Wicked Enchantment (22 page)

Getting out of the Black Tower hadn’t been a picnic. He’d blown the antitracking spell into Aislinn’s face and said the words to trigger it first thing, then kept to the shadows, walked on cat paws, held his breath, and asked the gods and the goddess Danu to see them through.

Once out, he’d taken them to a safe place, far from the Black Tower. He’d traveled on foot, walking in the alleys and the shadows, thankful that it was the dead of morning and almost no one but the guard had been out. Now he was exhausted, pushed way past what his iron-sick body could handle. His arms burned from carrying her because even though she was light and he was strong, he’d traveled a long way with no rest. The only thing that had kept him on his feet and moving was his will.

Now he could draw a breath. Now he could rest. They were safe, at least for the time being.

With his gaze, he traced her body in the moonlight. He’d covered her with as many blankets as he could find. Her dirty, tangled silver blond hair hung over the side of the mattress, trailing onto the floor. Her face was still as a statue’s, the light illuminating her dirt-smeared face. Despite the filth on her and the stress of her time in the dungeon, she looked peaceful, as though she could sense on some level that she was safe.

As safe as one could be when hunted by the most powerful man in all of Piefferburg and every last member of his Shadow Guard and the goblin army.

But he wasn’t ready to think about that yet. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

 

 

AISLINN
woke slowly, wrapped in warmth and softness. After a moment of disorientation, the memories came flooding back along with the ache and the iron sickness. She blinked, coming more fully awake, and her gaze focused on a large cream-colored spill of sunlight in the center of a ceiling with crown molding. This was not a dungeon. She pushed up, wincing in pain, and the blankets fell down around her waist. Expensive, soft blankets.

Gazing around at the room, she blinked again. The shaft of sunlight glinted in from an opening in the teal-colored curtains covering a huge window overlooking a wooded area.

No, this was definitely not the dungeon.
This
room was fit for the Rose Tower.

The modern and low bed she lay on sat in the center of a large bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows, all mostly covered with curtains, lined the walls. A doorway led to what appeared to be a spacious walk-in closet. Another doorway led to a bathroom. Her flesh itched at the possibility of a shower. A creek-stone fireplace took up most the wall across from the bed. The floor was wood, polished to a high shine and covered with throw rugs here and there. Modern furniture that matched the bed decorated the room. Everything was done in soothing shades of green.

And Gabriel Cionaodh Marcus Mac Braire was leaning against a wall, fast asleep.

Snarling, she lunged from the bed toward him, immediately collapsing to the floor. In its iron-sickened state, her body wouldn’t cooperate with her heart’s fondest wish that she make it across the room and strangle him for lying to her, duping her, and—almost—breaking her heart.

His eyes opened slowly, blearily focusing on her where she lay five feet in front of him.

Forcing herself up, she closed the distance between them and leapt on him.
“You,”
she rasped in her ruined voice. “You! You knew the Shadow King meant to kill me and you tried to lure me right into his arms.” She snorted. “You did a great job, Gabriel. I fell for all your lies.”

He forced her to the floor, where she kicked and flailed at him with all the energy she had—not much—and pinned her wrists to the floor on either side of her head. His gaze locked and held hers and for the first time she moved past her rage and saw him—
really
saw him. He was as dirty as she was, bruised, and he’d lost weight. He smelled like she did, too—like he’d been stuck in a dungeon, abused.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he wanted to kill you,” Gabriel said in a voice as raspy as hers. “I swear it. Please forgive me.”

She went still, looking questioningly up into his eyes. “What do you mean you didn’t know? You came to the Rose Tower knowing everything, knowing I was truly the Shadow King’s bastard daughter and that he needed me to come to him of his own free will so he wouldn’t violate the agreement he had with the Summer Queen. You knew!” She yelled the last two words at him. “You deceived me and lied to me, knowing the Shadow King planned to obliterate every single remnant of my being down to my soul! You knew all of it!”

He swore in Old Maejian, let her wrists free, and backed away. Hitting the wall, he slumped down and pushed a hand through his dirty, tangled hair. “I didn’t know, Aislinn. Not all of it. I only knew my orders were to seduce you to the Black Tower. I never thought he meant to harm you.”

