The Falling Page 3

  Brenaith tried to control his shivering, but it seemed beyond his will. He hated that all those watching would know his fear. That the other demons seemed as terrified of the knight as he, was his only solace.

  He licked his lips uneasily, then accepted the meat cautiously, unsure what else to do. He was far too terrified to eat, and he prayed his stomach would not betray him. Stratlin had only fed him in return for touches and concessions, so he waited for the command that would come with this apparent generosity.

  None came. The knight asked for nothing, only waited while Brenaith chewed, trying to make the meat go down. Once he swallowed, the knight offered him another piece. No commands came with the offer of more food throughout the night.

  The knight continued to speak to Stratlin as though this was not unusual, but Brenaith could not relax, waiting for a blow or some other horror to descend.

  The succulent morsels continued to be offered, and Brenaith’s confusion rose. This variation from what he was accustomed to only added to his terror.

  The punishment, when it came, was sure to be both painful and soul destroying. The anticipation was making his stomach roil. By the time the meal ended, Brenaith was a mess, yet the knight had not even touched him.

  When Shaynith-una stood, Brenaith struggled to rise at the tug of the chain, unwilling to test the knight’s patience.

  He followed his new master from the hall, his dinner rising in his throat. He forced it down.

  At least there were no jeers, no shouts and suggestions as usually accompanied his departure. No one dared show such disrespect to his new master.

  His bare feet padded over the flagstone floor, and he breathed a sigh of utter relief as they passed out of the stifling heat of the hall and into the slightly cooler hallways.

  The knight walked with a silent and deadly tread, and Brenaith watched that broad back with trepidation. The doors to the guest chamber were drawn open by two enormous demons that Brenaith had never seen before, and the quiet confidence in their bearing as they faced the knight led him to believe that these might be Shaynith-una’s own troops.

  Their massive bulk seemed even larger than Lord Stratlin’s elite guards, and Brenaith shivered as he passed them, feeling the weight of their red-eyed stares upon his naked flesh.

  The sound of the doors closing softly in his wake made Brenaith catch his breath, a feeling of entrapment almost overwhelming him. He fought the feelings, knowing that they availed him little. There was no escape from this, and his own panic was only going to make things worse.

  He swallowed his fear, following obediently, until the knight dropped the chain in the middle of the room.

  Brenaith stopped then, standing in silence, only his eyes moving as he watched the knight briefly explore the room, then return to him, his red eyes roving his form with expressionless calm.

  There was absolutely no indication if he considered Brenaith a suitable candidate or not. As to the matter of a bloodservant, as Stratlin had indicated, Brenaith did not even understand what that entailed, beyond offering blood to his master. He had heard the rumors and gossip of the knights, and their periodic need for fresh blood. The thought made him shudder, but in reality, could it be worse than what he had already endured? He had certainly shed enough blood for his enemies already, and cursedly survived.

  The knight began to circle him, curving closer and closer to Brenaith’s tense form.

  A clawed hand reached out and Brenaith flinched, then mastered himself enough to stay in place, his gaze fixed blindly ahead.

  The hand paused, then continued, tracing down Brenaith’s clenched jaw, one claw following the line of his pulse into his neck. It stopped there, as if measuring the strength of his heartbeat, before continuing downward.

  The claw stopped upon his left nipple, poised there.

  Brenaith’s breath caught, bracing for the expected pain.

  “A piercing will look good upon you. I will order it tomorrow.” The tone was contemplative, almost as though the knight were talking to himself. “A thinner, lighter collar. That one is absurdly heavy, as though you are a danger.”

  That claw pricked the bottom of Brenaith’s chin, forcing him to meet that crimson gaze. “You are no danger at all, are you, little human?”

  He wanted to deny the words that so injured the last tattered remnants of his pride, but he knew the truth of the matter all too well.

  “No, my lord,” he whispered, eyes steady upon his new master. “I am no danger, at all.”

