Dark Throne, The (3 page)

When the opening crumpled as soon as his arm touched the
wood, his eyes widened as he fell inwards
. His touch had been feather light and yet, the door
toppled inwards as though a battering ram had been swung against
it.

The momentum sent him to the ground with a force that would
have sent shockwaves of agony rippling through him, had it not been
for one thing
.

The warm, yielding body that broke his fall and which was
now groaning in pain
.

His body still ricocheted with the abuse he’d put it
through that night, but he jumped upright as soon as they came to a
standstill
. He grabbed for the
woman, those plump curves were a dead giveaway even had he been
blind and as he caught her in a choke hold, his other hand
simultaneously drew his knife and he pressed it to her
throat.

The groans stopped and were replaced by the sound of gentle
whimpering
. Before he could
tell the hoonan to shut up, his eyes were caught by a strange box
that lay on the floor. Filled with metal implements that looked
like tools but were covered with a strange shining substance, which
acted as their handles.

The box caught his attention because he’d never seen tools
like them
. Why weren’t they
scorched by the forge as were any good blacksmith’s tools? These
shone as though the metal was precious. But who wasted silver on
tools? It was notoriously weak, but what other silver-toned metal
existed?

He looked upwards, spotting a bizarre painting, which
portrayed an apparently disfigured woman
. Her nose was on her forehead and her eyes lopsided
and nigh on surrounding her mouth. On top of that, she was a
peculiar shade of blue.

Other strange objects appeared in his line of sight and
merely added to his confusion
.
Pink fluff covered the floor. Where were the stone slabs of most
keeps? This pink stuff was soft under the feet and yielded to his
weight.

An odd paper with peculiar designs on it clung to the
walls
. There were bubbles
behind it, which made it stand apart from the wall. Where were the
tapestries? The heavily-woven fabrics elven womenfolk dedicated
months to, in an effort to hide the cobbled stone walls?

A
strange contraption sat upon a small table and as he studied it,
sound exploded from it
. The
women in his hold jumped, as did he but he didn’t move from his
position. He was almost frozen.

It was a bell
.
Repetitive. Irritating. But where was the man powering the bell?
Urging it back and forth so as to create the echoing sound of metal
clanging against metal?

While it seemed impossible, Fade had to face
facts
.

Secret openings weren’t guarded by
defenseless women. Nor were they plushly
decorated.

They were grim and dark and dank
. Putrid smells filled each crevice.

Here, a light flowery smell permeated his
nostrils
. It could have been
the woman, but be it the room or the woman, he’d never scented such
a flower before.

Secret openings didn’t have bizarre pictures hanging on
t
heir walls, or soft woven
mats on the ground.

Nor did they have shining tools, which looked like
something one of his father’s torturers would use on hapless
victims
.

And that ringing bell
.
It was almost. . . . mechanical.

It did it of its own free will
. He’d never known a machine that could do that. Elven
placed most of their technology within the farming industry. Even
though Mearth could always be relied upon to yield a bountiful
harvest, elven tended the soil with respect and care in thanks to
Mearth.

But even this technology was manned
. Either that, or pulled by horses or asses attached
to the machines by harnesses.

Nothing worked alone
.
Nothing relied entirely upon its mechanisms to function.

And more than anything, that terrified Fade, because
something of this nature was entirely outside of his
ken
.

Very little terrified Fade
. Not since he’d been a small boy and he’d lost his mother,
had Fade felt fear. One only experienced fright, when one had
something to lose. Fade had lost that something, or in his
case,
someone
, at thirteen
years of age. Without his mother, he’d had no one and as such,
there had been no one to protect but himself. While he’d missed
her, with a father such as his, it had been easier that way and
from a young age, he’d been autonomous and self-reliant.

But now, he was afraid, because this place, wherever it
was
. . . . was not
Mearth.

The repercussions of this discovery were too numerous to
count
. Fade felt little
interest in understanding this phenomenon, all he knew was that he
wanted to know where he was and he wanted to return
home.

Mearth might house his father, might be the home of
millions of elven - each one afraid of him and of eventually being
ruled by him - but it was still his realm
.

Anything else made no
sense.

His unease had his grip on the knife in his hand tightening
as he pressed the blade to his captive’s throat
.

“
Where am I, woman
?
Tell me now or I’ll slit your throat.”

The words didn’t echo around the room as they would have
done in a castle
. They were a
sibilant hiss and one that had the pliant female in his arms
growing even more pliant.

Quite suddenly, she was a dead
weight and Fade realized she’d swooned.

Chapter
Two

"Christ, it's hot
.”

Heather's grumble went unheeded by the weather, as did the
glare she shot at the sweltering sun, glowing contentedly
overhead
. It didn't seem to
care that the entire state was mooching about miserably, thanks to
the heat which seemed to have made the air a tangible thing.
Sticky, glutinous. . . . it was worse than downtown Manhattan in
High-Summer with a ton of cabs adding the tang of exhaust to the
heavy atmosphere.

The only advantage to the heat was her new
place
.

It meant that she could hang her laundry out in the small
and private yard, which in turn meant she could wander about in a
skinny Tee and panties and in this weather, that was a
blessing
. Hell, anything over
a steaming, sweltering Laundromat.

