Page 8 of The Howling (Monsters of the Yeavering #2)
I smell the Faerie Lord before I see him. The sickly scent of his magic crackles in my nostrils. I move to the rear of my cage. I don’t want to see another Faerie as long as I live.
“Barghest. Show yourself,” one of his pathetic lackeys calls out.
I huff into the straw I’m lying in. No one but a Faerie would want to see me.
“I can hear well enough where I am,” I growl.
I feel the pull of the magic. But magic doesn’t work on damned creatures like me.
It does, however, work on the straw, pulling the stuff from under me. I rise with a snarl, throwing myself at the bars with all the force I can muster.
They shudder against my onslaught, but they don’t budge…enough.
Of course, the Faerie are standing away from the iron. The look of distaste on the faces of Lord Guyzance’s courtiers at their surroundings is almost worth my loss of dignity after having my bed pulled from under me. One of them, an individual I know as Lord Soulis, hangs back from gaggle.
Doesn’t stop me releasing a number of snarls first in the hope it unnerves them.
“Keeping me here is only going to make your demise all the more painful,” I rasp.
Lord Guyzance laughs, looking down at his hand which is adorned with a jewelled ring on every single finger. Each one will contain some sort of magic and some sort of power. Not that an old Faerie like Guyzance needs any enhancements.
But I know him. I know his intentions. I know what he wants.
The same as any Faerie. He wants power and by capturing creatures such as myself, or attempting to get them on his side like he did with the Lambton Wyrm, which failed because the Wyrm is a contrary creature who has no loyalty, he thinks he can get it.
“I have my own arrangements with your master,” Guyzance says. “I have no fear of death.”
“I have no master,” I respond, knowing it is not entirely the truth.
“And yet, here you are.”
I slam my shoulder against the cage once again, making the iron rattle. I see one of the courtiers flinch, his translucent wings fluttering for a long second, and it fills my black heart with enjoyment.
“I won’t be here for long,” I say. “You couldn’t hold me last time.”
“You had help.” Lord Guyzance looks around him. “But where are your friends now?”
I release a low growl. I don’t expect to see the Wyrm or the Brag again. As for the Bluecap, the assassin could still be here for all I know, but he didn’t release me last time, and he won’t offer any assistance unless there’s something in it for him.
“I have no friends.”
“So true.” Guyzance shakes his head. “Which is why you’ll want to hear my proposal, if you ever want to see the moon again.”
I fix my eyes on his.
“Or if you ever want to be free to run.”
I release the catch on my trousers and move to the corner of my cage where I release a long stream of piss.
I maintain eye contact as the liquid streams out of me.
Behind him, the expressions on the faces of his courtiers say it all.
Disgust, anger, and disgust again. One of them, a hot head younger Faerie, moves towards me with a snarl.
As if, somehow, he can get past the iron.
Lord Guyzance puts out his bejewelled hand and stops him before the others pull him back. I give myself a shake and put my prick back.
“You were saying?” I raise my eyebrows. “This is my territory now. I do what I like, and when the Reaper needs me, he will come. No bars will stop him.”
“And yet, you could be using your singular talents to assist me and be richly rewarded,” Guyzance says quietly.
“I take souls. What would I do with Faerie gold?”
“I don’t mean gold, I mean freedom.”
I snort at his response. Like a Barghest can ever be free.
“What do you want?”
“There is a prisoner in the Night Lands. I want him back.”
“And why me? Why not send one of your…” I wave a clawed hand at his courtiers. “Hangers on?”
Hot head Faerie attempts a growl, despite being shushed by his colleagues.
“The Night Lands are no place for the Faerie, as you well know,” Guyzance says. “And the Brag is unlikely to surrender the prisoner I want.”
“You expect Warden to comply with me? You’re delusional,” I respond.
“I don’t expect you to get his permission, given you don’t bother with anyone else’s,” Lord Guyzance says. “Or”—he gestures to the bars—“you can stay here and enjoy my hospitality.” He looks over his shoulder at his courtiers. “Just how much meat does a Barghest eat?”
One of them pulls out what looks like a gold sheet and studies it.
“Three hogs, two hinds, twenty fowl. And that was this week, my Lord,” he says in a silly high-pitched voice, as if his balls haven’t yet dropped.
“That seems like a lot. I’m sure he can survive on less.”
“You won’t starve me.” I lean against the bars. “I don’t starve. I don’t die unless the Reaper grants it to me.”
Guyzance leans towards me, getting himself perilously close to the iron, which surely has to be as painful as hell.
“I don’t want you to starve. I want you to suffer. I will find your pain point and press, Reavely,” he hisses, before leaning back again. “Or you can make it easy for yourself and simply comply.”
I shove my face up against the bars.
“You can do what you want, Guyzance. I won’t ever work for the Faerie again.”
Behind the gaggle of males, there is a quiet clatter. Her scent hits me and nearly has my knees buckling. It’s beautiful, perfect…and tinged with the bitter whiff of fear.
She does not like the Faerie. I do not blame her.
Guyzance turns slowly in the direction of the noise, and I avert my eyes from where I know she stands.
“You have two days, Reavely, to make your decision.” He looks back at me. “Death might not be an option…for you, but living might be something you want to forgo if you don’t change your mind.”
I slam my clawed hand on the bars with as much force as I can muster. His lackeys step back, but Guyzance does not. He is a Faerie from the old lands, and there is little I could ever do which would make him quake.
“I will not bend to you.”
“As you wish, Barghest,” he gives me a short, brief bow as his eyes wander in the direction of Wynter. “Two days,” he repeats. “Or you will wish for the Reaper will come for you…or another.”