Scattered Magic (The Sidhe (Urban Fantasy Series) Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter Fifty-Two

The band played another thumping song that rocked the Glamour Club. Fey of multiple races undulated to the music as if bespelled by it. Casually sexual, a few of the couples did the grind with suspicious intensity. It bothered no one. Fairy lights flickered in a strobe of color. Occasional flares of magic added to the festive atmosphere that failed to reach him.

Donovan sipped his brandy as he watched the dancers enjoying themselves in ‘the pit’ on the dance floor three steps down from the main floor. Hardly a table or booth on the main floor lacked for patrons. Even the bar propped up more guests than it had stools. And every one of them fey. Donovan had the perfect seat to survey his domain from his perpetually reserved table.

The other three easy chairs around the low chat table were occupied, but he only half listened to the conversation. To his left, Kieran cuddled an elf maiden in a leather miniskirt. The young Unseelie ran his fingers idly up and down the girl’s bare thigh, but his distracted expression was not because of his company for the evening. Donovan could tell from the way Kieran’s eyes flicked to the side that he was catching and filtering snippets of conversations.

The other Unseelie Sidhe across from him laughed and compared progress with magic training. Apparently, Bryce managed to set the heavy punching bag on fire for the third time that week. No wonder the humans locked him up for suspected arson. Once he mastered his power the lad had serious potential.

“Tiernan’s looking for you,” Kieran murmured. He leaned forward dislodging the girl off his lap. Not easily deterred, the elf perched on the padded arm of the chair and played with Kieran’s hair. “Says he’s here for the meeting.”

Donovan glanced toward the entrance where Tiernan Kilgrave spoke to one of the troll bouncers. Kieran, with his talent for sound, easily picked up on the hushed conversation. Once the troll headed the Sidhe in the right direction, Tiernan swaggered over with his lazily confident style and his usual smirk of self-satisfaction. One thing could be said for him, he embraced his Unseelie nature with as much vigor as he embraced life on the surface. Those pale eyes never acknowledged the other fey around them, just focused on Donovan with all seriousness. Although outwardly laidback, Tiernan hadn’t established himself in his amoral endeavors and criminal empire by slacking. Once Tiernan reached the table Donovan set aside his drink.

The younger Sidhe abandoned their conversation and openly watched Donovan and Tiernan, hungry to learn what their parents failed to teach them. Whatever they hoped to glean would have to wait as Donovan and Tiernan slipped into the back hallway, away from the noise and heat of the club. The others already waited in the War Room for the Sidhe to join them. Donovan knew each of these lesser fey from before the Collapse, as the key informants for the Unseelie Court. The Courts were gone now, leaving Donovan as the only person capable of pulling the fey back from the brink of extinction.

“Report,” Donovan leaned over the large table and slid a list of names closer to him; all of the unaccounted for earthborn Sidhe. Tiernan, as the only other Sidhe present, claimed the position at Donovan’s right, acting as his Second. The other five fey circled in close. Small notes with a word or two scribbled on them dotted a map of the British Isles spread on the table.

The Brownie spoke first. “Brendan is dead.” He plucked the note with the young man’s last known location from the map. “Vampires, like we feared.”

“As is Rico,” the wood elf added with regret. She lifted the note from the map and laid it face down. “Wizards. And Changelings.”

A collective silence reflected on the significance of any fey collaborating with wizards. Donovan broke it. “And Malcolm? Any new leads?”

“Still nothing,” the dwarf reported. “Not since Galway.” He toyed with the note tab, considering pulling it off the map. “No sign in almost a year.”

“Leave it,” Donovan ordered, unwilling to write off anyone, no matter how likely it was that they were already dead. Not without confirmation. “And the others?” Less than a handful of names remained on the map. Three rows of notes, each like a tombstone for the deceased Sidhe named on it, lined the far side of the table. Another dozen names graced the list before Donovan, but they had not even had the first hint of life on those. He refused to believe this was all that remained of the Sidhe, although that unspoken fear hovered over the War Room like a Banshee he would not allow to sing.

“I have a lead,” Tiernan admitted, with a glaring lack of enthusiasm.

“Go on.”

“You know the nest of goblins in Wyndracer’s territory?” Just the mention of the word “goblin” elicited a hiss from the lesser fey, but Tiernan waited for Donovan to nod his acknowledgment before adding, “The skinny is that they are working for a Sidhe.”

“Goblins working for a Sidhe?” The disgust practically dripped from his question. “After the two thousand year war between the Sidhe and goblins? Your informant must be mistaken. I can’t even imagine any race of elf tolerating the goblins for five minutes, much less a Sidhe.” Goblins and Sidhe had a mutual unwritten agreement to kill each other on sight. The vermin fey bred so bloody fast, the Sidhe could never eradicate them. And the Sidhe possessed too much power and magic for the goblins to overrun them, despite frequent attempts. And the goblins never learned. Never found the massive loss of their number in the endless raids a reason to stop attacking. They’d just breed more. Invade more. And die more. Goblins were too stupid and too vicious to ever stop.

