Shadowfae, page 4
part #1 of Shadowfae Chronicles Series
I wiped my face, only to get wetter as he dropped his slender green arm around my shoulder, giggling and hoping to stay upright. Instead we staggered against the pebbled wall, limbs tangling in a sprinkle of water from his wings.
“You fucking idiot, you’re drenched.” Already his rough silky hair was trying to spring back to its normal wild vertical tangle. I dragged clumsy fists through it, and warm water tumbled out, spilling down my arms to soak my tank top. I tried the same with his shirt, and my fingers slipped down his slender green midriff to where he was bare, his starved fairy muscles tight and wet.
He felt nice, smooth, safe. I wanted to slide my hand inside his shirt, caress him, soak up his warmth. Heat kindled inside me as my rapture murmured and stretched, awakening. . . .
God, what was I thinking? My face heated, even though the light was dim and he wouldn’t see. The banshee drug sloshed about in my head, elevating my senses, befuddling me. Awkwardness twisted my guts, and I pulled my hand away. “Sorry.”
But Nyx grabbed it and pressed it against his chest, his long lime fingers folding over mine. His breathing pulsed against my palm, slow and definite, and my treacherous heartbeat quickened. He leaned his damp forearm against the wall above me, sheltering me in a bower of glowing blue-green wings, and his ruby gaze shimmied shyly onto mine. “Jade-Jade?”
The catch in his musical voice tore my heart, so akin to my own lonely ache that it stripped me bare. His green lips quivered, shining, moving closer to mine, and I tried not to look at them, not to think of kissing them, of pulling him close and losing myself in his sweet body. He was my best friend, not just some guy. I’d never dared to think of him like this before, but I didn’t want to ruin what we had. He deserved more than I could give, more than I could ever be.
His hot breath brushed my lips, teasing my tongue, and need shivered down my neck, dangerous. Wet desire licked my nerves. I swallowed. This was a rotten idea. “Nyx—”
Too late.
He kissed me delicately, sliding his lips hesitantly on mine like he wasn’t sure I wanted him, and it felt so right, I choked back a sob. Poor shy fairy. Of course I wanted him. Who wouldn’t want him, with his devilish green smile and naïve imagination and beautiful bleeding heart?
I’d just never dreamed someone like him would ever want me.
Tears swelled my lids, aching, and I opened my mouth and kissed him back.
He tasted of oranges and cherry brandy, his jagged teeth stinging my tongue. He explored my hair, curling it around his fingers, sliding a tantalizing claw down behind my ear to make me quiver. My rapture slithered in my belly, murmuring dark promises, and I stamped it out firmly. Not this time. Not him.
I slid my hands around that tempting midriff, his skin so slick and warm, and he cooed into our kiss in pleasure, fluttering closer so our bodies pressed together, shifting. Our drenched clothes crushed between us, the friction burning me all over. I could feel his sex swelling against me, another big twist of hardness laid over all that tight fairy muscle, and longing prickled my skin, sending a gentle, welcome ache between my legs. For once, a man with no Kane-baggage attached who desired me, no rapture or thrall involved, even if we were staggering drunk and high and so lonely, it hurt.
He pulled back, wings quivering. His ruby eyes shimmered in the dark, blond lashes jeweled with shiny blue tears. “More, Jade-Jade. Hold me.”
I’ll hold you all you want, babe, I wanted to say, but nothing came out. My thrall bangles tingled, a gentle warning, but I ignored them. I brushed the blue smears from his cheekbones with my thumb, and he leaned in and kissed me again, only this time it was urgent, deep, hard, his sharp teeth pricking the insides of my lips.
Need burned over me, muddling with drug-addled sadness. My nipples tweaked hard against wet fabric, longing for his caress. I hopped, impatient. He caught me with both hands on my ass, pressing our hips together, and lifted us both off the ground with a strong beat of his wings. We drifted upward, his translucent wing membranes twitching, and swiftly I wrapped my legs around his slender hips, inhaling his tempting toffee scent. I wanted to feel his cock hard against my sex and know he wanted me, not just a fuck but me, Jade-Jade, however many times he wanted to say it. I wanted to slide him into me and bring him off, make him feel good so I could pretend everything was okay.
I held on, clutching my arms around his neck, wrapping my tongue around his, and he let go for long enough to pull his clothes out of the way. He slid bony green fingers beneath my skirt to support me, caress me, open me for him.
