Here Be Monsters [2] (16 page)

"For now…"
 

Maeve started walking toward the cairn and the line of elves. "You will not stop me. None of you can. I have drained the prince of his life, and now I intend on retaking my kingdom and draining it dry as well. And thanks to that fool you left in charge—" and he looked over at Xe-Faun. "I only have a few cairns left to destroy before I cut Underhill off forever."
 

Oberon stepped forward. She had to be stopped. If she did cut Underhill off, then those elves here in the mortal realm would die. They all took their life from their home. And the cairns kept them all in touch with the sunlight of their land.
 

She waved her hand and before he could grab a breath, Oberon was knocked backward against the fence. The impact tore the fence down and he stopped several feet away from the garden and the illuminated cairn.
 

She still had power!
 

This time it was Xe-Faun that rushed at her, his bow and arrow drawn. She waved her hand at him and Oberon watched him fly backward as well. There was a sickening crack as he hit the ground and lay still.
 

Illeië's hands went up over her head and an intricate circle of symbols appeared in the air. They glowed bright blue and she started chanting in a low voice.
 

Maeve stopped and waved her hand at Illeië—

The elf healer didn't fly backwards—but the circle broke apart into floating sparkles of glitter.
 

Oberon's heart sank. She was unstoppable! His brother had died for nothing?
 

"Maeve."
 

He turned to watch Silira move out to stand in front of Siobhan and Abyssinian. The Fallen looked over at her and waved her hand.
 

Silira didn't move.
 

Maeve waved both of her hands.
 

Still she didn't move.
 

"Maeve. You will not win. You will be stopped. The curse that struck you has taken half of your power and given it to me. We are equal now."
 

The Fallen's black eyes widened. "You lie!"
 

"No. You cannot hurt me."
 

"You will die!" The Fallen hissed and expose the ugliness of her soul in her face as she lunged.
 

"Silira!" Oberon called out.
 

- 19 -

Siobhan nuzzled his neck. The flesh was butchered from that bitch's feeding. She smelled his blood. It filled her world. But she fought against the desire to drink. He was dead in her arms. She'd believed him gone from her before, and he'd returned. But this time…she felt the life leave him. Felt it hover over them, sing to her, speak to her…

You must survive, Siobhan.
 

With a shuddering sob she pulled back from him, and looked down at his face, illuminated by Oberon's lamp above them. His eyes were closed forever. His lips parted in deep sleep. And his beautiful bright red hair lay limp and almost colorless against his cheek and forehead. She touched that hair and heard the creature stirring behind her.
 

She heard it speak.
 

Felt its magic.
 

And acknowledged the rage that built and burned deep inside of her.
 

She'd tried to kill Keith…and Siobhan had saved him.
 

She'd killed so many elves and vampires…searching for her own selfish needs.
 

And now Abyssinian had risked his life to destroy her—and failed.
 

Siobhan heard Silira speak. She was furious at this elf for cursing Abyssinian and infusing that curse with such power. All of this death…and thing thing…still…moved…
 

She saw Oberon fly backwards.
 

She saw Illeië's magic disrupted.
 

Her inside boiled. Her rage ignited her heart and her blood. The animal inside of her, the wolf she kept caged inside of her, broke free. She growled as she felt Maeve coming near. Could feel her power.
 

Heard Silira taunt her.
 

Let Abyssinian rest on the ground.
 

Siobhan turned as her body shifted, as her fur grew, her fangs elongated, and her hatred and anger—took over.
 

She wasn't surprised when Silira stepped to the side at the last second and Maeve landed in the open embrace of a mad and insane wolf. Siobhan growled and opened her mouth to catch Maeve's neck between her jaws. She bit down deep, hard, and with the intent to break….and to remove.
 

"Siobhan!" Oberon called out to her. "She's an elf! Her blood will kill you!"
 

But Siobhan no longer cared. She would die an agonizing death if she could take this bitch with her. Maeve fought the wolf—her fingers entwined in the fur and was pulling and kicking and screaming as Siobhan locked on.
 

She was not letting go.
 

The first drop of the monster's blood slid down her throat. And when it touched her stomach—

The world as she'd always known it—changed.
 

"She can't do that!"
Oberon said as he charged forward. But Silira blocked his path. "Move!"
 

"Let her be." Silira said. "She's fullfilling her destiny, just as Abyssinian fullfilled his."
 

"Destiny?" Oberon spat at her. "What the hell are you, Silira? My brother is dead. Siobhan is going to die—"
 

"No. She won't." This wasn't Silira's voice.
 

The small child he'd seen before, the one who smelled of death and decay, had risen and now stood beside Silira. Though the child looked to be no older than nine, there was a timelessness in her face. A face that had seen too much in this world.
 

And Oberon knew her. "St. Clair."
 

She nodded to him and turned. "She won't. But I won't allow her to have it all." The child too became a wolf and dove at the flailing monster. She clamped her maw over the thing's closest arm and bit down.
 

Oberon watched in wide-eyed amazement. "I don't—"
 

"Patience, King," Silira said. Her white eyes unnerved him.
 

Things
changed in her as she drank..and drank…and did not burn. No…this was not poison, but an elixir as sweet as Abyssinian's—

Of course!
 

That was it! Siobhan rejoiced inside. This monster had drank his blood. She was both elf and vampire. And her blood was…

Powerful.
 

She felt St. Clair's presence beside her and welcomed her kindred.
Drink! Drink! Let the beast die!
 

And the two of them fed and fed until the monster beneath them no longer moved. Siobhan released first and realized she'd shifted back to her human form. As had St. Clair. The small, older vampire sat back as well, her face turned to the artificial light. A breeze blew her hair from her face and her chin was coated in the rich, sweet black blood.
 

