Scars of Silver (4 page)

Rand, the slimeball, usually brought around the
humans every day or two. Vampires no more than a couple times a
month. First time he’d seen the witch since she dropped off the
vile, cinnamon potion.

Flora’s lips parted as her gaze swept over Malcolm’s
naked form. He did nothing to cover himself. Just glared hatred at
the pair.

Rand sneered at Flora. “Getting an eyeful, Luv?”
Flora flinched away from him so Rand turned toward Malcolm. “Still
defiant, Sidhe? Even now you still think you’re better than us
lesser fey?”

“I am better’n you.” Malcolm’s voice was soft and
bone chilling. He didn’t know exactly what kind of fey Rand was,
other than the fact that he wasn’t Sidhe or goblin. For the
millionth time he wished his folks would have told him something,
anything, about the fey. About the Sidhe. About himself, even. So
he didn’t have to figure things out at the end of a whip.

Rand checked the empty potion bottle. “Good stuff,
this. Bet you never partied this hard in your life. No wonder you
are smug. All those humans putting out for you.” He put the empty
bottle down. “Job’s got a few perks, eh?”

Malcolm gnashed his teeth. Fists clenched. Even
contemplating the word “rape” clamped his throat solidly closed. No
matter what he did when drugged out of his skull, it wasn’t him. No
matter what he felt, it wasn’t real and it wasn’t “good” in any
stretch of the imagination. Fury that Rand would even speak of it,
would even pretend it was anything else, stole Malcolm’s voice.
Words abandoned him, trapping the rage within.

Rand crossed to the bars and crouched down close to
Malcolm. “You don’t need more of that shit, do you? You got that
Touch thing figured out now, haven’t you?”

Malcolm moved only his eyes, searching Rand’s face.
What was the fey bastard up to now? Plotting something.

Rand snatched Flora’s hand, jerking her down to kneel
beside him.

“Hey!”

He snatched her back against his chest and covered
her mouth. Clamping her wrist with bruising force, he jammed her
hand through the bars. Rand sneered. “Flora here sold you out, you
know. Do you know what for? Do you know what your price was?”

Flora struggled, screams muffled. Locks of her hair
escaped her chignon and feathered down beside her face. Malcolm
titled his head, considering her. She shook her head frantically,
eyes wide. Then Malcolm cut a hard glance at the guy. He raised his
wrists, showing him the silver shackles.

“Good point,” Rand chuckled. “Crap Head! You out
there?” As he leaned back to shout he shoved Flora against the
bars.

Malcolm pounced. He clawed two handfuls of Flora’s
hair.

Rand jerked her back. A good tangle ripped out in the
process. Malcolm brushed the strands from his fingers before the
goblins scuttled into the chamber.

“You’ll get your chance at her lad,” Rand jerked his
head toward the cage. “Let’s test the Sidhe. See if he’s figured
out the Touch or if we need more of the brew.”

The goblins spilled into the cell. For once Malcolm
didn’t resist them as they shoved and cajoled him out into the
chamber. They released the shackles, letting them clatter to the
stone floor. Malcolm examined his ruined wrists. More bone exposed
than last time. Bigger than his thumbprint on the right side. The
wounds gave off a hot, coppery stench. Slick and gnarled like raw
meat all the way around. How much longer before the silver burned
through the tendons and crippled his hands permanently?

The goblins ringed around the three of them,
chattering and eager, sensing impending violence. Rand restrained
Flora, preventing her escape despite her struggling, her hair a
mess. Malcolm opposite them, nude and glaring. Fists and teeth
clenched.

“Come on, Sidhe.” Rand chuckled, his voice cold and
mirthless. “You know you want your revenge on her.”

Flora kicked out at Malcolm, but missed. “No! Don’t
Touch me!”

Malcolm leveled a deadly stare at her. How could she,
who never showed mercy, expect mercy from him? From him, of all
people? Because of her everything was stolen from him. He had
nothing but pain and fury. All because of her. She’d seen him, a
homeless kid, dumb as a stump. Trusting. An easy victim. That kid
would never hurt her. That kid was gone now. Beaten to death long
ago.

“She sold you for the goods to make that brew you’ve
been downing. Cases of the stuff.” Rand gave her a jerk. “What do
you sell it for, eh? Five thousand a bottle?”

It was true. The terror in her eyes proved it.

