Black Dalliances (A Blushing Death Novel) (23 page)

The guard on the right reached for the sword at his hip. His dark, chocolate irises widened as the glint from my blade flashed across his face. He realized, too late, he wasn’t going to be fast enough.

I struck, slicing Gladi across his throat in a simple clean line of blood. The man sank to his knees, gurgling and clutching at his neck. The sword forgotten at his hip. I circled, rounding on the second man scrambling for his own weapon. The hilt of his blade tangled in his heavy cloak, and his clumsy fingers were unable to draw. I jabbed the sharp tip forward, sliding Gladi’s blade into his chest. Slicing through flesh, bone, and muscle, magic burned up my arm as the blade’s tip pierced the man’s heart and stole his life.

A soft cry rocked him, echoing in my ears with his last groan. I yanked the sword from his body and turned on the two behind me. Dean stepped toward me and knelt beside the dead Cossack closest to him.

“I just bought us another five minutes. New plan?” I glanced down at Dean riffling through the pockets of the dead men.

“What is he looking for?” Saeran whispered.

“A key.”

“More than likely, it will not be a physical key. It will be magical, set specifically to the guards.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Saeran and then me. “Ideas?”

Stepping to the door, I skimmed my hands around the edges as far as I could reach. The hum of dark, wild magic pulsed from the door, tingling along my fingertips. Strong and dangerous, the heat of Fae magic burned through me. Sharp like cut glass, Likho’s strength reached into my being and tried to grab hold. It was powerful but not like the magic of Baba Yaga still searing in my blood.

Dean stepped up beside me, brushing my shoulder with his hand. His warmth was a welcome reminder that he was mine and that I belonged to someone. They couldn’t have me.

“It smells of blood,” he snarled.

“It’s always blood,” I hissed. “There’s our key, fellas,” I spat. Raising my sword, I smeared the blood dripping from Gladi’s blade across the pristine white door. We waited but nothing happened. “What the . . .?”

“Fae magic, even here in the Outer Realm, is living magic,” Saeran said, stepping up next to me. He ran his hand over the hard oak of the door, trailing his fingers through the blood. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, staring at the door. “Our magic doesn’t respond to death or even the absence of life.”

I turned, meeting his gaze. His yellow eyes bore into me and my mind raced, trying to find a solution. From the delighted twinkle of Faerie in his eyes, I knew he already had the answer. He wanted something from me, from us. He’d come with us but he hadn’t taken the lead. The bastard was testing me, Dean, Patrick, our power, everything.

“You’re not going to help, are you?” I growled, knowing time was ticking away. We had only moments until the second group of guards made their rounds.

“I’m afraid, my Fertiri, that this is your challenge. Mine is yet to come,” Saeran answered.

The bastard didn’t even look apologetic.

“Fine,” I snarled. “I’ll remember this later.”

“I have no doubt,” he answered, and for the first time, I heard remorse in his tone. But I didn’t think he was sorry for me.

I stormed over to the dead man, jammed my hand in the blood pooled on his chest, and coated my skin. If I had to beat that damned door down in the next three and a half minutes, I would. I was going to get into that fucking castle if it was the last thing I did. I glared at Saeran with blood dripping from my fingers and stormed to the door. Slamming my hand against the door, palm flat, I drenched it in the dead man’s blood and my beating heart.

Dean growled beside me as magic rippled and wavered around the door as if infused with heat. My palm grew hot as the blood radiated out, spreading like veins across the pristine white wood. Deep crimson tendrils curved around, making a circle at hip height as a blood-red knob appeared.

Dean rested his hand on the small of my back, sliding his large hand across my body. He clutched my hip in his grasp, pressing his body against mine. The long hard build of him vibrated with his energy and his power merged into me.

“If anything happens to Dahlia inside this castle because you failed her, you won’t have to worry about escaping the Outer Realm. Because you won’t,” Dean snarled.

Saeran nodded, still watching me. “Shall we go in? As you so delicately stated, time is short.”

I twisted the blood knob and shouldered the door open.

Darkness. There was nothing beyond the threshold but pitch-black darkness.

“Fuck me running.” I stood on the edge of oblivion and I was about to step through it.

