Beauty

Chapter Nine

The phooka stopped at the edge of the forest, his mighty hooves kicking up dirt. Lach dismounted. Beyond the copse of trees, there was a small village. Bron’s village. They’d ridden all night, never letting up. Lach wasn’t close to tired, as though something as inconsequential as fatigue couldn’t touch him now.

But fear could.

Lach dismounted from the phooka’s enormous back, his boots thudding against the forest floor. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Or rather not feel it.

He didn’t have the same connection to Bron that his twin had, but since he’d been on this plane, he could feel her, like a whisper in the back of his head. Now the little noise was gone, as though someone had turned it off. It had happened just a few minutes before, but it scared the crap out of him as his vampire cousins would say.

“Something’s gone very wrong.” Shim stood beside him, one hand on their steed.

Their ridiculously obnoxious steed who talked way too much for a horse. “Aren’t you the smart one, Shim? The king is slaughtering Fae and you’re just now figuring out that there’s something wrong.”

Lach rolled his eyes. “Shut up, phoo.”

Shim ignored the phooka utterly. “A couple of minutes back, I lost touch with Bron.”

“Could she be sleeping?” Lach couldn’t imagine it. She had to be terrified. They had no idea what had happened after she’d been called a witch and lost consciousness. But the humming in the back of his head had been there, an oddly comfortable sensation. He felt bereft without it.

But he thought he would know if she had died.

She couldn’t die. Not when they were so close.

Shim shook his head. “She was sleeping earlier. I could feel it. You have to get used to the connection now that it’s strong enough for you to feel it. When she’s sleeping, the hum changes.”

Yes, Lach had heard it. “It’s like it’s muted and calm, and when she wakes up there’s a liveliness to the sound.”

“Yes. That’s right. But now there’s nothing. She was awake and moving and then nothing.”

Lach thought back to those last few moments. His brother was wrong. “Not nothing. She was confused.”

The phooka huffed and tossed his head back and forth. “Perhaps the princess was drugged.” He sniffed the air. “I’ve heard that sometimes executioners are kind. They drug the ones they set on fire. Smells like they’re already at work.”

Panic, pure and unadulterated, raced through his veins. He started to run toward the village, but his brother’s hand stopped him.

“Don’t you dare. This is my element, not yours, brother.” His eyes closed briefly. “I can feel it. The fire. Idiots. They can’t kill my mate with fire.” He looked up again, and his normally dark eyes had gone a distinct orange. “Stay away from it. We both know it can burn you.”

“And we both know that a sword can cut you in half.” Lach looked to the phooka, who had far better senses than either of them. “How many people are out there?”

The phooka breathed deeply. “Many. At least twenty. By the horrible smell of them, I would say almost all men.”

And men would have swords. Two against twenty.

Or were they just two? What had Roan said back in Aoibhneas? That the dead Lach brought back were powerful. Chaos. Perhaps chaos could be their friend for once.

“Can you grab the fire? Keep it from her?” Lach asked.

“Already done, brother. Though I doubt anyone knows I have control. I can’t see anything, so I’m simply keeping it in a circle. How do I know she isn’t burning already?”

“Because I don’t smell the divine scent of roasting princess yet, Your Highness. No way I would miss that. Control the fire. I’ll see what I can find out.” The air around the phooka shimmered, and the horse became an odd-looking creature. What spoke to him was a combination of a large squirrel and a creature Lach had seen in vampire DLs. A lemur. But lemurs were slow, and the phooka was not. He scampered up into the trees using long claws. The leaves above their heads shook, delicate green shells raining down on them.

Lach’s whole body was on edge. Bronwyn was in that village. She was close, so close. It was everything he’d wanted since that first moment as a child when he’d closed his eyes and seen her in his dreams. She’d been a child, even younger than him and Shim. In that first dream, Lach remembered them all looking at each other as though wondering what to do and then Bron had shown them a game. A silly thing. She threw a pebble and then hopped and skipped to pick it up. Unseelie games tended to involve blood and often death. It had been a sweet thing to spend time with the wide-eyed girl.

When they had awakened the next morning, they had laughed about sharing a dream.

They were still dreaming of her when they’d turned sixteen, and Lach had known that somehow, someway Bronwyn completed him.

And then he’d seen a picture of her and set the idea in his father’s mind to merge the tribes through marriage.

“I can’t stand this waiting,” Shim said.

Lach hated it, too, but finding Bronwyn wouldn’t mean a thing if they didn’t live through the experience. They needed to stay calm. Rushing in could be bad for Bronwyn, too. What they really needed was an army.

