Facets of Feyrie Box Set, page 5
part #1 of Facets of Feyrie Series
“I brought her some food, could you let her know?” This is said to me. Mildly taken aback, I remain silent. Heart rate increasing from anxiety, he tosses the bag into the cell and leaves.
My eyes return to her. At least, I have something I can blame now. That fucking tattoo. The one I could not see when she was brought in and dumped on the cell floor in a big heap of bloody meat. Yet now cannot unsee. My eyes trace every line of it, starting where it begins at the base of her hairline. Spreading out in intricate lines of a web that take up the space between her shoulder blades, the middle of her back and ends at her the top of her ass. A black widow spider is perched on a silver spun web with an all too familiar rune shining at me from its back. Red eyes look at me in accusation from a body so detailed and realistic I find myself surprised it is not moving across the strands it is clinging to.
It is undoubtedly a Magikal tattoo. Not only partially like I first believed but in its entirety. No mortal-made one could be so complex, so alive. It explains too why she bears no normal mark behind either ear. This is her mark, and it is an exclusive one, that only she will ever bear. I understand the significance of Magikal tattoos in a way others do not. My body is a canvas of them, created as I came to be. They are signs of my power, and that spider is a sign of hers.
Now I recall the memories of Jameson’s words the night she was brought in. He could see more of the tattoo than I could, but I felt his view was flawed at the time. Perhaps, I need to rethink that.
“That’s the spider from the stories about Nightmares. I only know that because of a bedtime story my father read to me as a child. I also know they don't exist. In my opinion, it only looks half-formed, it's like there's more that's somehow being obscured.” Jameson points at the supposed spider, but I cannot see anything more than a black blur.“I have no idea why that is. I’ll admit, though, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen it before.” Jameson’s face is thoughtful as he studies the spider. “I should tell the magistrate,” he grumbles.
“You will not,” I bite out at him. Jameson’s eyes jerk up to meet mine, his face paling.
“I will not,” Jameson says, saving his own life. His Adam’s apple bobs nervously as he swallows, then climbs to his feet and scurries from the room.
The rune is very familiar to me. Her having it on her body solidifies the suspicions that have been circling in my mind since I saw her for the first time. I am unwilling to inform anyone or in any way celebrate its existence; no one can know its significance. Frustratingly, this also means I cannot have the fool, Jameson, research for me. A shame, he is good at sniffing out information and friendly towards Iza, but he is never trustworthy. A Feyrie wanting to be a Schoth is not someone I can or will trust with anything. The only reason he still lives is lying on the floor, and that is only a temporary arrangement.
Eventually, his usefulness will run out.
* * *
I’ve not spent every moment of my life alone here, obviously, but having someone constantly around that I don't want to strangle—is a new experience, and has me a tad tense. Not the lack of modesty or being self-conscious about anything—that was taken from me a long time ago. Sharing an ever-shrinking space, even with the bars between us, with a being that’s so... him, is different. He’s always watching me; I know because I can feel it, which is strangely kind of cool. Unfortunately, I can’t return the favor. No matter how hard I try, I can’t see the bastard in his stupid shadows.
If it were anyone else in this place, I’d think he is afraid of me. But we both know that’s not the case this time.
The complications with him keep growing too. Since he spoke to me several weeks ago, my awareness of him has deepened. Wait, I think it’s weeks—it could be months. There's no real concept of time down here, just guesstimations. So far, five more buckets of water… a bucket every few periods of sleep, bah. The attempt at math hurts my tired brain—regardless of weeks or months, I’m not sure what to make of it all.
He might have started talking, but it's only to ask questions, not give answers.
Every frustrating day he takes the whole strong, silent type to a brand-new, annoying level. One that is a fuzz shy of being creepy. He’s just so fucking obvious about it that I can’t help but shake my head sometimes.
