Soulbound (Darkest London 6)

“Silence, is it?” she intoned brightly. “No pithy replies?”

“Perhaps you ought to tell me what I should say.” He shrugged his aching shoulders. “Write a script for me to read.”

The smack across his face was so quick and hard that his head rattled against the wall. It took all his control not to snarl at her, to try to rip free from his bonds. A useless endeavor at any rate. And she watched him, her eyes alight, as if waiting to devour his anger. Her rapt expression crystallized to icy disdain when he did nothing.

“What do you want of me?” he asked. “Truly? Are you not tired of this game you play?”

Her little fangs flashed, black and needle sharp. “To beg.”

He sighed, letting his head rest against his arm. “I will no’. Best you kill me now, fae.”

For a clean, bright moment, he thought she might, as her arm raised and black claws sprung from the tips of her fingers. One good and true swipe and his head would topple. Some wounds even an enchanted man did not come back from. But she collected her wits and took a visible breath.

“Too easy, Aodh. By far.” Mab’s lips lifted in a cruel smile. “There is another way to earn your freedom.” Her tone and the bitter twist of her lips spoke of reluctance. “Return what you stole from my people.”

Ah, yes, Adam’s stolen artifacts. It always came back to that. When he’d been a knight, charged with collecting heathen artifacts for the Church, he certainly did not view his quest as theft. Now, he simply had no desire to give Mab what she wanted. He smiled, with teeth. “I did not offer them up when you first threatened to curse me. What makes you believe I shall now?”

Her red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Why would you not? You prefer to live this way? Prefer being a dog on a leash?”

Adam merely raised a brow and stared back at her.

Mab sniffed. “Fine. Have it your way. This shall hurt you far worse than it hurts me.”

The bitch actually believed she was amusing.

Smiling, Mab strolled across the cellar and picked up a hammer. Adam eyed the thing, sick dread spreading through his gut.

“Tell me” – she hefted the hammer’s weight, testing it with a light smack against her palm – “where is the Horn an Bás?”

Surprise hit Adam. The Golden Horn an Bás, the horn of death. It was said that to hear its notes was to be instantly struck down. No being of this earth or of the fae could fight its power. Death to immortals.

Adam nearly laughed. He bloody well wouldn’t be hanging like a side of beef on a hook if he had the horn. But it wouldn’t go well for him at all were he to admit that. Then again, it wouldn’t go well for him either way, so he was bolloxed.

Best to irritate the bitch and let her vent her frustration until she tired. So Adam grinned with teeth. “Nuair a thiocas an bás ní imeoidh sé folamh.” When death comes he won’t leave empty. The Irish had used that proverb in regard to him at one time. He’d relished it. Now, he gloried in the frustration and rage gathering over Mab’s too pretty countenance.

“Lest you want an bás to come for you now,” Mab said lightly, “you’ll tell me where it is.”

“Best you go fuck a goat.”

And that ended the conversation. Mab’s narrow boot heel stomped down upon his gut. Absently, Adam watched the crescent-shaped bruise bloom, growing darker as blood seeped below the surface of his skin. Adam did not know where the horn was. But that triviality was not going to stop him. If the fae wanted it that badly, he was going to get it. Somehow.

Chapter Three

Eliza had returned. Adam could scent her drawing closer, feel her vibrancy light up the pitiless grave they’d left him in. He kept his eyes closed and remained still, barely daring to breathe. It hurt to breathe at any rate. Perhaps she’d see him sleeping and leave. It would be better that way.

The rustle of her skirts and the scent of luscious pears surrounded him, his senses stronger now as he was a dog. The ruff along the back of his neck lifted, his skin prickling beneath the fur. The urge grew worse as she knelt down next to him and the silk of her gown settled over his hind quarters.

“Lord above but you look worse for wear.” A soft, tender hand settled upon his hip bone, and he whimpered. Damn dog reaction.

A massive shiver scattered agonized shards of pain throughout him as he dissolved and then reformed as a man. It took a moment for his vision to clear, to focus in on the perfect oval of her face. Concern pulled the gentle arches of her brows together, and the pink curves of her lips puckered into a small pout. He wanted to lick, suck, and bite those lips, feast on them as if they were sweetmeats. He also wanted to shove her bodily out of his cell and out of his sight.

He settled for remaining as he was, sprawled upon the ground, his arms wrenched high overhead by the chains that bound him. Her hand had not strayed from his hip, and while it was one thing for her to touch him there when he was a dog, it was quite another to feel her palm resting upon his bare skin. The muscles along his lower abdomen tensed, a sweet-sharp pain. With a lazy air he knew would irritate her, he glanced down at her hand.

“Planning on moving that hand lower, sweets?” He allowed himself a leering grin. “There is one part of me uninjured. Yet I can assure you it aches all the same.”

As expected, she snatched her hand away. He ought to rejoice but missed the touch too much.

She let out a little huff. “You really are the most mercurial demon —”