Close Quarter Page 6

  Jarek lifted Rhys and laid him out on the table, the cold open-weave metal scraped against Rhys’s bare back, an almost pleasant touch compared to what had come before.

  The respite didn’t last. Radmila hovered in his vision, teeth fully bared. She drew a claw down his cheek, a parody of a lover’s caress. The wound stung as if sand had been rubbed into it. The sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nose. He tasted the tang in his mouth.

  Then the vampires tore into his body. Ice sliced through his legs. Fire pulsed up in waves. He felt the tug and rip of his flesh and the acid burn after, when sea spray covered them. Teeth pierced Rhys’s chest like glass daggers. Radmila’s hair fell against the ruin of his face and shoulder. The fine strands slithered like maggots, then buried into his flesh. Rhys’s nerves screamed and seemed to rip out of his body. A buzzing filled his ears, and lightning flashed over his vision. But he didn’t—couldn’t—pass out. Something close to a wail finally escaped his lips.

  Rhys shouted a single name over and over in his head.

  Silas!

  Chapter Six

  Twice while Silas limped toward the garden, he nearly lost his glamour. Both times he propped himself up against the closest wall and reached through the ship for any traces of green life. Potted plants. Algae. Anything from which he could draw his element.

  There was so very little. Frustrating and infuriating. He should sense the garden, be able to draw on it, but it was hidden from him.

  One slow step at a time, he descended the metal stairs to the deck that contained the garden. The elevators were too public to attempt, not when he had trouble wrapping a glamour around his bleeding and broken form.

  The ship itself shouldn’t be the reason the garden remained distant. Metal wasn’t useful to Silas, but it didn’t affect him more than any other nonliving material did. While it wasn’t easy to do, he’d drawn power from the green while in the middle of skyscrapers, surrounded by concrete, iron, and steel. A ship should be no different. He certainly could—and did—draw on those tiny sparks of element he did manage to find.

  Whatever protected the garden must have been placed there to hamper him. Fear crept into Silas. The soulless knew his name. They’d been waiting for him. Knew his weaknesses.

  How? He’d destroyed all the soulless he’d ever met, save for a handful very early in his life.

  Silas reached out to steady himself against the stairwell wall. One more deck. He pushed off, gripped the railing, and tried not to fall down the stairs.

  It was a near thing. His leg, the one the soulless had bitten, was numb from the knee down.

  So he wasn’t just the hunter but prey as well. This didn’t bode well, but he’d deal with that tomorrow.

  Once in the garden, Silas dragged himself to the farthest corner from the bar, crawled up into the plant beds, and collapsed among the ferns. Here was the life he needed. He drew on it as hard as he could without killing the plants around him, then set about dispelling the poison the soulless had sent into his body. That was the hardest bit. The cuts, the bites, and claw wounds were wounds of the flesh. Some bone and cartilage, like his nose, but all issues of sculpting matter.

  Poison—at least for fae—was entirely different. What flooded his body was the absence of life.

  He’d been touched by decay, the rot of the endless death.

  Silas wrapped the spirit of the garden around the corrosion inside himself and vomited noiselessly onto the mulched bed.

  Ah, the beautiful life of a fae. If Rhys could see him now.

  He crawled a few feet away from the mess, sank to the ground, and closed his eyes.

  Silas!

  The plea—the scream—ripped through his soul.

  He was on his feet and running toward the bar before his thoughts caught up. He’d already pulled his sword from the Aether, wrapped himself in glamour, and killed two palm trees for their energy.

  They had Rhys. There was no other agony quite like that of the soulless feeding. Silas knew it too well, felt it in the incoherent screams that sliced through his mind.

  If the creatures had set a trap for him in the garden and then found Rhys…

  The bar was quiet but held quite a number of people coupled off into nooks and tables. No Rhys. No soulless.

  One face he recognized, though.

  Silas stopped in front of the bar. “Vasil, where’s Rhys?”

  The waiter started and stared at him. “Mr. Quint?” His look turned vacant. “I…haven’t seen Mr. Matherton.”