“Later,” Dean growled. “I go first,” he barked.

My heart thundered in my ears and I gripped Gladi tighter.

Dean stepped into the pitch-blackness of nothing two feet in front of me and disappeared.

Chapter 25

Pain throbbed across Patrick’s knees as he slammed into the floor, hitting the stone floor in what appeared to be a throne room from the Dark Ages. Grinding his teeth, his fangs dragged across the inside of his bottom lip. Patrick could still taste the blood of the Cossack lingering on his tongue. The feeding had done him wonders. He was almost good as new. Almost.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” a deep, guttural voice boomed, shrinking the space with what Patrick could only describe as impending doom.

Patrick raised his head to meet the man’s glare. Cossacks lined the walls, their heavy wool cloaks creating a gray wall against the white of the stone room. Scattered among the guards were those damned little pey demons, jumping and cooing at the chance to taste his flesh again.

In front of him, a man sat. With long, dark hair tied back at his nape, his nose was sharp, as if it could slice through a man’s flesh. Black, soulless eyes bore into Patrick and he recognized that cold stare in whatever form the monster took.

Likho’s long legs stretched out, bent at the knee. The monster tapped his fingers on the arm of his golden throne, waiting. At his side, with her back rigid and her eyes forward sat Patrick’s tormentor, Milagra. Her heart pounded in her chest and her eyes darted from him to the door and back again.

“Mr. Cavanaugh!” the monster snapped. Anger and maybe a bit of annoyance made his voice sharp.

“Yes,” Patrick answered, getting to his feet. As Patrick straightened his back, he brushed his shredded shirt and filthy pants as if he was standing in his own office, in clean clothes instead of covered in grime and blood. He set his jaw tight and glared at the man as if none of it mattered to him.

“I see you’ve fed recently,” Likho grumbled, still tapping his fingers.

“Yes, he was delicious,” Patrick sneered at them both, listening to the panicked rise of the woman’s heartbeat was like an aria to his ears.

“I wouldn’t want you to look peaked for our guests when they arrive,” the man hissed.

“You’re a fool to think you’ll survive. But I suppose even a fool has his reasons,” Patrick replied with a snide tone. The monster bristled as Patrick refused to acquiesce.

Patrick’s nose filled with sulfur, aged sweat, and wet dog. Something was off; the smells of the room were misleading. He hadn’t smelled anything this putrid since Ethan had raised that . . . demon.

Every muscle in Patrick’s body tensed. That demon had almost killed Dahlia. He couldn’t take the chance she could survive a second encounter.

“You are very brave for a tortured, beaten man,” the monster growled.

“As you can see, I am neither tortured nor beaten,” Patrick bit out. He brushed another round of dust from his sleeve. “I’ve encountered demons before but none so pretty.” Patrick couldn’t keep the snarl from his voice as he spoke. He glanced up at the monster beneath his lashes.

“I have many forms. That is why the Sluagh raised and recruited me,” the man cooed, turning his gaze to Patrick’s tormentor sitting primly beside him. He ran long, lean fingers down her cheek and then licked his lips.

Patrick watched as she fought the urge to back away, shivering as the demon’s fingers skimmed her skin. “This form offends my Milagra the least.”

“A gentleman then,” Patrick offered. “A gentleman offers his name. You know mine. It is only fair that I know yours and why you hold me here.”

“Ah, so demanding for a parasite but your race has always been so. I am Likho, perhaps you’ve heard of me?” he asked, glancing at Patrick expectantly for recognition.

“No.”

“That is Saeran’s doing. He banished me and the rest of my Sluagh brethren in this wasteland with no means of escape too long ago to remember. I’ve waited a very long time to have my revenge, to be free of his barren prison. Hell was better than this. You, Mr. Cavanaugh, are the key to Saeran’s undoing and my release.”

“I don’t see how that can be. I barely know the man.”

“Saeran very rarely leaves the safety of his Sidhe but the Unseelie Court and their nightmares are banished here. We can never leave,” the man growled through clenched teeth.

The harsh sound of his anger reverberated off the walls, reminding Patrick that the demon’s true form was much larger and much more gruesome than the pretty façade presented.

