The Falling Page 12

  It did not. He could feel energy passing over his fingertips, playing along the edges of his hand, warm and pleasant. He had seen this same energy glowing gently around Elgeni, and in greater force, around the High King. This was elven.

  He let his hand continue through the glow, to lay flat upon his master’s chest, the skin warm and supple beneath his touch.

  What was this? This was nothing like a demon born, cold and needing constant heat to survive. The changes he had seen over these last days, the mood swings, the ability to be concerned for Brenaith, and now this.

  He slumped back, allowing himself to be drawn closer, his head finally resting upon the muscled chest of his master.

  They lay in silence, Shaynith-una gently, almost mindlessly, carding through Brenaith’s hair as he had often done before. The familiar action calmed Brenaith’s nerves to a degree, as he lay pressed against that long, lean form.

  “I must convince them to free you before I die.” Shaynith-una’s tone was soft, calm. “The coming of the sun will see the ceremony.”

  Brenaith froze, then turned abruptly, facing the knight once more. “You cannot be sure…”

  “I can. I know. They are readying things now.” There was no inflection in the tone. No fear at what was to come.

  “Your mother will—”

  “She will not. She will have no power over this. This has been planned since my birth, a way for the elves to free themselves of Lutan once and for all.”

  “You know this?” his question was tentative.

  “I am god born. I see things, know things. I did not understand the pieces of the visions I have had through the years, but now, here, I know. They will draw forth the essence of my demon blood, use it to summon my father, and, should it succeed, seek to bind him with it. If he should fall, then my kin, the demon born, will be pulled back to their plane of existence, unable to exist upon the human plane without his aid. All that I have known will cease to exist. I have never seen the demon world.”

  Brenaith shivered, pressing closer. “This is cruel…”

  Shaynith-una turned his head to meet his gaze, black hair flowing over the sheets. “More cruel than I?”

  Brenaith could not answer. The shadow knights had been bred to be merciless, the ultimate predator, and this one, divine in nature, was the pinnacle of their creation, a son of their god.

  Yet…

  “You have been kinder to me than any of your demon kin. There is something else in you, something I do not think your father intended.”

  A long fingered hand, pale in the half light, came up to lay against his cheek.

  “You set out to teach me of emotion, and here and now, I believe I am beginning to understand some small part of it.” The fingers trailed over Brenaith’s cheek with the lightest of touches, making him shiver and press closer to their tantalizing heat. “I believe the difference is you. Since you have come, things have changed. You are in my thoughts more than is common, I find myself disliking your—pain, which makes no sense to me. I have not encountered this before. Even with Dars, I often forgot his presence, yet with you, I am aware of you at all times.” The tone was rife with confusion.

  Brenaith leaned closer, a new compulsion driving him. Gently, cautiously, he laid his lips over his master’s. At the lack of negative response, he pressed harder, opened his mouth to lick over those generous lips.

  For a breath, there was nothing in return, and then lips parted and he had access to the hot, moist mouth beyond. His grip tightened, his head tilting as he took full advantage. He felt a feral passion rise up, as though he had to show his master what consensual pleasure truly was, what it meant for both parties to want, to need fiercely.

  If Shaynith-una was correct, this was all they would have, and some visceral part of him wanted to give Shaynith-una this, something beyond master and servant.

  Brenaith heard a sound from his own throat, a protest against what was to come that echoed in the silent room.

  Shaynith-una’s fingers slid to his shoulders, pulling him closer, the faintest of moans escaping as he seemed to sink into the kiss. There was no attempt to take over, and Brenaith found himself in control for the first time since his capture. He gloried in the sensation. For however long the knight would allow it, this mended some tiny degree of Brenaith’s pride.

  He trailed his hand over the ridged abdomen, down to that thick shaft. Naturally hairless, so strange in comparison to his own body, but the difference made his blood run hot, his touch linger.

