Ink and Shadows (37 page)

“Don’t worry, boy.” Beckett positioned his hands. “It’s just like when you poke your veins with a needle. Just bigger.”

The sharp cylinder end cut into Kismet’s chest, pushing the skin into the muscles beneath.

Beckett shoved down harder, reveling in the crunch of bones giving way beneath the hard steel. Blood started to seep from the spigot end, a slow, steady stream that grew as the punch dug deeper into the young man’s body.

Kismet strained to get loose from the darkfae’s hold. The anguish was incredible, a tightening across his chest, then finally a release when his nerves shorted out. It rose to fill his chest, a scrambling fear. The numb feeling spread up from his torso, crawling over his face. His legs grew heavy, and he slumped over, unconscious and trapped against the wall.

“Kismet!” Mal flailed at the darkfae around him. One cut at his face, a knife edge coming very close to his eyebrow. The blade bent the wire rim of his glasses, a nick appearing in the hard metal. Unable to get around the massive wall of flesh keeping him back, he yelled, hoping to knock some sense into the other immortals. Mal’s heart stopped, his mind numbed at the sight of Kismet held against the wall. Blood poured from the device shoved into the human’s chest, a slowing fountain of dark, foamy red. Panic hit Mal hard, closing his throat with fear. “Faith, what are you doing? Let him go!”

“I can’t, Pestilence.” She turned to face Mal, her eyes saddened at the immortal’s anguish. “We need to do this. I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Beckett’s face gleamed with the success of their plan. As the young man’s blood poured from the top of the spigot, he cupped his hand, catching a mouthful in his palm. The liquid tingled on his tongue, a sharp, coppery wine that poured down his throat. Something definitely had changed in the young man’s body. He could taste it in the blood as he licked his hand clean.

Charity nudged the magus with a not-so-gentle shove. Beckett looked up from his adulation of his work and wiped at the crimson splatters on his mouth.

“Hand me the container from my bag.” Beckett nodded with his chin toward the duffel. “We’ll need at least three cups’ worth. That’ll keep him down long enough for us to move it.”

Mal heard the human clearly, almost as if the shifting tread of the darkfae fell away. He could feel their hands on him, shoving him back, jostling him away from the prone young man and his assailants, but none of it mattered to the immortal. Nothing except for Kismet’s too still body and drained white skin.

Panic battered at his throat, rising to feed his fear. He was the weakest of the Four, useless in a fight, according to Ari and Min. But the young man lying nearly broken apart from another immortal’s doing was owed more than that, Mal thought. Kismet had killed for him. He deserved the same in return.

Death taught him, Mal scolded the mewling human remains living in his mind. The quivering needed to stop; it served no purpose. Ari often pounded that into Mal’s head, usually while standing over his body after a sound beating in the practice room. Death could reach them, the immortal thought. Their eldest could use the thinnest of shadows. He would be able to get to the foyer somehow.

Mal struck, hard and quick, hoping to gain some advantage by surprise. His foot hit the leg of the creature in front of him, and the darkfae crumbled, landing hard on his hip. Rolling over, the creature howled in pain and clutched at his damaged knee. A sheathed dagger buckled to the creature’s shin was the immortal’s ultimate target, evening the playing field in Mal’s mind.

Taking advantage of the confusion of the downed creature, the Horseman reached for the weapon, then slid it free from its leather sleeve. The hilt felt large in his hand, carved from green bone and made for a wider grip. Mal didn’t stop to check the sharpness of its blade, hoping the darkfae took care of his tools of trade.

His world shrunk down until it focused on the creature’s crimson iris, the black pupil square and wide as bodies ducked through the foyer’s steaming light. Crouched on the floor, Mal readied himself, watching the darkfae’s eyes widen to track the Horseman’s right hand. The dagger’s tip slid easily into the darkfae’s right eye, its pulpy orb popping around the thick metal blade. Coming up onto one knee, Mal shoved the weapon down, using his weight for added force. The first layers easily gave beneath the sharp tip, an explosion of clear fluids running pink with blood. A tangle of nerves unraveled quickly as Mal leaned into the hilt, feeling the blade hit the edge of the orbital socket.

