Chapter 24
With careful fingers, Peter worked the muzzle off Michael, who sucked in a gulp of air.
“Corvin…”
“I’m here, I’m here.”
Sweet Corvin abandoned his attempt to get Michael’s arms free in favor of running fingers over his beloved’s face and pressing a careful kiss to his lips.
Peter left them to it, moving around Michael to cut the rope off him with his sword, taking care not to nick skin that was scraped and chafed raw already from Michael’s attempts to get free.
“Peter,” Michael said.
“Right here.” With a deft movement, Peter cut the rope, then went to unravel it. Carl-Conrad booped him in the shoulder to point out the rope around the knees. “Yes, one moment.”
“There are Fae here,” Michael went on. “Two of them.”
Corvin hushed him. “They got the fucker.”
“Yes, we got both of them.” Peter undid the rope at Michael’s knees by hand rather than using the sword. “And we should leave now. There’s no need to stick around.”
Corvin looked up, his face half in shadow. “Seconded. I don’t even want to know what they were planning to do with us. They just came after us, you know?”
Michael huffed. “They realized I’m a siren. It’s my fault. I should’ve made you stay at the library.”
Corvin hushed him again. “It’s fucking not, and I said I was coming.” He sniffled. “This is too much like the resort.”
“No zombies though,” Peter said, finally getting Michael’s knees free. “And no water. I’m glad for that. Now, let’s get you back up on your feet, Michael.”
Michael shook his head. “Corvin’s hands. Help him.”
Peter sighed. “Of course. We were in a bit of a rush earlier.”
About two minutes later, Peter’s favorite couple was rope-free, and while Corvin had slung one of Michael’s arms over his shoulder, Peter was taking the other, his sword in one hand, which made the whole operation of moving toward the exit awkward.
“I’m sorry. They hit me with something. Some magic.” Michael was swaying as he spoke. “I’m feeling better already.”
“You almost passed out.” Corvin picked up Peter’s phone off the crate, which made the three of them wobble even as Carl-Conrad rounded them, presumably to lead the way.
Michael chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry I made you come. It’s just—fuck. Peter, is Theo okay? He called me, and he was really upset. I could hear it in his voice.”
“He is. Thank you for making sure. Thank you for going to him right away.”
Michael huffed. “Yeah, well. Obviously.”
Ahead of them, Carl-Conrad growled and stopped. They were in the stuffed tool room.
“Shit, what now?” Corvin whispered.
Michael seemed to have abandoned the idea of holding his head up and let it sag against Peter’s shoulder. “This basement is bad. Corners all over. It makes sound travel weirdly. I don’t hear anything.”
Peter didn’t either, but he was near certain that Carl-Conrad could smell something. And, much to his chagrin, he was also certain that the werewolf’s nose was better than his own.
“We’ll advance with care.”
Carl-Conrad nodded, the movement almost invisible in the faint phone light.
They went forward, and while Peter was trying, it wasn’t easy to do as quietly as he would have liked.
Michael was dragging his feet, and Corvin was in no way suited to half carry his fiancé.
It was an awkward procession at best, but one step after another, they made their way forward.
It was when they left the room with the tools that Peter heard it; the sound of a fight.
They were back in the wine cellar now, close to where Corvin had been bound to the wall. Ahead of them, flickering lights painted the shadows of the struggle against the rough stone and high ceilings, and Carl-Conrad dashed forward without waiting.
Peter clicked his tongue. “You two, wait here.” He maneuvered Michael toward the wall, or tried his best, then extricated himself and ran toward the light.
Someone had freed Miel, and he’d made it down here on his wobbly knee, accompanied by an older Fae, recognizable as such only by a few more lines on an otherwise smooth face drawn into a mask of fury as he clashed with Laurette.
The older Fae had two short swords, one in each hand, and he was moving competently, having so far parried Laurette.
Carl-Conrad was aiming for Miel’s groin area, and as Peter watched, the werewolf bit the Fae right between the legs.
There was a high scream. Carl-Conrad had hit his mark. It was a perfect opening for Peter, who was coming in behind the older Fae—the stepfather, presumably.
