Bound to the Prince Read online

  Elathan was still trying to understand what had occurred when he heard deep, ragged sobs, not realizing that they came from his own chest. The elven warriors, finally having driven their enemies away and basking in their victory, turned around when they heard their beloved prince cry out his agony to the heavens. When they joined Elathan, they found him crouched over Lady Ailidh’s shattered body.

  Laying down their weapons, one after the other knelt down in a circle around the royal cousins, weeping with their prince. They had never seen him cry before, not even when he was beaten half to death at his own father's command. Now, Elathan's newly scarred face was a mask of pain, but his eyes were burning with hatred for the humans who took her from him. Raising his eyes to the heavens, he swore to the gods that he would have his revenge on every mortal who ever dared to cross his path.

  Chapter 1: Blackfriars Bridge

  It was the end.

  As Igraine looked down from Blackfriars Bridge, her eyes tried to pierce the darkness to see the dirty water below. The river’s surface was already covered with a layer of fog that grew thicker with every minute, making it impossible to estimate how long her fall would be. She doubted that the impact alone would kill her, but the shock of it, combined with the icy temperature of the water, would finish her off for sure. If she waited until the Thames was cloaked into heavy fog, it would be easier to jump, not having to overcome her fear of heights.

  It would take just one small step. The grey cloud would swallow her silently, and the world would move on as if she had never existed. On such a night, only few boats were on the Thames, so probably no one would fish her out of the water to save her. She felt a sudden coldness spreading through her chest, and she knew that it had nothing to do with the October winds that swept over the bridge.

  She had not planned this, not even thought about it before. She had walked the streets of London for hours this night after spending the evening in the National Portrait Gallery. She had gone to one of the upper floors and visited the large collection of Tudor paintings, displayed in a dimly lit corridor. History had always fascinated her; faraway times and cultures so different from this world, tales from people who had lived and breathed, loved and died with passion although life had been short and full of hardships.

  The long-deceased men and women on the paintings had looked down their aristocratic noses to watch her while she moved about; their lifeless eyes following Igraine. They seemed to mock her, a woman in her thirties, who was spending what should have been her wedding trip on her own. She was walking the silent, lonely corridors of the gallery at night while the streets around her bustled and hummed with life.

  Having left the gallery, her steps led her automatically towards the river. Going east, following the embankment, she saw the red-and-white wrought iron arches of the bridge looming in the distance and knew that this was her destination. Finally, she climbed the stairs to Blackfriars. It was blocked off for traffic due to renovation works, but she just ducked under the barrier and walked up the sidewalk until she reached the middle of the deserted bridge. She went to the railing and looked over at the nearby remnants of a demolished old railway bridge. Pairs of massive red columns protruded from the river like the teeth of a dead whale.

  Maybe it was something she had read about this bridge which had led her here. In Victorian times, it had been a popular place for desperate women to commit suicide. Most of them had fallen from grace, impoverished and without hope, often pregnant with an unwanted, illegitimate child. The dignified presence of the bridge had separated them from St. Paul’s, a symbol of faith and purity.

  Igraine looked to the north, where the cathedral’s gloomy dome stood guard over the city. Suddenly, she realized how many generations of people had come and gone here, and she knew that it didn’t really matter what happened to her. The world would have forgotten her very soon. She was nothing but a light breeze that had moved the leaves of a huge old tree just for a short moment, then vanished into the air, never to be remembered.

  She leaned against the railing and buried her face in her hands, her ragged breath rapidly turning into deep, painful sobs. There was only one question in her mind, growing louder and louder until she wanted to cry it out to the night, demanding an answer.

  Why? Why couldn't he just love me? I did everything I could to make him. What is wrong with me?

  She knew how foolish this was, like a little girl who couldn't understand why someone she loved had left her. Rationally, she knew that it had not been her fault, that he simply was a lying, betraying jerk who wasn't worthy of her love.