  Silas swore under his breath. So they’d touched Vasil too. Not fed, but influenced his mind. One remedy.

  Silas clamped his hand down on Vasil’s wrist and pressed against the man’s mind with his own.

  “Vasil.”

  The waiter gasped and tried to pull away. Silas had some idea what Vasil saw—for he now saw true—a bloodied fae with a silver sword, half-wild with someone else’s pain. There was no time for explanations, however. He repeated the question. “Where is Rhys?”

  Vasil’s attention slid toward a small grouping of chairs by a bookshelf. “He’s…”

  But he wasn’t. Three martini glasses, but no Rhys.

  “Where?” He liked the waiter well enough, but gods, he would rip the thoughts from the man’s mind if he had to.

  There was no need. “They took him,” Vasil said. “Outside.” He took a deep breath and spoke a word in his mother tongue. “Upyr.”

  Vampire. “Yes,” Silas said.

  Vasil looked back. “Leshii?”

  Slavic woodland spirits. Close enough. He nodded. “Though I was born much farther south.” He let go of Vasil’s wrist and walked to the doors leading to the deck.

  Once outside, Silas made his way up the starboard side of the ship. Rhys’s screams had quieted, but the pain hadn’t. Halfway down, tucked into the darkness of both the night and the veil of the soulless, a body lay spread out on a table—Rhys. Two soulless fed from him.

  Silas knew only fury as he burst into a run.

  The closest was female, its back to Silas and it never saw him coming. The other soulless did. It raised a bloody maw from Rhys’s chest and hissed a warning.

  Too late.

  Silas brandished his sword and sent the female’s head flying. It burst into a trail of flame and ash and the body slumped to the deck, burning to dust. Another young one.

  The male stepped away from Rhys’s body. “Quintus Silvanus.”

  So. This one knew his name as well. Silas kept silent and stepped closer to Rhys. He was alive—that much Silas knew—but in pain. He didn’t let himself look at the extent—or type—of Rhys’s wounds.

  The male wiped blood from his mouth, then spoke. “You’ve not fared well tonight.” Rich voice, full of amusement. “Your masters will not be pleased.”

  This one was older. Cautious. “Two of your kind are ash.” He kicked at the pile that had been the female, sending what was left of the soulless swirling into the night air. “You soon will be, too. I think they’ll be pleased enough.”

  “So confident for one so—” The soulless lunged, faster than Silas expected.

  He parried, but the creature caught the blade with one clawed hand while raking the other down Silas’s chest. The jacket caught some of the blow, but not all. This one’s claws cut like razors, parting Silas’s flesh with a cool touch. Then came the sharp fire of nerves fraying and flesh tearing. Poison burned in his blood again. Silas bit back a scream when all his other wounds flared to life.

  The soulless clutched the blade and bared its teeth. Only a faint smell of burning came from where the metal touched its flesh.

  Silas shoved the creature away and then stabbed after him. Every move kept Silas between the soulless and Rhys.

  That hadn’t gone unnoticed. “Protecting your prey, Silvanus? Don’t want another tasting what you’ve laid claim to?” The soulless stepped out of range and licked the wound on its hand. “He’s awake, you know.”

  Again Silas chos
e silence. He didn’t recognize this one, nor the female. They were from Eastern Europe—perhaps Hungary. Silas had hunted there before. But those he hunted, he’d destroyed. Few soulless knew his old name, let alone the new.

  Unease settled into his bones.

  “You didn’t tell him what he was, did you? Just took him.”

  The soulless circled. If Silas didn’t step away from Rhys, he’d be pushed into a corner.

  “Anaxandros will be pleased to see how much you learned from his hand.”

  With those words, two thousand years fell away and wrath exploded in Silas.

  The soulless had been expecting the wild attack, of course. The rational part of Silas’s mind screamed at him to stop, to control his anger.

  Too late.

  Once more, the soulless caught Silas’s blade. This time it wrenched the sword sideways and punched Silas in the chest. Air rushed out of his lungs, and something—a rib or two, probably—snapped inside. The stabbing that radiated out swept nausea through Silas. Dizzy and breathless, he staggered back against the table and clutched his midriff with his free hand.

