parting shot, he turned and left the room. Len argued with himself silently for a moment before downing the rest of his coffee and rising to follow him. Politeness dictated that he say something to the others before leaving in pursuit. He didn’t bother. Two of the people in the room barely registered him as a sentient being. The other two had dragged him into this mess in the first place, so they owed him a bit of slack.
Len wasn’t sure he really wanted the answers to some of the questions he had for Albigard, but he knew, deep down, that those questions needed to be asked. He had to jog to catch up to the asshole, which only succeeded in irritating him more. The Fae was heading toward the back of the house—probably hoping to escape to the outdoors again.
Len set his jaw and grabbed him by the arm to spin him around, half-expecting to be blown off his feet with magic for his troubles, or maybe turned into a frog or something. Albigard growled in irritation and jerked his arm free of the grip, glaring at Len with an expression that said frog transformations were definitely on the table.
“Before you run off, you owe me some answers,” Len told him. “What the hell were you talking about yesterday? Outside of the occasional video game character, I am not and have never been a fucking necromancer. That’s not even a real thing.”
The Fae let out a hiss that would have done the cat-sidhe proud. Len couldn’t have said what kind of response he’d expected, but it definitely wasn’t for a grip like iron to close on his shoulder and drag him through the nearest door in the hallway, closing it behind them by the simple expedient of slamming Len’s back against it from the inside.
The room was dark—windowless and tiny, reminiscent of a school janitor’s closet. It reeked with the smell of cleaning supplies. An eerie glow formed around Albigard’s hand, and Len braced for imminent amphibious transformation. Instead, the air around them deadened, blocking all noise from outside and dampening the sound of his own rasping breathing.
The glow faded, and the same hand tangled in the fabric of Len’s shirtfront, keeping him pinned in place against the door. He briefly weighed the idea of punching the Fae asshole in the jaw like he had after their first encounter several months ago, but for one thing, he couldn’t see for shit in this stuffy little room, and for another, he was honestly a little bit curious about whatever had precipitated the Fae’s violent reaction.
“Unless you wish to end up as dead as the foul power you draw from,” Albigard snarled, “do not discuss such matters in the presence of other Fae.”
It took a moment to untangle the words... a feat that wasn’t aided by having the asshole all up in his face like this.
“You mean necromancy?” he asked. “Dude. You’re the one who brought it up. I still have literally zero idea what you’re even talking about.”
Pale light in the corner of his eye drew Len’s gaze to Yussef, standing at Albigard’s shoulder. The ghost’s lips moved silently.
Liar, it said.
Len’s heart kicked against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge the specter’s presence. When he opened them again, Yussef was gone. He brought his arms up and shoved the Fae back a step—almost surprised when Albigard allowed himself to be moved.
&nbs
p; “Look,” he said, scrabbling for anything to distract his mind from the icy trickle of dread running down his spine, “I hate to ask, since I know all humans are inherently repulsive to you. But what are we doing standing quite literally in your closet? I hope you realize how hard it is for me not to take this as a metaphor.”
The barb sailed right over Albigard’s head. “It is simpler to cast a silencing spell in an enclosed area.” Again, sparkling light played around the Fae’s fingers, but this time it floated upward, forming into a ball that cast golden light on the small room full of storage boxes, mops, and plastic bottles of cleaner. “Fae disapprove of blood magic—the weapon of our enemies. But they abhor death magic. To speak of such things in the presence of our visitor is to court your own destruction.”
Len stared at him. “They don’t like death magic... so they kill people who talk about it? That seems... counterproductive, somehow.”
“They kill people who possess it,” Albigard clarified.
“Actually, I think hypocritical is the word I’m looking for.” Len shook his head, trying to focus. “If you’re against things relating to death, making more people die sounds like you’re contributing to the problem, not fixing it.”
He could feel the beads of clammy sweat forming on his brow, the seeds of irrational panic germinating in his chest despite his attempts at distraction via the medium of verbal diarrhea.
“When a wolf begins massacring the flock, one does not pat it on the head and throw it more sheep,” Albigard said. “Necromancers feed on the death of those weaker than they are. And the stench of decayed souls surrounds you like musk.”
Len had taken a step forward when he’d pushed the Fae off him. At those words, his shoulders thudded against the door again as he stumbled back. His heart raced with a panicked, thready beat as more pale figures moved in the shadows behind Albigard, half-seen and out of focus.
“I was an EMT,” he forced out. “An ambulance driver. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’ve seen death—that’s true. A lot of death. But I was trying to save them. It was my job to keep them from dying.”
Albigard’s eyes bored into him.
You didn’t save me. Yussef was back again, his lips moving silently. The familiar, dreaded steel band tightened around Len’s chest.
“Goddamn it.” He forced the words out with lungs that didn’t want to work, trying desperately not to look at the ghosts multiplying around them, filling the cramped space. “I’m haunted by the memory of every single person I couldn’t save, you asshole. Every. Single. One.”
TWELVE
LEN’S VOICE SOUNDED breathless and thin to his own ears. Gray blotches bloomed at the edges of his vision as his traitorous chest tried and failed to pull in air. His fingers curled into claws, nails digging into the wood at his back... and this was really happening, wasn’t it? He was about to have a fucking full-blown meltdown in front of the cocky Fae bastard who’d already seen him at his worst once, and who knew way more about the inside of Len’s head than anyone deserved to.
“Shit,” he wheezed, fighting to keep his knees locked so he wouldn’t slide down the door and end up in a crumpled heap at the bastard’s feet.