Malcolm stalked forward. He reached for her face.

“No! No!” Next time she tried to kick Rand tilted
her, knocking her off balance, forcing her to keep both feet on the
floor.

“Yes. There’s a good Sidhe. Touch her. Curse
her.”

Malcolm cupped her cheek. The soft curve smooth in
his palm. Feminine and delicate.

“Do it,” Rand hissed. “Punish her!”

Malcolm inhaled, remembering the stir of magic from
the drug times. Recalling the inner bubbling feeling. The warmth.
The surge. As he exhaled, he felt the flow breathe out of him.

In a disgusting way it was like Touching a corpse.
Like there was no life within her. The flow spread deeper, like
acid eating away at her resistance. Malcolm could see it glowing
translucently beneath her skin. Could feel his essence moving
through her body. Saturating her. Filling her with light and life.
Something she’d been void of. Something all humans lacked.

The Touch seeped into Flora’s face. She gasped. Eyes
widened with fear and then hazed over. Flora moaned, grinding back
against Rand as he restrained her. She shuddered a little cry, the
pleasure peaking for her. Her legs wobbled and she crumbled. Rand
let Flora fall, leaving her to quiver on the floor.

Malcolm’s hands shot out, closing around Rand’s
throat. He shoved the Touch hard into him, hoping it tore his
insides to shreds like it had Flora. Only Touching Rand was nothing
like Touching Flora. He wasn’t empty inside. The magic flow merged
with him harmlessly. Melded with him.

As best he could with the fingers squeezing on the
soft hollow of his throat, Rand wheezed, “That’s the stuff.” Then
his fingernails hooked into the raw flesh on Malcolm’s wrists. The
pain tore through Malcolm. A scream escaped through his locked jaw.
As Malcolm’s grip faltered and the agony drove him to his knees,
Rand laughed, “Thanks, Mate. Appreciate it. Top shelf magic every
time. Gotta love that about the Sidhe and their lucrative Touch. I
need to start charging more for you.”

The goblins dragged Malcolm back. He curled his
wounded wrists into his chest, not sure if it was just the shock of
pain or true damage that made it impossible to move his
fingers.

“No more silver,” Malcolm jerked away from the horrid
shackles. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to me?”

The goblins ignored his protests. They overwhelmed
him with the strength of their numbers as they always did, clamping
the shackles on him and returning him to his cell.

Rand crossed to the bars and stared down at Malcolm.
“Getting cheeky. Better bring the vamps more often. Keep him
drained. Take the fight out of him.”

Malcolm glared at Rand.

Apparently, Rand didn’t give a shite how much hate
Malcolm leveled at him. He jerked Flora to her feet, then the two
of them vanished. The goblins wondered off, since Malcolm just lay
where they dumped him.

Even after he was alone for a while, he waited.
Listening. Watching.

Malcolm flexed his fingers. Pain lanced through them.
It murdered him, but he could still use his hands.

His future as a drummer in a rock band was not
completely crushed just yet, he snorted to himself.

Then he crawled back over to the wall where he’d sat
before.

To where the hair he’d ripped out of Flora’s head was
discarded.

He fingered through it. A slow smile tugged at his
lips as he raised what he’d hoped he’d find.

A bobby pin.

The band played another thumping song that rocked the
Glamour Club. Fey of multiple races undulated to the music as if
bespelled by it. Casually sexual, a few of the couples did the
grind with suspicious intensity. It bothered no one. Fairy lights
flickered in a strobe of color. Occasional flares of magic added to
the festive atmosphere that failed to reach him.

Donovan sipped his brandy as he watched the dancers
enjoying themselves in ‘the pit’ on the dance floor three steps
down from the main floor. Hardly a table or booth on the main floor
lacked for patrons. Even the bar propped up more guests than it had
stools. And every one of them fey. Donovan had the perfect seat to
survey his domain from his perpetually reserved table.

The other three easy chairs around the low chat table
were occupied, but he only half listened to the conversation. To
his left, Kieran cuddled an elf maiden in a leather miniskirt. The
young Unseelie ran his fingers idly up and down the girl’s bare
thigh, but his distracted expression was not because of his company
for the evening. Donovan could tell from the way Kieran’s eyes
flicked to the side that he was catching and filtering snippets of
conversations.