  He had enough presence of mind to push the gladius back into the Aether. If he dropped it, he couldn’t call it to himself. That would mean a mad scramble to regain it from the deck.

  Good thing too. The soulless slammed a fist into him again. The pain in his chest turned into a lance of molten fire and robbed him of the ability to think. He toppled onto Rhys.

  Energy flew from Silas unbidden, sucked into Rhys and returned laced with fire and death. Silas gasped for air and tried to pry himself free from the quarter-fae. Failed.

  Beneath him, Rhys moaned and thrashed.

  It was the soulless who broke their contact. It picked Silas up and hurled him against the ship’s railing. The blow sent fire up his spine. Agony burst into Silas’s skull, and sparks danced in his vision before he crumpled to the deck. His lungs burned with every breath.

  The soulless wouldn’t be able to resist taking him. Once the creature bit he’d perhaps a moment before it drained him to unconsciousness. One chance left.

  “The master said you were soft.” The soulless hauled Silas to his feet. “Nothing but a slave. How is it that you have survived so long?” Teeth plunged into flesh.

  This one’s bite was far worse than the young soulless. It seared through his heart, ripped through nerves like the barbed tongues of a whip. The creature drew on every last spark of energy Silas held, down to the one that kept his soul attached to his body. But he’d been here before with a much older vampire.

  Anaxandros.

  Silas reached through the miasma of pain and called the gladius back to his hand. He plunged it straight though the soulless, where its heart would have been, had it had one.

  “By not being afraid to die,” Silas said.

  Fire flickered behind the soulless’s eyes. “Imposs—” And then it burst into flame.

  The heat scorched Silas too and sent him stumbling back against the railing. This time he did drop the sword. It clattered to the deck amid a flurry of ash and smoke.

  Silas slid down to the wood planks, utterly spent. There would be no glamour. No healing. He might live, if he could make it back to the garden. The gentle fall of the sea spray against his wounds made every inch of his body pulse with torment.

  Five more soulless to kill. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  And Anaxandros was their master. Merciful gods!

  Only Silas’s gods weren’t. Had never been, not to him. The Messengers? Righteousness was not mercy.

  On the table, Rhys stirred. Cursed. Stood.

  Silas made out only the silhouette of his form, backlit by the faint light from the ship. Rhys stumbled once but steadied. “Silas?”

  He wanted to crawl away, but he couldn’t move. He was, he realized, dying. Slowly, but yes. The poison had taken root. No escape. Fortuna had finally caught him.

  Took her long enough.

  Rhys called his name a second time.

  “Here.” It came out like crushed leaves in autumn. All dust and pieces.

  Rhys stumbled toward him and caught himself against the railing. “Oh my God. You’re—” He reached out.

  Silas tried to pull away. “No!”

  Too late again. Rhys’s fingers brushed against the side of his face, and they both screamed.

  All the elemental energy Rhys still held within him, Silas took. He couldn’t stop the desperate act of his body. The flow also carried with it Rhys’s torment and fear, scalding Silas’s nerves and soul.

  When it was over, Silas could move again. Rhys, however, had fallen—dead weight against Silas’s legs.

  Not truly dead, though. Rhys still breathed. But for how long?

  Silas extracted himself from beneath Rhys, bent to take a pulse, but hesitated. He still wanted—desired—more energy. The poison of the soulless still lurked within him. What would happen when he touched Rhys again?

  Well, he couldn’t leave him here. Silas closed his mind, his emotions as best he could and laid two fingers against Rhys’s throat. A pulse—quick but regular. Also a tiny trickle of energy.

  Rhys’s breathing turned to gasping; his pulse fluttered too fast. Silas snatched his hand away.

  Gods, he couldn’t control himself. The soulless was right—there was very little difference between him and them.

  Silas crawled down the deck and reclaimed his sword, then sheathed it back into the Aether. He clutched the railing and, after a few attempts, managed to pull himself up.

