Chapter 18
B lade in hand, Aelrie stalked through the colony of mushrooms, her steps light. The shadows intensified around every corner, and the air was unnaturally still.
A deadly silence had fallen, like the sharp intake of breath before a plummet.
A voice then broke through the murk.
“Pretty little Light Elf. Lost in the dark.”
Her muscles coiled. She spun in place with blade ready, but no one was there.
Where had the voice come from? Behind her? In front of her?
A sudden pressure then seized her arm. Her breath caught. She couldn’t move. Her hand trembled, and the dagger along with it.
She watched dumbfoundedly as her own arm threw the blade, her only weapon, far from her reach.
This was Dark Elf magic—manipulation. She gritted her teeth. Breathe. There must be a way to fight it.
Focus. Anchor your mind.
“Stay still. I won’t hurt you …. much.” The voice was behind her.
On instinct, she turned and slammed her fist straight into the first thing she saw, a Dark Elf cloaked in a rich, amethyst cape. Her punch landed squarely in his throat. He staggered back, choking and coughing, one hand clutching his neck.
Disregarding useless banter, she’d immediately attacked before he could use the spell again.
“Grab her!” Another voice rang out.
She whipped around as a second figure emerged from the shadows.
She raised her fists, ready for a fight.
But, out of nowhere, a third attacker slammed into her from behind. Arms wrapped around her, pinning hers behind her back in a tight lock. She struggled violently to free herself, lashing out with kicks.
The Dark Elf in front moved toward her. When he got closer, she kicked at him, aiming for his male parts.
But he jumped back with a smirk, only toying with her.
She kicked him each time he advanced, but every time he slid out of the way so she would miss, making her grow tired with her useless effort.
Then another pair of hands seized her ankle.
Four of them!
Her leg jerked upward, held tight. She let out a holler and tried to free herself, but that only seemed to excite them. The elf in front caught her other leg. Together, they brought her down to the ground.
She thrashed and screamed, but she was held fast, her arms and legs pinned. Her breath came fast, and she fought with all her fury despite her limited motion .
The Dark Elf in the richly decorated clothes found his breath again. “You’ll regret that, Ljósálfar,” he spat. “I like my playthings charmed but breaking you could also prove fun.”
He made a movement toward her while pushing his cloak out of the way to reach his pants, but stopped. “I was going to be kind and keep you all to myself. But my boys look hungry.”
Cruel laughter sounded around her.
“You lot can help yourselves to the leftovers.”
After he said this, though, he fell straight forward and flat on his face.
Shikra was on top of him with a dagger to his back.
“Release her, now!” he growled. To further prove his point, he pressed his knee harder into the elf’s back, which made him cry out in pain as he positioned the blade in an opportune spot on his back to strike the kidney.
“Do it, do as he says!” the Dark Elf cried to his underlings.
The grips on her arms and legs gave. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her hands shook as she regained herself, running to Shikra as soon as he stood up off the elf.
The underlings helped the Dark Elf up with deference, marking him as someone of wealth and privilege. The great Houses ruled in the Evergloom, much like the Elven Council did in Alfheim.
“Where did you run off to, slave?” Shikra pulled her by the wrist, bringing her closer to him. She knew the “slave” comment was to put on a show, but the annoyance evident in his voice was not .
“She’s your slave? We watched her come down on the elevator, alone.” The rich Dark Elf pointed his finger accusingly at Shikra. “This is what you get for allowing your slave free roam.”
Shikra turned to give her a glare. She looked down, unable to meet his eyes.
The arrogant elf’s lips curled into a sneer as he sized Shikra up. “How did the likes of you even afford a Ljósálfar slave? Why, you look like nothing more than a common assassin, much like my own. Tell me, assassin, how many throats did you slit to claim her?”
“There’ll be one more if you don’t shut your mouth.” Shikra’s voice was the angriest she’d heard from him.
The underlings gripped their blades tightly.
“How dare!” The Dark Elf retorted, incensed. “You stand in the presence of the first son of House Darkmoon, Draven Darkmoon. Answer promptly when addressed by your betters.”
“Are you so certain you are my better? My blade at your back didn’t think so,” Shikra countered.
“Insolent twit.” Draven’s voice turned shrill. “I should have you cut into pieces and fed to my goblins.”
“To a son of House Shadowblade?”
Draven Darkmoon was taken aback. “House Shadowblade? You don’t mean to tell me you are with House Shadowblade.”
“The first son of House Shadowblade.”
Draven’s look turned into one of disbelief. “The only son of House Shadowblade is still but a child. Therefore, not you, obviously. Unless …” He paused and then laughed richly. “You are his bastard.”
Shikra didn’t respond to his goading but pulled Aelrie behind him.
Draven continued laughing. “That’s it, isn’t it? You are merely the bastard son and not the first son, such as myself. How droll. A blade without a house, only a shadow. The unwanted dog always barks the loudest, as they say…”
Draven was trying to goad him into a fight, but it wasn’t working. Even though his eyes pointed daggers at Draven and his body coiled for attack, Shikra held back.
Was it because of House Darkmoon?
“But … bastard son or not, at least you’re not an illegitimate daughter… And I cannot contend with House Shadowblade now. I have far more important duties I must attend to.” Draven tightened his gem-colored cloak around him.
He looked like he was about to take his leave, but then stopped. “Actually, you could help me with that. My sister, second daughter and youngest of House Darkmoon, is missing. Find her and you shall be rewarded. Perhaps even enough to buy a new sex slave with.”
Aelrie shuddered at the term “sex slave,” something she almost became. Her dislike of this “first son of House Darkmoon” grew. She should have gone for his eyes instead of his neck. That way, he’d never be able to look upon her again.
“Very well, bastard son of House Shadowblade, I will leave you with this. Keep your slave on a tight leash. Beauty and other rarities are only possessions for the legitimate heirs of wealthy Houses to play with and discard. You would do well to remember that.” Draven Darkmoon dismissed himself and left with his underlings.
She turned to Shikra once they were gone.
The first thing she wanted to ask him was if it was true or not.
Was he really the bastard son of a great Dark Elf House?
But when she saw his face, she decided against it.
It was the angriest she’d ever seen him look before.
Aelrie had a tenacity about her that always kept her head held high in the face of adversity, but one look at his face and she reconsidered that.