  Those generous lips smiled, almost gently. “That is good to hear. I should hate to have to punish you so soon. Deal well with me, and you will find you have little to fear. Cross me…” The threat needed no conclusion. The frigid coldness within those eyes left no doubt of his meaning.

  “Lie upon the bed.” The knight turned away to begin removing his clothing, piece by piece. “We will see if your blood is suitable. If so, I will see to our bonding before I leave here.”

  There was no description of exactly what a bond might entail, but Brenaith was a prisoner. His will, his need to understand, held no importance here and never would.

  Licking his lips, he sucked in a shuddering breath and approached the massive bed, stepping up onto the edge of the sideboard in order to climb to its height. Reaching the middle of the soft expanse, he lay down on his back, eyes flicking to the knight, then away in fear. Fear well warranted, he felt.

  When skin as pale as his own began to be revealed, he locked his attention on the ornate canopy above the bed, praying silently for strength to endure what was to come. Demons gloried in causing pain. Would a shadow knight, able to rape his mind at will, not delight in torture on so many more levels?

  Fine tremors ran over Brenaith’s body, and the more he struggled to control them, the worse they became.

  He felt Shaynith-una’s weight upon the mattress and fought not to pull away, struggled to keep his body pliant enough to please his new master.

  The knight lay down next to him, and Brenaith could almost feel the weight of that red gaze upon his naked flesh.

  His breath stuttered despite all his will power, and he heard a soft whisper of laughter from the knight.

  “Such a brave little human. Lord Stratlin was correct; you are strong. Most demons I know would have crumbled by now, but you, so small, await my pleasure with courage.”

  Brenaith squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, then opened them to meet that red stare with as much composure as he could muster. “It is not courage, it is acceptance of the inevitable.” His voice was hoarse, a small sliver of amazement coursing through him that he had actually addressed the knight. It was rare that he spoke to Stratlin, and here, before a far more dangerous predator, he was foolish enough to speak.

  Those red eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Brenaith braced himself for a blow.

  Then the lush mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “If I say it is courage, then that is what it is. Do you understand that, human?”

  Brenaith drew a deep breath, then nodded. He would not be so unwise as to contradict the knight again. That he had escaped a beating seemed impossible.

  “Now then, we test your blood.”

  Brenaith arched, a choked scream escaping his lips as a long claw sank into his thigh, the withdrawal just as painful as the initial puncture.

  It was done with such casualness, no sign of malice or cruelty, just quiet calmness. It was more terrifying than Stratlin’s abuse by far.

  That slim-fingered hand rose, a very long tongue darting out to lap at the bloody claw, encircling it with an agility that Brenaith had not seen in any other demonborn.

  He watched, not knowing whether to hope for a positive response, in which case he would be bonded to this creature, with a hope of escape in the future, or to wish for death if the blood was not whatever the knight seemed to be seeking.

  Sweet death.

  The shadow knight paused, eyes unfocussed, his tongue withdrawing as he savored the
taste.

  His red gaze shifted back to Brenaith, a grin drawing blood-streaked lips back from sharp teeth.

  “You taste good, little man. Such blood will give me strength, power. Stratlin did well.” He shifted on the bed, cold, naked skin sliding along Brenaith’s sweat-streaked body. With a faint hum of anticipation, he opened his mouth over the bleeding puncture on Brenaith’s thigh.

  Brenaith gave a choking whimper as the knight began to suck upon the wound. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sight, his fingers clenching upon the soft covers, trying to make his mind leave his body, to retreat to that safe place within his thoughts.

  This was not so bad, he thought frantically. Think of all the horrors you have endured. This is low on the scale of pain. Just breathe, think of anything else. Think of the warmth of the sun, the freedom of riding beside your prince, the joy of his presence…

  The pain ebbed, and he blinked, opening his eyes.

  The shadow knight tilted his head, regarding Brenaith as if deep in thought.

  “Such love you felt for your prince.”