Tiernan shrugged, “Can’t imagine how the Sidhe and the goblins have kept from killing each other, but that’s the rumor. Some bollocks keen on the Touch. Got a Changeling running for him, bringing in marks.”

“Enslaving humans?”

“More than fifty regulars, at least. No exaggeration. And vampires, too.”

“Bad company to keep. Not even attempting discretion. Fifty humans? What would any Sidhe possibly want with that many cursed humans?” Donovan snarled with disgust. “And vampires? That’s a bad business to traffic in.” Addicted vampires posed a threat to all fey. “Blatantly careless for a Sidhe to stir trouble among the bloodsuckers. One of the exiles? You’d think they’d have more sense.”

“Earthborn, sounds like.” Tiernan hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and shrugged, as if ‘earthborn’ was synonymous with ‘dumbass.’ “Hate to lose a load of my muscle clearing out the nest. Especially when you could just tear the mountain down and squash the problem with a twitch of your eyebrow, you know?”

“I’ll handle it,” Donovan said, with a note of finality.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Present Day

At the very least the goblins gave Malcolm a bucket of actual clean water and soap once a day with his scraps of food.

Never did get his clothes back after that first time they drugged him, though. His crumpled jeans and worn out sneakers got kicked around the main chamber periodically, but never to where he could snag them through the bars.

Being naked didn’t bother him. The goblins certainly didn’t care, running around in the buff themselves. Easier to handle the humidity and heat nude anyway. Probably summer now. Stifling. Been holed up in this sewer for nearly a year. Felt ages longer than that. He leaned his back against the stone wall. His right arm stretched out to rest on his bent knee so it pressed against the cool bars.

The scars healed up months ago. Leastwise on his back. Vampire bites didn’t leave scars. They’d started him on vampires not long after they started drugging him. At first he’d thought the biting and the fangs were part of the hallucinations, but the bite marks that remained for a few weeks proved otherwise.

The silver, though, still ate viciously into his wrists, exposing the bones in places. Pretty gross, but he only caught glimpses now and then in the drug haze. Probably the constant burning of the silver kept any infection from setting in, like Rand said. Malcolm wondered briefly if he should be grateful for that small thing but rejected it. Best to keep the resentment pure. Not complicate it with nuances, like silver linings.

What a stupid saying.

Malcolm saw a split second flexing in the air of the chamber, like the air thickened and bunched onto itself. Then it burst open. Rand popped in with Flora in tow. The goblins gave up leaving a constant guard on him long ago. No goblins showed up now.

Rand, the slimeball, usually brought around the humans every day or two. Vampires no more than a couple times a month. First time he’d seen the witch since she dropped off the vile, cinnamon potion.

Flora’s lips parted as her gaze swept over Malcolm’s naked form. He did nothing to cover himself. Just glared hatred at the pair.

Rand sneered at Flora. “Getting an eyeful, Luv?” Flora flinched away from him so Rand turned toward Malcolm. “Still defiant, Sidhe? Even now you still think you’re better than us lesser fey?”

“I am better’n you.” Malcolm’s voice was soft and bone chilling. He didn’t know exactly what kind of fey Rand was, other than the fact that he wasn’t Sidhe or goblin. For the millionth time he wished his folks would have told him something, anything, about the fey. About the Sidhe. About himself, even. So he didn’t have to figure things out at the end of a whip.

Rand checked the empty potion bottle. “Good stuff, this. Bet you never partied this hard in your life. No wonder you are smug. All those humans putting out for you.” He put the empty bottle down. “Job’s got a few perks, eh?”

Malcolm gnashed his teeth. Fists clenched. Even contemplating the word “rape” clamped his throat solidly closed. No matter what he did when drugged out of his skull, it wasn’t him. No matter what he felt, it wasn’t real and it wasn’t “good” in any stretch of the imagination. Fury that Rand would even speak of it, would even pretend it was anything else, stole Malcolm’s voice. Words abandoned him, trapping the rage within.

Rand crossed to the bars and crouched down close to Malcolm. “You don’t need more of that stuff, do you? You got that Touch thing figured out now, haven’t you?”

Malcolm moved only his eyes, searching Rand’s face. What was the fey bastard up to now? Plotting something.

Rand snatched Flora’s hand, jerking her down to kneel beside him.

“Hey!”

He snatched her back against his chest and covered her mouth. Clamping her wrist with bruising force, he jammed her hand through the bars. Rand sneered. “Flora here sold you out, you know. Do you know what for? Do you know what your price was?”

Flora struggled, screams muffled. Locks of her hair escaped her chignon and feathered down beside her face. Malcolm tilted his head, considering her. She shook her head frantically, eyes wide. Then Malcolm cut a hard glance at the guy. He raised his wrists, showing him the silver shackles.

