Not Quite Human

Chapter 9

Neil woke in a daze and immediately tried to get up, only to hit the floor face first. He panicked. His hands were bound in something that burned against his skin, and when he forced his eyes open there was nothing — pure, endless black. Blindfolded too, then. He struggled, making muffled sounds against the tape sealed over his mouth, his breathing coming fast and ragged.
He felt worse than a sacrificial lamb. At least a sacrificial lamb didn't know what was coming. Neil knew exactly enough to be terrified, and not nearly enough to do anything about it. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating, and he had the horrible, irrational sensation of drowning somewhere with no water and no bottom.
He went rigid at the sound of footsteps. Unhurried, deliberate — the walk of someone with all the time in the world. A deep chuckle reached him before his pendant was ripped from his neck in one sharp motion, the chain burning as it went. He tried to speak through the tape, to reason with whoever this was, because surely — surely — they had the wrong person.
The slap came without warning and threw him to the floor. He lay there stunned, breath coming in short, painful bursts. Something in his ribs felt wrong. He didn't move. A traitorous tear tracked down his cheek and he couldn't do anything about that either, hands bound, face down, waiting for whatever came next. He made himself stay still, hoping that stillness might make it hurt less.
The person dragged him up by his shirt and threw him against the wall. His chest felt like it was full of burning wire. Then a hand fisted in his hair and wrenched his head back, exposing his throat. Neil stopped breathing entirely when he felt the blade — cold, unhurried, tracing slow, deliberate circles against his skin. A small bead of blood welled up where it pressed. Not enough to be serious. Just enough to make a point.
Then the footsteps retreated. The person walked away laughing, leaving Neil trembling against the wall, alone with the darkness and the sound of his own breathing.
His mind immediately offered him a comprehensive list of worst-case scenarios. Fingers removed one by one. Starvation — his stomach was already making its feelings known on that front. He was too young for this. He hadn't even finished his new copy of Good Omens.
Damien had not slept.
He'd noticed Neil was missing within minutes of it happening and had spent the entire night and the morning after in an increasingly desperate search. He and Nerezza had exhausted every option — called in favours, dispatched search teams, covered every location Neil might conceivably have gone. Nothing. It was his fault. He should have kept a closer eye on the boy, should never have brought him to the First Breeze at all. Neil was too new to this world, too exposed, and Damien had been careless.
He stood outside his brother's door and knocked.
Hissana answered and stepped aside without a word to let him in.
Abbadon looked up from his desk with a smirk, asking with considerable sarcasm what exactly had brought his brother to his door. Damien took a breath, counted to ten, and didn't take the bait. Not today. Not with Neil's life on the line. He asked his brother for help — plainly, without pretence, for the first time in his very long life.
Abbadon's smirk faded.
He knew how much Damien despised him, and with good reason. That Damien had come here at all, stripped of his pride, meant the boy mattered to him enormously. Part of Abbadon wanted to savour it — to let Damien feel every inch of the humiliation. He was on the verge of doing exactly that when Hissana caught his eye and gave the smallest, quietest shake of his head.
Abbadon had not known what love was until he'd found Hissana — hurt and alone and crying in a corner somewhere, his heart too open and too good for the world he'd been placed in. He had never been able to deny him anything that mattered.
He looked back at Damien, who sat across from him looking more vulnerable than Abbadon had ever seen him, and sighed. "Are there any reasons why someone would take the boy?" he asked.
Damien exhaled. He told his brother that Neil was Belladur's son.
Abbadon made a sound of grim amusement. That didn't narrow the list — if anything, it expanded it considerably. Just about any noteworthy fey had cause to hold a grudge against Belladur.
Damien hesitated. Then he added that Neil was a blood fey. Newly come of age.
That gave Abbadon pause. Blood fey were rare and extraordinarily powerful, but one who had only just come of age would be almost entirely defenceless — barely aware of what they were capable of, wide open to attack. Iron alone would be enough to drain them completely. No fey was immune to iron; the skill lay in sensing it early and keeping well clear of it. A newly changed blood fey wouldn't yet have that instinct.
Abbadon studied his brother for a long moment, then stood. It was time to bring a few people out of the shadows — feys who had dropped off the radar for reasons of their own. Their involvement would make this considerably less messy.
He didn't tell Damien that. He just reached for his coat.