“What the hell were you thinking, Alby?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you portal out of here when you had the chance?” His hand closed on Albigard’s upper arm and gripped tightly.
“You need me to close the rip,” Albigard said, meeting his eyes.
“He’s bleeding.” Zorah was staring at the arm she’d been touching.
Len had already noticed the wet patch seeping from beneath the torn leather guard on the Fae’s forearm, where the cu-sidhe had grabbed him. “I know. I saw it. There’s not much I can do about it while he’s trussed up like this.”
“It’s of no import,” Albigard muttered.
Without getting a proper look at it, Len had no idea if that was true or not—but he’d also seen Albigard shake off injuries that would have killed a human outright. Beside him, Rans and Zorah tensed, and Len looked up to see the others approaching them.
“Pathetic.” The Unseelie leader sneered down at his prisoner, lip curling. “A Fae of courtly blood, surrounding himself with humans and undead nightcrawlers? Your father would be appalled.”
Zorah glared daggers at him, her eyes flashing copper fire. “Not as appalled as we are at him. Unlike Oren, we don’t abandon our own.”
Len stayed silent, and he noticed Rans did, too—because for all practical purposes, they would abandon Albigard. At least, assuming Nigellus prevented them from acting as he had before... seemingly with no effort at all on his part. Len tightened his grip on the helpless Fae, trying to project reassurance through his touch even though it was a lie.
When Albigard made no attempt to rise to the insult, the Unseelie leader sighed. “Apparently your hybrid powers are needed to deal with this damage to the veil. Before I release you, I require your word that you will come with me afterward as my prisoner.”
Len felt a moment of hope at the words ‘before I release you,’ but it was short-lived.
“Alby,” Rans said warningly. “Don’t do this...”
A shudder went through the body in Len’s arms. “I give you my word that I will not resist you once the damage to the veil is repaired, and the Hunt contained,” Albigard said.
Good god—did the Fae obsession with truthfulness seriously extend that far? A Fae who intentionally misleads another is no longer Fae, Albigard had said. And apparently it did extend that far, because the Unseelie leader made a sharp gesture. Immediately, the force pinning Albigard’s arms and legs fell away.
“Very well,” he said. “Get up and do your part, traitor.”
For the space of a breath, Albigard lay loose and pliant against Len’s body. He realized he still had an arm clutched around the Fae’s chest, and let it slide away as Albigard got his feet under him and stood. Len followed suit, numbness spreading inside him.
“He’s hurt,” Len said. “I’ve got medical supplies; I want to look at that arm first.”
The leader’s cold green eyes fell on him, making Len feel like an insect that had stood up in the laboratory and started talking to the entomologist.
“Don’t be ridiculous, you useless creature,” the Fae said, and promptly dismissed him, turning away.
“We’ve tarried here too long already,” Albigard said, his tone hollow. “Save your bandages for someone who will benefit from them.”
“Move away, Mr. Grayson,” Nigellus ordered, approaching now that the Fae all seemed to be on the same page again. “The sooner we act, the better. Ransley... Ms. Bright—you as well.”
Zorah glowered at him, and turned to stop Albigard with a hand on his uninjured arm. “You draw whatever power you need from us, Tinkerbell. You understand me? Whatever power you need.”
A faint smile curled one corner of the Fae’s lips. Had Len ever seen him smile before? He couldn’t remember.
“Your attempt at subterfuge is appreciated, demonkin,” he said, looking down at her. “But I have given my word not to resist. I will only need your disgusting vampire animus for the purpose to which we originally agreed.”
Feeling sick to his stomach, Len retreated from the intersection where Nigellus and the Fae were setting up, getting ready to implement whatever arcane magical process they’d been planning. Rans gave Albigard’s back a long look. The Fae didn’t turn to meet it. Eventually, he led Zorah a slight distance away and folded her into his arms, guiding her lips to rest against his throat. Len looked away as she latched on, ready to draw blood from him as soon as Albigard started drawing power from her.
