Black Dalliances (A Blushing Death Novel) (18 page)

Saeran turned, extending his arms, palms-up. The soft rippling water churned, bubbled, and rose in a tight steady stream up Saeran’s body and over his head in a smooth arch. The thick stream of water flowed above him, a ribbon through the air.

“Blow,” Dean growled softly beside me.

I huffed on the fire, pumping the flames higher and hotter with my power. The fire rose, licking the stream of water until it boiled and steamed. Saeran turned to watch, and I caught his gaze as the water floated over the flames and then shot across the cavern to the mound of salt.

“It’s working,” Dean said in hushed whisper of astonishment.

I blew again and again on the flames until my lungs hurt from inhaling too much smoke and the hot water slowly dissolved the mound of salt.

Dean gathered all the thorns and vines lining the tunnel walls and sat beside me. Keeping the fire burning as the mound dissolved away, slowly, a hidden passageway was exposed behind it.

“There’s our way out,” Dean said, tossing the last of the vines on the flames. “Saeran,” Dean called. “It’s gone.” Dean got to his feet, standing protective and possessive beside me as the water flow stopped. He held his hand out to help me up and I took it, using his strength to leverage myself to my feet. I was exhausted and I couldn’t say if it was the lack of sleep, the use of all my energy to stoke the flames, or just the overwhelming sense of dread tightening the pit of my stomach. All I knew was that I was bone weary with no time to rest.

The three of us strode across the cavern together. Trudging through the slushy remnants of the remaining salt and water, wading through a white-pebbled mud. The thick substance soaked my boots and pants up to my knees in spots. With each step, salt soaked into the cuts on my legs and I hissed as it stung my flesh, burning every wound I had.

“What are we searching for?” Saeran asked.

The glint of orange light from the torches glimmered against something solid in the murky sludge coating the ground. Trampling through the dull white mess, I crouched down and reached into the salt water. I ignored the sting of the cuts on my hands and arms and wrapped my hand around the long, sharp length of a blade buried beneath.

Lifting it out into the open air, I held it high and got a better look. The torchlight shimmered off the blade, reflecting rainbows against the walls and my skin as the light caught the thousands of facets within.

“A diamond in the rough,” I whispered.

“What is it?” Dean asked, crouching beside me.

I opened my hand. Where I’d clutched the edges of the sharp blade, my skin had opened up and stained the diamond crimson.

“Looks like a sword,” I said, wiping the blood from my palm on my pants.

Dean glanced down at my hand but said nothing as he took the blade from me, turning it in his grasp.

“The Ewen Blade,” Saeran cooed with confused disbelief and astonished awe. “I don’t understand. It was more than just the blade,” Saeran added, sifting his hands through the sludge as he searched for missing pieces.

“There’s more?” I asked. What more did I need? If this was what Baba Yaga wanted me to find, I found it. Rising to my feet, I headed for the secret door that had been hidden behind the Great Salt Mountain.

“Slow down,” Dean growled, showing signs of stress and unease. He turned to Saeran and asked., “What’s this Ewen Blade?”

Saeran relaxed as he gave up digging in the salty sludge and sat back on his haunches. He peered up at Dean’s Caribbean blue gaze. “The Sluagh, the darkest of the Fae, were formed by the Dark Court—the Unseelie—long ago as a way to mete out their nightmares and rule the Seelie and Unseelie courts through force and fear. Fideal was one of the Sluagh’s most terrifying warriors. She attempted to destroy Ewen by dragging him to the bottom of a loch as she’d done with everyone else who’d defied her.”

Saeran glanced over at me as I bounced, ready to be on our way, then continued. “Ewen destroyed her in the murky depths of that loch. As he came to the surface, clutched in his hand was a blade he hadn’t had when Fideal dragged him down to die. He refused to say where he’d gotten the blade but he kept it with him until his dying day.” Saeran ran his hands absently through his long hair before tying it back into a ponytail at the base of his head.

“The Sluagh were nothing but a horde of beasts, things of darkness with no business in the light. They served a dark purpose, dealing out justice where it was ordered. But those ways disappeared with the Dark Court centuries ago,” Saeran said absently. “We all thought The Ewen blade was long gone. It had been the only weapon in our long history able to destroy a Sluagh warrior.”

“You sound like the Sluagh no longer exist,” I said.

