“You don’t understand,” he said, hands still locked in his hair, still facing away, clearly unable to look at me.
I tugged my jacket back on, ignoring the burn in my shoulder. I understood a lot more than he believed. “That’s right, because I don’t know anything. I was created weeks ago. It’s not like I understand anything you must be going through. You’re over two hundred years old and I’m nineteen going on one.” He muttered something under his breath—likely a curse. “Is this bite going to do any lasting damage?” I snapped.
He dropped his hands and turned. Say it. Just say it … I thought. Stop pushing me away—talk to me! He stayed quiet, but those eyes … they said so much.
I plastered an “I don’t care” look on my face to hide the hurt and hoped he’d bought it.
“No, you’ll probably heal in a few hours.” He braced his hands on the edge of the pool table and bowed his head. I didn’t imagine the trembling through his shoulders. My being around him would just make it worse.
“Good—then I’m going back out there.”
He flicked his gaze up and glared through dark lashes. “Let me teach you how to take a little draíocht.”
“No.”
“Just enough that should you feel yourself burning out—” He straightened. An undercurrent of old draíocht pulled tight between us. If he moved forward, I’d go for my daggers.
“No.”
“Alina,” he growled. “Ignoring this won’t make it go away!”
A step closer, and I lifted my chin, defying the order in his tone. “Is that what you’re hoping will happen with me?”
He saw my glance toward the weapons and, either knowingly or on instinct, took a few steps back.
“You need to learn …” The tension in his shoulders loosened, the fight draining out of him.
I’d stolen draíocht once, and I still dreamed about the sensation of falling into the mind of my victim and how it had felt so terribly good. My unwilling victim had been a friend. The only friend I’d had. Now he probably hated me, but he’d dream about me too because he didn’t have a choice.
“I’m not like you.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.
“You’re worse,” the fae in the alley had said. I wasn’t sure what I was.
Reign flicked a hand toward the door. “Go, then. Do what you have to do. But if you won’t help yourself, don’t expect me to.”
The bar that my hungry fae friend had visited was a dead end. I spent an hour watching the crowd come and go, but it appeared as though the fae who’d bitten me would be the only customer with pointed ears that night.
Another hour, another club. This one with a sprinkling of fae among the crowd. I didn’t need to see them to know they were there. Voices chatted a little louder, flirtatious laughter tinkled among the throbbing music, and a thread of excitement wove through the customers jammed into the basement bar. Even after the events of a few weeks ago people still adored the fae—maybe even more so because of the risk.
I was technically immune to their touch. The 1974 Trinity Law meant nothing to me now. Look, but don’t touch. Touch, but don’t feel. Feel, but never love. Life had been easier when I could blame my feelings on bespellment. As it was, everything I felt for Reign—the anger, the desire, the fear—was real.
The crowd jostled at the bar, buffeting me from all sides. I shouted my order at the barman and tried to pick the fae from the crowd while I waited. One stood nearby, taller than the majority of people here. Glamorous, like a 1940s movie star, she smiled easily and dipped her chin, as though demure, but her tricolored eyes sparkled with hunger. Her date, with his ruddy cheeks and eager eyes, would no doubt make a nice draíocht snack.
I paid for my drink and brought it to my lips. My gaze flicked over the rim of the glass to a guy who was sitting too still at the end of the bar. Ruffled chestnut hair and soft mocha-brown eyes that were now slightly narrowed, probably because he knew me and was already figuring out the quickest way to the exit. Detective Danny Andrews.
He’d gained a few lines around his eyes and there was a dash of stubble on his chin. Maybe he was on leave. Although that wouldn’t account for the shadows under his eyes.
I could lie to myself all I liked, but that didn’t stop a knot of guilt from lodging in my throat. I swallowed my sip of drink and tried to drink the guilt down with it. The music droned on, drowning out everything but my own regrets.
