by Brook Rogers
My chest started to burn right below my collar bone, and I rubbed at it absently.
As the men filed past me and lined up along the bar, my heart jumped into an erratic rhythm, and warmth rolled up from my toes in waves. Something smelled amazing, like dark chocolate and woodsmoke.
The ginger bartender focused like a laser on the newcomers, and I was all but forgotten. A buzzing in my ears muted whatever she said to them, but I watched as she smiled coyly and flipped her hair.
What was wrong with me? Sweat broke out on my upper lip, and I fanned my face. Gods, had that crazy witch finally hexed me?
The closest of the men turned his head slowly in my direction. He towered over my five foot eight by more than a foot, and his harsh square jaw sported more than a few days of dark beard growth. A thin, silvery scar bisected his right eyebrow, and I found myself wondering how he’d gotten it.
My breath caught. Despite my telling her to shut up, my vagina, Miss Kitty, suddenly woke up and took notice. My gods . . . those eyes.
Ice blue and shot through with silver, they emitted a faint light from within their depths. That light grew brighter as his gaze raked me up and down with cold detachment. His full lips—if they had been on a woman, I’d have called them pouty—dipped into a scowl.
“Is that you I’m smelling?” he asked derisively, the words colored by a hint of Irish brogue. He may have come from the Emerald Isle, but he hadn’t lived there in a long time judging by how much his accent had mellowed.
His question pierced my lusty haze, and I narrowed my eyes. He’d picked the wrong girl to say that to, even if he was hot enough to make my bedsheets spontaneously combust. Miss Kitty slammed her door shut, and I opened my mouth to murder him with words—hopefully even start a fight—but his expression suddenly turned playful.
“You’re pretty enough, lass. Next time go easy on the perfume. C’mere and have a seat.” He lowered himself onto a barstool and patted his thigh suggestively, then sniggered back at his buddies, who both leaned over to check me out.
I swallowed what I’d been about to say. No point wasting my air on a typical bar creeper. Leave it to me to find the prettiest douche in any room—and I wasn’t even wearing any perfume. Crazy and pervy? Count me out.
My palms started to itch. The hot flashes from earlier had passed, but the stinging on my chest remained.
The man seated farthest away from me leaned toward the other two. “Um, Dubhlain . . . her chest is glowing.” His accent was a perfect match to the bar creeper’s. He pointed at me, making a circular motion with his finger.
I couldn’t help but look down. Sure enough, a golden glow was emanating from below my collarbone, where something continued to scratch at me. I pulled the collar of my T-shirt down.
A weird shape, its edges red and ragged, stared up at me from the top of my left breast. What the fuck?
Snapping my head up, I searched for Megan and Samual. I had no idea what was happening to me, but the public exhibition was over. All I wanted now was to get my friend and leave.
I was midstep on my way to their table when the world exploded in a brilliant flash of light.
Chapter 3
I blinked rapidly, my vision and hearing slowly fading back in.
The room was in complete chaos. The once voluptuous redhead had transformed into a haggard, gangly version of herself, her hair whipping around her head like a disturbed nest of snakes. She’d buried a set of newly sprouted claws in the chest of one of the tall strangers—ironically, the same one who’d pointed out my glowing chest. Holding the impaled man slightly aloft, she fought the silent member of the trio with her other clawed hand. He met each of her blows with a short sword, circling her, waiting for an opening to reach his injured friend.
I slid my khopesh smoothly from my back and took in the rest of the room. Other than the three large men, not a single person had moved from where they were prior to the explosion. Some were frozen midstride or even mid-drink. Megan and Samual sat still as stone, their gazes locked on each other.
A shard of spell casing lay on the bar top—most likely a motion spell, though I wasn’t sure who had thrown it. I was betting it wasn’t the deranged banshee, who’d just jerked her claws free from the man’s chest and was licking his blood from her hand enthusiastically. She didn’t strike me as the type who’d care if there were witnesses.