The were both infused with a Fallen's life…

But the thing wasn't dead.
 

It still moved. Still tried to thrash.
 

Maeve was no longer the beautiful creature she had been. Her skin had shrunk to her bones, as if something had sucked all the moisture out of her. Her eyes were exposed as if her eyelids had vanished. They rolled around like marbles. Her lips curled away from her pointed teeth, and a few of those teeth fell out.
 

Her dress and cloak vanished, as if it were a part of her, conjured up and now was gone as her power left her.
 

And as Siobhan stood and backed away from the thing, she heard the voice in her head.
My daughter…save me…

Instead, she spit on her. St. Clair laughed and vanished as she turned. Whatever power she'd culled from the monster would be known only to her.
 

"Wow…you people are sick," came a familiar voice.
 

She turned to see Keith Song coming forward, a gun in his right hand. He moved past Siobhan, looked down at the thing writhing on the floor, aimed the gun and fired.
 

The bullet shattered the monster's skull. Everything fell away, crumbled to the concreted and was taken into the fountain by the wind.
 

"I don't care what it is," he said as he turned to face Siobhan. He made a face and reached inside of his pocket and pulled out a small travel pack of moistened towels and handed it to Siobhan. "Or if it tried to kill me. You put it out of its misery." He grinned her. "Wipe your chin."
 

She took the wipes and did as he said.
 

Her gaze caught Oberon's movement as he went to his brother and knelt down.
 

Siobhan handed the bloodied towel back to Keith, who made a face, and moved to kneel on the other side of Abyssinian.
 

He looked…peaceful.
 

"Siobhan," Silira said and stood behind Oberon.
 

She didn't know why she thought of it—of how the idea came—whether it was something Silira had put into her head or because she knew it from the Fallen's voice—but she lifted her wrist to her mouth and bit down.
 

The warmth and thrill of the taste disguised any pain she felt and she filled her mouth with her blood.
 

"What are you doing?" Oberon moved out to grab her wrist, but Silira stopped him. "What is she doing?"
 

Siobhan moved to straddle Abyssinian. On her hands and knees she bent down and pressed her lips to his, and allowed the blood in her mouth to trickle into his.
 

"No! You can't turn an elf—Siobhan you know this! His body will corrupt—"
 

But she let the blood flow until she felt him stir beneath him. He swallowed, and then swallowed again. She felt him move, his hips against hers, and then he was kissing her, licking her lips, sucking on her tongue as if to pull the last of the blood from it.
 

Oberon pulled away from them. "What—what's happening. How is he—"
 

"King," Silira said. "The Fallen's blood can restore his life, because it was his blood to begin with. She will not turn him—that is impossible. But she can—"
 

"Ghoul him," Keith sighed. "She made him her ghoul. Great….just….great."
 

- 20 -

"He's not a ghoul…"
 

Siobhan stood in the Great Hall. Sunbeams streamed in through the stained glass windows, warm on her skin. One of the benefits from drinking the Fallen's blood—immunity to sunlight.
 

For now.
 

Illeië didn't believe the ability would last. That eventually Siobhan would have to retreat back to the shadows. The blood had increased her strength, heightened her senses, and given her a slight ability in glamor. They were in Underhill because in the mortal realm, Oberon was a wanted man.
 

Siobhan had spoken to the Captain, and insisted the elf wasn't the one responsible for the deaths of the elves—another man was. A human. But when she had to admit there was no way to bring that man into the mortal realm—because his body would instantly age and turn to dust—he told her to tell Oberon to turn himself in and justice would be done.
 

But the king wasn't going to take his chances with the human system anymore.
 

He had returned and re-taken his throne.
 

And the regent?
 

No one seemed to know where Thomas Rhymer was.
 

Three days had passed since the Fallen was destroyed. Keith was back to work chasing news and she told him she'd only call him when she needed him. As for the blood he would need—she'd filled a few months worth of vials and he kept them in his fridge. As a ghoul, he was going to crave that blood. And she did not need a frenzied ghoul on her hands.
 

And Abyssinian?
 

"If he's not a ghoul," Oberon said as he leaned back in the chair. He wasn't seated at his throne. They shared a table to the side as other elves moved in and about. She'd sensed an excitement around her. It wasn't as if she'd been in Underhill before—as far as she knew it might always feel like this—but from a few of the looks the others had given Oberon they were happy to have him in there. "Then why is he moving? And breathing? He's alive, Siobhan. He drank your blood. Vampire blood will poison an elf. And if you try to turn an elf, it will kill them." He pointed to himself. "I saw him drink from you."
 

"And if you'd been paying attention, your kingship, you'd know that vampires aren't supposed to drink from elves because your blood will kill us." Siobhan put her hands on her chest. "But I drank from Abyssinian. His blood doesn't kill me—but it makes me more human. Illeië has already told you—she examined Abyssinian—he's fine. He's still in pain from the iron, but otherwise he's alive."
 

"But he's going to need your blood."
 

"There's no evidence of that." Which was true. Usually there were signs when a human had been made into a ghoul: the paler skin, the near white eye color, the increased strength—and many ghouls inherited one or two of their benefactor's quirks.
 

Like Keith had developed my ability to jump high.
 

But Abyssinian hadn't shown anything like that. He'd slept most of the time, deep in an almost coma-like state for long periods of time. He would wake, hold Siobhan in his arms, eat a little fruit, but he would always drift back off again.

Illeië claimed it was his body healing, from the cold iron, and from the great loss of blood.
 

No one would talk about the blood she'd given him. No one but Oberon.