Page 2 of The Enemy to the Living (The Wild Hunt #2)

Asher

T he buzz of the tattoo needle is almost therapeutic at this point. I close my eyes as Iris moves it over my ribs, her hand steady and sure.

She doesn’t speak while she works, which is one of the reasons I come to her. The other is her eye—one, dark and narrowed, follows the curve of the lines she draws, but the other is covered by a plain black patch, though we both know what lies beneath.

It has been a few weeks since Meilyr’s detention and return to the Otherworld.

Maurice has been in London more often than ever before, and despite his new commitment to the vampire clan’s crai, he still appears to be finding time to be around the rest of us, spending many of his days at the Wild Hunt’s London base.

Iris lifts her needle from my skin. I don’t open my eyes. The pain is negligible at this point; the time I spend in this chair is limited only by her ability. She lets out a short breath and the needle whirrs again. I don’t move an inch.

Since the Huntsman returned Meilyr—disgraced, if nothing else—we have been on the lookout for the other two high fae who apparently made it through the veil. They are in London, to be sure. The Guardians told us so, and the Huntsman has confirmed it. But tracking them down…

It is frustrating. Hence, the new tattoo. Nothing clears my mind so well.

Iris eventually finishes and sets her needle aside. She wipes blood from my skin and I open my eyes just as she removes her eyepatch.

Her other eye is pale, hardly any colour to be seen at all, scars streaking jaggedly out from it in lightning bolts of silver against her pale skin.

Victim of a fae when she was too young to comprehend their deviousness.

She rolls both her eyes now, then focuses on the fresh tattoo, the red tenderness of my skin.

“Dunno why you watch.” Her tone is sullen and I feel the faintest pulse of fae magic coming from her.

I have never met another human quite like Iris, and I suspect she has always been a witch, though perhaps she was too young to know that when she met the fae.

Certainly, she can harness the magic that affected her eye, allowing her to see beyond the veil should she wish, and channel it into her art, creating tattoos that will remain even on my ever-healing skin.

Unlike the needle, the touch of her magic is cold and painful, iron slicing through my flesh.

I dig my fingers into the chair and bear it, wondering if I should have gone for something smaller when sweat breaks out on my brow.

I like this design, though, a neat Celtic knot that calls to something inside of me.

“That’s it,” Iris says a moment later. She sounds tired now and I let out my own heavy breath. “Take all the usual precautions and you should be healed up by tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

She turns away to start cleaning up and I get off the chair gingerly, peering down at the new ink on my skin. Every time is just as miraculous as the first—I lost a lot when I joined the Hunt, but having something so intentionally permanent is an interesting perk of what I have become.

I wrap the new tattoo myself and it’s when I’m pulling my T-shirt over my head that Iris speaks again. “I finished the other design you wanted me to work on,” she says.

My stomach drops. I tug my T-shirt down too hard, wincing when it pulls at my side. The skin is already tender from the tattoo itself, but it always takes a few hours for Iris’ magic to settle in around the blessing the Huntsman gave me.

“You did?”

When I look at Iris, she’s leaning back against the sink, arms crossed over her chest. Her dark hair is cut into a short bob, giving her a severe look and making her pale skin even paler.

She resembles a vampire far more than Grant does. Perhaps even more so than Maurice.

“I did,” she confirms. The patch is back in place and her lips twitch. “Let me know when you want to see it.”

My stomach churns. There is a space for it, this tattoo—a large, unmarked space on the left side of my chest, just where it belongs. But getting it feels as though I am finally letting go, and even after hundreds of years, I don’t feel ready for that.

“Not today. Maybe next time?”

Her visible eye narrows—she can see through me even without the magic of the other. “Maybe next time,” she echoes.

I follow her out to the front, and we settle the bill before I leave. The sound of the door locking reaches me on the street. I smile as I walk away. Iris is one of a handful of people I spend any time with outside of the Hunt, though I would not say we are friends.

Still, I want her to be safe. I wander vaguely back in the direction of Kensington, where our base sits, wondering what I will do tonight. There are no urgent jobs, which is why I booked the appointment—last minute, as ever—and Grant overheard, so he will no doubt wish to see what I have had done.

He has one small tattoo from before he was turned and has lamented on several occasions that he wants another. I do not know if Iris could help him, being as he is a vampire, but I am tempted to bring him along and ask.

But Vlad… Vlad is his sire, not his father, but he might not want it. I push my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I truly do not understand their relationship and, for once, I think the others are in agreement with me on that.

No, perhaps Paxton has some better idea. I shrug the thought away.

Regardless, I should ask. If nothing else, Vlad does not want Grant further embroiled in the Hunt’s activities, and a new tattoo might distract him from all that is happening.

Speak of the devil… My phone rings as I reach a crossing and I answer, waiting for the light to go green.

“We have found them.” Vlad’s voice is clipped, urgent. And quiet. He does not want Grant to overhear.

“Who? Where?”

“The high fae,” Vlad says. “There is a pub in Camden. They run it, from what I have been told. Run fights with fae and other supernatural creatures.”

“Fights?” I frown. The green man appears and I cross the road, increasing my pace once I’m on the other side. “What do you mean?”

“I will explain when you get here. How far are you?”

I glance around. “Half an hour?”

It is still light out, so if Vlad intends to come with me, we are not in that much of a rush.

“Very well,” he says. “I will inform you of the rest when you get here.”

