Three Promises (6 page)

 

PART 2

B
rendan woke, but didn't open his eyes. He didn't have the strength or desire. Physical pain greeted him like an old friend, wracking his entire body. It was nothing though compared to the hole in his chest where he longed to return to Áine. He would've wept if he had any tears left, but the oíche had beaten them all out of him what felt like weeks ago. He was still tied to the tree, his arms out and lashed with silver cord to twisted branches at the wrists, forearms, and elbows. A similar cord was around his legs at the ankle and knee. The cord around his chest was the only reason he was still upright, though it did make a deep breath impossible.

Inside, the demon was quiet and still, if it was still there at all. Whether its bloodlust had been sated, or it was just the severity of the pain and injuries that kept it quiet, Brendan didn't know. Probably the latter, since he couldn't imagine it ever getting its fill of death.

How long had it been now? Weeks? Months? Or had it just been days? The memories came back to him, and he wanted to go back to Áine. Go back and forget everything all over again. But instead he saw, in excruciatingly vivid detail, the look of terror in Caitlin's eyes just before she'd fled with Fiona. That was worse than anything the oíche or any Dusk Court fae could do to him. He didn't think he'd enough of a heart left to break, but he was wrong. How many had it taken to pull him off Fergus? Two dozen? It was all a vague smear of blood and death, screams and rage. When Fergus had disappeared, Brendan had feared the worst. But the Dark King never returned. Surely, this meant that Caitlin and Fiona had gotten away. Brendan could rest and face an eternity in hell if he knew that was true. It had to be. Fergus would never have passed up the chance to taunt Brendan with it

Yes, they had to have gotten away.

That single hope was how he bore the torture and pain. He'd won. This was just settling the debt for that escape, and he paid it gladly, much to the chagrin of the oíche. Oh, he screamed and cried out as they beat, cut, and burned him, but he never broke. Besides, when it got really bad, he got to see Áine, which was something at least.

“Wakey, wakey,” said a familiar voice.

“But, Ma, it's Sunday,” Brendan said through cracked, dry lips. “Can't we just—­” The rest of his words were lost in a hoarse cry as the knife—­his own knife—­went into his side again, and twisted.

“Keep up with the jokes,” the oíche said, and withdrew the blade. “It just makes this all the more fun.”

Brendan opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at the oíche. Vincent looked as all oíche did: like a child born from a horror movie, all black eyes and a mouth full of pointed teeth. The dark faerie smiled and licked blood from the blade. Though he was nearly mad with thirst, Brendan managed to spit in his face. Most of it was blood.

Vincent wiped it away and smiled. “Nice try, but there is no way we're going to kill you, Fian. We've spent a good deal of effort to keep you alive.” The oíche leaned in close and dragged the blade over Brendan's chest. “It was a near thing a few times, but don't you worry. These have been only the first moments of what will be a long lifetime of pain.”

“What, Fergus not have the bollocks to do this himself?” Brendan asked. “I can't believe he doesn't have the stomach to watch you work.”

Vincent laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “Fergus? Fergus is gone. The oíche have seized the dusk throne.” He pushed the knife in between Brendan's ribs, carefully avoiding the lung, heart, and major arteries.

Brendan let out a whimpering groan, tears streaming down his face.

“The irony is, you helped fulfill our plan. Without you, and that mortal woman, we never would've been able to seize control. When she escaped, and he went after her, he was so blind with rage that he left the remnants of his power behind.”

“Aye, so she made it out, then?” Brendan asked without meaning to.

Vincent nodded. “She did. Consider that bit of information our repayment for your ser­vices in our little coup.”

“Aye, glad to be of help,” Brendan said between pained gasps. “Why don't you let me loose and I'll show you how glad I am.”

“You know, “Vincent said, cleaning his fingernails with the blade. “If you hadn't killed our brethren, we might've been willing to let you go.” He shrugged. “But you did, and so here we are.”

“Well then, get on with it already,” Brendan said, and smiled a real smile.

