“Fine… We’ll check the up-fucking-stairs.”
Footfalls neared.
Akito felt himself pale. He met Lyandros’s gaze.
Lyandros shook his head minutely and held a finger to his lips. He motioned Akito to the farthest, darkest corner of the attic, where he crouched and brought Akito down with him. Akito sat, his back nestled against Lyandros’s, while the vampire looped his arms around Akito’s chest to hold him tight.
“Brave man,” Lyandros whispered against Akito’s temple.
Despite the abject terror coursing through whatever passed for veins in his incorporeal body, Akito melted at the words and its accompanying caress. The trio of coven members crested the lip of the stairs, bringing a candle lantern with them. They preferred, Akito knew, the more natural light, as it wouldn’t interfere with magic and often aided in their spells.
The first witch, wearing a midnight blue polo and jeans, his belt looped low around his hips, took in the damage to the jars. “What the—”
Some of the contents had begun to eat a hole in the floor. Light shone brightly—almost too bright to look at and grew stronger with each passing moment—from the now-inches-wide gap in the floor.
“Oh hell,” the second witch. “That’s the light from the fae bridge the Morgan was saving for—”
“Well, pick it up!” A man the shape of a string bean bent toward the light, and scurried around trying to gather it in his palms. It merely ran through his fingers like liquid silver.
The three scrabbled to find something that might contain the substance, but to no avail. It merely puddled across the floor, seeming to dissolve everything it touched. Except the men could stand in the light. Akito frowned. The floor must still be there. Only invisible.
“I have an idea,” Lyandros whispered in Akito’s ear.
“What about this jar?” Cal, that was the blue shirt’s name, Akito recalled, lifted a green jar. Inside, something flitted and buzzed angrily. Like a firefly on speed. “Can we use it?”
Already halfway to uncorking the thing, it was too late for Cal to stop his momentum when bean pole and Sergei whirled with a “No!” and a “Don’t!”
Akito ducked reflexively, and felt Lyandros do the same behind him. When no boom came, Akito peeked from beneath his upraised elbow.
“Great, Cal. Nice work,” Sergei said.
“What?” Cal sounded as dumbfounded as he appeared.
Next to Akito and Lyandros, the green light flitted and buzzed. At first, Akito thought perhaps it was a faerie. Then he realized the little light was drawing something. Or outlining it. He couldn’t be sure which. Quickly, the form resolved itself into that of a man in outline. Then, it filled in and resolved into a man.
“You idiot.” Bean pole lunched for Cal, his hands outstretched as if to strangle him.
Akito blinked, his eyes dazzled by the frenetic light. Behind him, Lyandros pushed to standing. Akito followed, if only to get out of the way. They ignored the still-bickering witches, who seemed to take no notice of them. Useful thing, being a ghost, Akito realized. He had no doubt, however, if the Morgan had been here, the man would have detected them. Somehow.
“Perhaps I can help?” the glowing form asked, smiling down on them.
“Isander?” Awe gave wings to Lyandros’s voice, lifting it with breathy exultation.
Isander smiled, his form glowing softly green, then yellow, then blue. After several more fluctuations, all the colors coalesced into a deep royal purple.
Akito, unable to decide between laughter and cursing, remained mute.
“We came to get you out of here, but I am afraid we are poorly equipped,” Lyandros said.
“It would seem you are doing just fine, brother. As usual.” Isander smiled and the room itself seemed to brighten.
The breadth of the man’s dimpled grin nearly made Akito gasp. He’d never seen one of the vampires smile like that. He hadn’t been sure they were capable. At least they never had in his presence.
“What is your plan?” Lyandros asked, glancing to Isander’s body, which was still on the table. “Can you return to your physical form and overpower these louts?”
Lyandros nodded. “Yes. I believe I can.”
Downstairs, a bellow sounded, and Akito’s legs turned to water. The Morgan. Too fucking late for them to escape by any conventional means. There might, however, be others available…
“Excuse me?” Akito asked.