The hot bar creep—whose name sounded like “Dove-lin”—faced two short mud-colored men who sure hadn’t been there before the motion spell went off. I’d never seen them in real life, only in pictures, so I definitely would have noticed them. Who knew goblins bore such an uncanny resemblance to the California Raisins? Their knobby knees and heavily wrinkled skin gave me a sudden aversion to the dried fruit.
Dubhlain jabbed and slashed at them with a beautiful pair of sais, which he could wield far better than any cartoon turtle dressed as a ninja. Miss Kitty sat up and purred. A man who could handle himself in a fight was my kryptonite. Bad Kitty! He’s an asshole, remember? Look away! I swiped a hand over my mouth and saw three more goblins step through a spinning portal beside the door.
Here I was drooling over man candy and completely missing the portal!
Nasty elements from Fae, goblins leveraged their violent tendencies for pay. We didn’t have much goblin activity here in the human realm. Generally, they preferred to work in places with little to no organized law, and Supe Enforcement responded aggressively when they did show up. Word must have gotten around.
The little raisin Fae enjoyed a bloody brawl almost as much as I did, so sending them to do a job was a lot like throwing a hand grenade into a crowd. You’d likely get your intended target, but not without collateral damage. Whoever had contracted them sure wasn’t a particular sort. I couldn’t fathom the cojones they had to have to send them here.
Each goblin clutched a crudely fashioned knife in his grubby little hands, but what they lacked in weaponry they made up for in speed and determination. Since everyone not under the motion spell was either down or fighting, I stepped up to intercept the new arrivals. After the werewolf incident, I could use the chance to work off my frustration.
The goblins were only too happy to oblige. I widened my stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet, and spun the khopesh. Their eyes stayed on the whirring blade as they steadily fanned out around me. In case the dangly bits flashing beneath their too-short shifts weren’t enough to prove they were males, the middle goblin grabbed his junk and shook it at me with a laugh.
As if one had given a signal, they rushed me. I wouldn’t be able to take all three at once, but I was damn sure gonna make it hurt.
I kicked out and caught the goblin coming in from my right, my boot sending him flying into a nearby table. The back of his neck hit the edge, and he slapped cartoonlike to the floor, motionless. Then I swung the khopesh. Resistance sang through the handle when it connected, and the head of the middle goblin rolled away even as his body continued its forward motion and whacked against me. Blood spurted in arcs onto my clothes before the corpse toppled to the floor.
Somebody bumped into me hard, knocking the khopesh from my hand. Pain lanced my left hip and thigh as the third goblin danced back, holding his now bloodied knife.
Damn, goblins were fast. Blocking out the fiery sting of multiple puncture wounds, I swiped a throwing knife from its sheath.
With a high-pitched shriek, the goblin pointed at my blade and then at his own. “Now mine is bigger!” he yelled and launched himself at me. I whipped the small blade forward and released it, then threw two more in quick succession.
The goblin slid to a stop inches from my boots, releasing a gurgling sigh. I toed him over and inspected the tiny bit of knife hilt protruding from the mess that used to be his eye. That’s going to be a bitch to dig back out.
I blew out a breath and glanced around. The banshee was bound and gagged, no doubt to keep her from using her scream. Growing back a punctured eardrum was unpleasant. I’d l
earned that the hard way.
The silent man was helping the one with the chest wound sit up, his hands hovering over the other man’s bloody chest and back. The one called Dubhlain stood in front of the portal, arms raised, and started speaking a language I didn’t recognize. Every so often, tattoos on his forearms flashed with a white light, then went dark again. Odd. Mr. Big, Dark, and Handsome sure wasn’t built like the typical druid.
The portal started to spin in the opposite direction, its speed increasing until the very air in the room began to shift toward it. Dubhlain stepped to the side, and the goblin bodies and their bloody mess disappeared into the portal, sucked in as if by a vacuum. As soon as the last body cleared the edge, the portal winked out with a pop.
I wondered where he’d sent them, then decided it didn’t much matter. It was still impressive as hell.