  However, a little voice inside her head told her otherwise; said that she was just not the type of woman to attract a man’s love; that she would never be good enough, no matter how hard she tried. And what was worse, she knew that this belief was embedded so deeply inside her heart that it would always end like that if she hoped to find love. Anger rose in her. She hit the cold metal of the balustrade with her fist until her hand was bruised and bleeding, a most welcome feeling. The physical pain felt good; much better than the one burning inside her chest that threatened to rip her apart. It hit her with the might of a storm, wave after furious wave. She didn't want to hurt anymore. Feeling nothing would be a blessing.

  Igraine straightened her back and leaned forward, looking down into the swirling fog. In that moment, everything inside her knew how wrong this was. No. Don’t let him win. You’ll find a way to shield yourself, to survive this. She hesitated, starting to retreat to the safety of the bridge. It was just at this instant that she knew that she was not alone.

  Somebody was watching her.

  She looked around, checking both sides of the bridge. Nobody. But she was sure that there had to be someone. The skin at the back of her neck began to tingle. Shivers of awareness ran down her spine. The ice-cold wind brought tears to her eyes and blew her long curls into her face, so she could hardly recognize anything. Suddenly, she felt vulnerable; frightened like a small animal, while a predator lurked in the dark, waiting for the right moment to kill his prey.

  Igraine directed her eyes to the columns of the demolished bridge. It was too dark to see clearly, but on one of them a large black shadow that had been crouching there slowly rose against the starless sky. It could not be a human being. How could anyone have gotten onto that ruin, with no way to cross the deep chasm between the bridges? But it stared at her as if it wanted to look right into her soul, she was sure of that.

  She whirled around and started to run for her life. Only a few moments later she heard a deep, heavy thud behind her that made the bridge vibrate under her feet, but she did not turn back. Then she heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming after her, and he was fast like the wind that tore at her body and hindered her progress. Yet Igraine managed to make it almost to the end of the bridge. Almost.

  She never saw it coming. She was thrown down to the ground by a heavy weight, driving the breath out of her lungs, so she couldn't even scream. Panicking, she struggled to free herself, but to no avail. Suddenly, a smooth piece of fabric covered her head, and she became rigid with fear. My God, he will choke me to death, she thought. She tried to speak, to beg for her life, but every sound was suffocated by a piece of fabric that felt like pure silk against her skin.

  But isn’t this just what you wanted? Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true. The self-mocking thought was her last before a merciful darkness came upon her and swallowed her whole.

  Chapter 2: The Angel of Death

  “I command you to awaken, human.”

  As Igraine drifted peacefully in a warm, liquid darkness, the unknown voice cut through her mind like a knife, calling her. “Wake up,” the stranger said again. He was obviously male. His voice sounded deep and rich, and strangely alluring. She had no choice but to follow his orders, and was driven up to the surface of her consciousness against her will. Whoever spoke to her in her dreamless bliss, used a gentle, yet underlying iron force to make her listen to
him. It almost felt like magic.

  “Is this it? Am I dead?” she whispered to herself, not knowing nor caring if her mysterious companion heard her words. Was this heaven, hell, or a completely different place altogether? Maybe there was a special hell to punish nearly-suicidal women who had – though only for a very short moment – thought about jumping off a bridge. “I admit I was a coward even considering the possibility,” she murmured to the dark presence sitting at her bedside. At least she believed that she was resting on a bed. Or was it a coffin? “Now you can condemn me to eternal pain or whatever people like me deserve.”