Two sets of deep blue eyes swiveled to take him in. Akito pointed to the floor. The light had nearly reached their feet, and the quarreling witches paid it no attention. Or at least they didn’t seem in a hurry to clean it up anymore. If they even knew how.
“I think they said that was a piece of the moon bridge…to Faerie.”
“We might not be able to go back…” Isander warned, stepping toward his body.
Lyandros’s answering nod showcased many years of split-second tactical decision making. “We have to take it with us. Close the bridge after, or they will follow.”
Frantic, Akito backed up a step, as footfalls thundered up the stairs.
“How?” Isander asked.
“Grab a fistful when you jump.” Reaching upward, Lyandros mimed the gesture, closing his fingers into a fist as he did so.
“Yes. That will do.” Isander stepped to his body, seemed to float above it, and then became one with his corporeal form. He leaped off the table a moment later. The witches went into a mad scramble when his snarl transformed his face into a dragon-like mask.
“On my mark.” Lyandros tugged Akito forward. “Now!”
They jumped as a group, Lyandros with them. As Akito passed from the room he caught a glimpse of the Morgan’s chilling gaze. Their eyes locked. Akito froze to his marrow. Though he couldn’t hear the witch in his head, Akito possessed more than passing familiarity with the man’s expression.
I will find you. On this plane or any other. You are mine, and I will make you suffer.
Desperate, Akito grabbed for the moonlight as he slid out of sight. On either side of him, Lyandros and Isander did the same. The river of light thickened, the tunnel collapsing behind them. Akito’s feet slipped through the silvered light, and then the rest of him. Quickly. Smoothly. Like going down a slide.
Liquid fear alternated with liquid delight, flipping Akito’s equilibrium until he giggled with drunken emotion. At the bottom of the silver tunnel, a soft green glow pulsed, overwhelming the moonbeam’s bright silver. Akito raced toward it, hoping the landing, this time at least, would be soft.
Chapter 13
Their landing came in a rapid series of thumps and grunts. Lyandros had experienced worse descents to the ground from the back of a cantankerous steed, but still there would be bruises. Repressing a groan, he rolled to his back and stretched, testing sore muscles. He grimaced at a particularly tender spot near his groin. Nothing had broken, at least. With slow, dawning awareness, he realized his ability to feel bruise and bone could mean only one thing. He had a body.
Opening his eyes, he blinked away sparks and flashes of light. It was anyone’s guess how long their descent had taken, but it had been long enough for the silver to dazzle his gaze. Dots of color winked at him, separating from the brighter auras. A few larger blobs took on shades of green that danced faintly against a darkening purple backdrop. Underneath his head, grass tickled. He breathed deep and smelled clean summer air, the loamy scent of moss, and the prickling sweetness of a pine. All these things and more resolved into view, and he found he lay in the middle of a garden.
Slowly, as if waking from a dream, he took in the familiar-yet-strange landscape. Lush trees swayed above, their multi-hued leaves creating a rustling music. A stream sang over the most perfectly polished rocks and gems—tiger-eye, emerald, and the rare diamonds all sparkled against a periwinkle twilight. Lifting his head, he peered down his length and saw his body as he’d once known it—alive, warm, made of flesh and blood. He lifted one hand and peered at his corpo
real fingertips. A breeze touched his palms, and a shiver ran down his spine.
On either side of him, Akito and Isander stirred.
Akito moistened his lips. “Where?”
“Faerie,” Lyandros answered, his voice like gravel.
He welcomed the pain as further proof of his soul’s return to his body. A note of caution warned him that in Faerie even moonlight could be rendered substantial. Just because he was alive here did not mean he would be when he returned to Boston… If they returned to Boston.
Laying back again, Akito closed his eyes and sighed. “Out of the frying pan…”
Unfortunately, Lyandros had to agree.
He said, instead, “The fae are not all bad.”
Akito snorted. “Their king is a maniac, according to a friend of mine.”
Lyandros turned his head toward Akito. “You have a friend here?”
“No.” Wincing, Akito turned his head to regard Lyandros. “I have a friend in Boston who is half fae.”
