Crown of Whispers
(Faerie Lords, Book 5)
Isabella August
Copyright © 2020 by Isabella August
https://isabellaaugust.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and stories are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons (living or dead), organizations, and events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are consenting adults of ages 18 years of age or older.
This book is for adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language.
Contents
Crown of Gold
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
The Wicked Tales Newsletter
Crown of Madness
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Appendix: The Zodiac
Also by Isabella August
Crown of Gold
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Chapter 1
Of all the offices in all the cities in all the world, Beatrice Martel had to walk into this one.
Beatrice stared down the front door, her mind whirling through a tempest of insubstantial fears. On the inside, she was a seething mess—on the outside, she knew, she looked something like a warrior girding herself for battle. Her shoulders were square; the little aluminum piercings that lined her right ear glinted fiercely. Sweat dripped down her neck in the humid summer Montreal heat, tinted faintly pink by the fresh dye still clinging to her hair. Her laptop bag hung heavily at her side, tightly packed with her usual testing suite. Still, her lucky silver dollar flitted between her knuckles, betraying a hint of her nervousness.
It had taken Beatrice a little bit of back-and-forth this morning to decide just how to approach the matter. Over the course of her career, she’d cultivated a handful of different aesthetics, each one carefully tailored for a particular situation. Beatrice had eventually decided that today’s work required what she liked to refer to as her Punk Corporate Trixie attire—a delicate mixture of brightly-colored screw-your-expectations hair and painfully stylish business wear. The business wear suggested that she was capable of being professional when she so chose. The pink hair confirmed that she didn’t really give a damn.
Punk Corporate Trixie was, perhaps ironically, Beatrice’s most popular look. The only exposure most high-powered CEOs ever had to hackers and programmers was through pop culture, where an offbeat aesthetic meant you were some kind of quirky genius. It was eminently stupid, but a faux-hawk and a few piercings had garnered Beatrice more instantaneous respect for her computer skills than the exhaustive list of boring, expensive technical certifications on her resume.
The office door in front of Beatrice stared back at her impassively, however—thoroughly unimpressed by Punk Corporate Trixie in the way that only an inanimate object could be.
“Fuck me,” Beatrice muttered. She pulled up the edge of her loose-fitting sleeveless blouse to wipe at her face. Pink dye blossomed against the cream-colored silk, and Beatrice snorted. Fine, she thought. I didn’t want to look professional for him anyway.
The door to the office opened abruptly, as though in response to Beatrice’s thoughts. A dark-haired woman in a semi-formal business suit peered out at her curiously. The other woman’s face was vaguely friendly, but there was something inherently unnerving about her; her eyes were a too-bright shade of green that shouldn’t have existed in this world, and her hair was bleached with streaks of blond that Beatrice deeply suspected weren’t from any hair dye.
“Excusez-moi, madame,” the woman addressed Beatrice. “Are you lost?” Her French was subtly accented—stilted in the way that most anglophones’ accents were. Beatrice’s French probably sounded similar, even though she’d grown up in a French household. Too many years of English education had long since muddied her place within Quebec’s linguistic cultural wars.
“This is Dorian Moreau’s office?” Beatrice asked. A deep scowl tugged at the corners of her mouth, though she’d hoped to keep her expression neutral.
“Oh,” said the woman. “Um. Yes.” She stepped back from the door and politely opened it wider. Blissful air conditioning wafted out, and Beatrice sighed.
Time to face the music, she thought.
Beatrice snapped her lucky silver dollar into her palm and tucked it into her blouse pocket, stepping through the door into the office beyond.
The waiting area in Dorian Moreau’s office was full of expensive leather chairs and solid dark wood surfaces. A large desk near the front held a computer, a few neat piles of paperwork, and a placard with the name Zoe Carter—probably the secretary to whom Beatrice now spoke. Beyond that desk was a frosted glass door that presumably led back into Dorian’s personal office.
Dorian certainly had come a long way in the world since Beatrice had last seen him. That probably shouldn’t have surprised her—he was exactly the sort of ruthless son of a bitch that always thrived in high society.
As Beatrice surveyed the room, she felt a dangerous, invisible tickle against her skin that made her frown.
“Are there magical wards on this office?” she asked the secretary.
Zoe gave a hesitant flinch. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about—” she started.
Beatrice cut her off. “Either you put in Halloween contacts this morning, or else you’re something supernatural,” she said. “I’ll save you some time—I’m a Gemini witch. Now it’s your turn.”
Zoe pressed her lips together uncomfortably. The supernatural was far from common knowledge, and it was definitely poor etiquette to discuss things like magic and witches out in the open. But Beatrice had no reason to softball things. The sooner she got through this job, the sooner she would be able to put Montreal in her rearview mirror once again—preferably for a good long while.