An idea played at Lach’s brain. He needed an army, but his father had ensured their army wouldn’t follow him. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d treated Lach and Shim like fragile idiots for so long, no one would follow them. No Unseelie alive would follow a fragile king.

Lach opened his senses and found that cold place deep in his center where his power resided. He couldn’t have a living army. Roan was in charge of the men he’d brought. But there was more than the living to consider.

“Damn me, Lach. What are you doing?” Shim’s eyes were wide.

He felt for them. The dead were everywhere, as much a part of the land as the living could ever be. The dead were oddly eternal, shifting from one form to the next. From living to corpse to food and fertilizer, and in their own way, right back to living.

But Lach wanted the corpses. Yes. They would do nicely.

“Getting us some backup.” He called to them, reaching out with his mind, tendrils of power flowing like a cool river, sweeping up the dead in its wake.

He ignored the smaller creatures. Rats who had died crawled once more, birds flew, and cats hissed from long-dead mouths. But Lach was concerned with the mausoleums. Yes. His power sought the places of the dead.

He’d always fought the power, but now he embraced it. He opened himself to it, welcoming the rush of sensation that came with it. He knew them. As he called to them, so did they speak to him.

Sir Bran Jenkins lay on his cold slab, a sword clutched in his hands, placed there by his sons and his widow that he might fight on in the afterlife. Sir Bran wanted to fight. It had run through his veins, and though he no longer had blood, the desire clung to his bones more strongly than any shroud.

His sons, both taken not long after, lay in the crypt close to their father.

A family of warriors with nothing left but useless swords that would never again sing with the heat of battle.

Then fight, Sir Bran. Take up your sword. Wake up your sons. Fight for me.

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 in 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.

The phooka wrinkled his nose, his tail twitching. Claws dragged along the roof making a nasty scratching sound. “There are four right in here, Your Highness. Four souls for you to take. A man. A woman. Two children. Think of the blood. Think of the screams.”

Something about the little devil’s voice made Lach shiver. Or the fact that he could suddenly see himself slaughtering children. This was why he’d shoved his warrior half so far down. He was a monster.

“Lachlan!”

He let his sword drop, turning. His heart was pounding. Bron was dead. None of it mattered. If he continued, he would kill the families in their houses. He would plunder and pillage and then call their dead bodies to serve him.

And it wouldn’t bring her back.

He looked at his brother. He’d failed Shim as well. Without their mate, Shim would fade. Lach would go mad. He would have to be put down.

He’d failed everyone.

Shim stood in the middle of the square. The fire that had previously burned there was gone, only ashes surrounding the pole where they had bound her. He’d always envisioned her in bondage, his hands tying her lovingly to prepare her for play. This was a perverted vision of what should be loving.

Bronwyn’s delicate body lay in Shim’s arms, her limbs utterly limp, her head falling back. The sword fell from his hand. If another attacked, he would let death come. He would join his mate.

Shim hoisted her up, cradling her to his chest. “Lach, we have to go. Where are we going to go? We need a healer. Something’s wrong with me, Lach.”

Everything was wrong. Bron was gone. Everything was done.

“Lachlan? Shim?” A feminine voice cut through Lach’s misery.

Lach turned and, for a moment, his heart softened. She wore different clothes, peasant clothes, but she was his sister. His Gilly, the girl who had laughed with them, brought them their first horses.

Saved their bondmate.

He’d failed Gillian, too.

She stood there, staring between them, dark eyes confused as though she couldn’t believe they were here. “Where is the army? Father sent a force. He had to send a force, right? Where are they? We need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving, Gillian.” Lach’s heart felt like it would burst with the agony of what he felt. “You have to put me down. I can’t handle breaking with Bronwyn. Please, Gillian, if you ever loved me, kill me now. Save these people.”

Gillian’s mouth dropped open. “Goddess, Lach, you’re being ridiculous. Now tell me where the army is and how we get off this plane. We can have our family reunion later, brother.”

Shim had fallen to his knees, taking Bron with him. “She smells so damn good. I can’t resist. Lach. I need her.”

Lach watched as his brother’s eyes bled to pure black, and the whites pushed out. Shim’s fangs lengthened until they filled his mouth, tipping over his lips.

Mating fever.

How could Shim have mating fever for their dead mate?

Bron’s hands shook lightly, and then he heard it, a soft, sweet moan.

And he smelled it. Her scent. A breeze blew it, the delicate scent of her life wafting over his senses, filling him, and he was overcome.

His fangs pulled. His cock hardened. His focus dimmed to one thing and one thing alone.

Her.

The mating fever took over.

* * * *

Shim shook, his every sense open and overflowing with her. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew what this was.