“Good point,” Rand chuckled. “Crap Head! You out there?” As he leaned back to shout he shoved Flora against the bars.

Malcolm pounced. He clawed two handfuls of Flora’s hair.

Rand jerked her back. A good tangle ripped out in the process. Malcolm brushed the strands from his fingers before the goblins scuttled into the chamber.

“You’ll get your chance at her lad,” Rand jerked his head toward the cage. “Let’s test the Sidhe. See if he’s figured out the Touch or if we need more of the brew.”

The goblins spilled into the cell. For once Malcolm didn’t resist them as they shoved and cajoled him out into the chamber. They released the shackles, letting them clatter to the stone floor. Malcolm examined his ruined wrists. More bone exposed than last time. Bigger than his thumbprint on the right side. The wounds gave off a hot, coppery stench. Slick and gnarled like raw meat all the way around. How much longer before the silver burned through the tendons and crippled his hands permanently?

The goblins ringed around the three of them, chattering and eager, sensing impending violence. Rand restrained Flora, preventing her escape despite her struggling, her hair a mess. Malcolm opposite them, nude and glaring. Fists and teeth clenched.

“Come on, Sidhe.” Rand chuckled, his voice cold and mirthless. “You know you want your revenge on her.”

Flora kicked out at Malcolm, but missed. “No! Don’t Touch me!”

Malcolm leveled a deadly stare at her. How could she, who never showed mercy, expect mercy from him? From him, of all people? Because of her everything was stolen from him. He had nothing but pain and fury. All because of her. She’d seen him, a homeless kid, dumb as a stump. Trusting. An easy victim. That kid would never hurt her. That kid was gone now. Beaten to death long ago.

“She sold you for the goods to make that brew you’ve been downing. Cases of the stuff.” Rand gave her a jerk. “What do you sell it for, eh? Five thousand a bottle?”

It was true. The terror in her eyes proved it.

Malcolm stalked forward. He reached for her face.

“No! No!” Next time she tried to kick Rand tilted her, knocking her off balance, forcing her to keep both feet on the floor.

“Yes. There’s a good Sidhe. Touch her. Curse her.”

Malcolm cupped her cheek. The soft curve smooth in his palm. Feminine and delicate.

“Do it,” Rand hissed. “Punish her!”

Malcolm inhaled, remembering the stir of magic from the drug times. Recalling the inner bubbling feeling. The warmth. The surge. As he exhaled, he felt the flow breathe out of him.

In a disgusting way it was like Touching a corpse. Like there was no life within her. The flow spread deeper, like acid eating away at her resistance. Malcolm could see it glowing translucently beneath her skin. Could feel his essence moving through her body. Saturating her. Filling her with light and life. Something she’d been void of. Something all humans lacked.

The Touch seeped into Flora’s face. She gasped. Eyes widened with fear and then hazed over. Flora moaned, grinding back against Rand as he restrained her. She shuddered a little cry, the pleasure peaking for her. Her legs wobbled and she crumbled. Rand let Flora fall, leaving her to quiver on the floor.

Malcolm’s hands shot out, closing around Rand’s throat. He shoved the Touch hard into him, hoping it tore his insides to shreds like it had Flora. Only Touching Rand was nothing like Touching Flora. He wasn’t empty inside. The magic flow merged with him harmlessly. Melded with him.

As best he could with the fingers squeezing on the soft hollow of his throat, Rand wheezed, “That’s the stuff.” Then his fingernails hooked into the raw flesh on Malcolm’s wrists. The pain tore through Malcolm. A scream escaped through his locked jaw. As Malcolm’s grip faltered and the agony drove him to his knees, Rand laughed, “Thanks, Mate. Appreciate it. Top shelf magic every time. Gotta love that about the Sidhe and their lucrative Touch. I need to start charging more for you.”

The goblins dragged Malcolm back. He curled his wounded wrists into his chest, not sure if it was just the shock of pain or true damage that made it impossible to move his fingers.

“No more silver,” Malcolm jerked away from the horrid shackles. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to me?”

The goblins ignored his protests. They overwhelmed him with the strength of their numbers as they always did, clamping the shackles on him and returning him to his cell.

Rand crossed to the bars and stared down at Malcolm. “Getting cheeky. Better bring the vamps more often. Keep him drained. Take the fight out of him.”

Malcolm glared at Rand.

Apparently, Rand didn’t give a shite how much hate Malcolm leveled at him. He jerked Flora to her feet, then the two of them vanished. The goblins wondered off, since Malcolm just lay where they dumped him.

Even after he was alone for a while, he waited. Listening. Watching.

Malcolm flexed his fingers. Pain lanced through them. It murdered him, but he could still use his hands.

His future as a drummer in a rock band was not completely crushed just yet, he snorted to himself.

Then he crawled back over to the wall where he’d sat before.

To where the hair he’d ripped out of Flora’s head was discarded.

He fingered through it. A slow smile tugged at his lips as he raised what he’d hoped he’d find.

A bobby pin.