His thoughts focused solely on one thing, taking the darkfae to the brink of Death’s touch. A soft cracking sound murmured through the steel, reverberating in the dagger’s hilt. Crushing the hand guard into the darkfae’s skull, Mal barely blinked as the creature’s brains spurted over his face, the bilious fluids catching the corner of his open mouth. Pulling the dagger free from the male’s torso, he snatched at the slithering soul as it escaped from its fleshy prison. Mal called upon the bond he shared with the others, pushing his will along the edges of the shadowy curtain woven into every aspect of their lives. They existed in a world folded into the space between realities. He would make use of that world and its hold on the Four.

The darkfae were outside of Death’s immediate influence, but he’d hoped that the act of dying could somehow be enough. Tilting his head back, the Fourth Horseman mentally screamed across the Veil for the First, calling Death to his side to take the soul hovering just inside of his clenched hand.

Gasping with the effort, Mal slid down across the dying darkfae’s body, exhausted and refusing to cry. He would be damned if he went down without a fight. And even more damned if he let Kismet die alongside him.

A word whispered through the darkness, a single plea. Strident. Nearly commanding the eldest to come.

Death
.

“Come on, Death,” Mal pleaded aloud. With the door no longer an option, it was all he could do to save them. He could only hope it would be enough and in time. “I need you.”

W
HEN
D
EATH
came to the call, Mal felt it down in his guts. The press of the air in his lungs flattened, and the Veil buckled under the ominous weight of the First Horseman arriving for a soul. Even in the thin shadows, Death had enough strength to walk through the Veil, and he arrived, a whisper of power flowing from the eldest’s lean form. The foyer’s diffused light picked out the scar over Death’s serious features, his hard, dark gaze raking over the gather of darkfae standing on his doorstep.

Death’s presence touched off a deeply held dread in the creatures clustered in the tight space around the front door. The darkfae cowered as the air went thick with terror. Living in the shadows, they saw its inhabitants for what they truly were, and Death wore the Veil in his bones, a cloak of shadows and sorrow woven from each soul he sent into the beyond, threads stitched too tight by those he lost amid the specters wading back into the ghostly memory of their lives. What the darkfae saw was a nightmare come alive.

Darkfae living below the UnSidhe lands whispered stories about the Horsemen, a brutal Four that had no mercy. Suddenly faced with their own demon, the darkfae stilled. Humans spoke of the terror in seeing the First Horseman skulking at the edges of battle, often stopping to reap the last remaining breath from a stricken soldier’s body, but the darkfae knew from personal experience the intimacy of his touch.

The darkfae never forgot stories embedded into their clan memory. Death’s grip was felt through the shifting of the darkness, a trembling shiver running hot over any shadow-hidden creature born behind the gray curtain. There were faded Courts still licking their wounds and counting the pieces of their dead from battles they raged against mankind, only to be nearly extinguished from existence when the Horsemen arrived to even the odds. From behind the Veil, the Horsemen responded swiftly to defend humans the Sidhe wanted out of their lands. The skirmishes never lasted long but left the Fae and the darkfae with a healthy fear of the Four.

Death’s dark eyes burned, and his katana shone as it slid free of its wooden sheath. He reached inside of himself for the thread that connected him to Ari, calling for him to come to his side. A moment later, he felt the other man arrive, the Veil shuddering from the Horseman shoving his way into the space, drawn by the resonance of Death on the shadowy trails in the curtain. For Death, Ari was as constant as the sun. He never worried about being alone as long as Ari was alive.

One of the darkfae staggered back, trying to distance himself from the blond lowering his head, War’s eyes black with anticipation. Cowardice was spat upon by the lower Courts, but the darkfae were silent as their comrade retreated, the crowd stepping back nearly as one.

“Hello, Death,” Mal murmured, wiping the blood from his face. Streaks of red burned along Mal’s skin, his glasses clotted with darkfae blood. He’d found them after searching with trembling fingers, the spectacles falling off when he’d killed the creature. With the world now in focus, Mal started to move toward Kismet.

“Faith, get back.” Ari quickly glanced around him, assessing the situation. He’d appeared nearly over Kismet’s prone body, almost straddling the young man’s legs. “How the hell did darkfae get up here, Pest?”

“We brought them to you, War. To help us do this,” Charity said, drawing his arm back. He shoved upward, hooking a sharp-edged knife into Ari’s side.