She sat up. “Oh, so you only duped and lied to me to seduce me into reorganizing my entire life. When I arrived at the Black Tower chasing your fake love—
as you tried to get me to do
—what would you have told me? Get lost? My job is done? Okay, that’s so much better.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry for what I did, Aislinn, but don’t make the mistake of thinking I don’t care about you.”

“Care? About me?” She spat the words and leaned forward. “That would infer you are capable of feeling, incubus. I know you aren’t.”

He sighed and let his head fall back to rest against the wall.

Her gaze shifted from his gray face down his body. He wore no shirt, no shoes, only a loose pair of ripped black trousers. Dried, rust-colored blood marked him from head to toe. He was even filthier than she was and bore the telltale traces of iron sickness. It gave her pause. “What happened to you?”

He gave a bark of raw, mirthless laughter. “Once I found out that the Shadow King meant you harm, I objected. He threw me in the prison to break my will—or just to get me out of the way, maybe. My ho—friends broke me out and I, in turn, broke you from the dungeon. Remember? You saw my face right before Ronan’s spell put you to sleep.”

She fell silent. Yes, she remembered seeing his face, hearing the magick-laced spell. Swallowing hard, she struggled for a hold on her emotions. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

He said nothing, only continued to rest his head against the wall, his eyes closed. Finally he said, “Don’t thank me, Aislinn. I was only righting a wrong I put in motion.”

“Where are we?”

He tipped his head forward to look at her. “We’re at the very edge of the
ceantar láir
, backed up to the Boundary Lands. The person who owned this house died recently and left no heirs. It belongs to the city of Piefferburg now. We should be undisturbed here for a while.”

“We’re in a dead person’s house?”

He nodded. “We’re in a dead person’s house, thankful we aren’t dead ourselves and planning ways to stay that way for the foreseeable future, yes?” He paused and swallowed, throat working. His pupils darkened a degree. “So, you’re the Shadow King’s daughter.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “Apparently.”

“Gods.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know. He told me you were a long-lost relative. I didn’t put it all together until I met him that day, when I’d returned to the Black after turning down the Summer Queen’s invitation.”

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s true, Aislinn. I swear it.” He swore again. “You look nothing like him except for the color of your hair.”

“Why did he want to kill me? Does he consider me a—”

“Threat. Yes. I now know he’s the one who killed his mother, your grandmother. Remember the story I told you about Brigid?” She nodded. “It wasn’t her consort who killed her, it was her son. Aodh wanted her throne and wasn’t willing to wait. Now he’s paranoid that you’ll try for his throne.”

“He didn’t just want to kill me. He wanted to destroy every single fiber of my being. Murder was not enough for him.”

Gabriel nodded. “Because you’re a necromancer.”

“He didn’t want me bugging him after he killed me.” She snorted.

“I’m sure your grandmother is an ever-constant weight on his conscience.”

“That man has no conscience.”

“The Shadow King is fucking scared of you, Aislinn. You’re the heir to the Unseelie Throne by right.” He gave her a cold smile. “He should be afraid because you’re powerful.”

“I’m not.” She shook her head. “I can’t—” An agonized sound escaped her throat. “I’m
not
powerful, Gabriel. I’m a fluffy bit of Seelie Sídhe. That’s all.”

He moved so fast he made her jump. Grasping her chin in his hand, he forced her to look up at him. “You are a necromancer, Aislinn, and I am Lord of the Wild Hunt. We’re a good fit, don’t you think? Together we make one hell of a powerful team. And we better make a powerful team because we both have made the strongest of all possible enemies.”

She sucked in a breath. “You’re the Lord of the Wild Hunt?” It made sense now, the house he’d chosen. Of course he’d known of a recently “vacated” place to take her where she’d be safe. She ripped her hands from his and pushed away from him. “Do you have any other revelations to tell me?”

He had her flat on her back and pinned beneath him in less than a second. “I might have a few,” he growled into her face.

“Get off me!”