The warrior’s top-knot had come undone, and his hair brushed the grass in a glimmering black cascade. Lyandros curled his fingers into the springy grass and breathed. Having a body for the first time in decades had apparently put a strain on his physical self-control.
“Ah.” Lyandros frowned into the middle distance. “Would that be the witch? Nyx?”
“Yeah.” Akito’s answering sigh was wistful. “Nyx.”
“The landscape is pretty,” Isander commented, sitting up on his elbows and wincing, much as Lyandros had.
Akito threw a shielding forearm over his eyes. “Looks like a chalk painting gone wrong.”
“Who dares trespass in the King’s gardens?”
Lyandros sat up swiftly and cursed. He had not heard the fae guard approach. None of them had. This, however, was hardly surprising. The fae were adept at silent, swift movement—their walk more of a glide—especially here on their own plane.
“Crap,” Akito muttered, moving cautiously.
Isander followed suit. All three came to their feet.
“We,” Isander said, putting on his diplomatic hat, “are from House Dragoumanos.”
The fae guard, his Roman red cloak dripping with gold braid and gem-studded leaf epaulettes, did not lower his spear, though he blinked in surprise. Two more guards joined him, one with a tunic more decorated than the rest.
“They say they’re of House Dragoumanos, Captain,” the first guard said.
Jade green eyes studied them, assessing. Lyandros tried not to wriggle like a bug on a pin, and mostly succeeded.
“I am the Justice Giver, Lyandros Dragoumanos. This”— he indicated Isander with a tilt of his head—“is my brother, the King Ruler.” When he came to Akito, he frowned. Exactly how should he qualify Akito? He settled upon, “And this is our subject, Akito James.”
The last drew a puzzled frown from Isander, who didn’t comment.
“Take them to the tower,” the Captain commanded his guard. Then, to his prisoners, “Hands on your heads.”
As they complied, the scrap of moonlight Akito apparently still held in his fist fluttered away on the breeze. The guards’ eyes widened as a group. One whispered a prayer of apology to the moon god, Elatha.
“Stealing moonlight is a capital offense,” the Captain said, observing the moonbeam as it arced up and away, toward its home in the dawning night.
“I assume you offer a fair trial along with that accusation?” As Justice Giver, Lyandros knew how to argue a case.
The charge did not overly worry him, especially since they could prove they’d been protecting the fae from invasion by the Morgan. There were any number of ways he could spin Akito’s defense. How they were all going to get home, on the other hand, was a question for which he had no answer.
Two more guards arrived, and forced their march, spears pointing threateningly, to the castle. The journey was a twisty one, among trees and benches, fountains and sculpture. Judging from the opulence and abundance of gemstones and gilding, they had, indeed, landed in the Fae King’s own garden.
Sensual statuary, lovers in twos and more coupled in hyper-gymnastic and improbable poses, formed the decoration amid a knot garden. Benches and swings, festooned with precious stones and draped in hand woven silks worked in threads of sunlight, moonlight, and—unless Lyandros were mistaken—soul light, dotted the lush oasis to invite all manner of trysts. One swing, in particular, drew his eye as he passed. Akito noticed it too, blushing and looking away when Lyandros met his gaze.
Now wasn’t the time to engage in thoughts of just how delicious the warrior would look, naked and draped on the supple silks, legs open wide and sex exposed for any manner of pleasuring or plundering. To his dismay, Lyandros found his mind once again an unruly subject and his cock a willing participant in the lurid fantasy. With effort, he quashed the vision and focused straight ahead for the remainder of their journey through the garden.
They stepped through a side door of wood. Nearby were others of bronze, silver, and gold. Lyandros guessed that each offered entrance to levels of caste or rank. Evidently, they were headed for the lower echelons of the castle’s social strata. Most likely the dungeons. He hoped that wherever they were sequestered, it would be together. He had much to ask Isander and had no desire to be separated from his brother after so recently reuniting with him.