“Then how did she?” Patrick asked, but the curve of maliciousness turning up the corners of Likho’s mouth made him freeze where he stood.

“My Milagra is an acquisition, presented on my doorstep like a gift by Saeran years ago. I’ve had time to . . .
cultivate
her.”

The demon’s voice was low and filled with a lecherous pride that, as Dahlia would put it, set Patrick’s teeth on edge. The demon crooked his finger beneath the woman’s chin, tilting her head about as if she was a doll on display. Milagra never fought him, nor did she move. Her expression remained stoic and detached, as if she wasn’t there. He’d seen that expression on Dahlia’s face just before she’d disappeared.

“What a lovely acquisition she is, too,” Patrick offered absently, attempting to direct the conversation where he wanted it to go. “I’m afraid there is a flaw in your plan, Likho. You did say your name was Likho, correct?”

“I did, Mr. Cavanaugh,” the demon hissed, agitation clear in his voice. “I don’t see a flaw, as you’ve described.”

“Yes, I’m afraid. A very large one, in fact.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve invited the Blushing Death to your kingdom when you took me, and I’ll relish the taste of your blood before this is done,” Patrick said, cool and confident.

“Your Blushing Death, as you’ve said. I’ve taken that into consideration. Milagra insinuated that perhaps there was something more intimate between you and the woman.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Patrick said, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. Something prickled and stabbed inside his head. Rooting through his mind, something foreign invaded his brain as a stabbing pain shot through to his ears. Images of Dahlia filled his mind; her sleeping form as he stroked his fingers through her silky blond hair, her ass as she strutted across the room, not knowing that every eye in the club was watching her, and those moments when she glanced up at him in complete contentment with her storm-gray eyes zeroed in on only him.

“Oh, I think you do,” Likho hissed as his eyes narrowed on Patrick. Standing, Likho’s tall frame stretched out to more than seven feet tall. He took the three steps his long legs needed to close the distance. Patrick’s nostrils were bombarded with the thick smell of rotten eggs as the space between he and Likho disappeared. “I have a way to keep both you and the woman in check,” he hissed.

Likho’s body exploded from the confines of the human exterior he’d been hiding in. Long, tangled dark fur fell in matted clumps, thick limbs that seemed almost as large as Patrick himself grew, taking up space and claws shot out from his fingertips. Several rows of black, sharpened teeth snarled at him as Patrick met the one solid eye the same soulless black.

“You can’t keep her in check.” Patrick laughed in the face of Likho’s wrath, unwilling to show the demon the fear he wanted.

“I think I can,” Likho growled, curling his large slobbering lips up in a cruel grin. The demon’s hand reached out like lightning, and Patrick froze as sharp talons sunk into his chest. The acrid tingle of dark and oppressive magic shot through his body as if brought up from the depths of Hell itself. He gasped at the sharp sensation as he stood frozen, feeling very much as if time stopped.

This couldn’t happen to him. He couldn’t die this way.

Likho’s fingers dug around in his chest as his talon-tipped fingers wrapped around his heart. Patrick felt every movement and slice. Blood soaked his clothes as the hole in Patrick’s chest grew with each swipe of the demon’s large hand.

“Ah, your heart beats. It is soft, only a gurgle of blood but it thumps in your chest. What could cause that in a parasite such as yourself?” Likho asked, staring down at Patrick with too many questions in his glare. “Let us find out,” Likho growled as his fingers squeezed around his heart and yanked.

Chapter 26

“Tre!” I shouted, forgetting the guards overhead and the patrol making their rounds. Nothing mattered as my heart raced, roaring in my ears as the darkness swallowed him whole.

“Baby!” he hissed in a whisper.

Dean’s large hand appeared out of the darkness and I grasped it, holding on for dear life. He tugged me into the curtain of pitch-black darkness, slamming me into his hard, familiar body. I’d hoped once I crossed through the curtain, the blackness would dissipate. It didn’t. It was just as dark inside as it appeared from the outside. Perfect.

Dean wrapped his arms around me and buried his nose into my hair. His deep breath sent gooseflesh skimming across my skin. He touched as much of me as he could, running his hands down my back and over my ass. For a real moment, I thought anything could’ve happened to him.