He didn’t know what Laurette had planned for these Fae, and while the Elven lord had asked for decapitations earlier, he’d also spared one of them already.
Peter adjusted the angle of his sword accordingly and ran it through the Fae’s shoulder, doing his best not to hit any of the important bits, like arteries and such.
There was another scream, and the Fae dropped one of his blades while holding on to the other. Over the Fae’s shoulder, Peter saw Laurette grin and swing his own sword at the Fae’s arm. It cut, and moments later, the second blade dropped.
The screaming should have been over then—Miel was still going on, but he was losing steam—but it picked up when from the side, people came running at them.
Peter recognized the voice even before he had time to turn. This was Theodore, Theodore who shouldn’t be here. But if he is, he’s safe, unhurt.
There was a thud, and when Peter did turn, it was just in time to see Theodore hit Miel’s arm with a poker, of all things.
“Well done,” Peter heard himself say.
Theodore, eyes wild, turned to him. His gaze wandered from Peter’s face to his arm, all the way to the Fae pinned on the tip of his sword.
“Oh.” He lowered the poker, but as soon as he did that, Miel tried hitting him but was blocked by Cloudtree, who was holding a poker too.
“Wasn’t this a fun rescue?” Laurette said. “Gertude, how’s the eye?”
Over the commotion and the whimpering and groans, Peter saw the pixie coving her left eye with a hand. “It’ll be fine, my lord. Just a bit swollen.”
“You cut my arm!” the Fae Peter had pinned complained.
Laurette pushed out his bottom lip. “Yeah. I think I meant to cut it off, but look how it’s still there and all. Fully attached, but limp like your cock.”
“I shall—”
Peter twisted his sword before pulling it out. The Fae screamed once, then sagged to the ground, whimpering.
The whimpering was echoed right back from Miel. “M-my…manhood…”
Theodore dropped his poker and came for Peter, wrapping his arms around his neck while Cloudtree said, “What’s the matter with your manhood, stepbrother?”
The words sounded both bitter and sad, but Peter didn’t care. Well, not much. Theodore’s mouth was close to his ear, and on a whisper, he said, “Did they get you?”
“No. All is well.”
Shuffling from behind him made Peter turn.
“Oh, wow. Fuck me.” Corvin had managed to walk Michael forward. Michael looked just about alert enough to use his siren voice if need be. He was narrowing his eyes on Laurette.
Holding Theodore close—nearly carrying him, truth be told—Peter stepped in front of Laurette.
“Michael, Corvin. May I present Lord Laurette of the Silver Moons? Lord Laurette, these are Michael Cantus and his fiancé, Corvin Belya.”
“Adorable!” Laurette walked right up to them and bent to get a better look at Michael. “My. Draining spell, I’d say. You’ll be fine with some rest though, nothing to worry about.”
“Really?” Corvin’s voice was full of relief and hope. “He just collapsed, and I thought…”
Laurette patted Corvin’s shoulder. “No lasting effects with this spell. That’s not what these hunters were going for.”
“They wanted to have fun with what they caught.” Cloudtree’s voice was loud in the echoing wine cellar, and it made Theodore shiver in Peter’s arms.
Unfortunately, no one had yet cut out the Faes’ tongues, which meant unless they were busy crying over their werewolf-bitten manhood, they could still speak.
Peter had always disliked the talking most about taking live prisoners.
And about the chieftains he’d ransomed, of course.
Ransoming a talker was a particular cosmic punishment.
“You fool! You have conspired with this refuse to get what is mine,” the stepfather said. “I should’ve kicked you out of the house as soon as your mother left, or better yet, sold you.”
“We’ll sell him still.” Chambord, the one whose life Laurette had spared, seemed to have gotten over being winded. “Or feed him to the ground and plant flowers on his bones.”
Peter cackled while stroking Theodore’s head. “As if you could tend to flowers. Evidence suggests you can tend to nothing past the tips of your own snotty noses.”
Laurette hummed. “Oh, that is well, Peter, though I’d have said they can barely take care of their own farting assholes, but no matter.” He looked like a shark again, this time the kind that would happily eat people. “I think I know exactly what we’ll do with them.”