  He couldn’t leave Rhys here, not naked and bloodied—misused by the soulless. Nor could he pick Rhys up, not without violating him anew, stealing the last bits of energy he had.

  How far was the garden? He looked down the deck, judged distance, his own strength.

  Damn all the gods. Silas bent, picked Rhys up, and fought not to drop the unconscious man. Pulses like stabbing knives cut through Silas’s chest. Silas staggered to the garden as fast as he could manage. As the doors slid open, he reached for the garden’s energy and wrapped a glamour about Rhys and himself.

  There were fewer patrons in the bar, and those who remained were too intent on each other to notice anything more than a weary man walking in from the deck.

  Silas threaded down a side path and laid Rhys down on a bench. He stepped away and forced himself to draw from the nearest plants, not from Rhys.

  That was a struggle. Even with all the energy about him, he still wanted to take it from—and through—Rhys.

  Silas rubbed at his forehead. What had the tales said about Quarters? Endless energy. Wars for control. Fae dying when their Quarter was killed. Or was it the other way around?

  Silas’s fingers shook. Oh, the gods truly were not merciful at all. He tucked his hands under his arms.

  Bonded.

  He truly had taken Rhys—as the soulless had said—without any thought and without any regard to Rhys’s will. Silas doubled over and bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming.

  Monster. Evil.

  Silas called the gladius back to his hand and inverted it.

  Rhys moaned and whispered Silas’s name.

  If he killed himself, what would become of Rhys? Would he live? Die? Be claimed by another?

  Silas pointed the sword at the floor. Now that would be utterly unfair, to condemn another to death for his mistake.

  No. He sheathed the sword.

  There had to be some way out of this. Some way to give Rhys his freedom back.

  When Rhys woke, he wished he hadn’t. The light in the room—even with the blinds drawn—made his head hurt like he’d spent the night inside a bottle of whiskey.

  Where the fuck was he, anyway? Vienna? Amsterdam?

  He sat up. No. On a ship, heading to New York. Only this vast room—with too many windows, a balcony, and more space than his first apartment—wasn’t his cabin.

  What the hell?

  Then the memories came. Radmila’s perfect lips. J
arek’s jagged teeth. A shudder ran through his body. They had eaten him—his flesh and blood. His soul.

  He didn’t hurt at all, at least physically. He examined his arms. Smooth, unblemished skin over his wrists, chest unmarred by claws or teeth. He ran his hands over his neck. No scars. Nothing.

  No clothes either. Naked in someone else’s bed.

  Silas. He’d come, a sword-wielding angel, out of the night. Fought the vampires. Killed them.

  The cabin had to be his. But Silas was nowhere to be seen. Rhys scrubbed his face with his hand and took a better look at the room.

  In the far corner of the cabin, a pile of crumpled and bloody clothing had been heaped around a dead potted tree. Dried leaves had fallen on top of the clothing and lay near the hands clutching the pot.

  Hands. Rhys sucked in a breath.

  Silas had wrapped himself around the plant. The heap of clothing was his, still worn, in tatters and stained rust-red with blood. Every inch of skin not covered by cloth bore cuts and bruises.

  Rhys couldn’t tell if he was dead or sleeping.

  “Silas?”

  The lump stirred and cursed in a language Rhys didn’t understand. Silas uncurled from the tree. Sitting up took him far too long.

  “Holy shit!” The words slipped from Rhys’s mouth.

  Silas was far from the same man Rhys had accompanied to dinner—gaunt and so pale he looked blue. The rags of his clothes hung from his frame. Bloody gashes covered his neck and his shoulders, and he clutched his left side. His nose was a mass of bulging purple. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  Even his voice had lost its fullness and life.

  Rhys slipped out of the bed. God. He wanted to pick Silas up off the floor and hold him. “What did they do to you?”

  Silas held up a hand and scooted backward several inches. “Don’t!”

  Rhys froze in his tracks. There was terror in Silas’s eyes. Fear of him. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t come near me.” Silas scrambled away until his back hit a set of dresser drawers.