“Are you trying to cop a feel in the dark?” I whispered as Saeran stepped up behind me, trampling on the back of my foot.

“Just makin’ sure it’s you,” he mumbled against my ear.

My skin tingled as his breath caressed my neck, comforting me but not chasing away the ache in my chest. Patrick was still out there and we were fumbling around in the dark.

“We need to get moving,” I whispered into the pitch-blackness.

“I couldn’t agree more. I feel as if darkness itself is nipping at our heels,” Saeran hissed behind me.

“Get ready to climb,” Dean said, taking a step up and then helping me behind him.

“Stairs,” I whispered back over my shoulder to Saeran.

We trudged up, one unsure step after another. Thick, hot air closed in on us, and I kept waiting for someone to follow us into the dark. Even if they had, we wouldn’t know it until it was too late. I couldn’t see shit ahead or behind me. I wiped my palms on my pants to get the nervous sweat from drenching my hands.

“Run, run while you can,” a melodic soprano flitted through the void.

Chills ran up my spine as the voice seemed to sing against my ear, so small and so close.

“Did you hear that?” Saeran asked from behind me.

“Keep moving.”

The soprano voice laughed, a tinkling sound rattling in my ear.

“To bleed and die. No time to say goodbye,” the little voice chirped.

“Keep going,” Dean growled.

Gripping his hand tighter, I ached for his warmth to seep into me and chase away the chill of that tiny voice in my ear. I didn’t care that our palms were moist from sweat or that his fingers were wrapped around my hand tight enough to make my knuckles ache. I wanted out of that damned stairwell, out of the darkness. I wanted out of Faerie.

“Near the top you go, a deadly weave you sew,” they sang.

Tiny skittering footsteps pitter-pattered all around us, sounding as if they swarmed, their voices singing on all sides. A flap of wind breezed by my face, shifting my hair and tickling my nose.

“Do you smell . . . burnt sugar?” I asked, unsure if I could trust my own nose.

“Pixies,” Saeran hissed behind me.

A bright wing as if lit from within came into focus only an inch or two from my nose. Two inches high with skin of the purest white, a winged woman hovered before me. Naked with silky, iridescent wings flapping behind her, she created a soft white glow illuminating the darkness several inches around her. Her wings had vine-like veins pumping deep crimson blood through them. She smiled at me. Her bright, white, little teeth shone in the darkness as her lithe body stretched and preened.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Her lips curled into a dangerous expression, making the pit of my stomach sink into my toes.

Reaching out with dainty fingers, she swiped across my cheek with razor-sharp claws. The sting of the cut sliced across my cheek as the warm trickle of blood oozed down my face. The sting of her strike pulsed across my cheekbone with each beat of my heart.

“Dahlia?” Dean questioned, undoubtedly smelling the fresh blood in the thick, stagnant air.

“Pixies!” Saeran said again, as I would have said a four-letter word. “Keep going,” he barked from somewhere behind me.

I swatted at the pixie, brushing her aside and kept moving.

She reappeared, hovering in front of my face followed by a second beside her. The second pixie hovered with pale pink skin and veins pumping dark moss-green blood through her wings. Then a third and a fourth until there were too many to count and I couldn’t see past the blaring light of their flapping wings. The moment I stopped to brush them aside, they swarmed. Like bees protecting their hive, claws swiped across my skin and small white teeth bit into my flesh.

“Run!” I screamed, swatting and flailing my arms. I hit one, smacking her hard against the wall. The pixies seemed to take that swat personally and attacked with a vengeance.

I picked up the pace, tripping and stumbling up the stairs as the pixies blitzed me. I slammed into Dean’s back as we reached the top, and he elbowed me in the gut as he reached for the doorknob.

“Hurry,” I breathed, kicking and swinging at anything within reach. They’d started dive-bombing me, and all I could do was protect my eyes and face from their razor-sharp claws. When they couldn’t reach my face, tiny fingers ripped strands of hair from my head.

Flinging the door open, Dean flooded the stairs with light and I threw my body onto the cold stone floor. Saeran stepped over me and plastered himself against the wall next to the door, breathing heavily but appearing no worse for wear. Dean dipped his hands underneath my arms and drug me back, away from the open door where the pixies clawed and bit at my legs. The air was ragged in my chest, scraping my throat with each breath. I glanced back into the stairwell, watching in horror as thousands of eyes fell on us.

