Child of Darkness-L-D-2 (16 page)

He’d been trying to seduce her? That sent a happy thrill through her, despite the unpleasant situation. All of those signals she’d been sure she’d seen and heard had not been the product of her wishful imagination.

Then, casually, his father lifted a strand of Cerridwen’s hair in his hand and sniffed it, making a face. “This creature? You would pick this pitiful thing for a dalliance? That is truly disappointing, son. I thought I’d taught you better than to stray from your own kind.”

Dalliance? That made it seem so…filthy. She opened her mouth, as if to argue, and closed it again.

“Oh, it wishes to speak.” As if he’d suddenly lost interest and patience with her, Fenrick’s father walked away. “What could it tell me?”

“She has told me a great many things, Father,” Fenrick said, his gaze drifting nervously to Cerridwen. “Perhaps you should ask her.”

“I will ask her nothing.” The older Elf turned, his eyes blazing orange with wrath. Then, his expression turned sickeningly sweet as he regarded his son. “But I do thank you. She will make an excellent trophy.”

As Fenrick looked blankly at his father, two shapes moved in the shadows. Other Elves, Cerridwen assumed, but they were clothed in armor…proper, matching armor, not the remnants of bygone wars disguised by shoddy tabards. They were covered from head to toe in dull black metal, so skillfully camouflaged that they had been indistinguishable from the darkness in the room.

What were they doing? Cerridwen turned to Fenrick, saw that he still remained where he stood, that he did not try to reassure her. The guards grew ever closer, their metal boots clanking on the floor. They would throw her in a dungeon, or worse, perhaps. And Fenrick would not, she could see now, help her.

Though he had warned her against speaking out, and though he had intended to present her as a prisoner—had that been the ruse all along, to trick her into coming here?—she could not remain silent. Not at the cost of her life. “I am no trophy!”

The guards faltered in their step, and Fenrick’s father, terrifying in his stature and strange ways, stared at her as though he’d just witnessed a lowly cockroach speak. Still, she continued, praying she sounded more confident than she felt. “I have not come here as Fenrick’s prisoner, but as an ally. I wish to join your side of the coming war against my mother’s Court.”

“An ally?” The Elf laughed, and it was not a sound of humor. “An ally? A Faery? You have seriously overestimated the importance your life holds to me.”

“I can tell you of my mother’s plans! Are those not important?” she felt Fenrick’s angry gaze on her now, and a veil of confusion fell over her. Would he not now see her as brave? Would his father not realize how valuable her knowledge could be to him?

As if in answer, Fenrick’s father came forward and grasped Cerridwen’s wrists, crushing them until the sound of bones grinding was audible over the ringing of pain in her ears.

“The only sound I want to hear out of you are your cries for mercy as I kill you. I want your mother to hear them, as well.” He let go of her so unexpectedly that she tumbled to the ground. She hadn’t realized that her knees had buckled. “Cage her. Leave her relatively unmarked, for the time being. I want her somewhat whole when I face the Bitch Queene.”

“Fenrick?” She looked up at him through a haze of tears. “Fenrick, will you not tell him? I am on your side.”

But he said nothing, would not deign to look at her.

“Fenrick?” His name was a bitter whisper now. Something tore away inside her as she looked at him.

The older Elf sighed and approached his son. “You did well, son. But you should have cut out her tongue before bringing her here.”

“Yes, father. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Fenrick did not answer her cries even as the guards dragged her away.

Elves were not difficult to come by in the Darkworld. Turn over a moldy rock and you could find one. Lift a sodden, moldering pile of rags, and there he would be. Malachi stalked through the tunnels, sword drawn. Already, the blade shone crimson, and where it was not crimson, it was black. Two Demons who’d approached and a Human who had been foolish enough to try to steal from him had already seen to that. He did not put his blade away, for he had not yet found his quarry, and though he planned to take it alive, he would not risk being overcome himself before capturing it.

He would not tell Ayla what the letter had said, he decided. He could not tell her that Cerridwen had run off with a lover to the Darkworld, in order to avoid her betrothal. She would blame herself, though she would not admit it. But inside, her regret would grow in her like a canker.