“Yes, let's.” Vincent put away the knife and took up a large cudgel.

It looked far too heavy for the child-­sized faerie, but—­Brendan felt his knee break with the first blow. He screamed in pain, though it didn't last. It was soon lost in a rush of sobbing from the torrent of follow-­up blows. When Vincent finally took a moment to rest, Brendan's forearm was also broken, as were several more ribs.

“I really must thank you,” Vincent said, smiling like a crazy child. “You can't imagine how therapeutic this is for me. For all of us! You should see how we all vie for our chance at you.” He shrugged again, resting the cudgel on his small shoulder. “That's another reason we have to keep you alive. Don't want anyone to miss their turn.”

Brendan didn't have it in him to reply.

Vincent looked him over, then let out a disappointed sigh. “Oh well, I guess we're done for today.”

Something cool and wet was pressed to Brendan's lips.

“Drink.”

Despite himself, Brendan did.

Vincent drew back the cup after only a few swallows. “That's enough. We don't want you dying of dehydration on us.” He leaned in close and whispered, “But just barely.”

Brendan licked his lips, and tasted something strange. He spit, over and over.

“Don't bother,” Vincent said. “The water was dosed with it. That's just the dregs.”

“What is it?” Brendan asked, but his voice was little more than a choked whisper.

“Just something to keep you from getting an infection, or even turning septic from those wounds.”

“I didn't know you cared.”

“Oh, more than you know,” Vincent said.

Then he swung the cudgel at Brendan's head and everything went black.

S
oft lips brushed over his as a small, gentle, and warm hand touched his cheek. That familiar scent washed over him and it was like he was flying; which would be fitting. She was an angel after all.

Brendan opened his eyes.

Áine smiled at him and caressed his cheek. “Hello, my love.”

“I came back as quick as I could,” Brendan said and made to wrap her in his arms, but he was still bound to the tree. He pulled at his bonds, but they held tight. “No, this isn't right!”

“Easy,” Áine said. “You'll just hurt yourself worse.” She ran her hand over his shoulders and chest. “And the oíche don't need you helping them in their work.”

“Tell me true, love,” Brendan said, tears he thought long spent running down his cheeks. “Is it you? Or is this some new torment?”

Áine kissed him again and again.
“A rún mo chroí,”
she whispered, her lips brushing his. “My beloved, it's me. You didn't come to me, so this time I came to you—­”

A rush of wind woke Brendan with a start. He opened his eyes—­though one was swollen almost shut—­ready to bellow a curse at Vincent, or whatever oíche had taken Áine from him again. But something made him pause, something didn't feel right.

He looked around, scanning every shadow.

There was nothing.

Then the smell of magic hit him like a tidal wave. Not fae magic, but mortal, and more of it than he'd even known. Something about it was odd though. It smelled wild, pure, and uncontrollable. It was so vast, so powerful that he could feel it around him, like a charge of electricity in the air. But what mortal had power like that? No, that was impossible. Even if a mortal crossed over, he couldn't carry magic with him.

And yet, here it was, unmistakable. Could it be the oíche, playing a trick on him? He didn't think so. Even with Fergus's mantle of power, he didn't think they could pull this off.

That's when he smelled her. There, beneath the oceans of power that nearly blinded his senses to all else, he found the familiar smells of humanity: sweat, laundry detergent, deodorant, and—­chocolate?

“It's a bleeding kid,” Brendan whispered to himself.

He felt the demon inside stir. Not a raging beast, but hesitant, almost like it was afraid.

That is no child.

Brendan didn't see anyone, but he could hear the footsteps approach.

“Who's there?” he said.

The footsteps stopped and the smell of fear joined the mix of others.

“I can't see you, but I know you're there,” he said.

She backed away, but her steps were light, obviously trying to be silent.

He focused on the sound and where it was. He could just see faint clouds of dust from the shuffling steps, and the root sticking out of the ground.

