Immortal: Curse of the Deathless

Chapter 7 (Part 2: The Fae Realm)

Asher opened his eyes to see the world had regained its colors. Before he could examine his surroundings, the sound of retching caught his attention. Állen was laying on his side throwing up. The vile, chunky mixture was dark as blood from the wine he drank at the Foël residence.

Asher leaned over his prostrate form. "Gross. I knew you were the delicate type, but this is rich," Asher said.

Állen's face was drawn and pale, but his glare was no less sharp. "It was your disgusting face that put me in this state—" Állen cut off to dry-heave, nothing but bile leaving his mouth.

"Whatever you say, princess," Asher said, turning away from the sorry sight.

Asher had actually appeared on a pad of sorts, an upraised crystal dais more than fifty paces across. Whoever had designed this place had the foresight to accommodate large numbers. Besides the landing pad, the room was starkly designed, almost military. Arrow slits spotted the stone walls, which were wide enough to peer or shoot through. Through the cracks, warm sunlight flowed through like honey. The only exit was a small door, but when Asher approached he discovered there wasn't a handle on the inside.

These people are pretty cautious. I suppose a fragile immortality makes for a paranoid existence?

Asher walked back over to a groaning Állen. "Wake up, lover boy. How do we get out of this deathtrap without getting turned into human pincushions? Is there a secret knock, or some kind of password?"

"Such knowledge is not for you," Állen said, struggling mightily to bring his bowels under control.

Asher slapped him heartily on the back and winked. "Come on, don't hold out on me, bro. We're going to be family!"

The blow sent Állen into another round of convulsions. "I find myself wondering what it would feel to choke you with your own intestines. Do you find yourself partial to the idea?"

"Someone's cranky. Here, up we go," Asher said.

Asher heaved and picked Állen up from beneath his right shoulder. The gilded prince's weight dug into his side as he laboriously made his way to the door. Állen could do no more than groan as he hobbled along. Any moment he might trip and fall, then both of them would go tumbling to the ground.

"No! You must not approach the door, not while I am in this state," Állen said.

"Worried about appearances? What, does the Summer Court look down on princes with weak constitutions or something?" Asher said.

"My sister, Áine— she has remedies prepared for these types of situations," Állen said and whispered a mangled, guttural phrase into his ear. "Knock just so," Állen showed him how it was done, "Then leave me to the side of the door, where I cannot be seen when it is opened."

"Right," Asher said, allowing himself a smug smile before complying.

The door opened a crack after he knocked and repeated the phrase. Asher asked the vigilant guard to send for Áine, then slid down the door with his back. He let the growing tension within him settle, relaxing his posture and flexing his right wrist experimentally. No matter how many times his body righted itself, it always took some getting used to. He turned over his left wrist, expecting to see a jagged scar there, seeing it plainly in his mind's eye. Instead, the tanned flesh was smooth and unblemished; there wasn't a scar to be found anywhere on him. If the body was the roadmap to the soul that recorded the deeds and misdeeds of a life, he was a blank page.

"An undying monster with a pretty face— the worst kind," Asher said, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

"A half-breed more authentic than any pureblood. You make a pretender of a race purported to be untouched by the ravages of time. Most Sídthe would be jealous of your gift, and despise you for it."