I wasn’t totally ready—I could feel a sliver of hot wetness inside me, not enough—but I didn’t care. He slipped a finger deep into me and out, spreading the smoothness. Nerves sparked inside, and a lot more moisture seeped. When he did the same with two fingers, my muscles clenched tight with desire, pressing his claws into my flesh. I wanted all of him. “Nyx, please, it’s okay.”
He fluttered his wings, his pleasure scintillating the membranes with color, and a hot violet breeze wafted over us as we floated in the dark. “Jade-Jade,” he whispered with a breathless laugh, his clever tongue curling over my ear. “Hot like chocolate. I love chocolate.” And he slowly curled his fingers from me and replaced them with his cock, spreading me so he could push inside.
He was big, and it hurt. Burning ripped my skin like acid, and before he was halfway in, I winced, my teeth gritting.
“Oh, not good? Sorry.” Nyx bit his lip, the green veins in his cheeks flushing blue, and he started to withdraw.
“No, it’s fine.” I halted him with my hand on his slim green hip, bearing the sting as best I could. I just wasn’t wet enough, I guess, and he was too big. We’d be good in a moment.
I reached under and adjusted with my fingertips, sliding my flesh free. This time when he pushed he went all the way, and I swallowed a scream, my thighs quivering. God, he was massive, I could barely cover him, but that was nothing compared to the caustic agony chewing at my flesh, burning like he’d shoved molten iron up there. And I was wet, I knew. It wasn’t that. Maybe some weird fairy chemistry.
Shaky, I lifted myself and settled on him again, harder. Nyx’s wings jerked, and he sucked in a sharp breath. I squeezed my eyes shut. God, it was worse. I sat up and slid my fingers over him to make sure there was nothing in the way, but I found only smooth fairy skin over firm tissue.
Something was wrong with us.
I tried again, but the more I moved, the more it hurt, and finally I couldn’t help but cry out. “Ow. No, I can’t.”
Nyx’s pretty cheeks dulled with moisture, his gemlike eyes glazed. “Jade-Jade, sweet, I think—”
“I’m sorry, babe. I can’t.” I pulled him out of me, fluid sticky on my fingers, and the burning eased a little. He set me gently down, and I staggered, not wanting to move my thighs until the stinging stopped. Tension clawed me, my nerves alight with embarrassment.
He stared at me, yellow hair still dripping, his fingers still slick and shiny with my juices. His wings twitched, awkward. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I wanted to make you smile.” Indigo tears flooded his eyes, and he bit his wobbling lip and flitted away into the dark with a whoosh of warm toffee breeze.
I stumbled a few steps after him, acid agony still fresh inside me. “Nyx, please, it isn’t . . .”
It isn’t your fault. It’s not you, it’s me.
But he was already gone.
When I got home, white early-morning sun pressed against my blinds, heat already leaking in, and the place stank of the oily takeaway egg linguine I’d eaten for dinner about a hundred hours ago. I stole past the dirty dishes lurking in ravenous hordes on the sink and dropped onto the bed in my river-stained clothes, too exhausted and wasted and tearful to shower or brush my furry teeth.
I lay there, restless, long minutes ticking over on my neon alarm clock, my mind too worked up to sleep. Distant pain still burned inside me, and my flesh felt raw and ripped. Nausea crawled around in my guts like a mutant snake, and the ache in my heart wouldn’t ease, no matter how I rolled on the sweaty sheets or tugged my hair in frustration.
What a fuckup. I hadn’t merely screwed my best friend and regretted it, a few days of awkward tension and then we’d laugh it off. Nothing harmless like that. I’d spectacularly not screwed him, and chances were I’d broken his heart and he’d never speak to me again.
I wriggled, the air sticky and sick like a soaked blanket on my skin. What was I thinking? Why did I have to bring sex into everything? Sure, I wanted a lover who cared for me. But I wanted a friend more, someone who didn’t care about Kane or Angelo or how I had to spend my time, who liked me for myself and not my glamour. Who didn’t expect anything from me. Nyx did all that, actually treated me like a person and not a sex doll, and I had to throw it back in his face by trying to fuck him.
Maybe what they all said was true, and I’m not good for anything else. Or maybe it’s just been so long since I had a relationship that didn’t involve screwing, that I didn’t know what else to do.