The other Unseelie Sidhe across from him laughed and
compared progress with magic training. Apparently, Bryce managed to
set the heavy punching bag on fire for the third time that week. No
wonder the humans locked him up for suspected arson. Once he
mastered his power the lad had serious potential.

“Tiernan’s looking for you,” Kieran murmured. He
leaned forward dislodging the girl off his lap. Not easily
deterred, the elf perched on the padded arm of the chair and played
with Kieran’s hair. “Says he’s here for the meeting.”

Donovan glanced toward the entrance where Tiernan
Kilgrave spoke to one of the troll bouncers. Kieran, with his
talent for sound, easily picked up on the hushed conversation. Once
the troll headed the Sidhe in the right direction, Tiernan
swaggered over with his lazily confident style and his usual smirk
of self-satisfaction. One thing could be said for him, he embraced
his Unseelie nature with as much vigor as he embraced life on the
surface. Those pale eyes never acknowledged the other fey around
them, just focused on Donovan with all seriousness. Although
outwardly laidback, Tiernan hadn’t established himself in his
amoral endeavors and criminal empire by slacking. Once Tiernan
reached the table Donovan set aside his drink.

The younger Sidhe abandoned their conversation and
openly watched Donovan and Tiernan, hungry to learn what their
parents failed to teach them. Whatever they hoped to glean would
have to wait as Donovan and Tiernan slipped into the back hallway,
away from the noise and heat of the club. The others already waited
in the War Room for the Sidhe to join them. Donovan knew each of
these lesser fey from before the Collapse, as the key informants
for the Unseelie Court. The Courts were gone now, leaving Donovan
as the only person capable of pulling the fey back from the brink
of extinction.

“Report,” Donovan leaned over the large table and
slid a list of names closer to him; all of the unaccounted for
earthborn Sidhe. Tiernan, as the only other Sidhe present, claimed
the position at Donovan’s right, acting as his Second. The other
five fey circled in close. Small notes with a word or two scribbled
on them dotted a map of the British Isles spread on the table.

The Brownie spoke first. “Brendan is dead.” He
plucked the note with the young man’s last known location from the
map. “Vampires, like we feared.”

“As is Rico,” the wood elf added with regret. She
lifted the note from the map and laid it face down. “Wizards. And
Changelings.”

A collective silence reflected on the significance of
any fey collaborating with wizards. Donovan broke it. “And Malcolm?
Any new leads?”

“Still nothing,” the dwarf reported. “Not since
Galway.” He toyed with the note tab, considering pulling it off the
map. “No sign in almost a year.”

“Leave it,” Donovan ordered, unwilling to write off
anyone, no matter how likely it was that they were already dead.
Not without confirmation. “And the others?” Less than a handful of
names remain on the map. Three rows of notes, each like a tombstone
for the deceased Sidhe named on it, lined the far side of the
table. Another dozen names graced the list before Donovan, but they
had not even had the first hint of life on those. He refused to
believe this was all that remained of the Sidhe, although that
unspoken fear hovered over the War Room like a Banshee he would not
allow to sing.

“I have a lead,” Tiernan admitted, with a glaring
lack of enthusiasm.

“Go on.”

“You know the nest of goblins in Wyndracer’s
territory?” Just the mention of the word “goblin” elicited a hiss
from the lesser fey, but Tiernan waited for Donovan to nod his
acknowledgment before adding, “The skinny is that they are working
for a Sidhe.”

“Goblins working for a Sidhe?” The disgust
practically dripped from his question. “After the two thousand year
war between the Sidhe and goblins? Your informant must be mistaken.
I can’t even image any race of elf tolerating the goblins for five
minutes, much less a Sidhe.” Goblins and Sidhe had a mutual
unwritten agreement to kill each other on sight. The vermin fey
bred so bloody fast, the Sidhe could never eradicate them. And the
Sidhe possessed too much power and magic for the goblins to overrun
them, despite frequent attempts. And the goblins never learned.
Never found the massive loss of their number in the endless raids a
reason to stop attacking. They’d just breed more. Invade more. And
die more. Goblins were too stupid and too vicious to ever stop.

Tiernan shrugged, “Can’t imagine how the Sidhe and
the goblins have kept from killing each other, but that’s the
rumor. Some bollocks keen on the Touch. Got a Changeling running
for him, bringing in marks.”