The blade speared through the sunburst scar on the immortal’s torso, slicing apart his T-shirt. A rib deflected the cut, sending the weapon astray. Charity lost his grip on the hilt as Ari jerked away, shocked at the other immortal’s betrayal. Nearly losing one of his blades, Ari bent over, holding his arm to his side. Shoving his shoulder into Charity’s chest, he pushed the younger immortal, sending him to the floor.

“Son of a bitch.” Ari kicked out, keeping his arm pressed tight against the wound. His foot connected solidly against the other immortal’s face, the strike making a sickening crunch when he hit Charity’s cheek.

Charity sprawled back, sliding over the slick floor. Faith gasped, reaching for her brother, unable to get ahold of his flailing limbs as he passed her. Beckett grabbed the plastic container he’d filled with Kismet’s blood, red splashing over its edge, and snapped a clear blue lid over the lip. Rolling aside, he pulled on Faith’s upper arm, yanking her out of Ari’s reach. Charity followed, getting to his feet with a quick roll. The darkfae closed in around Faith and Charity, protecting Beckett with raised weapons, long knives forming a wall of menacing points.

Beckett hadn’t known what he would see when confronted with Death. He’d not expected a nearly pretty-faced man, lean-bodied and scarred across his nose. Death’s calm unsettled him. It seemed as if he were invisible, a speck of dirt floating in the air. War suited his image, broad shouldered and muscled, a distinct rage fueling his powerful movements.

A few feet separated Death and Ari, the area emptied of darkfae and other immortals. Mal scrambled across the tile, his hands slipping out from under him as he got near Kismet. The older Horsemen flanked him, blades ready for the darkfae to attack.

“You okay, Ari?” Death didn’t dare glance at his friend’s side. Taking his eyes off the creatures in front of them would be dangerous, and dropping his guard would definitely bring on an assault. “Do you need help?”

“Nah, I’m fine, Shi.” The knife made a small sucking sound as Ari pulled it from his side. Death moved in, giving Ari some protection as he tucked one of his long daggers under his arm, still within easy reach should any of the darkfae move toward them. The length of the blade made him laugh, a few inches of bent steel. “Gods, he’s got to be kidding. I wouldn’t even fuck someone if he had something this tiny.”

“You’re horrible.” With Ari’s side healing quickly, Death took a moment to look down at Mal, the youngest Horseman’s hands hovering around the oil punch sticking out of Kismet’s body. “You’re going to have to take that out of him, Mal. He can’t heal with it in him.”

“I can’t do it.” Staring down at his friend’s still form, Mal bit his lip, uncertain and afraid. “Suppose I hurt him more?”

“Cooties, we really don’t have time to talk about this.” Ari nudged Mal’s leg with his foot. “The more he bleeds, the more you’re going to have to clean up after we kill these guys. Better start now. Death and I are going to be busy in a few.”

They stood staring at one another, quiet and stiff. Tension was high, with the darkfae wavering between their instinctual fear of the Four and the promise of glory to their clan while the immortals glared at one another with varying degrees of anger and disgust. Faith moved in front of them, keeping an eye on Death and Ari in case they moved. For a long moment, Kismet’s gasps of pain filled the air, his tortured breathing mingled with piercing groans.

“Take it out, Mal,” Death ordered. “Now.”

The blood was nearly too much for Mal. It seeped around the metal cone sticking out of Kismet’s chest and spurted up the flexible metal spigot bobbing near his face. Kismet’s face was white, the blue of his veins vivid under his pale skin. His chest barely moved now, his lungs struggling to provide oxygen to a body shutting down around them. Mal gripped the oil punch, then tugged, hoping to pull it free.

Its edge caught on a bone, and Mal lost his hold on the cone, his wet fingers sliding up its length.

Resting on one knee, he wrapped both of his hands around the cylindrical spout and yanked. He fell back, tumbling onto his rear.

“Put pressure on it, Pest. It’s not that bad.” Ari bristled when Beckett took a step forward. “Stay back, bitch. You come any closer, and I’m going to rethink what we consider acting against us.”

Pressing his hands over the torn flesh, Mal pushed down, hoping the skin would seal over. Strands from the shirt’s torn fabric were caught under his palms, and he worried whether or not he should pull them out before the threads were sealed under Kismet’s skin.