Not Quite Human

Chapter 10

Two days. Neil had been missing for two days, and Damien was no closer to finding him.
He'd even slipped into the Unseelie Court himself, melting into the shadows, hoping to catch a fragment of conversation — anything at all. He'd come back with nothing. He tried not to think about what Neil was going through. He just wanted the boy back.
He made his way to his brother's chambers, which still felt strange — the fact that Abbadon was genuinely making an effort, despite everything between them. They had despised each other practically from birth. Or rather, Abbadon had despised him from the beginning, and Damien's feelings had simply grown to match over time. He pushed the door open to find his brother absent. Hissana was there, as always, settled quietly in his usual corner, watching Damien with calm, unreadable eyes. Damien had never actually heard Hissana speak. He sometimes wondered if he could. He sat down to wait, with Nerezza currently trying her own luck in the Unseelie Court — she knew its corridors far better than he did.
Abbadon arrived roughly an hour later. He wasn't alone. Behind him, looking thoroughly uncertain about being there, was a woodsprite — small, slight, with the nervous energy of someone who had been summoned against their better judgement.
Damien's first instinct was that his brother was mocking him. What use was a tree spirit?
He got his answer quickly enough.
According to the woodsprite, what had taken Neil was a Veila — a fey that used its voice to control and manipulate. Without its voice, a Veila was relatively weak, which was cold comfort given that Neil had clearly had no guard spell in place. Damien couldn't have anticipated the boy being targeted specifically, but that didn't make him feel any better about it. The woodsprite also confirmed that iron had been used. Damien's jaw tightened. He remembered with stark clarity the one time iron had been used on him — the way it had drained everything, made the pain feel total and inescapable. If Neil was still bound in it, these two days would have been agonising.
He knew it wasn't the woodsprite's fault. It hadn't caused any of this. But he couldn't quite suppress the anger at the fact that it had simply watched the whole thing unfold and said nothing until now.
Abbadon read his expression and dismissed the woodsprite before Damien did something he'd regret. The information wasn't much, but it was more than they'd had an hour ago. He'd already contacted Salazar — exceptional at tracking people who didn't want to be found — and called in the favour Salazar owed him. If the boy was still alive, he'd be home soon.
Damien chose to believe he was still alive.
Neil had lost track of time.
Two days, he thought, though he couldn't be certain. The routine had established itself with a grim sort of predictability: the man would come in, taunt him with something sharp, leave a bruise or two, knock him around until the pain reached a level Neil wasn't sure he could survive — and then leave, laughing. Occasionally he'd rip the tape off and shove food into Neil's mouth — stale bread, burnt chicken — before taping it shut again. Once he'd poured a full glass of water down his throat without warning, laughing while Neil choked.
Neil was starting to lose hope. If Damien and Nerezza were looking for him, wouldn't they have found him by now? Or had they moved on — still at the festival, not particularly bothered? He hadn't thought to ask how long the First Breeze lasted. He hadn't thought he'd need to know.
He felt a hand touch his cheek — smooth, unhurried — and went completely still.
It wasn't the man. His hands were rough and blistered. This was someone else. Another captor, perhaps. Another person come to hurt him. Neil turned his face away as far as he could manage.
The hand didn't strike him. Instead it found his wrists and carefully removed the handcuffs, then helped ease off the blindfold and the tape.
The light hit him like a physical thing. He blinked, eyes watering, adjusting slowly to the sudden brightness.
The person crouching in front of him was slender, dressed in a vivid green robe, with long black hair falling to his waist. His eyes were green too, and currently creased with amusement — as though arriving in a cell to rescue a battered near-stranger was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. In one pale hand he held Neil's pendant. He fastened it back around Neil's neck with the air of someone returning a lost item, mildly reproachful.
"You really shouldn't let strangers take me away from you," he said.
Neil stared at him. He had absolutely no idea what that meant.
The man chuckled at his expression and set about healing Neil's injuries with brisk efficiency. Neil exhaled slowly as the burning in his chest eased — he hadn't realised until it stopped how much of his energy had been going toward simply breathing through the pain. He didn't know who this person was, but he was willing to like him enormously on the basis of that alone.
"Can you get me out?" Neil asked. His voice came out rougher than expected — two days of disuse and very little water.
The man helped him sit upright before answering. "I'm afraid not, little one. There's a seal on this place — I can't get us out, but I can keep them from coming in. We'll have to wait for someone on the outside to do the honours." He paused, tilting his head with an expression of exaggerated concern. "You are rather cute, by the way, though I'm afraid you're in dire need of a bath." He sniffed the air in the manner of someone's very judgmental dog.
Then he straightened, smoothed his robe, and performed a small, entirely unnecessary curtsy.
"Where are my manners. Consider yourself fortunate, muffin — for I am Loki, one of the lords of the Abyss, entirely at your service."