  A deep, mocking laughter startled Igraine, and she opened her eyes, blinking to clear her vision. As she had expected, there was no light. Surprisingly, the dark didn't frighten her, but felt warm and soothing. Blinking hard, she tried to adjust her eyes to the impenetrable blackness, but all she saw was the stranger's shadowy form beside her. He seemed to be tall and broad-shouldered, and undeniably male. She felt that his presence affected her body. Her breasts felt tight and heavy, and without realizing it, she inhaled his incredible, wonderful scent. He smelled clean, but somehow exotic. Maybe he used a very special, expensive brand of aftershave. It was decidedly masculine, earthy and fresh at the same time … and irresistible. She felt herself irresistibly drawn to him. Something soft and silky brushed her arm when he moved his head, watching her in the darkness. Igraine had the distinct feeling that he could see her clearly. She did not know what led her to this conclusion, but knew he stared at her. She felt his gaze as it wandered over her face, then her body. It made her skin prickle. He was so near she could hear him breathe, a deep and even sound. Shivering, Igraine sat up and forced herself to straighten her back. She didn't want to think about the reactions he caused within her when she had not even seen the man.

  The Angel of Death, she thought. Her own personal one. By now, she was quite sure that she still lived, but she doubted that this enjoyable condition would last very long. “Are you the one who attacked me on the bridge?” she asked. Maybe he had a partner in crime? Her own voice sounded strange in her ears, harsh and raspy. “You covered my head with some kind of fabric.”

  “I cannot deny it, human,” the stranger answered. “I had to make sure you would not get away. And it was necessary to prevent you from seeing where I brought you,” he chuckled to himself. “You were easy prey, though. It would be much harder to catch and skin a rabbit.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Was this the fate he intended for her? “Will you skin me, too?” she whispered, at the same time realizing how foolish she sounded.

  “Do not be ridiculous, wench,” he said with blatant disgust. “You would not be worth the effort. I have never eaten a human, but I strongly doubt you would taste good, with your weak, shivering flesh. So frightened, always overcome with fear and eager to protect your worthless lives.” With his words, he seemed to address the whole of humankind - with the evident exclusion of himself - which proved to Igraine that he was totally insane. It made her shiver with fear, indeed.

  Now what did this man plan to do to her? Rape, torture? If she was lucky, he'd just kill her (hopefully quickly), and throw her lifeless body away like garbage. She was quite sure that he was plain crazy. Calling her “human” indicated that he had some kind of schizophrenic disorder. Maybe this madman believed himself to be a vampire or some other supernatural being; it didn't really matter if he intended to kill her. But how could she try to escape? Should she jump up and try to run into the total darkness, hoping he'd murder her out of rage? Her death would be quick, at least. Being an avid watcher of crime shows on TV, she knew that no matter what she said or did, he would kill her anyway. It simply was too risky to let the victim go. Remembering the almost supernatural speed with which he had moved when he had kidnapped her from the bridge, she had no hope that she could ever outrun him. It was hard to predict his reaction. Perhaps she'd make him really angry by trying to flee, and her torment would last even longer - or whatever that sadistic psycho had in store for her. Either way, she was screwed.

  “Don't even think about it,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I am much faster than you. You can't see in the dark. Where could you possibly run to?”

  Gasping with surprise, Igraine stretched out her hand and searched the bed for something to take hold of. Finally, she found a thick, solid rod that felt like wood – a bedpost, she presumed. Grabbing it, she swung her legs over the side of her resting place, hoping it wouldn't be her final one. If she was to die, it would be standing upright, facing whatever was to happen to her. Slowly, she rose, hoping that he didn't notice her shaking knees. Showing fear would only give him the pleasure of dominating her even more, helpless as she was.

  For a moment, she felt dizzy. The desire to lie down again was almost overwhelming, but she managed to keep standing. She couldn't sense his presence near her anymore. He seemed to have stepped away from the bed, although she had not heard his steps. Yet she still felt his eyes on her, watching her every move.

  “What did you do to me?” she whispered, “Drug me? Of course you did. What was it, benzodiazepines?”

  “Cease this senseless chatter instantly, human. I do not even know what you are talking about. Naturally, I used a spell on you to keep you unconscious while I brought you down here. I wonder you still feel its effect on you. But what kind of magic are those … benzodiazepines?”