No, he would not tell her she’d run off because of the betrothal. But he certainly would not tell her that she’d run off intending to see her mother defeated at the hands of the Elves. That Cerridwen had been so cruel as to suggest such a thing gave Malachi a sick feeling in his guts. He had no idea what he would tell Ayla.

How could the girl be so stupid? So careless? How could she walk willingly in the Darkworld, knowing how dangerous it was? Knowing that it was an unforgivable offense to her mother, to her entire race?

How could she be so like Ayla, and yet so different?

Ayla had been able to handle herself in the Darkworld. Not that it justified her reason for going there, which was exactly the same reason as Cerridwen used now. Love. A silly thing that the Fae weren’t even supposed to feel, not like mortals. And yet, both mother and daughter had fallen victim to the whims of their emotions. Even Cedric must know something of love, willing as he was to turn his back on the Court and chase after a mortal. Malachi understood love. It was dangerous, and made its sufferers do stupid things. Stupid things like prowling the Darkworld, spoiling for a fight. Like trying to rescue a child who loathed him, and who would loathe him more if she knew the truth of why he sought to help her. Love made people lie to those they loved, to keep them from being wounded. In the dark of the tunnel ahead, he saw a flash of yellow eyes. Though he had not stalked Elves in his time as a Death Angel, he had seen them, and had delivered many mortals to Aether after they’d fallen dead at an Elf’s hands. He had seen them fight, and had seen them hunt. Now, he was being hunted.

He did not react. If the creature knew he had spotted it, it might lose interest or flee. He continued to walk, knowing a trap had been set, praying there were not so many of them that they would easily overtake him.

His footsteps became splashes as he ventured farther and the fetid water deepened, sloshing over his boots, seeping into the hem of his robe. It was a good trap…most mortals would be slowed trying to escape from water that restricted the movement of their legs. But most mortals would run, not fight. Relying on him to flee would be the Elf’s first mistake. The second would be assuming that a mortal would make for easy prey. Malachi was mortal in as much as he could be killed—and easily, compared to those races that considered themselves mortal. But not easy when compared to the mortal fools who made the Darkworld their home, the kind these Elves were intending to waylay. Those mortals would scream, panic, beg.

Malachi would force his opponents to do those things. Judging from the sound of bodies breaking water, there were four of them in the darkness. He looked around, feigned helplessness. They drew closer; this he could tell from instinct. All of the training he had received from Cedric, from Ayla, all of that would have aided him little had he not retained the preternatural senses he’d had as a Death Angel.

One Elf surfaced behind him, and the surprise on his face was delicious as Malachi’s blade severed the creature’s neck before it could even move to defend itself. Another had witnessed the fall of its cohort, and called out in rage to his remaining fellows. Malachi didn’t bother to listen to the shouted curses and threats. Two Elves stood to his left, the gleam of their curved blades evident even in the near-total darkness. The third hung back, appeared to be unarmed.

He would live, Malachi decided. It would be easier to kill the other two, rather than wrestle their weapons away from them.

They were bold, both rushing him at once, moving to flank him as he twisted in their direction. The one remaining on his left swung his blade, and Malachi dodged it, simultaneously locking his sword against the other Elf’s scimitar. He pushed down, hard, ignoring the repeated swing of the left Elf, ducking out of the way of the blade at the last possible moments but never letting up pressure on the right Elf’s weapon. The trapped sword shot from the creature’s hand, hitting the water before he could recover it. Malachi made a quick swipe and the Elf’s hand followed the weapon into the murky depth. While his partner howled in rage and pain, the left Elf increased the pace of his frantic assault. Malachi smiled to himself. They had just realized that this would not be an easy kill. And they had realized it too late.

Then, it all went wrong somehow. Pain ripped through Malachi’s chest, muscles seizing painfully on some invading, tearing pressure. He stared down, unbelieving, at the slender wood protruding from his chest.

In that moment, the left Elf landed a blow with his knife, deep into Malachi’s shoulder. The blade stuck, but he was able to shove the Elf away to disarm him. Another searing bolt shocked him as something pierced his thigh; he stumbled and fell to his knees in the water, and the maimed right Elf leaped onto his back. He struggled, but the creature held fast, weighing him down. Malachi took a huge breath before the Elf managed to shove his head below water.