  Brenaith’s breath froze in his lungs, his fingers spasming into the sheets with enough force to nearly tear the cloth. How…dear gods, his memories…“No,” he whispered, horror rising to overwhelm his good sense. “Do not speak of him—never speak of him.”

  The knight laid a hand over Brenaith’s chest, and suddenly he could not breathe. His eyes widened with terror. There was no air for his starving lungs.

  He writhed, arching against the knight’s unseen pressure, mouth open and gasping like a fish brought to land.

  “You are mine, little human. Your body, your mind, your soul. Everything you are and have been belongs to me. You will learn this, you will accept this, or you will suffer.”

  The calm, matter of fact words grated over Brenaith’s nerves as though they sank within his very body, even as his sight began to blacken, his senses fade…

  CHAPTER THREE

  Brenaith woke with a start, fear foremost in his thoughts, body poised to flee a threat he could not even fully remember.

  He went to sit up in the great bed only to find himself bound, chains leading from his wrists to the massive, metal headboard.

  He collapsed back, sweat glistening upon his forehead, looking wildly about the room, seeking his nemesis. Memory returned of his blatant rebellion the night before, the foolish words and swift punishment.

  Was that why he was now chained? He flexed his wrists anxiously, testing his restraints. They were far more slender chains than he had ever worn before, but whatever they were made of, ornate though they seemed, there was no give to them. After a few fruitless attempts at freeing himself, he ceased, saving his strength for what was sure to come.

  Swallowing with difficulty, he tried to still the nervous tremors that shook his body. The shadow knight had warned him there would be no mercy if Brenaith crossed him. And he had done just that, rebelled for the briefest of moments.

  He closed his eyes in silent despair. He could not bear the thought of his precious memories of Tynan being tainted by a demonspawn. It was the only pure, beautiful thing he had left.

  A whimper of despair escaped his lips, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to get himself under some sort of control. Whatever was to come, he would try to hold the courage of his people close, as he had these five years. He was Artepian, of noble blood. He would not shame his ancestors. He would not shame the memory of his prince.

  The sound of the heavy doors swinging open made his blood chill and his eyes snap open.

  Shaynith-una entered, several unfamiliar demons in his wake.

  Brenaith froze, eyes fixed upon the shadow knight, awaiting whatever horror would be visited upon him.

  The knight crossed the room with that eerie grace, coming to sit upon the bed beside Brenaith and reaching out with one hand to stroke back his long, tousled hair, letting the golden strands spill over his pale fingers.

  Brenaith swallowed hard, trying to look away from that red gaze, but he was caught, his will submerged beneath the knight’s.

  Shaynith-una looked over his shoulder, breaking the spell. “I want both his nipples pierced. Gold. And his nose as well. That woven ring I saw earlier will do well for the nose.”

  Brenaith’s eyes widened, his body shaking more noticeably. He turned his head away, staring at the far wall, hands clenching within his bonds.

  The knight shifted upon the bed, laying full length beside him, gathering his head in powerful arms in a parody of kindness, stroking him and making soft noises as though he were a fearful animal.

  Brenaith saw the demons out of the corner of his eye, the largest one rummaging through some box before withdrawing something sharp that glinted in the candlelight.

  “Shh, my pet. There will be little pain. You are brave, I felt that. This will be as nothing to you.”

  Brenaith tried to gather his courage, shamed at his reactions. The knight was correct. This was so little in comparison to all he had endured.

  And yet, the symbolism of what was to occur seemed somehow greater, ornamentation upon his body that would mark him. All who saw him would know him owned. And a nose ring… Dear gods, to be marked like a beast…

  A large hand covered his eyes, and he ceased breathing, not fighting the unbreakable hold, but unable to accept what was going to occur either.

  His body was rigid with tension, and he could not help but flinch as a cold, wet cloth swiped over his left nipple, cleansing it, hardening it. Fingers plucked at the nub, drawing it up, then pinching hard, causing him to arch with a gasp, even as a sharp sensation reached his mind.

