“Get those bloody wings in check,” someone says. “He’s hard enough to wrangle with those things flapping about.”
My blood runs cold. With infinite care, I peer out from my little cubby hole beneath a small spiral staircase.
In the passage linking it to the rest of the stronghold, there are two monks. They are half carrying, half dragging Linton who has his eyes open but doesn’t seem to be here at all.
He’s certainly not resisting what they are doing to him.
“If Brother Angus had not put him this far under, it would have been easier,” one of the cowled creatures says.
“If Brother Angus hadn’t put him this far under, he’d be away after his mate,” the other says. “Look at him!”
I check on Linton again. He is doing one of his wet smiles, a trail of drool running from one corner, and as I check him over for injury, there’s one part of his anatomy which is most definitely having the time of its life. His pants are tented by the massive erection he’s sporting.
Something which hasn’t gone unnoticed by the monks.
“Pleasures of the flesh,” one of them grumbles. “I don’t miss it.”
I really feel there is a joke to be made about boners at this point, but I’m more concerned about why Linton isn’t resisting whatever it is the monks are doing. Unless you call being completely limp a resistance. Because a massive mothman with unresponsive wings is proving difficult for the monks.
“Come on, assassin,” one of them growls. “Time to live up to your name.”
The pair of them heave Linton upright and open a door, wrestling him through as his arms, legs, and wings flop around with abandon.
Have we walked right into a trap?
After a quick check the coast is clear, I rush over to the door they took him through and place my ear close to the keyhole. There are voices within, murmuring something. When I look, the interior seems dark, and I can’t see much of anything.
I need to get inside. I need to help Linton. The phraseput him this far underis scary. What does it mean?
“Ah, the mate.”
If I thought my blood was cold before I heard the voice, it has turned to pure ice in my veins. I stand slowly and turn my head to one side.
Behind me stands a Faerie. Like the rest of them, he’s tall and handsome in an artificial way. But this one is dressed differently to those I’ve seen before. They preferred long elaborate flowing robes. This one is dressed in a manner I can only describe as New Romantic.
It appears he’s channelling his inner Adam Ant, only without the fun Eighties pop vibe.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say quickly, turning and bowing my head whilst executing a curtsy. “I work here…in the kitchens.” I wring my hands. “Please, my lord, I am fetching supplies and took a wrong turn.”
“Is that so?” he says, leaning past me and rapping on the door behind.
I get a gust of his scent, like old cheese. It makes me want to vomit, bile rising in my throat. He grabs my arm as the door behind me opens.
“Bring the Bluecap,” he snarls into the darkness.
There’s a rustling and scraping sound and, propped between the two monks, Linton appears.
“Kaitlyn.” He rasps my name, drool running from one corner of his mouth as he smiles. One arm reaches for me.
“You are mated to this…creature.” The Faerie shakes me.
“I’m not Kaitlyn,” I say rapidly. “My name is Rachel. I’m a witch from Moranick. I’m here because I owe money to the lenders’ guild. I don’t know whatthisis.”
I make a show of looking Linton up and down and, with an effort, curling my lip. Linton sways drunkenly between the two monks. It appears he doesn’t have much in the way of wits about him, and at least that means he hopefully doesn’t know what I’m saying.
That I’m denying him. I have to do it if I stand any chance of getting us both out of here and away from this Faerie.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, trying not to look at Linton’s crotch, which remains tented.