“Not until you understand a couple of fundamental things. One, you’re stuck with me,
princess
. Two, we better find a way to get along because the Shadow King wants you dead.” He bared his teeth at her. “And that will happen only over my own lifeless body.”

Aislinn went still, staring up at him. His gaze moved from her eyes to her lips and remained there. For a wild moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Then she wondered what she would do if he tried. After all, he’d misled her, lied to her, tried his best to seduce her to the Black Tower. But then he’d rescued her from the dungeons and vowed to sacrifice his life for hers. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about him at the moment. Gabriel was a living, breathing paradox.

His gaze skated downward and she became painfully aware of her clothing, or lack of. She was barefoot and dressed in a filmy, light shift that showed the press of her nipples and the curve of her breasts through the fabric. His eyes let her know that he saw all of that, too—and appreciated it.

Her heart thumped fast and her blood roared through her head as she fought her body’s reaction to him. Her emotions might be in a tumult and her mind might want very much to be angry with him, but her body wanted him. There was no question of that.

Apparently he wanted her, too.

He gazed for another long moment at her lips, then pushed away from her and allowed her to sit up. He rocked back on his heels. “This house backs up to the Boundary Lands. There are woods on either side of us. We won’t be disturbed by neighbors. I’m packing two bags with clothes, supplies, and weapons and putting them in easy reach in case we need to run. All right?”

She nodded.

“When you’re more stable on your feet, I’ll show you all the exits.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “Take a shower. There’s clothing in the drawers in here that I think will fit you. I’ll fix us something to eat. I know you have to be as hungry as I am.”

He did look hungry—lean, hungry, battered, and tired. If he was to be believed that was a result of his defense of her. Her rage at him eased. He’d done her wrong, but he was doing his best to make it better. He could have just walked away.

She sat up and watched him warily.

He stood and nodded at her. “Are we agreed?”

“For now.”

“I’ll take that.” He walked out of the room, leaving her with her thoughts.

 

 

AISLINN
didn’t care that she was squatting in a dead man’s house and using a dead man’s shower. All she cared about was the hot pounding of water on her back and how it eased the tension in her muscles and chased away the deep chill that had settled in the center of her bones. All she cared about was the slick tangle of her hair over her shoulders, now squeaky clean from rigorous shampooing.

In the cabinet below the sink she’d found small green boxes filled with palm-sized bars of scented soap. She used one of these soaps to lather her skin, rinse, repeat—washing away the stink of the dungeon, the smears of grime, the cling of dark magick, and the taint of dying things. She took it one step further, using a brand-new loofah she’d also found under the counter to exfoliate away an entire layer of gray, dead skin to reveal soft pink flesh beneath.

It was like being reborn.

After the water turned cold, she shut it off and got out, wrapping herself in a huge fluffy towel. The man who’d owned this place had enjoyed the finer things in life even though he’d been troop.

The scent of food being prepared wafted to her nose and nearly made her double over with hunger. At some point the empty gnawing sensation in her stomach had become integrated with her being—just another part of her existence, like pain or the promise of death. She nearly dropped the towel and ran to the kitchen to find the source of the smell . . . then she remembered who was preparing the meal.

She wiped her hand across the steamed-up mirror. Dark smudges of exhaustion marked her under-eye areas. Her cheekbones were a bit more prominent than they’d been a week ago and her eyes held a hardness that hadn’t been there before. The hardness was a thing to cultivate, to mold into something useful. She would need an edge, that bit of hardness, in order to go up against the Shadow King. The thought was terrifying, but if she wanted to live—and she did—that was exactly what she’d have to do.

The last week had changed her forever. Time would tell whether that change was for the good or for the bad.

After slathering some expensive and luscious lotion on her skin, drying her hair, and finding a pair of thin, soft jersey pants, a fluffy pair of white socks, and a white turtleneck sweater, she felt a bit more like herself. The week she’d spent in hellish limbo still clung to her mind and she couldn’t shake it. It seemed like she’d been in that dungeon five years, not five days, but now, at least, she could remember a bit of the person she’d been before she’d made the decision to go to the Black Tower.