  The pain blossomed immediately after and he gritted his teeth, flinching as he felt the large needle retreat, before something was shoved through the wound and fastened.

  The shadow knight moved just slightly, one hand releasing him to stroke over the new ring, sending a spike of pain that made Brenaith release a breathy gasp.

  “Beautiful,” Shaynith-una’s tone held reverence, and Brenaith opened his eyes in time to see him lick blood from his fingertip.

  Whether he was speaking of the blood or the ring was difficult to say.

  When the shadow knight met Brenaith’s eyes, he grinned, blood staining his lips, before bending down and kissing his lips, long tongue probing. Brenaith reflexively tried to turn his head aside before he could stop himself, but sharp claws pricked his throat, warning.

  He settled then, resigned, allowing the tongue to invade between his lips, half gagging, the copper taste of his own blood sharp and clear.

  His eyes widened as he fought for air, trapped by chains and the shadow knight over him. The prick of the second needle hardly registered in his consciousness, his body and mind focusing on a far more desperate need to breathe.

  When his new master finally withdrew, he could only lay there, gasping, half conscious, unable to rouse enough to even struggle as the knight held his head, the specialized pliers reaching for his nose.

  The pain exploded over his face, but he could only give an agonized mewl, body twitching uncontrollably.

  The big demon withdrew, after threading something through the wound, and Shaynith-una leaned close to lick the burgeoning blood away.

  “Shh, now. It is over.” He gestured to one of the demons, and was handed a cool, wet cloth. He smoothed it over Brenaith’s face and chest, cleansing him.

  Brenaith could not stop the shudders that ran through him, fighting the tears of pain and shame that gathered in the corners of his eyes.

  “Give me the poppy juice.” The knight’s voice was low and calm. He held something to Brenaith’s lips. “Drink, little one. Sleep. When you wake, we will bond and then leave this place.”

  Brenaith choked and gasped, and finally managed to down the bitter brew. He closed his eyes against Shaynith-una and turned his face away.

  His master allowed the retreat, long fingers stroking his forehead and cheek, deadly claws retracted for
the moment.

  “Sleep, my boy. Tomorrow—tomorrow you will truly be mine.”

  * * *

  Brenaith rose to the surface of consciousness with reluctance, even in sleep understanding that nothing but pain awaited in the waking world. His eyes slowly opened, his sense of space and time coming back. As did the feel of an arm wrapped around his waist, a long, hard body cradling his back.

  He froze, breath suspended for several moments, but the knight—for who else could it be—seemed asleep, motionless. Brenaith fought to breathe normally then, desperate to let the demon sleep, not eager to face whatever this bonding would entail.

  He lay still, staring across the ornate room, glad for the thick, down-filled quilts that covered him. The demon seemed to leach the heat from him, a cold line down his spine, though the knight himself now seemed almost uncomfortably hot. Other demons had done this to him as well, but never to this extent. Their energy, their touch, seemed to drain him, leaving him chilled.

  His nose gave a sullen throb, reminding him of the events of the night before, and he resisted the urge to touch it, or his chest. The jewelry that adorned him was there, he could feel the weight of each piece of gold as it dragged upon his flesh, though it could not possibly be heavy.

  His abused body seemed to think otherwise. Somehow, if he did not touch it, perhaps it would recede into the background, become less than real.

  Shaynith-una stirred, first minutely, and then stretching that long, lean body, an almost feline sound of pleasure escaping his throat as he did so.

  Brenaith shivered, unable to help himself or to disguise that he was awake, when a claw traced over his neck, lightly pricking his skin as it went.

  “It is a good day. Today I will have a new bloodservant, and you, you will be free of this place. They have been far too harsh with you. Fear makes the blood sour; it is so much sweeter when the bonded is calm. I will teach you of this. I prefer sweet to sour.” There was a note of amusement in the rich voice, and Brenaith closed his eyes in resignation. There was no escaping what was to come. Perhaps the knight was correct. Perhaps leaving here would be a blessing. He could not quite believe that, but it was possible if not probable.