At the base of the castle walls, he chanced a glance up. Spires of glass capped towers of jade, onyx, and lapis. In the distance, on the other side of a mammoth oval keep were three matching towers of amethyst, ruby, and sapphire. Bricks made of gemstones formed walls that glittered and winked in the fading daylight. He, Akito, and Isander were marshalled through a low door into a sloping passage that abruptly cut off the glittering walls and their backdrop of periwinkle twilight. The smell of damp earth and sounds of prisoners’ coughs and groans drifted upward from the bottom of the passage, and the door thudded shut with grim finality.
As a group, they were stripped, searched with infinite so-called care, and each handed garb of sackcloth. Only once did Lyandros think to break position, when Akito whimpered at a rude violation and searching fingers upon his person. He opened his mouth to tell the guard to stand down, but a quick look and head shake from Isander compelled him to remain silent. Ultimately, they were all three shoved into the same room. Tiny, to be sure, but there was space to lie down—if one didn’t mind a nap in the damp. The door clanged shut, and a key rattled in the rusty iron lock. No magic would see them set free from this place.
“I hope the king is a curious fellow,” Isander observed, his lip curling as he regarded the lichen-dotted walls.
Huddled in on himself, Akito slid to the floor and sat with his back in the corner farthest from the door. Wearily, he asked, “Why is that?”
Joining him, Lyandros answered, “Because it means we’ll be granted an audience if the king wants to know why we’re here, how we got here, and…” He twisted his hand, fluttering his fingers in a vague wave.
“Whether there are more of us coming?” Isander offered.
Lyandros gave him a wry smile. “Exactly.”
He’d missed that about Isander. The observant, ever watchful calm he had about him. And the ability his brother had always had to finish both his and Tzadkiel’s thoughts. Lyandros had always imagined Isander would have made a good teacher had they not been born into the family business of ruling the mora and fighting gods ordained battles.
“Knowing the fae, I’m thinking we’re more likely to get tortured for information than invited to a nice chat with their king,” Akito observed.
The warrior sat, legs bent, hands draped over his knees. His hair curtained his face, leaving it in deeper shadows. Torch light from the damp corridor illuminated the cell through the door’s iron-barred window, lending the space an eerie glow. Apparently, dungeons in any realm appeared much the same, and no fae creativity had been wasted on the utilitarian space.
“They will not risk a war by treating us…too
badly.” Or so Lyandros hoped. Deciding a topic change was warranted, he addressed Isander with, “How came you to be in the Morgan’s clutches, brother? Were you captured the same night as Tzadkiel and myself?”
Isander straightened, his booted foot coming down from the wall where he’d leaned. “Tzadkiel lives?”
“He does.” Lyandros met his brother halfway, and they embraced.
Memories of early practice with wooden swords, the shouts of men and women calling to each other in Greek as they conducted their business in Athens’ streets spooled time backward. For a moment, they were both young and had nothing more to worry about than whether their tutor would quiz them on the previous day’s assigned scrolls.
Pulling away, Lyandros clasped Isander’s shoulder, and the gesture was returned. “You were missed.”
Isander’s smile popped his dimple to the fore, but the expression held a tinge of wistful sadness. “Tell me of our mora.”
Sitting, Lyandros passed a hand over his face. His beard abraded his fingers, and he held out his hand in wonder. All of life’s delights were his again, however briefly. Lowering his hand, he tilted back his head and closed his eyes as he decided where to begin. All of the information was so new to him, it seemed unreal as he sketched an outline of the mora’s predicament, including his own death and Tzadkiel’s healing. Finished, he opened his eyes.
Pain tightened the corners of Isander’s eyes, dulling their light and lending a heaviness to his brow. “I—is there any hope for you? For the mora?”
“For the mora? Yes. For me?” Lyandros glanced to Akito, who seemed to take in the conversation with a grim-faced wariness. “That depends upon whether Akito can return to his own body and help Tzadkiel perform the rite that would allow me to move on.”
Lyandros tried to make his smile reassuring, but he feared it only served to deepen Isander’s fears. Deflating, Isander joined them on the floor. Scrubbing his face with his hand in a gesture reminiscent of their late father, he seemed to search for words. Anger, then despair weighted his blue eyes, replaced finally by a weary acceptance.
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