The three Unseelie sent by Albigard’s asshole of a father stood just out of the way of the others, keeping a close eye on proceedings. Meanwhile, Nigellus and the remaining Fae gathered around the place where Len had first seen the Hunt break through into the world. He couldn’t help noticing that Teague appeared to have a hard time looking his former mentor in the eye, and felt a surge of hatred toward the smarmy bastard who’d already left so much destruction in his wake.
Len wasn’t sure what to expect—in a purely physical sense—as Albigard and the cat-sidhe raised their hands toward the damaged area. They began to speak in murmured words that barely reached Len’s ears, in a language he didn’t understand. He watched with a definite sense of trepidation as the clear air of midday began to shimmer like ripples on water... or like the metaphorical veil they’d been using to describe boundary between realities.
It was beautiful. And it was shredded.
TWENTY
TATTERS OF WHATEVER material formed the boundary between one realm and the next fluttered beneath an ineffable breeze, the damaged area pulsing angry red like a wound. Looking at it made Len’s brain hurt, but once he started, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.
It was eerie, but mesmerizing. Disturbing, but addictive.
“This is worse than we feared,” Nigellus observed in a clinical tone. The demon had removed his tailored suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing hard-muscled forearms Len wouldn’t have expected based on his tall, svelte frame.
That wound will need debridement, Len thought—a shadow of insight from another life, back when he’d been responsible for fixing broken flesh. A time before his failure to do so had broken him.
“The edges will not seal properly in this state,” the cat-sidhe said, echoing Len’s professional medical opinion.
“Hmm,” Nigellus mused, and called his flaming sword into existence with a precise gesture of one hand. Every Fae except Albigard and the cat-sidhe twitched in tandem when it appeared, as though they couldn’t quite manage to stop themselves from reacting to the perceived threat of an armed demon of fate.
The demon in question approached the rip in space, eyeing it with a calculating expression. He raised his sword arm, and with the flick of a wrist some of the intangible shreds sheared free from the damaged area, fluttering toward whatever lay on the other side of the gap... burning away to nothing as they went.
“You’ll make it bigger!” the Unseelie leader snapped.
“I’ll make its current size more apparent,” Nigellus shot back. “To be honest, I am growing increasingly concerned as to how this could have happened in the first place.”
“One problem at a time,” the cat-sidhe said, hands straining toward the illuminated veil, glowing with magic. Albigard silently mirrored the sidhe on the other side, his jaw tight with strain.
“Quite,” Nigellus agreed, and went back to his surgery.
Len tried to keep half an eye on Zorah and Rans. As he understood it, the cat-sidhe had the ability to draw power from other Fae as long as they allowed it. It wasn’t tied up with accepting gifts or soul debts or any of that other crazy stuff. So the sidhe could call on the strength of not only Teague, but also the three emissaries from the Court—all of whom seemed to be fairly powerful in their own rights.
Albigard, on the other hand, only had access to Zorah’s power, and by blood-drinking extension, to Rans’. This, in addition to his own power, of course. But between whatever the cu-sidhe had done to him when it had bitten him, and the drain of being magicall
y bound by the other Unseelie, Len had no idea what kind of reserves he was likely to have left at this point.
So far, he seemed to be holding his own, based on the fact that Zorah hadn’t sagged with sudden weakness as she had the first time Len saw Albigard pull life force from her. Of course, all he and the cat-sidhe were doing so far was making the torn area visible. They weren’t trying to fix it yet. Meanwhile, Nigellus was cutting away great swathes of shredded veil, wielding the huge, fiery sword with far more ease than it looked like he should be able to manage.
Zorah had described the demon’s true form once—a towering figure with horns, bulging muscles, and leathery wings that easily spanned fifteen feet. The body Len currently saw was... well... he wasn’t sure what it was. Not an illusion, exactly. The wings, for instance, weren’t merely invisible. You wouldn’t run into one of them if you walked past Nigellus’ shoulder. Nigellus didn’t have to duck to get through a seven-foot-tall doorway when he was wearing this form.
