Beauty (A Faery Story 3)

He called to them, sending his message out to the quiet mass of dead. Ears long since past hearing listened, perking up, ghastly smiles forming on lipless faces. Lach felt them rising from their stone beds or clawing up from the ground.

And he heard the cries of the living who had the horrible fate of coming into contact with his army of dead.

The phooka scrambled down the tree, his long tail twitching, amber eyes enormous in the afternoon light. “You’ve been busy, Your Highness. It seems the dead walk again.”

“The dead fight again,” Lach corrected him.

“Whatever they’re doing, it’s working. Go quickly, Your Highnesses. Your princess is in a bad way. She’s surrounded by fire. The flames refuse to touch her, but I cannot say the same for the smoke. The battle is all around her. Hurry.”

Shim took off, sword i

n hand. Lach followed, his mind working in two directions—saving Bronwyn and keeping control of his creatures. He could feel them fighting, sent images of guards. Kill the guards. Leave everyone else.

They raced past buildings, small structures, the place markers of a small, poor village. Mud huts and thatched roofs surrounded them. Bron had lived here, was dying here, when she should have had two palaces to choose from.

All around him there were sounds of battle. Grunts and groans and the creaking of limbs as they moved, trying to protect hearts and heads and bellies from opponents’ swords. Screams could be heard over the clanging of metal against metal. Cries of terror. Pleas for the dead to go back to their graves.

Lach felt the heat from the fire before he could see it. He stopped in his tracks, his mind flying back to that day. He didn’t remember much except the heat and pain, and the deep need to save his brother from both.

He couldn’t go there. He forced his attention to the present. Even that one small lapse had cost him. His corpses had fallen to the ground. The guards who remained stood staring down as though utterly surprised by their victories.

Bron. Bron was in the middle of it all. He saw her for the first time. Her skin was pink from the heat, sweat coating her as she hung limply from the pole they had attached her to. Lach clutched his sword, his heart threatening to fail. Her black hair hung around her face, lips as red as any rose but just as unmoving. They were too late.

Shim elbowed a guard who seemed to realize that the dead were not the only opponents.

“Get back to yer houses.” The guard shoved at his brother, but before Shim had hit the dirt, the guard was on fire, his tunic going up like a torch.

Lach clutched the sword in his hand. It was mostly for decoration, though both he and Shim had received instruction. But now, as the world seemed to crash around him, instinct coursed through his body. His corpse warriors were reviving now that he had control of himself. He would kill them all. They had taken his princess, his mate, the only woman in the world who could bridge the halves of himself. They had murdered her and now they would pay.

Rage rose, adrenaline coursing through him. He sent it out, his corpses popping back up to the horror of the guards. Finally, finally Lachlan knew who he was. He was the warrior, never tested, never allowed to battle as was his right. Never allowed to slaughter his enemies.

“You, young sidhe. Take up that sword. Defend me,” said a sweaty man in clothing far too elegant for an agricultural town. “The witch has done this. We must kill the witch.”

Lach didn’t even think about it. He skewered the repugnant man, thrusting his sword deep into the man’s belly. He wore a broach with what appeared to be the village’s crest. The mayor, perhaps? It didn’t matter. He’d had a hand in Bronwyn’s death.

He could kill the whole village. Lach pulled his sword free as a large guard attacked. It was easy now that he gave in to his purest instincts. He’d fought for so long. He’d fought the death magic, and he’d fought this deep desire that formed the core truth of Lachlan McIver.

He was an animal, an instrument of pure death.

Lach let go. There was nothing but vengeance now. He would fight and fight until someone put him down. This plane had taken his Bronwyn, and it would run red with blood. He wouldn’t care who he killed as long as he continued to kill.

He moved his sword. Somewhere in the darkest recesses of his mind, he realized that his warriors were following him now. When he moved his sword, slicing through a guard’s neck, his warriors did the same, a grandly choreographed dance of death.

Something warm and rich smelling coated his hand. Blood. Sweet blood. His fangs were out, practically crying for a taste. Another part of himself buried. Lach felt something hit his back. An ache began but he ignored it. He reached around and tossed the man aside, his big body hitting the dirt. He was vulnerable, helpless, his throat wide open because his helm was gone. It would be so sweet to drain the guard dry, to drink him down until his legs stopped twitching, his blood strengthening Lachlan.

But he wouldn’t. This piece of him would remain buried no matter how insane he went. There would be no first blood for Lach. There would be no first woman. There would be no sex.

His soul’s mate was gone and with her all that would have been sweet. Now there would be only death and wasted blood and revenge.

Lach’s sword thrust again and again. Two guards and then three attacked, ignoring the corpses. Pain bloomed in his side, but he pushed it away. The savage joy of battle was all that mattered. They all fell to his sword and one to his bare hands. Oh, he enjoyed that one. He loved the cracking of bones and the splitting of skin.

He’d hidden it all because he’d feared his mate would think him a monster, but his mate was gone and the worlds could quake for all he cared now.

He felt drunk—on the death, on the blood, on the power. He was Lachlan McIver, King of the Dead.

“Well done, Your Highness.” The phooka sat on the thatched roof of a house directly in front of Lach. He could see eyes staring at him. Terrified villagers who hid behind their shutters and likely prayed he took no notice of them. “You killed them all. No more guards left to eviscerate. Are you planning to start on the farmers? When you kill them all, you can move on to the children.”

His sword trembled as his hands shook. The need to kill was an actual presence in his system. It flowed through him, warring with all other instincts. Lach could feel his corpse warriors standing behind him, waiting for his next command. Waiting for him to tell them who to kill next.