  She shook her head. “Don't try to fool me. I know that you are mad as a hatter, but planning a kidnapping like this, drugging the victim and bringing her to wherever the heck we are requires an organized, clear-headed person. I am a nurse, you creep, so I know exactly how the minds of maniacs like you work,” she lied. Igraine worked in the hospital's department of dermatology, the most boring job she could think of. Treating skin rashes, acne and fungal infections was her daily job. Although she did have a certain amount of medical knowledge, she had never seen the clinic’s psychiatric facilities from the inside.

  He laughed again, obviously amused now. He seemed to enjoy playing with her for a while, like a cat that was in no hurry to kill a mouse it just caught. “Considering your poor human eyesight, I'll enlighten you now, woman. You do not seem to have the faintest idea to whom you are talking.”

  Suddenly, a golden light emanated from a corner just a few steps away, and Igraine saw that it came from a huge, antique brass candle holder. She was surrounded by grey stone walls that seemed to belong to some kind of cavern. She looked down at herself and realized that she was still wearing her college sweater, jeans and sneakers. Her clothes looked dirty and torn in some places, probably from her attempt to flee. She remembered that someone had jumped on her from behind, pinning her to the ground. Then, he had thrown something over her head.

  “Why did you cover my head?” she asked. “Did you try to suffocate me, but didn't succeed so you decided to drag me down to this cave instead? What is this, some underground lair to hide your victims?” She didn't know where she found the courage to speak to her kidnapper in such a way, but she had to keep him talking to her. Otherwise, her life might be over in a few seconds. Keep talking, she thought. For the first time, she noticed the countless adornments on the time-weathered walls. They looked old and strange, like symbols from a long-lost culture. She wondered who had carved them into the dark grey stone, for it had surely taken a whole lifetime to cover all the walls, using just a knife. But where was her kidnapper? He still hid in the shadows, having moved so silently that she couldn't imagine where he was lurking now. But she heard his voice again, devoid of any amusement in his tone now.

  “This lair happens to be my home, human.”

  She was standing in a large underground cave, without much furniture - just a hearth at the far end in which some charcoals still glowed, a long oak table at one wall with a pitcher and a water bowl for washing, as well as wooden dishes with food, fruit, bread and cheese. She had slept on a simple makeshift bed with a woolen blanket, but at least it looked clean. T
here were several other unlit candle holders like the first, one in each corner of the room.

  In the middle of the cave was a place clearly intended as a training area. While the rest of the floor was strewn with fresh straw, a large circle had been cleared, so the rough stone underneath could be seen. There were racks with all kinds of weapons, armor or other items used for warrior training – swords and spears with blunted tips, different wooden sticks, shields, ropes, even a longbow and arrows. “Is this some kind of medieval role playing game? Where am I?” Igraine hesitantly asked. The mental illness of her kidnapper seemed to be more complex than she had surmised. He didn't answer immediately.

  “These caves are underneath an estate near the large human settlement, Londinion,” he answered at last out of the darkness, his distaste obvious in his voice. Londinion was an ancient name for London, used by the Celts before the Romans came to Britain and called it Londinium. Igraine knew this from a history book about England she had bought in a bookshop just two days ago. She also knew that she really shouldn't have asked. For a kidnapper, it wasn't a good sign at all if he told her the whereabouts of his hiding place. It meant that he didn't intend to ever let her go.

  “Once they were built for secret meetings of bored, decadent noblemen. They called themselves the Devil's Society and used to celebrate black masses down here, fogging their senses with opium and having their way with young virgins they sacrificed on their altar of lust.” His dark laughter made her shiver with fear. “Of course they are long gone now; nothing but dust despite all their miserable efforts to practice black magic and become immortal. When I came to the human world, I found that this underground place served my purpose very well. No human ever comes down here since it was abandoned over two hundred years ago, and it had all the amenities I required. Your kin seem to have forgotten it. Don't even think about fleeing, woman. This is an endless labyrinth of caves reaching deep down into the earth, and you'll never find your way out. No one will come to your rescue, and no one will hear you scream.”