Without the goblin bodies littering the floor, the busted tables and scattered chairs just looked like the aftermath of a run-of-the-mill barroom brawl. The three men started for the banshee, Dubhlain and the silent one supporting the injured man between them.
As they reached her, there was a sharp crack. The banshee stiffened, her eyes wide and glowing red. The men rushed to grab her as she toppled, lifeless, to the side.
The breath seized in my chest. There would be no getting answers from her now. In a moment, she’d be nothing but a pile of ashes.
A dark warlock had been riding her, and not in the slap and tickle kind of way. When they were done using a body, they destroyed it. Or perhaps the overload of magic was fatal? I didn’t know how the dark magics worked, only that they were bad news.
The sulfurous fumes permeating the air made me want to gag. Dark warlock magic was steeped in pain and suffering—liberally laced with blood and sacrifice. I had to report this to Supe Enforcement ASAP. Dark warlocks always got shunted right to the top of their most wanted list.
Consumed in thought, I jumped when someone roughly nudged my shoulder.
Dubhlain held my khopesh out to me, his gaze searching my startled face. “You fight like you were born to it,” he said with grudging respect. A silver flame flickered to life in his blue eyes as they appraised me, and then his face broke into a genuine lopsided grin, a dimple darkening his cheek
His interest in me now was focused and intense, nothing like his earlier condescending flirtation. The handsome bastard gave me tingles in all the important places, but this hot-and-cold shit grated on my already frayed nerves.
I took my khopesh with a scowl and turned to walk away. Having nothing nice to say, I did just what Grand-mère had taught me as a child and said nothing at all. Besides, that burning on my chest had returned with a vengeance, and I was beyond ready to collect my friends from this mess and get the hell out of here.
A large hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me up short, and I snarled. But the searing jolt of electricity zipping through me from where our skin connected instantly turned that snarl into a whine. Dubhlain released me with a grunt.
Still keyed up from the fight and in pain, that added sting of magic snapped my tenuous control. Spinning around, I put my full weight behind a punch to Big Irish’s nose.
Now, I was pretty proud of how hard I could hit, but when his body crashed down ten feet away, knocking over people still under the motion spell like dominoes, even I was surprised.
Movement in my periphery telegraphed the blow to my temple right before it landed. I’d forgotten about his buddies.
Shit.
I fell to my knees, the blackness creeping in. Dubhlain rolled up from the rubble of a splintered chair, shock stamped on his face.
Two things registered before I lost consciousness. The first was the blood pouring from his broken nose, which filled me with perverse satisfaction. The other was the golden light coming from beneath his dark shirt, in the exact same place as mine.
Chapter 4
I cracked an eye open, only willing to risk the one. The sight that greeted me made me giggle, although my head instantly complained, and a coppery taste filled my mouth.
Samual and Megan had the two men who’d accompanied Dubhlain pinned to the wall. Megan had one hand out, palm forward, and her hair floated around her, indicating she was using her magic to hold one of them still. The man’s eyes rolled in their sockets as if he were a spooked horse. Samual’s forearm was pressed against the other man’s throat, and they swapped a few threatening snarls. The rest of the bar had emptied out.
With a groan, I rose shakily to my feet. At the sound, Megan immediately asked if I was all right, though she kept her attention on the man in front of her.
“Yeah. I should have handled that better,” I grumbled. So stupid to let my temper get the better of me. If the Normals had seen or heard anything damning when the motion spell dissipated, it could cost me my job. “What happened?” I rubbed the tender knot forming on the back of my head.
“The motion spell played out just as these two busted a chair over you from behind,” Samual growled. He jammed his elbow harder into the man’s neck, causing the guy’s face to purple.
“We had to use a bit of memory manipulation but managed to convince everyone it was just a bar fight. Oh, and that they all took part in it,” Megan added with a satisfied smirk. “Once we mentioned the police were coming, they couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”
A weight lifted from my shoulders. Thank the gods my friends were smart, savvy cookies who could handle the situation while I was unconscious. I looked around. “Where’d that Dubhlain guy go?”