Currently, he’s standing there staring at me—without blinking, those two eye torches of his haven’t wavered at all. He reminds me of a carrion bird waiting patiently for me to die so he can eat me. Not that I’d care if I were dead and he ate me. Meat is meat. However, I don’t feel like he wants me dead—not yet at least. One day maybe. I have that effect on people.
Technically, he’s not even a stranger. He’s been a consistent presence in my life for a long time, but that alone doesn’t make me know him—or trust him. My instincts insist that he’s safe, but in just these few interactions I think he’s so different from everything I’ve known, I’ll never figure him out. Unless he decides to let me, but I’m not holding out hope for it. Infuriatingly, my desire to be nosey also pushes me to interact with him, which is weird. I’m not much for seeking anyone out. That desire alone makes my feelings sharper, more noticeable.
Uncomfortable.
“Why are you here?” The question pops out of my mouth before I can catch it. Well, shit.
A slight clinking sound breaks the silence from his cell.
“Why do you care?” Well, that isn’t exactly an answer.
Not really having one for him either, I shrug and say, “Curiosity?” It’s the truth if nothing else.
“I am a slave,” he says after several minutes of silence.
“Well, not to be a dick, but duh.” I mean, he's wearing shackles. That's not a fashion statement. A muffled noise comes from his direction. Did he snort? Right as I feel my lips start to raise in some semblance of a smile, the entire mood changes. A blanket of tension falls heavily between us. I sigh. Right as I’m getting somewhere.
“They are coming,” he warns in that echoey-whisper-weirdo voice he can do. It’s the first time he’s told me about them coming too. This fact alone makes me cautious.
Still a little sore from the last beating my big mouth earned me with the guards, I climb stiffly to my feet. The muscles all over my body begin to twitch and shiver as adrenaline seeps into my system. My feet shift around on the floor, restless. I want to fight. This doesn’t bode well for me to have that particular instinct so soon after waking up.
If I go after one of them now though, I’ll get my ass handed to me. Running different scenarios through my head gets me the same result every time. A big fucking failure. That creepy bastard is rubbing off on me. I double-check my feelings on the situation to be sure. I’m not afraid, so that isn't what's making me pause and think about things this clearly. Death doesn’t scare me anymore; I’m not sure it ever did.
Death comes for everyone, always. I'd prefer to see it coming and maybe punch it in the face a couple of times. It doesn't mean I have to rush at it like an idiot either. Thoughtfully, I look over at Phobe. Maybe I’ve learned something from watching him?
“To kill me?” I finally ask. Voicing my suspicions out loud helps break some of the tension.
“No,” he answers after a slight hesitation. I relax.
“Then what’s the big deal? They are probably bringing you another juice box.” My frustration bleeds into my voice.
Why put such a warning into his words if the Schoth aren’t going to do anything?
“No,” he says, interrupting my inner rambling. “They will not feed their beast again for a while.”
I don’t care for the name they use for him. It bothers me to call him that, even in my head. It's fucked up. He eats people, and that doesn’t bother me one bit, but them calling him the wrong name puts me in a tizzy. So, what does that make me? Other than the owner of a stupid brain.
“Then, why?” I ask, to see if he knows and stop the asinine path of my thoughts.
“Entertainment.” The way he says that doesn’t make me think it’s the ‘pulling a rabbit out of a hat’ kind of entertainment. It sounds more like the ‘one of us bleeding on the floor’ kind.
I’ve been the star of those parties—lots of times.
Before I know it, “You know exactly what they are going to do, don’t you?” comes out of my mouth. There's even a touch of accusation that slips in there. Subtlety is not one of my strong points; it's something I consider a waste of time.
Glowing, fiery orbs flare brighter deep in the shadows that hide him. I take that as affirmation.
Annoyed with him, I don’t comment. Maybe I’ll ask him later how he knows if I can stop visualizing hitting him with the bucket. Or a metal bar. Oh yeah, definitely a metal bar. It’ll hurt more. Why stop at the bar? I can grab a big fat brick too. There's a ton of them laying around. I'll give him four good, hard smacks right in his smug, too pretty face. If nothing else I’ll feel better.