His goblin blood was calling. He was proudly Unseelie. It meant his blood was mixed with all the Fae of the planes. His mother had been a vampire. His father a mix of sidhe and goblin and brownie. It was the goblin he felt now. The goblin need to mate with the perfect female rode him.

Bron shook in his arms. Why had Lach thought for a second she could be dead? Fire could not kill Shim’s mate. Death could not take Lach’s. Had he gotten every bit of optimism between them? It was brutally obvious that Lachlan had gotten all the fighting skill. There were dead bodies everywhere, some fresh and some seemingly ancient. They lay around the courtyard, though despite their placement, it still seemed to Shim that they lay at Lach’s feet just waiting for the moment when their master called to them again.

Bron moaned a little, her eyes fluttering open only to close again.

His cock stood up straight in his pants. Just being near her, smelling her, touching her was driving him crazy. He had to try to focus on anything but her. She filled his senses, his world. Someone was saying something, but all he could do was stare at the woman in his arms. His mate. His bridge.

He wiped away a smudge on her face. She was so much more slender than she’d been in her dreams, her hands callused and her face slightly red from time in the sun. Thirteen years of running and being forced to work like a peasant had taken their toll, but she was still so beautiful to him. He would coddle her and cosset her and feed her. She wouldn’t have to worry again. He would take her off this plane, and she would never fear for her life or work a plow or go hungry again. She would be his sweet wife, protected from all the bad things of the world.

Of course, one of the bad things of the world appeared to be his other half. Lach stood staring down at them, his body covered in blood, his eyes huge and foreign in his face. The goblin blood was working in Lach’s veins, too.

“She smells so good.” Lach got to one knee, seemingly dazed by the sight of her.

“Lachlan, you can’t touch her like that, and we’re out in the open.” A firm, feminine voice broke through his haze. “You two have mating fever. This isn’t the time or the place. Take a step back and let me get Bronwyn someplace safe.”

Shim heard the growl coming from his own throat. He felt a little feral. The blood, the heat, the closeness of his Bron. He suddenly realized he didn’t want anyone else around. He wanted Bron. It was past time to take her. She fucking belonged to him. She’d been promised to him since the moment of her birth, and he wouldn’t allow one more thing to come between them.

Lach’s huge dark eyes focused on their mate. “Bronwyn.” Lach touched her hair before letting his hands float, skimming across her skin, pausing at the vein in her neck. “She’s alive.”

Shim nodded, ignoring the fact that a crowd seemed to be gathering.

“Our sister is here. Gillian’s alive.” Lach said the words, but he was wholly focused on Bron.

“Shim, please think for a second.” Gillian had moved in closer, delicately moving around the bodies of the fallen. “You can’t take her here.”

“She is ours.” Lach spoke around the fangs in his mouth. “We’ll take her where we want to. She belongs to us.”

Yes, his brother was definitely feeling the fever, and now some of Gillian’s words were breaking through. Bron was hurt. Bron wasn’t even conscious. Did they intend to push her skirts up right here on the battlefield, the dead all around them?

It would prove once and for all what animals they were. Yes, when her brothers discovered how they had treated Bronwyn, they would be welcomed with open arms.

Lach’s face was in her hair, breathing in her scent, letting it flow around him. Lach growled a little, his hand moving to her breast. If Shim didn’t stop him, the fever would take control, and there would be no stopping the warrior half. The dead all around them proved Lach was capable of giving in to the beast that lay inside their soul.

“Please, Shim. I understand the fever, but Bronwyn will not. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t even know you’re real.” Gillian took another cautious step forward. “Please. If you give in to the fever, you’ll take her with not an ounce of thought to her. She’s a virgin. I made sure of it. I’ve protected her for thirteen years because I knew she was your mate. Trust me. Take her back to the tower. Give her and yourselves some privacy.”

Bron’s eyes fluttered open. Shim stopped, terrified that the next sound would be Bronwyn’s scream. Brown eyes looked at him. She seemed unfocused, shaky. Her hand came, brushing his chin. “My Shim?”

His heart leapt. “Yours.”

“Lach?”

Lach kissed her forehead. “Is here now, love.”

“What is wrong with your eyes?” She tried to sit up.

Before Shim could explain, she doubled over, her knees coming up and a low wail moving from her mouth. Pain was etched on her face, her hands stiffening into fists.

“Please make it stop. Why won’t it stop?”

Shim looked to his sister. “What is wrong with her? I can’t feel her. I should be able to feel her. We’re bonded, but there is nothing connecting us now.”

His sister seemed to be treating them like dangerous predators. She moved forward slowly, holding her hands out to show she had no weapons. Even though she moved cautiously, Shim found himself clutching Bron tighter, and Lach bared his fangs.

