Scars of Silver (3 page)

“Donovan now,” he corrected. He swept his critical
gaze over the place. A flock of muddy sheep in the back pen. A barn
so weather beaten a moderate wind could cut through all the missing
and broken boards. Random chickens milled about. A Sidhe girl of
perhaps only a decade old perched on the porch roof, her colorless
dress ill-fitting. Her too thin arms hugged her knees under her
chin. Her dark, dark eyes watched Donovan, rarely blinking.

Seamus knocked his hat further back on his head with
a flick of his finger on the brim. “You call yourself what you
want. We left the Mounds. And the politics. And the infighting. And
we were right to do so.” He banged down the wrench. “My family
won’t be part of it. Not before. Not now. Not ever.”

Honestly, Donovan hadn’t expected any different. All
too often exiles dug their hiding holes like mice and nested in
them. Finding security in squalor, when any decent village of
lesser fey would clamor for the chance to cater to a noble elf.
Doing such a grand job of isolation in service to their cowardice
that no one even noticed as they vanished one by one, taken by
predators. “It’s not about politics. It’s about survival. How soon
until the wizards catch wind of the Mounds collapse? Without the
Sidhe to mount a defense, how soon until they begin raids on
Ireland in earnest?”

Donovan lifted his gaze to the child’s once more, the
intensity with which she watched him, nearly palpable. When Seamus
stubbornly held his silence, Donovan persisted, “And what of your
children? Is this what they want for themselves?”

The farmer laughed at that one. A forced, dry laugh.
“Regan’s not of age, Elite. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Though spoken softly, the child’s words rang with
musical clarity. “What about Malcolm?”

“Away with you!” Seamus snapped and waved a hand at
the child to shoo her, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Malcolm ran off. He hated it here,” she said,
matter-of-factly. Regan’s little chin stayed on her knees. “Da and
him had a row.”

“That’s enough, Lassie.”

“Tell me you taught your son more than how to tend
chickens.” Donovan glared at Seamus, knowing all too well the
answer.

“I told the boy if he stayed here we would protect
him. He got all these notions in his head about going out into the
world. Sixteen at the time. Seventeen now. The lad needs to stay at
home. Does the daft boy listen? We finally told him what we are.
Why he and Regan could never go to school or go out on their own.
Did he listen? Not a bit of it!”

Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “And now he is at the mercy
of all that prey on the fey. Vampires. Werewolves. Wizards.” He
sneered, “Your son could very well be dead right now, and you have
done nothing to aid him. And I thought only the Seelie were so
selfish.” With disgust, Donovan stormed off.

“Wait!” Regan cried in protest. Donovan paused,
giving her time to scramble down the trellis from the roof and run
to him. She reached up as if to hug him. Donovan leaned down to
her. Her thin arms circled his neck. She whispered against his ear,
“Find Malcolm.”

Donovan leaned back to study those serious, dark eyes
of hers. “I won’t stop looking for him,” he promised. “Not
ever.”

“Holy crap, Wood Worm.” Rand’s voice penetrated
Malcolm’s haze. “You should have called me before beating the
living spit out of the boy.”

Malcolm opened his eyes a little. Other than that, he
couldn’t move. Constant pain blended into a wash of overloaded
sensations until Malcolm didn’t feel connected to his experiences
any more. Daily they dragged him from the cell. Daily they demanded
the “Touch.” Daily they beat him. What they wanted, he didn’t
know.

He sprawled on the stone floor on his stomach. His
shredded back couldn’t endure any pressure. Malcolm’s shirt was
long since destroyed by the whips. The only evidence it ever
existed was the unrecognizable scraps of cloth here and there on
the chamber floor. The constant burn of silver ate through the
flesh of his wrists, the shackles sinking into the groove.

Defiant through his agony, Malcolm locked gazes with
Rand. Then Rand blinked out as if he’d been nothing but a
hallucination.

A minute later, or maybe it was an hour, Malcolm
couldn’t tell, he heard voices again. Even when the cage door
opened, Malcolm didn’t look.

“I can’t believe there is no sign of infection,” the
woman’s voice was familiar, and not the least bit sympathetic.

“Silver laced through the whip.” Rand said, as though
that answered the question.

“He’ll scar then. Silver wounds won’t heal
completely. Pity. Such a pretty boy.”

Malcolm’s eyes slit open. Flora, the woman from the
shop, mixed some kind of goo in a plastic bowl. The spatula scraped
against the inside with a wet, slurping sound like cake batter.
Smelled like weeds, though. Flora’s pale eyes flicked to his face.
Malcolm watched her for any sign of regret. Guilt. Anything. Flora
didn’t oblige him. Her sunny print dress and floppy hat with the
stupid huge sunflowers belonged at a picnic, not in a goblin’s
cage. Such a faker. All fake innocence. All fake friendliness. Sent
his ass here knowing what would happen. And even now, she didn’t
give one iota of a shit. The first human he’d ever really met. No
better’n the goblins.

“They ain’t paying for his looks. Nor his smell,
apparently.” Shouting at the goblins, Rand added, “Hey Crap Head!
Give the lad a bucket of water and soap now and then, will ya?
Starting to smell like you.”

Rand circled around until he towered over Malcolm’s
head. He planted a booted foot on the chain linking the wrist
shackles before Malcolm could flinch away. “Do it quick.”

Flora smeared the salve over his torn back. It burned
like alcohol. The chains clinked as he jerked in shock and pain,
but Rand’s foot pinned his arms fast to the ground. Malcolm
screamed.

The goblins in the chamber clamored to the bars,
hopping and laughing.