  Shaynith-una’s hips thrust minutely, a reaction Brenaith would never have expected from the shadow knight. His master seemed to take sex as energy to feed himself, without ever understanding how much more it could be.

  That Brenaith could give him this, could teach a demigod more, seemed mere fantasy, and yet, it was happening. The freedom to touch, to chase reactions, to feel perfect skin quivering under his fingertips…

  Each moment, he expected his master to roll upon him, to become dominant, but the body beneath his was pliant in a way he had never yet seen, accepting in a way that seemed so alien to everything the knight was, everything he had shown up to this point.

  To have this power, however fragile, over this being of legend, was heady.

  Brenaith raised his head, watching with heated eyes as the shadow knight’s lips shone with moisture, his lips parted as he almost panted, trying to draw Brenaith back.

  He resisted, trailing kisses where his hand had earlier touched to circle his fingers around Shaynith-una’s rigid shaft. Normally as pale as the rest of his skin, the knight’s member now glowed a dusky pink with engorgement. Brenaith could feel the pulse beneath his touch, the rigid flesh hot as he had never felt it.

  Something was changing, but at the moment, he could not bring himself to care. So much was beyond them right now, gods and elves and plan upon plan.

  This… This felt right and good and clean.

  He lowered his head, licked the tip, felt his master writhe beneath him, hips attempting to roll up into the caress. Brenaith held firm, and despite Shaynith-una’s strength, he did not fight the hold, did not thrust up to gag him as he well could have. Instead, he sank back, muscles trembling in his thighs, suddenly very mortal, very vulnerable in a way that Brenaith felt drawn too, a way that brought them closer in equality than Brenaith could ever have dreamed of.

  For this moment, they were merely lovers.

  Brenaith thrust the thought away. It seemed too intimate for all that had gone before, too much, too soon, and yet, what they were doing was more than chasing pleasure, it was an expression of something he could not identify, or perhaps did not wish to.

  He growled in his throat, impatient with his own musings, and the vibration seemed to set Shaynith-una into ecstasy. A choking gasp escaped his lips as his head arched back, fingers sinking to the bed, claws emerging to tear the cloth with effortless ease. His body arched wantonly, the glow about him increasing until the room seemed light as day.

  Brenaith swallowed, letting his throat massage the thickness between his lips, before beginning to bob his head, twisting his head one way, then the other as he used his skills as creatively as he could imagine.

  He never took his fascinated gaze from his master’s visage, drawn into wild passion, small, grunted moans escaping the knight’s mouth with every movement of Brenaith’s head.

  He let one of his hands trail down to his own neglected erection, grasping the rigid organ with a rush of pleasure that threatened to take him over the edge.

  His movements quickened, the taste of his master’s sweetness spreading upon his tongue, then Shaynith-una’s light flared into brilliance, his body bowing into an almost impossible angle, arched and rigid, a haunting cry escaping his throat.

  Hot cream exploded over Brenaith’s taste buds, and he drew back enough to swallow, working his own shaft with frenzied, harsh motions, his own release pumping out, painting Shaynith-una’s belly.

  The knight sank back, hi
s harsh breathing echoing in the room, his eyes wide and staring, his expression shocked.

  Trembling, Brenaith leaned forward, fighting the urge to collapse, and fastened his mouth over his lover’s, letting Shaynith-una taste his own come.

  There was the faintest of hesitations, and then a long tongue chased his, seeking the flavor, until they both sank into the kiss and sweet abandon melded into gentle peace.

  * * *

  Brenaith woke abruptly, a sense of danger sliding past his sleep-dulled senses and bringing him to warrior alertness. Long though it had been since he could call himself a warrior, old habits still lingered. Shaynith-una’s arm tightened over his waist briefly, before the knight rolled to face him. There was a softness to his expression Brenaith had never seen before as he cradled Brenaith’s cheek and leaned forward to lay a kiss upon his lips.

  “It is time,” he whispered.