Maybe his demon attributes resided in the same place the flaming sword did when he didn’t need it. The whole thing made Len’s head hurt almost as much as looking at the damaged veil did. But the practical upshot meant that it probably wasn’t Nigellus’ lean human form wielding the heavy sword with one-handed ease, but rather a massive demonic mountain of muscle. Even so, the mental disconnect of seeing someone utilize physical strength they shouldn’t have was... disconcerting.
If it also turned out to be the thing that protected the Earth from the Wild Hunt, however—Len would take it.
The last of the tattered streamers burned away to nothingness as Len watched, leaving behind a relatively smooth-edged gap that shimmered and pulsed with bruised-looking reds and purples. It looked like an inflamed wound. Painful. Wrong. Whatever lay on the other side of the opening was shrouded in the same misty impenetrability as a Fae travel portal.
“Try it now,” Nigellus said, arcing the fiery sword to the side with a flourish.
“Quickly,” added one of the cu-sidhe.
The two shape-shifters had placed themselves next to Albigard and the cat-sidhe like bodyguards. Their attention never wavered from the gap. Even in humanoid form, they gave the impression of pricked ears and raised hackles. Len thought he even saw one of them sniff the air, nostrils twitching.
Albigard had called the cu-sidhe the hereditary wardens of the Wild Hunt. Later, Len had put two and two together with something Nigellus said when they were discussing strategy. When Albigard claimed that Fae were powerless against the Hunt, the demon had disagreed. Your statement is nearly accurate, he’d said. But not completely accurate.
Evidently, in the Fae realm, the cu-sidhe acted sort of like sheepdogs—guiding the Hunt where it was supposed to go whenever the Court decided to sic it on someone. The cat-sidhe had involved them in case the Hunt showed up while they were still working; the idea being that the cu-sidhe could herd it back where it came from long enough for the others to finish closing the gap. Afterward, the sidhe would immediately travel back to Dhuinne and attempt to get the thing under control in its natural habitat.
The fact that the two shape-shifters suddenly seemed so nervous did not strike Len as a good sign.
Apparently Nigellus agreed. “Look sharp,” said the demon, raising his sword again.
“We’ve tarried too long,” the cat-sidhe agreed, sounding decidedly worried. “Blast all this useless Unseelie infighting!”
“Close the edges,” Nigellus snapped. “Quickly!”
The cu-sidhe abruptly shifted into hound form and moved to stand between their charges and the opening. All the tiny hairs on Len’s body stood up at once, a clammy chill sliding through his veins. He took an involuntary step backward, even though he was already quite some distance away from the center of the action.
Albigard and the cat-sidhe lifted their hands with a pushing motion, mirroring each other. Zorah abruptly made a choked noise. Her knees gave out, only Rans’ arms around her keeping her upright. The edges of the torn veil began to shift closer together, as though being pinched closed by a giant, invisible hand. Len held his breath, like it could somehow add to the magical effort being put forth.
Whatever the others were doing, it seemed to be working. Rans wavered on his feet as Zorah drained his blood to replenish herself, eventually dropping to his knees with her in what looked like a barely controlled collapse.
Len emptied his lungs in a whoosh, thinking maybe... yes... just a little more...
Nigellus lifted his sword, preparing to seal the edges together with the heat from the blade—
Greasy black fog exploded through the thin crack between the edges of the gap. It enveloped Nigellus, even as the demon slashed at it with his flaming weapon, and Len’s heart leapt into his throat. The cu-sidhe erupted into snarls and growls, lunging forward to snap at the leading edges of the writhing mass.
It was horrific. Any individual part that Len tried to focus on was just oily, billowing smoke. But the parts out of focus were something... worse. The Hunt had teeth, and claws, and blind, seeking eyes. It was made up of monsters—some that might have been dogs, some that might have been horses... and some that might have been men, or rather Fae. All twisted almost beyond recognition, twining together to become a single, ravenous force.
The flickering light from Nigellus’ sword disappeared, completely obscured within the maelstrom, as was the demon himself. The three Unseelie Fae sent by the Court backpedalled madly, trying to put more distance between them and the manifestation of nightmare.