Malcolm bit back his screams. Hating… Hating how they
delighted in his outcries. His throat strangled the sound. He
sucked hissing breaths, shoving down the pain as much as he could.
Shoving it down. Down. Down. Feel nothing. Feel nothing.

Rand backed off the chain. Malcolm rolled to his
side, as he watched Rand and Flora leave the cell. The prickly burn
dropped down to a full body throb.

Flora dug a wine bottle from her cloth bag. She
clinked it down on the stone torture table. “Just a swallow should
do the trick.” Malcolm couldn’t tell who exactly she was talking
to. He really didn’t want to find out what ‘trick’ it was supposed
to do.

Rand quirked a knowing sneer that twisted Malcolm’s
gut in a sick way. He cupped Flora’s elbow and the pair of them
vanished.

The next time the goblins came for him they flooded
into the chamber and then spilled through the bottleneck at the
door of his cell, filling the space with their leathery, spindly
bodies like an army of giant insects, all hive mind with one focus.
Even knowing he’d lose, Malcolm never stopped struggling. Never
accepted. He squirmed wildly as he bodysurfed along the mass of
them, spindly arms keeping him aloft. Only then did he notice the
humans beyond the mosh pit of goblins. Three females and a male,
huddled close to each other, out of the sea of goblins and staring
at Malcolm with starved intensity, like they could eat him up
raw.

The goblins tossed Malcolm down on his partially
healed back. The silver was released from his wrists. Any relief
from the burns vanished under the twisting grip of clawed fingers.
This time goblin hands secured his arms and legs, not bonds.

Malcolm twisted uselessly against them, growling
viciously. Words meant nothing here. A wasted effort. Nothing could
scream his protest louder than the violence of his struggle and the
throat ripping fury in his snarl.

And all of it… None of it… mattered.

Three or four goblins clutched his face. A goblin
pounced onto his chest like a monkey and popped the cork off of
Flora’s wine bottle. Malcolm flailed. More hands jerked his head,
keeping it straight. Malcolm clamped his mouth closed. Teeth locked
together. He would not! He would not! No! No!

Someone pinched his nose. Lungs screaming for air.
Burning for it. He gasped through clenched teeth. Couldn’t see
anything. Hands everywhere. Fingers pried at his face. Peeling back
his lips. Forcing apart his jaws.

Strong cinnamon scent stung his nose. Thick liquid
dripping like molasses into his mouth.

Malcolm spit it out. More poured in. Hands smashed
closed his mouth hard. Couldn’t spit. Couldn’t breathe. Cinnamon
syrup churning his senses.

Fighting to gasp. Choking. Coughing.

Swallowing.

It seared like lava all the way down his throat and
into his stomach. Fire spread through his belly… Through his body…
Vibrating down his arms and into his fingers. Thighs tingled with
heat. A rush whooshed up into his head. Couldn’t focus. Sounds
muffled until his own panting was all he heard. Spinning.
Everything spinning.

A crackle of power. Of magic. His body alive with it.
Pulsing. Glowing.

And then…

And then…

And then Malcolm stopped struggling.

An exhale shuddered from him as all the tension and
fear vanished from his body.

For the first time since the ordeal began, Malcolm
felt…

Good!

The goblins parted. Moved out of view.

An intense rush rose up from within him. Spread
through his muscles. Glistened on his flesh. Light flickered
beneath his skin like millions of fireflies covered by his
translucent flesh.

His body reacted. Becoming hard. Aroused.

The feeling flowed though Malcolm as he stared at the
cave ceiling. No goblin clung to him now. No one and no reason to
fight the feeling. Vaguely, Malcolm realized he was tripping on the
drug, but under its influence he just didn’t care.

The humans crowded around him. Their hands stroked
his flesh. Along his arms. His bare chest. Constant writhing.
Caresses.

Whatever.

Too lazy to move. Felt too good to care.

“Touch me,” the blonde murmured, cupping his face.
“Yes,” she laughed, “Yes!” She kissed him. Kissing her back came
automatically. A melding of mouths. The flow of the magic spilled
from his mouth into hers. Malcolm tasted his own magic. Like spring
water. Crisp. Pure.

The humans slithered over him. Pulling at his torn
jeans. Stripping them away.

Eyes out of focus, everything became fuzzy. Falling
deeper into the intoxication, Malcolm lost the sense of himself.
The magic flowing out from him and into the humans. He felt their
void. Their need. An empty ache inside them. His magic poured into
their souls. Endlessly pouring. Filling them up. Overflowing them
until the magic spilled around them in bright, flickering
auras.

Bodies. Naked bodies against his own. Moving.
Rubbing. Sweaty and sticky. Hot. So hot. Everything blending
together. Smearing. It all felt so good. Like a dream. All over
him. All everywhere. Demanding. Sexual. Taking. Pounding. Grabbing
him tight until it tore something free. A different kind of scream.
A different kind of flow. Of release.

Some part of him realized he’d orgasmed. More than
once. The humans had too. All of them, tangled in a sweaty
pile.

How long it lasted he could not have guessed. An
isolated eternity?

But… after a while… they were gone.

Then… after a while… he was shifted. Carried. Dropped
onto the ground.

Finally… after a while… the silver was clamped to his
wrists. The flow of magic slammed to a halt. The high, so pleasant
and fuzzy, screeched to an end and a screaming migraine tore
through his brain. His gut heaved violently, as much from disgust
as the potion poisoning him. Malcolm rolled to his side to vomit
until he’d nothing left to lose.

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 popping in with Flora in tow. The goblins gave up
leaving a constant guard on him long ago. No goblins showed up
now.