“I’m a warlock to the Lady of Briars,” Zoe said finally. “Are you Beatrice Martel? I was told you were supposed to be doing some kind of security review.”
A warlock. Beatrice thought. Fantastic. Her frown deepened. Beatrice had never met a warlock before, but she’d heard the stories. Unlike witches, who were born with their magic, warlocks sold their souls to powerful supernatural creatures in return for the magic they wielded. Judging by her title, the Lady of Briars was probably a faerie lord—a mad, utterly amoral creature who kept her abode somewhere in the ethereal world of Arcadia.
“Well,” said Beatrice. “I guess we can put you down as security risk number one, Madame Carter.” She pulled a notepad from her side bag and flipped it open. “No offense, but an employee with two different bosses is a purely logistical problem.”
Zoe blinked. “Security risk?” she asked. There was a hint of irritation in her tone, though she tried to hide it beneath a veneer of professionalism. “I’ve worked for Dorian for years. I would never give out information I wasn’t supposed to
.”
“Mais bien sûr,” Beatrice agreed dryly, jotting down a few notes with her pen. “Unless, of course, your lady commanded you to do it.” She swept her eyes over the computer on the desk. That looks outdated, Beatrice thought. It’s definitely got a few hardware flaws.
Zoe crossed her arms uncomfortably. “Yes, well... the Lady wouldn’t order me to do that,” she said finally. “She likes Dorian.”
“Faeries don’t like anyone,” Beatrice responded automatically. “They’re not capable of human emotion—and they often change their minds on a whim. May I ask how you ended up selling your soul to one without understanding that much?”
Zoe flushed, and Beatrice knew the secretary was close to losing her cool. Rather than snap at Beatrice, however, Zoe merely turned on her heel and stalked for the frosted glass door. She knocked there sharply. “The security woman is here,” Zoe called out shortly. “I’m going to lunch.”
Damn, Beatrice thought belatedly. I really shouldn’t have alienated the secretary. If anyone knew everything about the ins and outs of an office, it was the person at the front desk. Normally, Beatrice knew better than to snap at the hired help... but her nerves were raw and on edge, and the wards that pressed in around her only worsened the situation. I want out of here, she thought glumly, as the door to the back office opened. I’m pretty sure I’d sell my soul to a faerie too, if it got me out of this awful job.
Dorian Moreau stepped out from behind that door, and Beatrice’s heart gave a sickening lurch in her chest.
In so many ways, he was exactly the same as Beatrice remembered him. He had that same slight duskiness to his skin; the same strong jaw; the same dark hair and cold gray eyes. But the last time Beatrice had seen Dorian Moreau, he was still wearing off-the-rack suits and beaten-up shoes. Today, he was dressed impeccably, with a neatly-tailored suit and a charcoal tie that matched his eyes. The professional edge that he carried with him was sharp enough that she could have cut herself on it.
Been there, Beatrice thought. Done that.
A strange, empty aura suffused Dorian’s immediate area, as it always had. Most conscious creatures—especially supernatural ones—had a kind of presence to them that could be seen by Witchsight. Beatrice knew, however, that if she opened up her Witchsight to look at Dorian, she’d see... nothing. Through some magic Dorian had never deigned to explain to her, he was effectively non-existent to Witchsight. It was part of how they’d drifted toward one another in the first place. Dorian Moreau was a naturally intriguing mystery... a puzzle box that Beatrice’s fingers had once itched to open.
Dorian swept his eyes over Beatrice, coldly assessing her from head to toe. A hundred little unwelcome memories whispered through her mind as he looked at her: his lips on hers, his fingers on her skin, his voice murmuring in her ear. The dispassionate way he stared at her now crushed what little tattered dignity Beatrice had once managed to protect from him. She hated that it must have shown openly on her face.
Dorian and Beatrice had both risen significantly in the world since their falling-out. But somehow, in spite of Beatrice’s fine reputation and her impressive salary, she couldn’t help but feel that Dorian had outpaced her. Just like he always wanted, she thought distantly. How unfair is that—that he should get exactly what he wants, every time?
“Beatrice,” Dorian said finally, with all the emotion of a block of wood. “I thought you might send someone else in your place.”
Zoe paused, halfway to the door. Beatrice felt the secretary’s unnatural eyes bore into her back with sudden interest.
“Your client Jean Belmont requested me personally,” Beatrice said shortly. “He paid a sizeable fee for the privilege. I’ll be directly handling every aspect of this security review. That includes your office, since Monsieur Belmont pays you a retainer and gives you access to sensitive information of his.”
Dorian leaned back against the doorframe of his office. Damn him, Beatrice thought. Why does he look so relaxed? Doesn’t this bother him at all, even a little bit? “Surely, you weren’t told in advance that your security review included this office,” Dorian observed.