“I am not taking her from you. Damn it. Calm down both of you. You’re scaring the entire village, and we seem to need them as you did not bring an army with you.” Gillian stood in front of them.

“They left the army behind.” The phooka had moved from his perch on the roof to the pole that had held Bron. He hung there, his claws sunk deep. “Though I wouldn’t call it an army exactly. More like a little squadron.”

“And they brought along a little devil.” Gillian frowned at the phooka before turning her gaze back to her brothers. “Do you not know what that is? It’s a trickster. Did he trick you away from father’s men?”

Bronwyn was moaning softly, tears squeezing from her eyes. Shim wasn’t in the mood to hear about his choice of vehicle. “Tell me what is wrong with our mate.”

Gillian got to one knee. “Bronwyn. Bronwyn, did they give you anything?”

Bron bit her bottom lip and forced herself to nod. Her mouth opened as though she was trying to speak, but her body convulsed again.

Even Lach seemed to come out of his fever long enough to be worried. “What is wrong? What did they give her?”

Gillian ignored them both, putting a hand to Bron’s forehead and feeling it. “She’s burning up. I suspect they gave her something to quiet her, but it wouldn’t explain why she’s in such pain.”

Shim leaned over, looking into her face. Such pain. “Tell me how to help you, a chumann.”

One hand came to his head, her fingers soft on his hair. “Kiss me.”

Her mouth came up, touching his, lips pressed to lips. Shim felt like he was falling into a dark well and Bron was the only spark of light. Her soft moan had his cock leaping in his pants. An aching want suffused his body with desire. His heart sped up, and a horrible pain began in his cock.

He needed. He fucking needed her.

“Damn it.” Gillian stood and turned back to talk to someone. Shim didn’t care. He knew what she needed now. Her body was calling to him. That bright, shimmering line that connected them was starting to come back.

“It hurts, Shim. She’s hurting so much.” Lach felt the connection, too, their minds opening to each other now that Bron was awake again, but the connection was marred by her pain, her outrageous need.

Gillian stepped forward again. “Pick her up, Shim. We need to get her inside. We have no way of knowing until we do a count if you killed everyone you should have. Reymon has a house close by. He’s willing to give it to you for the time being. I’ll keep watch for this squad of men who I have to hope will be smart enough to follow you.”

Through his haze, Shim managed to get up and haul Bron with him, her slight weight nothing against his strength. She clutched at him, her eyes fevered with desire. She pushed at his shirt, trying to get her hands on his skin. Shim couldn’t help it. He needed her so badly. She was the fever in his blood now. He kissed her, his tongue plunging deep.

He needed to get her away from here. He had to protect her, and he couldn’t take her here. It was too open. He didn’t want eyes on them. This was his bonding time.

But if he didn’t get inside her soon, he might burn down the village around him. Already he could feel the need to unleash his power. He would lose control if he didn’t satisfy Bron’s desire.

Lach was at his side as he began to move toward the small house Gillian pointed to. The door opened, and a woman pointed them to a back room. The house was a storefront. Candles and herbs covered the shelves. The man named Reymon gestured them through to narrow stairs.

“Our bedroom is small, but sturdy. ’Tis an honor to host your first night, Your Highnesses.” Reymon nodded. “We’ve hoped for this for so long. The Unseelie will finally come.”

Shim didn’t want to think about the man’s enigmatic words. He wanted to take off his wife’s clothes and be with her finally. She mewled and twitched in his arms. Lach went up the stairs first, checking the bedroom and finally turning.

“Leave us, sister.” Lach nodded toward Gillian who stood in the doorway.

Gillian took a deep breath as Shim set Bron on the bed. She curled into his body.

“Take her. Make her yours,” Gillian said. “Bond fully with her so there can be no question from the Seelies that she belongs to our clan. Impregnate her if you can. And do it quickly. We need to be gone from this plane by the morning. I’m going to go and clean up the mess the warrior half left. And brothers, it is good to see you and to see just how powerful you’ve become. When the time is right and we unite the tribes, you will be the true Kings of the Fae. I honor you, brothers, and the woman who will bring the Unseelie into true power.”

Gillian turned and walked out, the door closing behind her.

Shim looked down at his wife, the woman who would be his queen.

“Kiss me.” Her words were fevered, her eyes desperate. Her body tightened as though the pain forced her to clench her every muscle. “Please. Please.”

He couldn’t resist her. Didn’t want to. Wanted to inhale her, to taste her, to take her into his body and to put himself in hers. He needed to merge with her. The world around faded away until all he could see and taste and touch and feel was her.

Shim gave in to the fever.