  The door slammed open, and elves filed into the room, weapons at hand. The blue barrier moved swiftly, more fluidly than before, and encased the bed, imprisoning them.

  The High King entered, several older elves with grim expressions and cold eyes at his heels.

  Brenaith shuddered as he felt the hatred that fairly pulsed from them, all directed at Shaynith-una. There would be no mercy this day.

  The shadow knight sat up, covers pooling to his waist, calm, cold serenity playing over his features. There was not the faintest trace of fear in his eyes.

  He met his grandfather’s open loathing with nothing of his own thoughts evident. “Brenaith must go free. He is no part of this, and his bonds to me were not willing. Whatever else may happen, this alone must be done. This alone I ask.”

  “I give you nothing. Nothing but death and the pain you deserve.” The High King’s snarl fairly vibrated the barrier.

  “You call yourself keepers of the light, and yet, you would have an innocent die for your hatred? It seems to me that my father’s darkness has entered you more than you have ever known.”

  The High King drew back, horror flickering across his lean face for the briefest of moments before he straightened into royal distain.

  “So says the son of darkness, the sword of Lutan.” His glance slid to Brenaith, meeting his eyes with revulsion. “He is tainted with your touch, your presence. It would be a mercy to end his existence.”

  Brenaith sat up, anger beginning to find a foothold. “I may not be an elf, I may not be of your world, but I speak for myself. Where is the vaunted mercy of elves, the legends of their wisdom and fairness? You plan to use Shaynith-una in the most reprehensible of ways, to use blood magic if I am correct. How can you believe that such a thing will produce peace, produce an end to everything we have undergone, both elf and man? To torture someone, to create such energy, will make us no better than the demons you seek to destroy. Shaynith-una is more than his father, more than his mother. Have you even attempted to learn more, to find out if there is hope in another direction? That he might, if shown the way, help us?”

  He cast a glance at his master, wondering where those words had come from, how they had crossed his tongue with such ease. The knight was so much more than what he had been bred for. And as his elven side came to the fore, what else might the elves accomplish with an elven demigod at their side? Who knew more of how to hold back the demon hordes, of the demon god himself, than his son? So much knowledge, to be cast aside in favor of death itself?

  “You are a fool, human. A child. Whatever he has done to pull you into his web is all demon guile. All lies. He is a shadow knight. Have you forgotten what his kind did to your people, to your own prince? Tear the blinders from your eyes. See what he is in truth. You seek to protect evil incarnate.” Hatred and conviction seethed in every word.

  Brenaith flinched back, memories of battle, of Tynan, of his fellow companions, coming to the fore.

  He glanced at Shaynith-una, who watched him with cool, blank eyes.

  He remembered the fear he had felt when he first beheld the knight, the realization that here was a creature of darkness, a being of cruel power, who could crush him with little effort. Where had that fear gone? When had it become this? His own need and desire for the enemy? Was it possible that the elven king was correct? That a demigod could influence him so cunningly, so gradually, that he had fallen for a ruse?

  He remembered Shaynith-una’s words, that Dars had chosen death because he had loved the shadow knight. Was this what Dars had undergone, pulled in before he knew what had happened?

  His heart began to pound in an uneven rhythm as he remembered that hand, coming out that first night, squeezing the breath from him. That was the truth. This was the lie. It had to be a lie.

  Shaynith-una tilted his head, watching him, his eyes fathomless, his visage utterly expressionless.

  Brenaith almost panicked and clenched his fists. The creature could not read his mind any more. He had to remember that. His thoughts were his own, safe.

  Shaynith-una’s lips pulled into the smallest of smiles.

  “You should have never forgotten. I am my father’s son.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Brenaith walked in a daze, shunted along with the elves, his mind blank with horror.

  The priests had encased Shaynith-una in some sort of gray mist, something that seemed to send him into a state of stupor where he walked between the elven warriors. The High King strode just in front, occasionally looking back to view the prisoner with cold satisfaction.

  Brenaith stumbled, and an elven warrior caught his elbow to steady him.