Beatrice stiffened sharply. “Of course I knew,” she lied. “Do you really think I would pass up the opportunity to tear your office apart? I intend to give a very thorough accounting of all your security flaws.”
Dorian nodded, unfazed. “I suppose you are the best person for the job then, aren’t you?” he said.
Tears burned at the back of Beatrice’s eyes. I hate you so much, she thought. I hate that you still do this to me, you uncaring bastard. She cleared her throat forcefully. “You’ll need to invite me into your office,” Beatrice said. “Part of this review involves your magical defenses. I can’t work properly through these wards without your express invitation.”
“Of course.” Dorian straightened. Those steel gray eyes locked upon Beatrice, and she found it suddenly hard to breathe. “Please... come into my office.” There was no particular inflection to his voice… but Beatrice could have sworn that his gaze darted to her lips as he said the words.
Heat flashed through her body.
Don’t even think it, Beatrice’s mind whispered to her. He’s still a bad idea.
The ticklish feel of the wards lightened and disappeared, now that Beatrice had been declared welcome. Dorian arched one eyebrow at her though, and she realized that he meant for her to come into the back office. With him.
Beatrice licked her lips nervously.
“I thought you were going to lunch, Zoe,” Dorian observed. His eyes flickered past Beatrice’s shoulder, toward the woman behind her.
Zoe cleared her throat. “Yeah. Well.” There was a frown in her voice. “I actually brought my lunch. Must have forgotten.”
“Ne soyez pas pénible, Zoe,” Dorian drawled at her. Don’t be annoying.
“What was that?” Zoe replied innocently. “I didn’t catch that. You know my French is only so-so, Dorian.” She settled herself back behind her desk with a cat-like smile. “Please, don’t let me interrupt.”
If a hint of irritation crossed Dorian’s features at that, it smoothed away so quickly that Beatrice had to wonder if it had really been there at all.
“Bon,” Dorian muttered—though it was clear that he didn’t actually consider anything about this situation to be good. He looked back toward Beatrice and gestured inside the back office. “This way, s'il vous plaît.”
Beatrice stalked past him, already moving. Get in, she thought. Get the job done. Get out.
But she felt the heat of Dorian’s body as she passed him, and caught the faint scent of chocolate and cologne wafting off his warm skin. He’s still addicted to hot chocolate, she thought dimly.
Beatrice pulled the silver dollar from her front blouse pocket and started playing it across her fingers once again. The gesture soothed her, and she took a deep breath.
The back office was broad, but without windows—a fact that shouldn’t have surprised Beatrice, given the vampiric nature of some of Dorian’s current clients. Since her departure, Dorian had made a name for himself buying and selling secrets of every sort, to every supernatural creature in existence. In exclusive circles, he was better known as La Voûte—the Vault.
In a way, Beatrice thought bleakly, we’ve both built our business on secrets.
Dorian passed her on his way toward the mahogany desk at the back of the room. His fingers brushed hers—warm and familiar, in spite of his cool demeanor. Beatrice jerked her hand back as though burned—but Dorian merely shot her a curious expression as he settled into the leather chair behind the desk.
“You’ll need to sign a non-disclosure form,” he told her.
Beatrice flicked the silver dollar over her knuckles and forced herself to breathe steadily. Dizziness threatened at the edges of her vision.
No, she thought, horrified. I can’t have a panic attack. Not here. Not now.
Beatrice beat back that nauseous edge of terror with a Herculean effort. “I al
ready signed a non-disclosure,” she said breathlessly. “My company does a standard one. It’s quite comprehensive, even by your anal-retentive standards.”
Dorian smiled mirthlessly at that. “You’ve signed one non-disclosure,” he said. “For the benefit of Jean Belmont. I am going to give you the access that he requested—but it would be foolish of me not to require legal safeguards of my own, don’t you agree?”
The panicked wave inside of Beatrice’s chest began to swell. It was absolutely irrational—Dorian Moreau wasn’t physically dangerous to her in any way. He probably would have been horrified at the very thought—or at least deeply offended. But Beatrice’s mind had linked him unavoidably with a terrible low point in her life... and now, facing him down, she couldn’t help but find herself back in that awful state of mind.
Beatrice closed her eyes, rattling in a breath. Fuck, she thought. Fuck. I wasn’t expecting him to affect me this badly.
“Are you all right, Trix?” Dorian’s voice softened abruptly on the words. The old nickname hit her like a freight train.
Beatrice snapped her eyes open. A hint of real concern had bled in at the edges of Dorian’s expression. Her heart thudded in her chest.
I preferred him acting like an icicle, Beatrice realized.
“I’m fine,” she said shortly. “You’re about ten years too late—but thanks for asking.” Beatrice nudged the other chair in front of the desk and sat down in front of him. “Get me your form, so I can get this over with and forget your face again.”
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