A hand gripped his chin. The hold wasn’t gentle. Len’s eyes flew open in surprise. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. A hard gaze loomed in his wavering vision as he fought to get oxygen into his frozen lungs, green eyes set in a face sculpted by a master artist. Len tried to focus on that face, but familiar pale figures crowded behind the Fae, horrific injuries stark in the warm light cast by the magical ball of illumination hovering overhead. The smell of their blood assailed him. Or maybe it was his own blood— he’d bitten the inside of his cheek without even noticing until that moment.
Albigard’s eyebrows twitched, a furrow forming between them. He glanced over his shoulder, following the direction of Len’s attention. “Haunted. You mean that literally.” He seemed to debate with himself for a long moment before his expression settled. “Very well... but be aware that I will not allow you to strike me this time.”
The awful wheezing sound of air trying and failing to enter his paralyzed lungs echoed in Len’s ears. It sounded oddly flat in the stifling atmosphere within the Fae’s silencing wards. He stared at Albigard without comprehension, clinging to the vision of green eyes. An invisible aura unfurled in the enclosed space like sheltering bird wings, rolling over Len and shutting out everything except the face in front of him.
“You wish to please me, do you not?” Albigard asked, his tone becoming uncharacteristically soothing. “It would please me for you to let go of your fears and breathe now, deeply and slowly. I am here, human—all is well.”
The band crushing Len’s ribs snapped, air flooding his lungs with a sound suspiciously close to a sob. Around them, the wraiths faded into nonexistence, taking his fear with them. Len sagged in reaction, knowing to the depths of his soul that he was no longer alone in the dark, surrounded by ghosts.
All was well. He was under the protection of a powerful and benevolent being, and all he had to do was whatever was asked of him. The sense of relief hit him all at once, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded. Adoration flooded his heart for this exquisite creature who’d taken his fear away.
He was stunning. He was amazing. Len loved hi—
Reality and self-awareness came swirling back in the space between one heartbeat and the next. With a gasp, Len shoved at the Fae’s chest, ducking out of his grip at the same time. His legs didn’t want to follow his commands, so he ended up stumbling and falling into a stack of boxes at the back of the storage room. He fought his way out of the collapsed pile of cardboard and staggered to his feet, panting—putting as much space as possible between himself and the Fae in the small room.
“Progress of a sort, I suppose,” Albigard said dryly, watching Len as one might watch an unpredictable wild animal. “If one of us is to end up bruised, I do prefer it to be you this time.”
Len stared at him blankly, chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm—his thoughts mired beneath the same faint sense of neurological lag-time as when he’d been stoned out of his mind last night.
“Even so,” the Fae continued. “This propensity of yours to shake off my influence with such ease remains disconcerting.”
Len swallowed and licked his lips, trying to get moisture back in his mouth. “Disconcerting? That’s... one word for it,” he said cautiously. He glanced around the room, dreading what he might see hiding in the corners—but no glowing forms lingered in the shadows. No suffocating band of panic constricted his lungs. He felt sore from the tension he’d held in his muscles as his body fought against his psyche. Not to mention from his graceless tumble against the boxes.
Familiar anger replaced the earlier terror, fizzing along his nerves. The knowledge that his mind had been bent to another’s will without his consent warred with pathetic gratefulness at being jolted free of his panic attack... of his ghosts. He swallowed the tangle of emotions in favor of drawing out some of those answers he’d reluctantly come here to seek.
“The first time you tried that,” he began, “the others seemed to think I was able to shake you off because I was high as a kite. But unless the caffeine buzz from one cup of coffee has the same effect as snorting a line of cocaine, that obviously wasn’t the reason.”
“No,” said the Fae. “It was not.”
Clearly, continuing this conversation was going to be about as easy as pulling teeth. “So, what was the reason?” he pressed.
Albigard hesitated.
“Fae magic is only minimally effective against vampires, which is why the demons recruited bloodsuckers to fight for them in the last war. Their form of magic is at odds with ours. They tend to absorb life force rather than emitting it.”
“I’m not a vampire,” Len pointed out.
“You are a necromancer. You absorb life force from the dying, rather than from blood.”
Len’s heart rate picked up again, but
without the strangling edge of panic this time. “I told you. I really don’t. I’ve seen more than my fair share of death, it’s true. But I’ve never felt... powerful, or whatever, when someone died under my hands. Pretty much the opposite, in fact.”
Albigard examined him for a long moment. “Tell me about the dead that haunt you.”
Every bit of energy leached out of Len’s body. He slid down to sit against the wall in a heap after all, rubbing at his eyes roughly. His lashes were wet, damn it. Tears had welled up at some point—either during his epic meltdown, or when he’d been overcome with fake fucking adoration for the bastard in from of him.
When he spoke, the words emerged in a monotone.
“I’d been an ambulance driver for about two years when my partner and I got a call to a single-vehicle accident. It was a friend of mine. His car hit a tree. He died of his injuries while we were working on him, though his heart was still beating and we had him on manual ventilation.” He took a deep breath. “As we were carting him off to the ambulance, I caught a flash of light in the corner of my eye and turned to look. He was sitting in the tree above the wrecked car, looking down at me with his neck broken and his ribs caved in. Or, rather, his ghost was.”
Albigard shifted back to lean against the opposite wall—arms crossed, looking down at him. “Ghosts don’t exist. Not in the sense you mean.”
“Yeah, I got that part, thanks,” Len snapped. “It was a hallucination, all right? I understand that. I’d been on the edge for a while, just due to the nature of the job. That night, I cracked. When I left the hospital, I started hallucinating other patients I’d lost, too... lurking in the shadows, staring at me accusingly with their horrible injuries and dead eyes. I had a breakdown. Walked off the job and disappeared down a rabbit hole of drugs. It took me months to climb out, by which time I was homeless and basically unemployable.”
Forsaken Fae: The Complete Series, Books 1-3 (Last Vampire World) Page 9