There was a cry of surprise as a girl appeared out of nowhere and fell onto her backside.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

Brendan stared in absolute shock. She was maybe seventeen, tall and thin. Her clothes were ill fitting and clearly secondhand. Her brown hair was short and hadn't been washed in a while. She stared at him with wide brown eyes.

He just stared back for a long while, trying to figure how a child had this kind of power.

“What's your name, girl?” he asked.

She swallowed and scooted back a few inches.

“Aye, that's the smart move,” he said. “I don't know where you came from, but you need to go back, right now.”

No
, the demon said, a silent whisper inside Brendan.
She might be able to free us and then we can finish what we started!

“I, um, I can't,” she said, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “I mean, I can't control it.”

“Jesus, girl, do you even know where you are?”

She looked around and hugged herself as she shook her head. “A haunted forest?” Her tone was sarcastic.

“Not that lucky, I'm afraid,” Brendan said.

“Why are you tied up?” she asked, taking a few steps forward. She narrowed her eyes, focusing to see him in the perpetual faint light.

“That's a bit of a long story, that is,” he said. “And not one to be telling a kid.”

“Trust me, mister,” she said. “My story isn't exactly rainbows and unicorns either.”

Brendan didn't know what to say. He could see it in her eyes; hear the truth of her words. They were soaked in sadness and regret. It was something all too familiar to him.

“I have a knife,” she said. “I could cut you down—­Oh my god!” Her eyes went wide when she got close enough to see his injuries. “You're hurt! Really bad!”

“Aye, I noticed that,” Brendan said. “But you can't cut me loose, love. It ain't safe. Not for you or anyone else.”

She kept stepping forward, her eyes looking him over. “Was it the Order?”

“The who?”

“You didn't, um, do this to yourself, did you?”

Brendan shrugged, or tried to. “Aye, though not directly.”

Her face scrunched in confusion. “I have no idea what that means.”

He shook his head. “It's not important. What is, is that you get your arse out of here, and right bleeding now.”

“I told you, I can't control the wormholes,” she said and ran her hands through her hair. “I've been jumping all over the place for what feels like weeks.”

“Wormholes? What the hell are you talking about?”

She nodded. “You see, there are countless holes in space-­time on the subatomic level, though I only shift through space—­at least, I think.” She shook her head. “Anyway, somehow I'm manipulating the chance that these holes will join together and form one large enough to reach the macro universe and—­”

“I've got no bleeding clue what you're saying, girl.”

“Sorry.” She shrugged. “And my name's Wraith, not girl. What's yours?”

He hesitated for a long while before deciding there was no harm in it. “Brendan,” he said. “Fine then, Wraith, if you can't go back, can you make yourself invisible again? Hide until you figure out how to go back?”

“Maybe?” she said. “I mean, it just sort of happens, I don't really control it either, but I'm trying. And I'm sure I'll stride again, I always do. I just don't know when.” She looked down. “But you shouldn't be close by when I do. Let's just say it would be really bad.”

Inside, the demon was drawing what little strength there was and fighting for control. Brendan was pushing it back down, but he was losing.

“You have to go—­”

“I told you—­”

“From here,” Brendan said. “From me!”

Wraith stepped a little closer, tilting her head to try and see his eyes. “Why? You're hurt really bad and tied to a tree. I don't think you could hurt me, even if I did cut you down.”

“I've got no time to explain, love,” Brendan said. “Trust me when I say—­” There was pain as the demon fought its way up.

“I'm sorry. I was wrong,” it said through Brendan's mouth. “It's the pain you see. I'm not thinking straight. Please, free me. You're right, I won't hurt you—­”

Brendan pushed back, wrenching the monster from control. “Don't listen to me, go, now! Go and don't ever come back, or tell anyone you saw me!” The last thing he needed was for Dante or someone to send a rescue team. He couldn't ever go back, not with the demon unbound, and not after all he'd done.

“What? Who would I tell?” she asked, her eyes locked on his. She was scared, but also desperately curious.

Brendan grunted, and fought the demon back. “No one, I said. Just go!”