It usually takes three or more touches to bespell someone, but the process begins from the first touch. Andrews and I had touched; just fleeting, inconsequential touches here and there, neither of us aware I was toxic. Taking his draíocht had sealed his fate. I hadn’t meant to hurt him; I’d been dying at the time. In fact, if he hadn’t been there, I might have fizzled away to faerie dust, or whatever I was made of. He’d saved my life, and in return I’d taken away his free will.
My gaze wandered back to where he was seated, but a young man and his date had taken Andrews’s place.
I carved my way through the crowd, drink sloshing over my hand every time someone nudged me. My thoughts were too loud, the air too thick with the smell of sweat and the sweet taste of alcohol. I tasted it, smelled it all, and pushed deeper into the sea of people. It’d be easy here to brush up against one of the fae—touch skin-to-skin and lose your mind.
Colored lights lit up faces. Most eyes reflected it, but those of the fae absorbed the kaleidoscope. I counted at least two more fae breaking the curfew.
The crowd finally spat me out at its fringes, where I found a long-haired male fae seated at a table with another man, enthralling him with tales of how he’d been caught by the Fae Authority in flagrante with a “date”—which I heard as “victim.” He’d braided half his golden hair in a tightly woven plait, revealing a face too angular to be handsome, yet he still managed to draw surreptitious glances his way. Most fae cut their hair, trying to blend in with modern trends, but not this one. He wasn’t here to blend in.
“I ran,” he said, adding a sly little smile. He seemed young; maybe early twenties, but they aged slowly. This one could easily have been twice the age of his audience. “You don’t fight the FA unless you’re sure you can win.” Or maybe it was the attitude that gave the impression of youth; although they all had a knack for cocky arrogance.
With one eye on the long-haired storyteller I leaned against the wall and absently sipped my drink while scanning the crowd. A fae target rarely escaped the Authority once the elite group of warriors had one in their sights. This one was already on borrowed time.
I might have lost track of the biter from the alley, but this fae appeared to have a history of avoiding the Authority. My night might not be a total disaster.
I kept my new target firmly in the corner of my vision. His rapt audience of one reached a hand under the table and rested it lightly on his thigh. The tale continued, their gazes locked. There was nothing I could do and, technically, nothing I should do—yet. The victim slid his hand up the fae’s thigh and out of my line of sight. I found myself wondering if I looked at Reign like that. I hoped not, but I had to admit I probably had given him that expression of wide-eyed wonderment more than once. Considering I’d been designed to kill Reign, I’d had a funny way of going about it.
“Alina.”
I froze. Thoughts of Reign drowned beneath a flood of memories that weren’t mine. “Andrews.” He was close; right behind me. He should have left, should have gotten as far away from me as possible. Why hadn’t he?
Because he can’t.
I should have been the one to leave—just walk away right then, but what would happen to lover-boy fae and his victim? I’d already had one failure that evening. I wasn’t letting this one slip through my fingers as well.
“Small world, isn’t it?” Andrews had the kind of quaint English voice Americans adored, and to my “American” ears, he sounded chipper. I’d have smiled if I hadn’t immediately wondered whether his tone was a little too enthu
siastic—if bespellment drew him to me.
A small ache in my chest added to the growing guilt choking me. Just get it over with.
I turned but wished I’d walked away. He smiled a tentative, unsure smile. It slipped across his lips but didn’t really stick. The man I’d known, my first and only true friend, was a shadow of the man he’d once been. His eyes had dulled; the spark of intelligence snuffed out by the poisonous thoughts in his head. Shoulders slumped, face taut behind a mask of denial, he’d aged in a weary, rugged way.
“Andrews, I …” I’m sorry? That wouldn’t cut it. Sorry was pathetic. Sorry didn’t bring him back, sorry didn’t remove the memories from my head or his, nor did it do anything to stop me wanting to take his draíocht again, because it had felt so damn good the first time, and what difference would it make? He was already mine. I couldn’t make it any worse.
I gulped a few mouthfuls of my drink, hoping the alcohol would chase away all the wrongs.