Pixies covered the walls, crawling away from the light like cockroaches.

I kicked the door from the floor, slamming it shut.

“Fuck.”

“You okay?” Dean whispered.

Every cut, scrape, and bite stung like a bitch, making my skin ache with each beat of my heart.

“Yeah.”

Saeran leaned against the opposite wall, breathing heavily with his shoulders hunched and his hands on his knees.

“We have to get moving.”

“After you,” Dean grunted, shoving me to my feet. Wiping at my face, I smeared crimson stains across my skin. Dean reached out, his shirt covering his hand and wiped away the streaks of blood. “I don’t like this,” he growled. “Too quiet.”

“Too easy,” I answered. “Saeran, you ready?” 

“I am at your command,” he answered, shoving off the cold castle wall.

“Which way?” I asked. The long line of stone seemed to go on forever in either direction without an end in sight.

“Follow the feeling of helplessness,” Saeran said with a distasteful sneer.

I turned to my left and my gut screamed for me to run in the other direction. That had to be the right way.

“This way then,” I said. Raising Gladi, I held her firm but loose in front of me as I inched down the hall. The air seemed thicker, almost heavier in my lungs and the hall smelled of mildew, blood, and death.

Dean slid along the other wall and flanked me as we made our way down the long castle hall. Silent and mirroring each other with each movement, Dean and I inched forward as if we’d been hunting together for years. Saeran moved behind me, silent on nimble fae feet. Dean kept one eye on him and one ahead as we moved.

“This place is huge, we’ll never find him,” I said as an end finally appeared a hundred yards down the corridor. A blind junction loomed ahead of us and Dean crossed back to my side, sliding in line behind me. He wedged his large body between Saeran and me, partially to speak in my ear and partially to get between Saeran and myself. “Ready?” I asked.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I peeked around the corner. Nothing and no one.

“Empty,” I whispered, turning back to Dean.

“Then let’s go.”

Gripping Gladi, I set my shoulders back and stepped around the blind corner.

My body put the brakes on before my brain could fathom what my eyes were seeing.

Kill them all
, she growled again in my head. I dug my feet in and swiveled my wrist twirling Gladi through the air.

Dean growled, standing his ground beside me as his fingers collapsed into tight fists at his sides. Lowering his head, he rolled his shoulders and heat rippled from his body as his power flared. The intensity of it made me sweat as my skin burned.

“Shit,” I snarled.

I hadn’t heard the small platoon of guards or smelled them. It was as if they’d materialized through thin air.

Dean’s lips turned up in a dangerous snarl and his eyes flashed with violence. Saeran’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword as his shoulders and body tensed for a fight.

Their leader was dressed in the stereotypical Cossack uniform from the pre-Bolshevik period with heavy gray wool coats, sturdy black knee high boots, and black fur hats. Counting quickly, I accessed our situation. Five additional men stood behind him in similar gear, each with a sword in their hand and another six behind us. We were boxed in. Four apiece was doable but not preferable. At four the odds were stacked in the Cossacks’ favor. At six, we were pretty much fucked.

“Boys,” I greeted, a fierce grin lighting my eyes.

The Cossack glanced down at the sword in my hand and back up at me with disdain in his eyes. “Do you even know how to use that,
devooshka
?” He smirked, too confident. No man called me ‘little girl’ and got away with it.

“Let’s see, shall we?” I smiled, raising Gladi for the fight. I drew Dean’s Smith and Wesson from my waistband at my back. Trying to even up the odds, I fired.

A split second and a stunned expression later, the Cossack’s face froze in confusion as the bullet passed between his eyes and lodged deep into his brain. A slow stream of dark crimson blood seeped from the wound, trickling in two thin trails down either side of his nose. Falling to his knees, the Cossack’s eyes were wide and his mouth gaped open as he collapsed in a dead heap at my feet. Gladi hummed in my other hand with anticipation and hunger for the slaughter.

My senses took over as the smell of sweat, blood, musk, and death made my heart race.

“Who’s next?” I purred just before they rushed us.