Prince of Air and Darkness (The Darkest Court)

Which means he now knows the oath to become the Winter Knight. And when my mother realizes that I’m not back in the sídhe and she’s able to send people out to find me, she’ll go to the apartment first. She’ll interrogate Smith and learn that he could take on the mantle. She’ll promise him they?

?ll find me and, eternal optimist that he is, he’ll take the oath because he thinks he’ll be able to use her power to rescue me. They’ll find my lifeless body after it’s too late for Smith to get out of the deal. He’ll be trapped in the Unseelie Court for the rest of his life, and everything I’ve done to protect him will be undone because I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I had to have one last night with him.

One of my kidnappers stops my train of thought by kicking the leg of my chair. I clench my jaw when the chains resettle. Most fall back on the already raw flesh, but a few links find new places to land, sending delicate spears of pain through me.

Their clinking echoes through the space around us. We’re in some decrepit industrial site, filled with rusted machinery and disgusting floors. The wooden chair I’m bound to is in the center of the room, the only illumination provided by a single, flickering bulb.

My captors’ ringleader wears a ski mask, even though I can tell from the bumps and ridges underneath that he’s not human. Probably not Seelie, either, come to think of it. Which only leaves me with my own people or the Sluagh.

He kicks my chair again out of some kind of dumb amusement and glances over at another of his cronies. “Think it’s been long enough?”

His partner shakes his head. “At least a day, he said.”

A day? I’ll be dead by then. And who is the he? Their boss?

As if he knew what I was thinking, the second adds, “Promised he’d survive it.”

The first shrugs, as if he doesn’t quite believe it himself, but can’t be bothered with such a trivial doubt. “A little more fun then.”

I know what that means. I tilt my head back so it can rest against the chair. The backhanded slap rocks my head from side to side, but I manage to stay more relaxed this time. It doesn’t jar down my neck like the last one did. It’s not the leather-gloved hit that hurts; it’s the iron knuckles.

I turn my head and spit on the floor. Thank the Goddess I’m wearing black. It helps hide some of the blood at least.

“Think it’s odd that he hasn’t screamed yet?” the third asks from somewhere in the shadows. He was our driver and he doesn’t seem as comfortable with all of this as his friends. If I had more time, I would pick him to turn to my plight.

“This is Prince Lyne,” the first scoffs. “Haven’t you heard about him? Carved from ice, they say.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I let the blood and spit continue to pool in my mouth so I have to turn my head fewer times when I spit. These idiots may be strong, but they don’t know the first thing about real torture. They’ll never break me. But unless I can get a moment alone and find a way to get some of this iron off my skin, they’ll be the slow death of me regardless.

My lead tormentor frowns when I don’t respond to his jibe. He leans down. The mask may hide his mouth, but I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s leering at me.

“I don’t believe it,” he croons, wiping a finger down my burned and bloodied chest. “That man running after us didn’t look frostbit at all. Wonder if we could find him. I bet bringing him here to play with would get His Highness to scream a little.”

He’s lucky my glamour still hasn’t recovered. He’s lucky I’m bound with iron. He’s lucky he’s standing just a few inches too far away, enough that I can’t lunge forward and rip out his throat with my teeth.

I spit in his face instead. He roars and rears back, swiping at his eyes.

I’m braced for another slap, even another punch. I’m not prepared for the club that comes down on the back of my head a second time. The world shudders and goes black.

* * *

This isn’t real. I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this play out. Yet, this moment has defined me for so long. Of course, I’d return to it as the end creeps nearer. After all, pain is relative.

The air freezing in my lungs hurts. The moisture crystalizes, cuts, and I’m sure if I started coughing, there’d be some blood. But that doesn’t matter.

“What have you done?”

I ignore my mother and stare at the closed wall of the sídhe. I don’t think he’ll bleed out before the satyr gets home. Goddess, please don’t let him die—

“Roark Tahm Lyne.” Every syllable cracks with power, with ice, with fury.

I left Smith lying there on the floor of our living room, blood from his wounds seeping down between the cracks of the hardwood. I couldn’t close them with my hands. Tried in the torture chamber. Tried in the apartment.

Damned my Unseelie blood with every failure. I can’t offer life. I can only take it.

The slices across his chest—their delicacy, the varying degrees of pressure, the artistic flourishes—are all so familiar that my stomach roils. Mother’s handiwork.

The bruises on his wrists from the manacles were my brother’s addition. Sláine already paid for that. The herbs he was using on Smith allowed me to treat his facial wound so it would scar, leaving him a permanent reminder of his transgression.