“It’s okay.” He scratched absently at his head, fingers threading through his short locks, and then tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. “You’ve got to get your kicks somewhere.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about what happened. It was for the best. You need draíocht. It’s … natural, I suppose.”
“No.” I frowned, appalled that he’d associate me with the other fae working the club. “I’m not here for that.”
“You have to survive. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to live.”
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. This wasn’t Andrews talking; not really. Oh, he was in there somewhere, buried under the artificial need, but bespellment had a hold on him. He could have been trolling these bars for weeks, looking to get his fix of the fae who’d gotten under his skin—me.
“Do you hear yourself?” I asked so softly that half of me hoped the thudding music would bury my words.
When I opened my eyes again, he’d moved closer and now leaned a shoulder against the wall beside me. “I’m fine,” he said, but kept his hands tucked deep inside his pockets. “Really, Alina. I … I know what to expect. I’m not a naïve fae fan. I saw the signs in my sister. I know I’m bespelled, but the difference is that I can manage it.”
My lips tightened into an uncomfortable smile. You can’t manage bespellment. It manages you. “No, you can’t. No one can.”
He drew in a shaky breath and briefly let his gaze wander toward the crowd. “Look, I’m not hiding anything, okay? It’s not easy. Right now, I’m struggling to think much beyond wanting to touch you.” He shrugged his shoulders, drawing attention to his hands locked in his pockets. “But I am thinking. I’m still me.”
Sorry. That useless word was perched on the tip of my tongue again. Instead, I looked into his eyes, really looked. Was he really still in there, still in control?
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“I …” He paused and gritted his teeth, flexing a jaw muscle. “There’s something I have to do. It’s not about you, though.”
“Thank you,” I said. It still sounded like sorry, and from the gentleness in his eyes he knew it too, but he understood, and to me that meant everything. “For being straight with me.”
“What’s done is done. We—I just have to keep moving forward. I’m not about to let bespellment take me. I’m not that easy. I can speak to you and walk away. I don’t need you.” His smile this time was warm and real.
No, he wasn’t easy. He was strong and intelligent and he deserved more from me than a cold shoulder.
He pushed off the wall and merged with the crowd until I lost all sight of him among the herd of people and rippling lights.
Good. That was good. He wasn’t as far gone as the girl in the alley. There was still hope for Andrews.
I finished my drink, rolled the cool empty glass against my cheek, and closed my eyes. He might be managing his bespellment, but what he didn’t know was exactly how I’d imagined brushing my fingers across his hand and igniting that spark, drawing all of him into me exactly like before. I’d taken his draíocht to survive. I didn’t have that excuse again. These thoughts were toxic, but that didn’t stop me from having them.
Music drummed into my skull. The air thinned and the crowd swelled, pushing against my carefully constructed facade of normalcy. Add to that the ache in my shoulder and the bruise pulling on my ribs, and I was in no condition to be hunting wayward fae. Reign was right. That didn’t mean I was going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing it.
The music cut off so quickly it left my ears ringing. Murmurs rippled about the bar, and then a deeply resonating voice carved through the quiet like a death knell.
“By decree of the Fae Authority, any and all fae found on these premises are now under arrest.” Silence smothered everyone and everything. “Resistance will be met with deadly force.”
I jerked onto my tiptoes. The fae known as the General loomed inside the entrance doorway, flanked by six red and black clad Fae Authority warriors. Each stood still as watchmen, daggers glinting at their thighs. Not a smile, not a flicker of anything in their eyes but complete devotion to their cause. The general—well over six feet of perfect fae genetics complete with sharp cheekbones and a jawline so severe you’d crack your knuckles taking a swing at him—scanned the crowd with laser-like eyesight.
I ducked my head low and tried to make myself small and uninteresting. The last time we’d met, I’d been trying to kill him with every muscle, every thought, every intention. Now, wounded and somewhat less “charged” with the queen’s draíocht, I was in no condition for round two. I hadn’t technically survived the first round.