Something wet and heavy thumped into my door like a bag of mud, and I groaned. If that cheeky red spriggan pissed through my letterbox again, I’d rip his pointy nose off. I dragged myself up, stomped to the door, and yanked it open. “Bugger off, you manky little shit—”
The dead bolt snapped from my fingers, and my breath caught. It wasn’t the red spriggan. It was Nyx, insensible, sprawled twitching on my doorstep in a wet blue puddle.
“Babe?” I scrambled to my knees to cradle his fine-boned head. His moist cheek slid on my fingers, cool blue tears spilling over my hands. Moths flickered and crawled in his hair, their brown dust smeared on his green-veined cheek. His beautiful wings lay crushed beneath him, limp and wet. Their color bled, iridescent streaks of viridian and cobalt puddling like diluted water-colors onto the cracked concrete step.
My heart constricted, Quinn’s dead fairy photos flashing in my memory. “Nyx, wake up.”
He murmured something unintelligible, his lips pale and slick with blue phlegm. I slung his limp arm over my shoulder and half dragged, half carried him inside. Hue leeched from his wings to soak my clothes and streak the lino with wet rainbows.
I helped him into my bedroom and laid him on his side on the crumpled bed, bright moisture soaking the creamy sheets blue and green. I popped the lamp on and peeled his sticky clothes off, arranging his damaged wings behind him. Yellow light glistened on his paling skin, glowing veins pulsing dimly in his slender apple-green throat. A faint sour smell rose, like something turned slowly rotten, and his breath stained my pillow where his soft lime lips pressed into it.
I swallowed. I’d wondered what he’d look like in my bed, but this wasn’t what I’d had in mind. Swiftly I examined him where he’d touched me, fingers, mouth, groin. Nothing was burned or torn. It wasn’t me.
He stirred, groaning, and I stroked his hair back gently. Instead of tangling in wild yellow springs above his head, it hung limp and slick, soft gray moths darting. His clammy skin shocked me, cold. He should have been warm. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. I’d never seen a drug like this before. “Nyx? What happened? Did you take something?”
His eyes flickered open, shimmering red, his curly blond lashes clotted. He coughed, thick. “Jade-Jade?”
“I’m here, babe. Take it easy.” I clasped his damp hand, his glassy claws flexing weakly. I dragged the feather quilt up to cover him, heedless of the dripping mess. I knew Nyx was some kind of air sprite. Maybe he was just starving. I visualized the contents of my refrigerator: milk, yogurt, sliced sandwich bread, bananas, Tim Tams . . . What did I have with bubbles? “I’ll get you some mineral water or something—”
“No . . . not hungry . . .” His beautiful voice scratched like he had a rotten case of bronchitis. He swallowed, sickly blue liquid spilling from his lips, his fine pointed ears twitching wet as he tried to smile. “Just sick . . . I’ll be okay. Nowhere else to go. Thanks . . .”
I nodded, stroking his hair, heat swelling in my throat. “Sure. No worries, babe. You just rest now.” But we both knew fairies didn’t get sick.
I tucked the quilt under his pointed chin, and my hand came away stained green. “Kane said there was poison. Did someone attack you? Was it the DiLucas?”
Nyx laughed, and choked, coughing sea-blue ichor, his broken wings jerking feebly. “Stay away from him, Jade-Jade. Promise me.” His eyelids slipped shut, only his quivering wing membranes and the breath wheezing sticky on the pillow betraying any life.
Tears burned my eyes even as my thrall bangles itched and hummed. That was one thing I couldn’t promise, and frustration and sorrow squeezed my heart.
I leaned over to flip the old bar heater on, oil gurgling in the painted pipe lining the wall, and climbed into bed. I heaped the quilt up over us, pulling the edges in around him, and clasped his poor shivering body to mine. Sour, cold moisture soaked through my skirt and tank top, plastering the fabric to my skin. I tucked the top of his head under my chin and held him to me, rocking gently, his wings pulsing feebly, ever weaker. Despair soaked into my heart, burning. If I could feed him, give up my energy to help him, I would. But I couldn’t. All I could do was kill.
I didn’t mean to sleep, but I must have dropped off, my arms still wrapped around him, his dripping head on my breast.
When I woke, he’d melted.
Just a mass of watery blue gel, cold and sticky on my skin, the mattress beneath me drenched with indigo liquid like blood and the sour stink of decay.