Three hours later, we are both watching a small alley in Camden that is far darker than it should be. A glaistig guards it, eyes scanning the shadows, but I’m certain she hasn’t seen us, since both of us are using our blessings to hide.

“Do you think they’ll know if we go into it?” I mutter, referring to the deep shadows I cannot see through. No doubt they’re a security measure, though I don’t know if that means we’ll get lost in them.

Maurice won’t be back in London for a few days, and I understand the need for haste—one high fae on the loose is bad enough, so two is worse—but perhaps we should have waited.

“Uncertain,” Vlad replies. He is the dictionary definition of focus, gaze never wavering from our target. “There is one way to find out.”

“A dangerous one.”

He lets out a quiet hum. Is he thinking of calling the Huntsman? Of warning Grant? He cannot want to leave his turn behind.

“Come along,” he says, and I scowl at his broad back as he pushes off from the wall and strides across the street.

The glaistig does not stand a chance, and she is not without power herself. But Vlad has vampire speed along with his blessing, and he knocks her unconscious before she can do more than widen her eyes in surprise.

I glance up and down the street as he carries her body out of sight, not risking putting her in that alley of shadows.

Though I think the shadows are beginning to disperse some now, which might mean they were part of her magic, and that the fae we are truly after might have nothing to do with it at all.

“Remember what I said,” Vlad says, and I nod, tugging on my blessing, pulling it in deep.

Of everyone in the Wild Hunt, I have the most tenuous grasp on the magic the Huntsman gave me. Magic flows easily for Maurice, of course, since he was a witch even before he was a vampire; it wants to be a part of him, the way it used to be.

Rook and Saide were fae before they were bitten, and I’m not sure they ever took magic from the Huntsman at all. Vlad and Jeremiah are both vampires, were humans in life, and have worked hard to wield what they’ve been given.

Paxton has not been with us much longer than Grant, though he, at least, is a fully fledged member.

I think even he finds fae magic easier to use than I do.

Still, I corral it into my core, into that still-ragged space where something else used to sit. Vlad watches me, absolutely unreadable, but I think he is reaching for it—after a moment, he nods and pulls his own magic in with nothing more than a flick of his fingers.

We step into the darkness together.

It is heavy. Suffocating almost because when I glance back, it has swallowed me whole. My heart begins to race, even as I concentrate on moving forward, one foot in front of the other. I cannot see Vlad. Cannot hear him, cannot sense him.

What if he is not here at all? What if I have fallen into some other plane or through the veil itself? I don’t know what waits on the other side. None of us do. Maybe this is it. Maybe there is nothing for me to see.

I take another cautious step and light floods my vision, alcohol and smoke, sweat and blood invading my nose. Vlad is already at my elbow, steering me over to the bar.

The fae behind it, a clurichaun, wears no glamour, and their long, pointed ears twitch as they scoff. “You all right?”

“He will be fine,” Vlad says. A cold shiver rushes down my spine. Do they already know? Have they already—

The clurichaun pushes drinks in front of both of us and I realise Vlad already ordered. He turns me away from the bartender, who is now staring at me with much more curiosity in their gaze, and looks out over the room.

A cheer goes up through the doorway. There are vampires and wolves in here, but mostly fae, so perhaps we do not stand out that much at all.

“Drink,” Vlad murmurs. “We are here for a nice time.”

I arch a brow at him, but I know he can still hear how quickly my heart is going. “We are?”

He snorts and takes a sip of his own drink. When he aims a curious glance at the doorway, the bartender sidles up to us again. “Here to gamble or to fight?”

Vlad wrinkles his nose. “What do you think?”

The clurichaun’s lips twitch, showing just a flash of sharp teeth. I don’t think they suspect who we are, which is no small relief. Of course my near panic attack probably helped with that. I roll my eyes at myself internally and take a heavy gulp of my drink.

“Well, there’s the wolf up next,” the bartender says. “One of them. He’s only a babe, but he hasn’t done badly in his last three fights.”

“Oh?” Vlad angles his body in and the clurichaun mirrors him, leaning against the top of the bar.

“He doesn’t shift, but he’s an agile fighter. Took down a selkie his first time, then two banshees and a dryad.”

I frown, peering through the crowd in the next room. It sounds like the new contender is entering what I can now see is a tall cage. From this angle, I can’t see either fighter, though I’m unwilling to leave Vlad behind to go take a look.

“And who takes the bets?”

“The twins,” the bartender says. “Well, their men. You’ll have to go through, see if you can get in to bet on the first round.”

Vlad drains his drink and grins, but only with his mouth. “Thank you for the help.”

I leave half of my own drink behind as I trail him into the next room.

“Plan?” I mutter.

“Twins,” he says just as quietly back. The crowd is packed in, all kinds of fae mixed with wolves and vampires and I think the odd human, and from the sounds they’re making, the fight has already begun.

I don’t look at that. I’m scanning the room just like Vlad is, searching for these twins—the high fae we’re likely after. They won’t be in the cage. They’re running the show.

Just as I spot the shadowed booth they have to be hiding in—why else would two trolls be flanking its sides—Vlad swears and grabs my arm. “Oh, hell.”

“What?”

He’s staring into the cage, and when I follow his gaze, my heart sinks. We both recognise the wolf fighting in there. Quinn. The wolf who killed a vampire. The wolf who, very recently, narrowly avoided a challenge with another vampire over that same murder.

The wolf who the bartender is apparently right about because Quinn is fighting a troll, and he is more than holding his own.