“He left the same time we . . . ah . . . were forced to incapacitate you,” interjected the man Samual held. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he put his hands up in a “no harm” gesture. “We can explain ourselves if you’ll give us the chance.”
I motioned for Megan and Samual to let the captive men loose. My friends exchanged a worried glance but released them and took a step back, although Megan’s hair continued to float. She didn’t trust these men, and I agreed with her assessment. As I said, smart and savvy.
The man who’d spoken was the same one who’d been skewered by the banshee. He no longer appeared injured or in pain, despite the blood still soaking his shirt. The other man must have been healing him earlier. “I’m Conall.” He extended his hand, and as I cautiously met it with my own, he inclined his head toward the other man. “This is Bran.”
“Sorry for hitting you earlier, ma’am,” Bran said after I introduced myself. Both men had a similar Irish accent to Dubhlain—faint but definitely still noticeable. He rubbed his hand nervously over his sandy blond hair, which, like Conall, he wore clipped short in a military style. With their hats off, it became obvious Bran was the younger of the two. I’d peg him for early twenties, but with Supernaturals that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t a thousand years old. “I didn’t know you were with Supe Enforcement, and when you hit Dubhlain, I just . . .” His face reddened.
He did exactly what he should have done. I wasn’t mad at him for it, but I couldn’t just brush it off either. There should be consequences for swinging on an Enforcement officer.
Before I could address that, the dark-haired Conall spoke again. “What happened here tonight was directly related to one of our jobs. Angry immortals enjoy their long game.” He stroked his full beard. Whatever these men did for their “work” went unspoken, but a world of possibilities raced through my mind. I thought back to the way they’d cased the room when they first walked in.
“With a dark warlock involved, you know I’m going to have to report what happened,” I stated, practically daring him to argue.
“I completely understand.”
His smooth reply made me hesitate. I hadn’t expected him to be so cooperative. SE would certainly call them in for questioning because of their involvement tonight; Bran had already admitted to using the motion spell. I was lucky I’d been standing where I was when it went off, or I’d have been just as incapacitated as everyone else.
These m
en had to be working for some high rollers in the Supe world. Conall’s brush-off when I mentioned the report reeked of big money and even bigger power backing them. Otherwise, the threat of a grilling by Enforcement would’ve produced at least a little nervousness. Instead, they both looked relaxed, as if playing deadly games with dark warlocks and Enforcement interrogations happened daily for them. For all I knew, it did.
I glanced between Conall and Bran. “Where did that other big bastard go? I have questions for him too.”
They very purposely didn’t make eye contact with me or with each other. Finally, Conall spoke. “His leaving is not related to any of this. That’s all I’m at liberty to say.” He folded his hands in front of him, signaling the end of that line of questioning.
I’d hit on a touchy subject, but why? The ever-curious side of me wanted to pick at it, but despite my continued questions, all I received were polite refusals and a business card with their phone numbers scrawled on the back.
The more personal questions that were burning the back of my throat I didn’t give voice to at all. Why’d Dubhlain have a mark on his chest too—and in the exact same place? Was he responsible for mine, or was it the work of someone else? I brushed my fingers absently over the spot. Thankfully, it no longer burned or gave off light. The men didn’t mention it, but when they thought I wasn’t looking, I caught them studying me with puzzled expressions.
Conall and Bran left, but not before I extracted a promise from them to pay for the damages to the bar. We found the owner, Frank, stuffed in a broom closet, sound asleep and smelling strongly of Fireball Whisky. It surprised me that the banshee had been kind enough to simply roofie him and not kill him outright. Maybe this dark warlock had a soft spot for Normals? It wasn’t likely, but strange things happened all the time.
We left the sleeping Frank on a cot already set up in the storage room, and I jotted a brief note explaining the bar fight, copying off the phone numbers for Conall and Bran. Later in the week I’d stop by to make sure the men made good on their promise.