Gone. Precious, giddy, lonesome Nyx, who laughed and chased butterflies through the air in CarltonGardens, who cartwheeled into the river for fun and did handstands in the street at midnight when it rained. Who had no one better to come to when he knew he was dying than me.
I hadn’t said I loved him, like a best friend should, or that I was sorry it never worked out between us. I hadn’t said thank you. I couldn’t even stay awake while he died.
I lay alone soaked in sticky blue mess and cried, bright heat bleeding between the dusty venetians.
5
Valentino’s is your typical Lygon Street Italian restaurant. Red leather seats, soft white tablecloths, a tiny vase of flowers and a fat white candle in a shining glass bowl on each table, painted walls draped with curtains, tassels, silent movie stills, and sepia photographs of olive orchards in old Sicily. Vito, the maître d’, wears a black suit and drapes a napkin over his arm. And the smell is glorious, like something out of heaven’s kitchen, roasting lamb, simmering meat sauce dripping with oregano, onions frying in butter and tomatoes, always tomatoes, grilled, sautéed, fried, stewed, any form you can imagine. The scent wafts out onto the street like a warm mouthwatering cloud, mingling with the same from a dozen places on that block.
I got there about nine, having spent the afternoon washing sheets and scrubbing up the mess. Blue fragments of Nyx still stained my fingernails, though I’d scratched at them with the brush until my cuticles ripped and bled, and the decaying stink still soaked my nostrils, sour like guilt. The burning inside me was gone, not even an itch remaining, but injustice seared worse than any chemical scald. Whatever it was, he hadn’t deserved it.
The last breath of sunset faded from the sky, stars peeping through, and restaurant signs buzzed in red and green neon, flashing over the crowded black pavement where café tables spilled out to the street. The Valentino’s blackboard leaned against the wooden rail by the gutter, specials tonight braised lamb shanks and fettuccini pescatore. Customers chattered, white plates and dark wine bottles gleaming.
I checked my reflection in the window before I went in, wiping my nose one last time with a wilting tissue. I looked awful, despite my fresh terra-cotta shift dress and strappy heels. I’d left my hair down for some semblance of dignity, but you could still see my puffy cheeks, and despite me larding on mascara and dark gray shadow like some trashy emo chick, my eyes still glowed swollen and red.
I didn’t care. Let Ange think I was upset about Nino. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice.
Tingling discomfort whispered up my arms, raising the hairs, my thrall bangles stinging, and tension coiled in my intestines. Kane’s words echoed in my heart, a persistent, baleful imperative I couldn’t ignore: You will find out for me. You will . . . you will . . .
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, stuffing the crumpled tissue back in my black satin handbag.
The restaurant was busy tonight, only a few small tables at the back unfilled, and Vito made me a little bow as he hurried past, turning sideways to fit between the chairs. As usual, Ange and whichever corrupt judge or greedy politician he entertained that evening took the round table by the side window. I excused myself around tables and chair backs to approach him, an oily feather of unease sliding in the back of my throat.
Angelo Valenti looks like some of what he is, a hard-ass gangster with loads of cash and no regrets. His eyes are gray and hard, his broad forehead uncreased, his blunt fingernails always clean. In his pockets there’ll be the keys to his Monaro, a thick roll of fifties, a Ziploc bag of white crystal powder, and a silver-flashed .38. Tonight he wore a dark red shirt under a black leather jacket, black curls cropped short at the base of his neck, a golden crucifix on a chain falling over his collar.
He doesn’t look all that smart. He also doesn’t look 350 years old, so go figure.
His companions wore dark suits, no ties, guns lumpy under their jackets. A fat plate of marinara sat half-eaten in the middle of the table, split shellfish still steaming in mounds of pink-sauce-smothered spaghetti. I walked toward them, pasting on a smile, but it froze when I saw who sat there, and I halted, my guts warm and tight.
Fabian and Santino Valenti, two hulks with the trademark heavy Valenti build, hard men whom Ange drags out from under the stairs when there’s killing to be done. Worse, Tony LaFaro, Ange’s fae-born cousin from the old country, sadistic and half-mad from his fairy blood, his yellow eyes double-lidded like a reptile’s. No wives. No girlfriends. This was a war council, and if the five empty merlot bottles on the table were any guide, it was already well under way.