The left Elf had recovered from his fall and waded to Malachi, gripping his arms and holding them at his sides. Malachi kicked out, trying to get his feet beneath him on the rough bottom of the tunnel, but the combined weight of the Elves holding him was too great. His lungs, paralyzed in his chest, ached for breath. His limbs burned for want of air. He closed his eyes, and let his body go limp.

It took them longer than he expected, almost too long, to realize that they’d successfully drowned him. They released him, and did not bother to recover their weapons…they were glad, he supposed, to be alive. They did not pick over his corpse for money; any spoils they had hoped for were abandoned in the relief of escape.

He waited until they had waded away a few paces. And then, he burst from the water. One of them screamed. Malachi ended the sound with a squeeze of his fist around the Elf’s throat. A quick shake, the way Humans killed chickens, and the whole of the black throat came away his hand. He plunged the struggling body beneath the water and planted one boot on its back while he grabbed the other creature. He held him easily with one fist tangled in the creature’s long hair and reached to pull the knife that still protruded from his shoulder. When the blade was free, he wrenched the Elf’s head back and plunged the knife to its hilt through the creature’s exposed neck. A jet of blood streamed from the wound as he jerked the knife downward and pulled the Elf’s struggling body up. The metal hit the powerful resistance of bone then, and with a renewed burst of strength cleaved through it, splitting the body from throat to stomach. Malachi threw the corpse aside and reached for the Elf still fighting at the bottom of the pool. He caught him by the hair, as well, pulling his head up, keeping his body pinned by the weight of Malachi’s foot at the back of his knees, bowing his body outward, away from his captor. With one swift slice the head came free and the body drifted limply into the water.

An arrow pierced the water at Malachi’s side, and he cursed. The last Elf, the one he’d intended to capture, still seemed intent on killing him. But now that Malachi knew what he faced, he had a far better chance of overcoming him.

The Elf fired another bolt. Malachi heard the catch of the bow giving way, the whistle of the projectile rending the air. He easily moved from its path. Another came, and another, all easy to avoid, until a cry of fear and a splash revealed that the Elf had dropped his weapon in flight.

“Do not run!” Malachi bellowed to the fleeing Elf. He still held the head of the dead one in his fist, and he dropped it to the water as he started for the terrified survivor. Of course, the warning went unheeded. But the Elf’s terror impeded his own escape. He stumbled, fell into the water flailing, gasped as he surfaced and stumbled again. The water was deeper here, to Malachi’s waist, and it caught in his wings beneath his robe, tugging at them, drawing him back. It was not enough, though, to slow him in time for the Elf to escape. Malachi grasped the creature by its sodden garments and hauled it up to face him. Its feet no longer touched the bottom of the pool.

“You have caused me no small irritation,” he snarled into the Elf’s face. “But you will live. You will live long enough to tell my Queene that you have abducted her daughter, and that your people intend to war with the Faeries. And then, you might live out the rest of your days in a dark cell, occasionally tortured for my amusement.”

The Elf opened its mouth and began to protest having knowledge of any of the charges Malachi had levied against him. That was to be expected, and Malachi did not have time to listen. He jerked the Elf forward and his skull into that of his bretheren. The body went limp in his hands.

Now, his wounds began to make themselves known, his muscles began to ache under the strain of activity they could no longer sustain. Ignoring the throbbing that took his breath away with every movement, he hefted the whole Elf over his shoulders, dropped the ruined head of the other, and slogged through the water, back the way he’d come, toward the Lightworld.

Eleven

I t was not difficult to convince the guards that she was there to see Bauchan on official business. They recognized her, of course, as someone close to the Queene, and did not ask to see the elaborate documents that she had forged.

It was a shame, Flidais lamented as she was admitted to the rooms where Bauchan and his entourage were being held. The documents might have been her most convincing forgery yet. They were even better than the ones for Faery Lord Vervain, when he’d commissioned false intelligence reports to help instigate the Vampire uprising.