I sucked in a breath. I’d seen one do this before—test the light. I’d not stuck around long enough to learn the outcome of its test. I muttered a fervent prayer it had gotten an F. My flashlights were scattered across the floor. Two were shining on me, flanking me, left and right. I was far enough between them that the combined pool of light narrowly bathed my entire body, but if I were to crawl toward either one, the beam would dwindle the closer I got, leaving large parts of me in darkness. It was a risk I couldn’t take with this abnormally aggressive, gigantic Shade crouching over me.
As I huddled there, it snaked inky tendrils of itself forward, one toward my hair haloed weakly in light, the other at my fingers splayed in a pale pool on the floor.
I yanked my hand back, fumbled the matches from my pocket, and struck one. The pungent smell of sulfur soaked the damp air.
The tendrils retreated.
Though it’s tough to tell with something that has no face, I swear it studied me, seeking my weaknesses. The match was burning down between us. I dropped it to the floor and lit another. There was no way I could strip off my jacket to set it on fire without my arms and part of my torso protruding into the dangerous darkness. Likewise, the ottoman over which I’d fallen was too far behind me to be of use.
But…the priceless Persian rug beneath me was starting to smolder. I exhaled a gentle puff on the glowing embers of the dropped match. It went out.
If Shades snicker, this one did. It expanded and contracted, and I swear I felt its mockery. I really hope I’m wrong. I really hope they aren’t capable of complex thought.
“It would seem you are in need of assistance, sidhe-seer.” A musical baritone drifted through the window, otherworldly, sensuous, and punctuated by a forbidding growl of thunder.
Chapter 3
Still no knight errant.
It was V’lane. And here I’d been thinking things couldn’t get any worse.
Not a knight, but a Prince. Of the Seelie or Light Court, if anything he says can be believed. And hardly errant, V’lane is a death-by-sex-Fae. They don’t wander in search of adventure and romance, they incite killing ardor.
I glanced down at myself to see if I still had my clothes on. I was relieved to find I did. Fae royalty exude such intense sexuality that they override every survival instinct we have, clouding a woman’s mind, provoking her erotic senses beyond anything she was meant to experience, turning her into an inhumanly aroused animal, begging for sexual release. The first thing a woman does when one shows up is start stripping.
In a romance novelist’s hands, that might come off as hot, campy, even sexy. In reality, it’s icy, terrifying, and most often ends in death. If the woman is left alive, she’s Pri-ya, barely able to function, a Fae sex-addict.
I glanced back at the Shade and hastily lit another match. If anything, it was watching me even more intently now.
“So, assist me already,” I snapped.
“Does that mean you accept my gift?”
During our first encounter several weeks ago, V’lane had offered me a mystical relic known as the Cuff of Cruce, a gesture of goodwill, he’d claimed, in exchange for my help finding the Sinsar Dubh for his ruler, Aoibheal, High Queen of the Seelie Court. According to him, the cuff protects the wearer from assorted nasties, including the Shades.
According to my intractable host and mentor, with a Fae, Light or Dark, there’s always a catch, and they don’t believe in full disclosure. In fact, they don’t believe in disclosure at all. Would we disclose our intentions to a horse before we rode it, or a cow before we ate it?
Perhaps the cuff would save me. Perhaps it would enslave me.
Perhaps it would kill me.
During our last encounter, V’lane tried to rape me in the middle of a public place—not that being raped in a private place would have been any better, just that, adding insult to injury, I’d regained control of myself only to discover I was nearly naked in the middle of a crowd of voyeuristic jerks. It was a hurtful, hateful memory. I’d been racking up a lot of them lately.
Mom raised me better, I want that noted for posterity’s sake: Rainey Lane is a fine, upstanding woman.
I told V’lane exuberantly and in vivid detail what I was going to do to him at the earliest opportunity, and exactly where I was going to shove my Fae-killing spear—razor-sharp tip first—when I was done. I sprinkled the expletives with colorful adjectives. I might not be much of a cusser, but a bartender gets an education whether she wants one or not.
I had fourteen matches left. I struck another.
Framed in the window beyond the Shade, V’lane rose, skin of shimmering gold, eyes of liquid amber, inhumanly beautiful against the backdrop of velvety night. I think he was floating in the air. He tossed his hair, a gilded waterfall glinting with metallic sparks, cascading over a male body of such sensual perfection, such hedonistic temptation that I had no doubt Satan had laughed on the day of his creation—and sounded pretty much like V’lane did now. When his laughter subsided he murmured, “And you were such a sweet thing when you got here.”
“How do you know what I was like when I got here?” I demanded. “How long have you been watching me?”
The Fae prince raised a brow but said nothing.
I raised a brow back. He was Pan, Bacchus, and Lucifer, painted a thousand shades of to-die-for. Literally. “Why don’t you come in?” I asked sweetly. I had a suspicion I wanted to test.
V’lane’s mouth tightened and it was my turn to laugh.
Barrons was amazing. “You can’t get past the wards, can you? Is that why I’m not naked?” I dropped the match just as it began to burn my fingers and lit another one. “Do the wards somehow diminish your pow—”
I didn’t even get to finish my sentence. A forest fire of debilitating sexual need blasted me—i’mhungrystarvingdyingwithoutyoupleasewon’tyoupleasewon’tyougivemewhatineed—scorching the air in my lungs, flash-frying my brain, and charring my backbone.
I collapsed to the floor, human ashes.
As suddenly and unexpectedly as the sexual inferno had razed every cell in my body, it was gone, leaving me cold and, for brief moments, in agonizing pain, ravenous for delights that could only be sampled by eating from a banquet table at which humans were never meant to sit. Forbidden fruit. Poisonous fruit. Fruit a woman might sell her soul for. Perhaps even betray mankind.
“Careful, sidhe-seer. I have chosen to spare you. Do not press your luck.”
I locked my jaw, pushed myself up, and lit another match, studying my enemies in the flickering light. Both would devour me. Just in different ways. If forced to choose, I’d take death-by-Shade.
“Why have you chosen to spare me?”
“I want us to be…what is your word? Friends.”
“Psychotic rapists don’t have friends.”
“I was unaware you were a psychotic rapist or I would not have offered.”
“Ha.” I’d set myself up for that one.
He smiled, and I recognized the urge I suddenly felt to believe everything was wonderful with my world for the illusion it was. Royal Fae pack a psychic punch. Barrons says their entire being is designed to seduce on every level. Glamour piled upon illusion heaped upon deceit. You can’t believe a word they say.
“I am unaccustomed to interacting with humans, and have been known to underestimate my impact upon them. I did not understand how deeply the Sidhba-jai would disturb you. I wish to start again,” he said.