  “Not long now,” the warrior said. “We will find a way to for you to be free. Gods, to have been in his grasp. I don’t know how you could have been strong enough to survive.” There was admiration in the tone, admiration that Brenaith did not quite believe he deserved.

  It was not his strength that had persevered, it was simply that his new master had been less cruel than the former.

  Now he could only wonder to what end, to what purpose.

  They entered a massive chamber carved from the rock of the mountain itself. Wherever they were, it was deep underground.

  Runes had been carved over the walls, some ancient, some newly hewn. The procession continued to the far side where an enormous metal ring hung, massive hooks embedded into the rock itself, chains hanging from four points.

  It was all too evident what it was meant for, and despite his newborn feelings of betrayal, his stomach clenched as he watched the guards lead Shaynith-una toward it. The shadow knight seemed to flinch as he was brought closer, as though some energy, some magic, pained him even in his dazed state. A small degree of awareness seemed to overtake him, and he began to drag back against his captors, weakly struggling against their brutal holds.

  The priests stepped closer, chanting, the gray mist intensifying. Shaynith-una slumped, overcome once more, and he seemed only half conscious as they reached the vertical metal circle.

  The High King himself took his grandson’s wrists, snapped the metal cuffs to them and tightened the chains as one of the priests did the same to Shaynith-una’s ankles.

  Brenaith swallowed with difficulty. The knight hung suspended now, naked, spread eagled within the ring, fastened within the massive circle, head hung low on his chest. Even from his place some distance away, Brenaith could see red weals forming from the tight cuffs, the force of the chains wrenching on joints and muscles, dark bruises on pale skin from the elves rough handling.

  He did not look like a demonic demigod. Indeed he seemed more mortal, more vulnerable than Brenaith had ever witnessed. Whatever the elves were using, he seemed utterly helpless against it, all his powers muted.

  Brenaith tried to harden himself against the sight. Greater horrors had been done to his own people, to his prince, to himself. Surely this was justice.

  Surely this was right.

  The High King stepped back, then snapped his fingers at Brenaith, gesturing him to approach.

  “You did well to see the truth. There
is hope for you, as I had not believed before. Let our priests break the bond, and you shall have your life.” His tone was as cold and emotionless as he gave Brenaith back his life as it had been when he’d wanted to take it.

  Brenaith hesitated, but other elves pushed him forward, impatience in their expressions. He took a deep breath, feeling small and insignificant as he stood in the circle of priests, all of whom towered over him. This close, he could see the shadow knight more closely, and wished he could not.

  The muscles of Shaynith-una’s arms and legs quivered with pain as they lay outstretched, rippling under the white skin. He seemed to be regaining some measure of consciousness, his head lolling, teeth gritted, eyelids fluttering.

  Brenaith tore his gaze away before he could meet those red eyes, trying to be still as one of the priests laid a hand upon his forehead, another clasping his shoulders from behind to steady him.

  The first elf began to whisper a rhythmic chant so softly that Brenaith could hardly be sure the sound was actually speech. The whisper seemed to echo in his head as though it had entered his mind. He tried to draw back, the sensation all too similar to Shaynith-una’s earliest invasions of his thoughts, but he was held firmly. The chant rose louder, and Brenaith’s senses began to spin.

  There was a crack, a loud pulse that he wasn’t sure was even a real sound and not simply in his mind. He cried out, collapsing as his mind burned as though something had been severed, yanked free.

  At the same moment, he heard an answering cry and looked up. Shaynith-una had wakened, and the breaking of the bond seemed to have harmed him as much as it had Brenaith.

  His face was contorted with pain, his fists clenched in the manacles, his eyes wide and unseeing.

  Brenaith felt a sob rising in his throat. He staggered as he was pulled to his feet once more, the priest cupping his cheeks and staring into his eyes. For a moment they stood in tableau, and then the priest nodded, a small smile easing his features into something pleasant.