On top of that, her tiny house had been fitted with central
air
. An invention which had
certainly been blessed by God and which Heather believed was a ton
more reliable than the average male. It was a shame she couldn't
start a relationship with one of the vents, it would undoubtedly be
the source of much satisfaction. As it was certainly more useful
than her last boyfriend. Kevin had been a jerk and a lazy son of a
bitch to boot. The vents worked a damned sight harder than Kevin
had.

Immediately, she felt anger began to crawl around her
veins
. God, she hated him now.
It seemed so impossible to realize she'd wasted nearly two years on
him. Hoping he'd change and become the man he ought to be.
Although, something must have registered with her. Something deep
inside. Because she'd never let him fuck her. Only her ass and
mouth. It had been a weird stipulation, one Kevin hadn't been happy
about, but she'd had a quick retort which had always shut him the
hell up - "Marry me, then. I told you, I'm going to lose my
virginity on my wedding night. Put a ring on my finger and then you
get access to my pussy. Do you understand me yet?"

It had always worked
.
Thank God. She wasn't a prude, never had been and never would be.
Hell, her thoughts and imaginings would probably make a porn star
blush. But still, she was old-fashioned in this one way and even at
twenty-eight it was something she'd managed to stick to and always
would, until she met the
one.

Although, she did have something to thank her schmuck of an
ex for
. . . . this house. He'd
refused to realize their relationship was over and so, she'd
skipped town and made a new start here in Pennsylvania. Heather had
always believed that a change was as good as a rest, but had never
taken it to this extent.

It felt damned good to be out of the
city
. While New York had been
home for as long as she could remember, it was delightful to be
away from the pollution, the noise and the expense. There was no
way she'd have been able to afford this kind of house in the city
on her pay as a technical writer. But here, in Boggarty,
Pennsylvania, she had a three bedroom pad. Woohoo.

At the thought, Heather did a little jig as she
collected
all of her
wind-dried laundry—an impossibility in New York, because everything
would need washing again if she were to hang them on a line—and
retreated indoors and into the glorious cool of her shaded
house.

She hadn't finished decorating it yet
. In all honesty, she didn't have the money to
finish it how she would have liked and so, intended on
concentrating on a room at a time. Perfecting one before moving on
to another. As it was, she'd made it as homely and livable as
possible, while she focused on the bedroom which would eventually
be hers.

The sweat dried on her back and Heather knew that another
cold bath would be a must before she went to bed that
night
. The heat wave was
unexpected and unbearable- for nearly five days, they'd been
experiencing close to one hundred and twenty degree weather and
Heather had been suffering with a tension headache for nearly all
that time. The damned thing had only disappeared that morning and
to celebrate, Heather had decided to potter around the house and
fix tiny irritations she'd noticed ever since she'd moved
in.

Having purchased a pink tool box and all the requisite
paraphernalia at the local hardware store, she was armed and
equipped to handle any and all DIY problems
. She grinned in memory of the teenage kid behind the
counter- his tongue had looked cleaved to the roof of his mouth,
when she'd walked into the store and asked for his assistance.
Apparently, short shorts weren't common attire in Boggarty- she'd
probably starred in a few wet dreams since then. And hell, in the
city, she'd seen shorter shorts. Hers weren't exactly
bottom-huggers, but they were here.

That was another thing she liked about this
place
. Sure, it was odd not to
be able to wear modern or tight clothes without raised eyebrows,
but the whole place was more old-fashioned. Safer. Secure. She'd
just bet her next door neighbor would know the entire history of
the block, back to front. The old woman sat on her rocking chair
viewing the world from her creaky porch- she'd probably seen some
really interesting stuff.

Making a mental note to go and have a chat with her at some
point, because one of Heather's downfalls was a love of gossip, she
switched her attention to DIY and couldn't help but pat herself on
the back
.

So far, she'd conquered the leaky faucet in the bathroom,
fixed a hook to the hallway wall upstairs, where she'd hung her
favorite Picasso print, plus she'd managed to mend a closet door by
tightening the hinge
. Plus
she'd done the laundry, set it out and it was dry now. And smelling
like a dream. You could only purchase that smell in Manhattan- it
came out of a detergent bottle. Not here.

Heather felt very pleased with all
she'd done that day and her next task would be to tackle her
biggest target of the day:

The doorknobs
.

Hardly the most important part of any home, but for
Heather's house, they were
. Or
at least, they would be.

Her Aunt May had practically raised Heather since her
parents' death, when she'd only been eight years
old
. For the last twenty
years, May had been Heather's only living relative, until last
year, when an unexpected heart attack had taken her away from the
girl who'd been like her daughter.

May's death had been another factor in leaving the
city
. She couldn't view any of
their old haunts without bursting into tears and as huge as NY was,
Auntie May seemed to have placed her stamp on nearly every square
mile of the damned city.

In her will, May had gifted Heather with enough money for a
down payment on this house, as well as sufficient funds to move out
of the city and to pay for some of the
refurbishments
. She'd also
left her something Heather adored. The gift had been crazy, but it
suited May down to the ground and Heather intended to fit each and
every doorknob in the case May had left her.

She dumped the laundry on the kitchen floor and walked over
to the table where she'd carefully laid out the antique box that
morning and cleaned each one of them with a baby
wipe
.