Whispers filtered through the crowd. The fae here knew the general by reputation, if not immediately by sight. The chances that he’d been just passing by were slim. He was here for a reason. That reason couldn’t be me, but there was a fae here who’d slipped by the FA at least once already.
Lover boy bolted from his seat. He made it all of five feet before an FA dagger sliced through the air and punched him in the throat, pirouetting him. He staggered and crumpled to his knees. A few bleats of alarm from the crowd punctuated an otherwise heavy silence.
If I moved, I’d be seen. My best chance was to stay still, keep my head down, and weather the storm; maybe slip out the back exit—
“You!” Andrews’s bark snapped my head up. “You fae son of a bitch!”
Oh God, no. I tried to get a good look at what was happening but the crowd erupted. People scattered and surged, some pouring through the back door, some clawing at others to get away. Fighting my way forward, ignoring the burn of pain in my shoulder, I caught glimpses of Andrews lunging for the general. I pushed ahead. He was going to get himself killed. What was he thinking? My fingers twitched, daggers calling to me. When I finally extracted myself from the horde, the FA had Andrews on his knees, his arms yanked behind him. A fae had one hand twisted in his hair and the other was drawn back, long fingers curling into a fist.
“Don’t!” I slid my daggers free, grateful for the cool steel against my warm palms.
The warriors’ heads whipped up. Indignation burned in their fae eyes. They recognized me.
“If anyone hurts him, they’ll be dancing with the queen’s killer.” Adrenalin surged through me and, deep inside where I locked all the uncertainties and fear away, hidden desires stirred awake.
The general’s silvery eyes narrowed on me. “Construct,” he snarled.
“Hello again, General.”
Chapter Two
The general’s laughter was the sort to simultaneously seduce and terrify. I’d heard it before, not so long ago, when we’d both been covered in each other’s blood.
He had the kind of narrow, haughty face you’d expect an ancient knife-wielding badass to have. He could have been thirty or three hundred. Considering how all the fae seemed to revere him, his age was likely closer to the latter. I certainly didn’t relish the idea of
going toe to toe with him, but I would to keep Andrews safe. I owed him that much.
“Let him go.” I nodded toward Andrews. “He’s not fae, he has nothing to do with … anything.”
The warrior with his hand fisted in Andrews’s hair growled, “He threatened General Kael.”
“Threatened?” Andrews snarled through gritted teeth, “I’ll kill the bastard.”
I tried to convey an “Andrews, what the hell?” expression, but he wasn’t looking at me. He only had eyes for Kael, and if looks could kill, the general would be dead already. What was Andrews thinking? He couldn’t go up against the general.
“He’s bespelled. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” I wasn’t entirely sure that was the case. Bespelled people did act irrationally, but only when it got them what they wanted—closer to their fae masters. Attacking the general didn’t make any sense. It was nothing short of suicidal.
Unless, that was the point. A way out? My heart sank. Was that what he’d come here to do?
Finally Andrews blinked back into the room, and by the widening of his eyes he seemed to realize he was in trouble. He yanked on his wrists, but the fae holding him hauled him back. “He’s the one that took her, Alina,” Andrews spluttered and snarled. “He took Becky!”
Who the hell was Becky? I searched my memories, some mine, some I’d stolen from him. Becky. His missing sister. Kael took her? I swung my glare back toward the general.
“Get him out of here,” Kael snarled, stalking toward me.
I straightened to my less-than-impressive human height, daggers clutched in my hands, and held my ground. Kael stopped close enough to ripple shivers along my skin. He smelled of warm leather and wet metal; like blood. Memories sparked alive, derailing my bravado. The last time I’d seen him, I’d been bleeding out in his arms. He hadn’t fared much better. I’d only survived because the queen had healed me. Clearly though, he’d healed quickly enough.
He smiled. On his proud face, his smile was a wicked thing. His eyes—shades of dark slate, black coal, and liquid mercury—narrowed by the smallest of margins. “Something is amiss in this world if an insignificant thing such as you can kill our most glorious queen.”
City of Shadows Page 2