The shadows lighten around him enough to expose his face to my view. I swear it's like he's inviting me to hit him. His full top lip curls up into something that resembles a smile. That’s eerie as shit, and I discover that I like it. My brain really is stupid.
As he moves, my eyes following him as he turns to face the door. Irritation forgot I watch as the thick short claws on his hands lengthen by several shiny, sharp inches. Damn things look like daggers growing out of his fingertips.
Phobe is going to hurt someone today.
I do a happy dance in my head temporarily forgiving him for being a jerk. The shackles binding his wrists pull tight, the metal flexing with a creak, pushed right to the breaking point without breaking. He knows exactly how much pressure to exert without disobeying the great shiny rock of power. That level of control is rather genius. Maybe even a little sexy.
Sexy? Did I honestly just think that? Fuck me, where’s that damn intervention?
Goosebumps rise on my skin as his uncanny glowing eyes meets mine over his shoulder. Sometimes it’s like the bastard reads my mind. My eyes narrow; it's entirely possible he can. Plus, these stupid goosebumps got to go. Right out the door with the word sexy.
“Well, well, you lucky pieces of shit. The magistrate has finally summoned you.” My gaze snaps to Rickher, an unwanted familiar Schoth face, as he opens the door to Phobe’s cell. I was so fucking distracted with the concern over my foolish attraction to Phobe; I missed their arrival entirely. He moves his arm and freezes halfway to Rickher.
Rickher holds out the great shiny rock of power, a smug smile on his face. The Magiks in the rock spread out to form a purple tether that runs from the stone to the darkness that perpetually twists in a moving vortex surrounding Phobe. The more I see it, the more familiar it seems, but I still can’t place it. Even weirder is the urge inside me to touch that rock. Staring at the tether harder, I can see where the spell is starting to fray, to wear out—but holds because of the power that created it.
It took a lot of juice to bind him to it—a lot. There's no way only one person did it. So why lock him down here like an unwanted pet after investing so much effort into controlling him?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
I’ve seen a lot of different kinds of critters, but he’s nothing like any of them. Do they honestly know what they have in him? I know he’s been their war machine in the past, I read shit tons of books on lore, but he doesn’t get any special treatment because of it. He’s treated as crappy as any other Feyrie. Probably worse. Hmm. There’s something strange going on here. They shelved their weapon, and treat him like a common Feyrie that no longer has any use.
I'm starting to think that they have no real idea what he is, but it’s not a Feyrie; he’s a whole lot of something else entirely.
Now that I think about it, he also reminds me of a character in the books I learned to read in. They’re considered fiction nowadays, but all fiction has a spark of truth to it. The story was unique, and from what I was told, banned. ‘The Siege Of Shadows’ was the title and it was my favorite book. There was no Prince Charming, just a monster that tried to conquer the world. I chose it because I hated the tales about the gallant hero coming in to save the damsel in distress. In my fantasies, the bad guy always came to my rescue. Getting his hands dirty, ripping off heads and slinging guts all over the place.
Phobe is every inch a bad guy, and I have no doubts about him ripping off heads. Unfortunately, he won’t be riding in to save me anytime soon. Like, well—ever. He’s no better off than I am.
“Kneel.” As Rickher speaks the word, Phobe tries to fight the power of the command. And he fights it hard too, but within minutes his will is overcome. He sinks to his knees, his face an expressionless mask of calm. Those eyes though, they hold something else entirely.
Death.
“Grab her,” Rickher snaps off to his companions. Shit. My muscles lock as I struggle to keep myself from doing something stupid. Two of them stomp into my cell and grab my upper arms. For a split second the urge to fight almost overrides my new-found caution, but I stop it in its tracks. A lot of hard lessons were learned in this place, and the most recent one is to choose my battles with more care. There is a time for a fight and a time to survive—if I fight now, I don’t think I will survive.