The blade Dean held in his hands was a powerful instrument of magic if it was meant to kill beings that frightened darkness itself. My fingers still tingled from where I’d touched it, where the blade had drawn my blood.

“The Sluagh and the rest of the Unseelie were banished to the Outer Realm. They languished in this barren wasteland, hopefully dying out or killing each other. I don’t care which,” he said with a defensive ring to his words that made all my alarm bells go off.

“This,” I said as Dean raised the blade to the light. “This is capable of killing a Sluagh warrior. Is it enough to kill Likho?”

“I’m sure of it,” Saeran said without hesitation. “Likho is, after all, one of the Sluagh.”

“You said there’s more?” Dean asked.

“It was a full dagger, with hilt and handle.”

“Then I suppose we’re not done yet,” I grumbled.

“We rest before we move on,” Dean ordered.

“We don’t have time,” I whined, unable to rest while Patrick was out there, alone and possibly hurt. I wouldn’t give that bitch or Likho the chance to hurt him. I wouldn’t.

“Baby,” he whispered as he cupped my face in his hands. “He’s fine for now. You won’t be any good to him if you don’t rest.” Frustration rumbled through his words as he brushed my dirty, matted hair from my face.

“Fine,” I conceded, knowing in my bones he was right. But the urge deep in my gut to keep moving, to find him, wouldn’t abate. I had to keep going. “But only an hour,” I spat.

“Three,” Dean bargained.

“Three would be lovely,” Saeran said.

I conceded, knowing I was outnumbered.

With nothing left to burn, the fire died. We trudged back to the embers and huddled around its dissipating warmth. Dean snuggled up against me. As he wrapped his strong arms around my body, I relaxed against his chest and buried deep into the heat of him.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered.

His breath was warm against my skin and the wonderful consistent thump of his heart as it beat in his chest lulled me.

As my mind slowed and my body gave in to the exhaustion dragging me down into a sleep I desperately needed, a sound jerked me awake. Echoing against solid rock and shaking the ground beneath me, a shrill, ear-splitting roar scraped up my spine.

“What the hell was that?” I cried.

Saeran reached for his sword hilt and Dean tugged me closer to him, clutching me just a little tighter against his body.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter 17

Faerie, Present Day

Patrick bit back a groan. Pain burned through his wrists and ankles. The silver chains wrapped too tight around his appendages, held him firm against the cold, unforgiving stonewall. Silver spikes jutted out from in-between mildewed stone and dug into his back, burning him from the inside out. Spiders of all sizes crawled down his body, rats scuttled about the floor eating scraps of food, and pey demons fed on his blood.

Tiny goblin-like creatures with long, shaggy hair, matted to their bodies like dreadlocks, Pey demons were loathsome little beasts. Reeking of urine and wet dog, they were foul parasites with puny sharp teeth that nipped at the burning flesh around his ankles, tearing meat from his bones. Every nerve ending he had was on fire from the silver piercing his chest and stomach. The tender spots on his body, throbbed as the pey demons nibbled their fill, and his stomach turned at the disorienting feeling of being eaten alive. Most of his skin had burned away and re-knit itself multiple times over what felt like days at the mercy of that bitch and her master. Pain like he’d never experienced had been his constant companion since he’d been taken prisoner.

The pey would eat it off, then it would regenerate. He couldn’t tell how long this circle had continued. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes but he knew they were there. Pey demons hung from his appendages, slurping blood from his open wounds. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of his own flesh burning and that fact should have disturbed him. Somehow, it didn’t, making him feel justified as if he hadn’t suffered enough yet.

Hanging precariously from the silver chains holding him spread eagle against the wall, the restraints forced him onto too many silver spikes to count. His flesh burned and melted into warm goo that leaked constantly onto the stone floor with an irritating
drip, drip, drip
.

Patrick could see the glimmers of silver poking out from this body as his head dangled forward. He no longer had the strength to lift it.

That damned dark-haired woman sat at a feasting table beside an enormous monster. Nine feet tall, covered in long, dark bristling hair the color of night, a jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth, and an eye the color of blood, he sat slurping food into his gullet. The Cyclops ate whole chickens as if popping candy. Drool hung from his jowls like a rabid dog and that pretty little thing of a woman sat primly beside him.

Patrick knew better. He smelled her revulsion, no matter what her prim posture and stoic, emotionless eyes said. Her scent couldn’t lie.