“Drive it back, you fools!” the leader of the group shouted to the cu-sidhe. “By Mab’s grace, drive it back now!”
The two massive hounds darted and snapped, looking for all the world like border collies trying to redirect an unruly flock of evil sheep. A claw-tipped extrusion of smoke reached out with lightning speed, and the hound that had been protecting the cat-sidhe shrieked. When the greasy appendage retreated, the cu-sidhe lay unmoving on the pavement.
“Dhuinne preserve us!” cried one of the Unseelie.
The leader cast a portal in the air and snapped, “Go, go!” He shoved his two underlings through it, but before he could follow them, a second appendage whipped out and struck him. The portal fizzled shut as he fell to the ground.
Dead, Len thought in shock, unable to fully process what was happening as everything fell apart around him. It barely touched him, and he’s dead.
Albigard and the cat-sidhe were straining against the edges of the growing gap with their magic even as they gave ground physically, backing away slowly from either side of the rip. Where Len’s mind had interpreted the dark shapes emanating from the breach as teeth and claws before, now it saw tentacles whipping outward, writhing and squeezing through the hole leading into the world.
“Shit,” he croaked, fists clenched at his sides with helpless impotence. “Shit, shit, shit!”
He saw Rans’ glacier-blue eyes go wide. The vampire whirled—slow and clumsy with blood loss—shoving Zorah to the ground and shielding her body with his in the instant before the Hunt lashed out for a third time. The bottom dropped out of Len’s stomach. He lunged toward the pair unthinkingly, despite the fact that it was already far too late to prevent the strike from reaching its mark. The whip-like limb retreated, and two limp bodies lay where his friends had been huddled together a moment before.
Len slid to a stop next to the fallen vampires and dropped to his knees, biting the inside of his lip until it bled—unable to make sense of what he was seeing. He took in two sets of staring eyes—blue and brown, blank with death. But that wasn’t right. They were demon-bound. They weren’t supposed to be able to die. Nigellus would bring them back, any moment now...
In the background, he could hear Albigard and the cat-sidhe shouting something. Neither Zorah nor Rans moved, their vacant eyes looking at nothing. The familiar, choking feeling of panic flooded Len’s lungs, suffocating in its intensity. It was a feeling of crushing inevitability—the same
as the moment he’d recognized Yussef’s car wrapped around a tree. The same as the moment his father had thrown all of Len’s belongings out to the curb of the family home, and he realized that he’d just become homeless, effectively orphaned and penniless at the age of sixteen.
He reached out a shaking hand, his fingers touching Zorah’s wrist. Stupid, stupid. He wouldn’t find a pulse. She hadn’t had a pulse since she’d been turned into a vampire, months ago.
“Wake up,” he said hoarsely. “Come on. You’re supposed to wake up from getting killed. That was the deal. That’s what you told me.”
A ground-shaking roar echoed from the center of the writhing mass, jerking Len’s attention away from her dead brown gaze. Did the sound come from the Hunt... or from Nigellus, trapped in its choking embrace? Demons were supposed to be immortal in the truest sense of the word. They literally couldn’t die. What was happening inside that swirling confusion of darkness and horror?
The fine hairs on Len’s neck prickled, and an instant later, he registered grasping, oily talons rushing toward him with unholy speed. He tried to draw enough breath to cry out—suddenly, viscerally aware of the sensation of death surrounding him as the Hunt reached out to strike him down.
It recoiled, inches from his face. For an endless instant, he stared at his own destruction, and his destruction stared back at him. Then, it slunk away, retracting into the main mass of roiling smoke. The frantic shouts of those still alive faded and attenuated into a distant low-pitched whine, as everything in Len’s awareness slowed to a crawl. It felt like being underwater... like his surroundings were barely moving while his mind raced and his lungs burned.
The Hunt had flinched away from him.
It had retreated.
From him.
Necromancer... the stench of decayed souls surrounds you like musk...
Albigard’s voice rang in his memory.
Forsaken Fae: The Complete Series, Books 1-3 (Last Vampire World) Page 15