As weak as I am, I’ll be about as useless as tits on a boar. All I'd accomplish is to become a punching bag for a bunch of bitter guards who like hurting people because they feel sorry for themselves. There will be another chance to make them bleed. Watching the methodical care Phobe takes with everything he does is finally rubbing off on me.
The small smile on my face falls away when I'm dragged towards the door. I bite my tongue to keep myself calm. My poor sore body isn't liking the rough shit. With the ease of too much practice, I seek out that cold, dark place inside of me that lets me escape the pain. A place I visit so often it's more of a home than anything else.
Taking a deep breath gives me the strength I need to stand up straight and not fall on my face. Drawing my shoulders back, I raise my chin with as much pride as I can muster. I stand buck naked before them, but I refuse to cower to these motherfuckers.
Fuck that. Fuck them.
“You two are going to a party,” Rickher says. “You should feel privileged they invited you.” A jolt of apprehension courses through me, but I keep my face blank.
One of the guards standing next to the door, elbows Phobe as he walks past him. Phobe barely moves, and the man falls to the floor, dying. I smirk. I can’t help it. I knew he’d get one sooner or later.
“What have I told you about fucking with him? Only the holder of this stupid rock is safe from him, you dumbasses!” Rickher yells as they lead us up the long stairway, leaving the body of their companion on the floor where he fell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the shadows creeping around the dying guy. Shadows the others can't see. Snacking on a guard. Interesting, because I've never seen him eat one before. Maybe it was because he was dumb enough to fuck with Phobe?
Honestly, I hope they’re all dumb enough to fuck with him... and die.
Chapter Four
After walking through what feels like an endless maze of hallways and stairs, we're taken to a large circular room. I'm assuming it's part of the tower I remember seeing years ago when I was brought in on the prison wagon. At the time, I was scared and not paying much attention to things here. It seems to me that this big ass tower is maybe someone's compensating for something. A small something.
That feeling grows as I look around me at the tapestries lining the walls. They depict the same type of scenes over and over. A Schoth stands, hand on hip, with a glowing sword, pointed at the neck of a fallen enemy. Each one is a different enemy, a chronicle of each vanquished species. It’s not hard to deduce who this particular Schoth is.
The magistrate has lots of self-love.
These histories are a sham, of course. They’re not about some selfless savior battling to save his people from the ‘monsters.’ It’s the documentation of the slaughter of innocent people. My eyes flick to Phobe. I was told they didn’t die by the sword of the magistrate either. Jameson told me an entirely different story.
Phobe was the means of destruction. Not some fop with an over-inflated ego and a floppy sword. A small floppy sword, at that. Phobe secured their base of power. Now, for some fucked up reason, he's down in the toilet with me. Which still doesn’t make sense. I’m starting to think they know less about him than I do, and I don’t know shit, except that he’s dangerous.
Prisoners talk. After seeing him the first time all those years ago, I listened.
A sharp jerk sideways catches me unaware. Off-balance, I stumble and trip over one of the thick, ugly, copper-colored rugs on the floor. Throwing my hands up, I try to catch myself but end up on my face, literally. The all too familiar taste of blood floods my mouth as my teeth split my lip. I curse under my breath.
Big, cool hands lift me to my feet. In surprise, I look up into the bright eyes of Phobe. Eyes that I feel like a tingling warmth of awareness—and something else I can’t quite put my finger on—tickles my skin. I snort, unable to help myself. Here I am, naked and cut up like I fell on a chainsaw, getting all moony over a pair of eyeballs.
How is that not ridiculous?
“If we play spin the bottle, I’m not going first,” I whisper to him.
‘You think this is a game?’ That deep sensual voice in my head jerks me right out of my humor.
Through my lashes, I study his closed expression. Not a single flicker of anything, I’ve seen walls with more emotion. I bet my ass this telepathy shit isn’t something they know he can do. These types of secrets people keep to themselves. It also gives credence to my suspicion that he can read my mind.