“You are quiet, Mr. Cavanaugh,” the thing slurped as he slung another tub of ale down his maw.

“W—What would you have me say? We could discuss Politics or world economies. Literature perhaps. Your choice,” Patrick muttered, a slight stutter ruining his efforts to display a calm façade. He didn’t care for the weakness he heard in his voice. Dahlia would have stood with her chin in the air, defiant to the last if she was in his position. He didn’t possess her pure determination. He’d lost too much blood and hadn’t fed in what felt like years. He was using all his energy to feed the little bastards licking at his fingers.

He’d been stupid, hurt, and unwilling to talk to Dahlia. Just seeing her had hurt him all over again. He’d been so worried while she was gone that when she’d returned and the relief had abated, his anger had flared to life, making logical thought and consideration almost impossible. Unable to control his own rage, he’d hurt her. He’d done it on purpose, and that was the part he couldn’t forgive.

Dahlia appeared before him now as if from a dream, encased in her shimmering glow of her blushing pink aura. He understood it couldn’t be her. He hoped it wasn’t. He didn’t want her anywhere near this monster. But in his vision, Dahlia strutted toward him as she often did with a confidence he didn’t understand and could never imitate. That cool self-assurance swayed her hips in a sultry invitation he’d never been able to turn away. Authority and certainty oozed from her, as natural as breathing. She was an amazing creature.

The vision before him smiled Dahlia’s devilish smirk. In that grin was the promise of malice, passion, and destruction that had always made his cock rock hard with anticipation. Her eyes shone bright with her mischief and his blood flowed with his arousal, oozing out from his wounds, soaking him anew. He missed her.

As she sauntered toward him with those smoky gray eyes and that little sure swish in her stride, the vision flickered and disappeared.

Before he could process the realization that she was gone, a crack stung across his face.

Replacing his vision of his blond temptress was a smaller, bronzed woman. Her eyes were dark, deep, and pained. Patrick had seen that hopelessness in Dahlia’s eyes not so long ago. The only difference was the anger he saw in this woman’s gaze. Not only was she lost but enraged about it. Not a situation that boded well for him in the immediate future.

“What can I do for you?” Patrick bit out as blood filled his mouth.

“My little Milagra grows impatient,” the beast growled with a deep, threatening rumble, one that could rival Dean’s.

“When will Saeran come for you?” she snarled.

“Why do you believe he will come for me?” Patrick asked, shifting to meet the gaze of the dark-eyed beauty. The spikes dug deeper into his back as he tried to find the strength to lift his head. His ankles and wrists scraped against the chains as he shifted his weight, digging deeper into his flesh. He wanted to scream out but he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction.

“I left a very clear message with the woman,” she hissed at him.

Patrick couldn’t hold back the laughter as it bubbled over and spilled from his throat. No matter how it hurt with the spikes digging into his lungs, he laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked, hostility making her voice harsh.

He stopped, gurgling back the blood pooling in his lungs as he met her dark eyes.

“If you left a message with Dahlia, Saeran will come by choice or by force. I’m laughing, my dear,” Patrick said with a sarcastic sneer, “because Saeran will not be alone.”

“Why would that matter, Mr. Cavanaugh?” the beast asked, suddenly intrigued.

“You’ve invited your own deaths to your door,” Patrick said with a soft chuckle. No matter how livid he was at Dahlia, he still loved her. And he knew in his gut she’d stop at nothing to come for him. At least, he hoped he was right. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her enough to forget him in this wasteland. If nothing else, they’d insulted her. That, alone, would piss her off enough to break down the door and kill each and every one of them. At that thought, he couldn’t keep his lips from turning up into a malicious grin.

The dark-haired woman struck him again with a quick backhand across his face. Patrick’s vision blurred as his brain bounced inside his skull. The smell of the woman’s beast rising filled Patrick’s nose with the outdoorsy scent of primal magic.

“Saeran will fall to Likho,” she growled, close enough that her growl vibrated against his mouth and her warm sweet breath caressed his lips.

He stretched forward until the breath of his words caressed a cool breeze across the woman’s warm, full mouth. “You’ve invited The Blushing Death into your realm. I’ll laugh as she bathes in your blood and feasts on your hearts.”

Patrick laughed until he couldn’t feel the pain of his torture any longer. Dahlia would destroy all of them with a smile on her lips. Her ruthlessness was one of the things he loved about her.