Undeniable (The Druids Book 1)

by S A Archer

  “Are we looking at something new moving into the UK? Dionysus has been setting up a presence in the Netherlands. Maybe the Greeks are crossing the North Sea and making an influx here?”

  “Why would the Greeks be storing fey body parts? No,” Granger shook his head, “no, the only thing that makes sense is wizards. They used to be organized, ages ago. Maybe they were making a comeback? Some charismatic leader bringing them together after all this time.”

  “That’s a bloody disturbing thought,” Patterson said, rubbing his hands over his face. “If that’s true, then we should be just as glad that someone decided to take out the blokes before they could really gear up for trouble.”

  Granger tossed the fountain pen into his pen cup, where everyone knew not to mess with it, unless they were in desperate need of a broken wrist. “Come on. I want to comb through the evidence one more time. We should be able to determine if some of that stuff was wizard enchantment.”

  As he got up, Patterson grabbed the evidence bag and carried it down to the lab with them. “Wizards… Remember that basement in Bristol? What a nightmare. Someone got to those wizards ahead of us, too.”

  “Some fey vigilante, from the blood droplets he left behind.” Granger recalled. “The Brightner Building attack could be the work of the same guy. If London’s account holds true, and there was a rescue mission that day, and if these people did turn out to be wizards…”

  “Then we can close this case and go out for a well-deserved pint to salute the bugger.” Before Granger could argue that logic, Patterson pushed open the swinging metal door into the lab and called, “Where’s my girlfriend? Frieda, where are you hiding, luv?”

  If Dr. Frieda Livingston had been dressed like a dowager, instead of in a white pair of overalls, she could have been mistaken for Miss Marple. She was twice as clever as the fictitious sleuth and held three more postgraduate degrees. She pulled her lab goggles off and offered her cheek for Patterson’s peck. “You lads bringing me more goodies to play with?”

  Patterson presented her with the plastic wrapped handkerchief. “A little blood to analyze, if you please.”

  Frieda took the bag from him and looked it over as she carried it to a side bench. Donning some fresh gloves, she asked, “And what do you want to know about the blood? Anything specific?”

  “Just verifying if the donor is human or not, and anything else you find.” Granger crossed his arms, to keep from touching any of the surfaces in the lab and contaminating them. Or acquiring any creeping crud that might have infected the place. That time that the hell fungus rash spread through the department was enough to learn that lesson. “And can you check on something for me? Were any of the enchanted items from the wreckage wizard-made?”

  “Well, now. One thing at a time,” Frieda tisked as she lowered herself to perch on a cushioned stool. She opened the plastic bag and pulled the fabric out with tweezers. With deft and experienced fingers, she placed the cloth over a dish. Using the fluids from two different bottles, she moistened the cloth until a pale pink tinge colored the fluid in the dish. In a moment she transferred a few drops to a test tube, and tucked the sample into the robotic arm waiting for it. The machine swung the arm inside, slid closed a black, glass screen, and began uttering churning and gushing sounds.

  With that in place, she kicked away from that work bench. The smooth wheels of the stool spun as she propelled herself across the lab. “While that is cooking, let’s see about your other question.” Changing to fresh gloves, she began sorting through the contents spread across a glass table. The milky surface was illuminated from below, casting a soft, but efficient light.

  Frieda began shifting through the contents of one of the large plastic tubs of evidence. “We’ve only just begun to process these, but some items have a maker’s mark. Like these chisels have clear dwarven ruins cast into the metal of the handles.” She placed those aside.

  “With the fey body parts, I am imagining that the fey objects were stolen from their victims.” Granger kept his arms crossed, but leaned over to get a better view. “Look for something not so ornate. Wizards are practical.”

  “Anything recovered with a magic signature ended up in these totes,” Frieda gestured to the stack of plastic containers along the wall.

  Even with the clear sides, the contents of the totes were not easily deciphered from just glancing into them. Regardless, Granger tilted sideways to try and gaze into them. He pointed without actually touching the surface. “Is that a set of keys?”

  Frieda kicked away from the table and canted her head to the side, to the same angle as Granger. Even Patterson, across the room, was leaning that way. “Let’s see shall we?”

  Granger and Patterson deconstructed a section of the wall of totes, to free the one in question, and they hoisted the thing onto the examination table. Curiosity mounting, Granger leaned closer as Frieda withdrew the items to work her way down to the keys at the bottom. Once the set of keys were splayed on the table, Frieda passed her EMF detector over them, getting a moderate spike. “They do hold some kind of energy. Let’s see what sort.”

  “I’m having a hard time imagining one of the fey driving around in a Bentley,” Granger muttered, noting the winged logo on the one car key in the set. These weren’t some random set of keys for file cabinets and closets in an office setting. These were someone’s personal set.

  Frieda moved the keys to a specimen plate, and then slid them into one of the spectrometers. With the flick of a switch, it hummed to life and a series of spikes showed on the screen. “These are fey energy signatures, but see the uniform spread of the arrangement. No natural magic would spread like that.”

  “So it is wizard enchanted,” Patterson whispered, then turned back to the stacks and stacks of totes they had yet to go through. “If all this is either stolen fey items, or items enchanted with stolen fey magic—”

  “Then you are looking at a wholesale massacre of fey on a grand scale.” Frieda agreed.

  Granger picked up the thought, and continued it. “And given that the fey don’t usually live in England these days, they were getting shipped in from some place.” His frown deepened. “These wizards weren’t going to all this trouble just to enchant their cars from theft. They were up to something big.”

  “Until someone stopped them.”

  Granger glanced to Patterson and nodded slowly. “Someone that knows a lot more about what’s going on than we do.” Interpol’s Special Office of Parahumans, Demonics, and Magic wasn’t always the first to know about things, but they weren’t often the last either. “Someone who doesn’t seem too concerned about innocent bystanders getting in the way of vigilante justice. Of the humans inside that building, how many were actually wizards, and how many just clueless employees there to earn a paycheck and feed their families? There is an undercurrent here. The elimination of the wizards in Bristol. The demolition of the Brighter Corporation’s headquarters. Something is brewing here. I can feel it in my bones.”

  The machine processing the blood sample stopped its churning and uttered an unobtrusive tone of completion. Frieda rose from her stool to collect the printout scrolling on a streamer of paper. “Perhaps this one has your answers?”

  She handed the paper over to Granger, who frowned at it. “What does this even mean?”

  Pointing to the data, she repeated what was indicated there. “The DNA is human. The high levels of magic laced in the blood is pure fey. Not the work of your wizards, just to be clear.”

  “She’s… a human… that’s been enchanted… by the fey?” Granger’s brows furrowed, trying to wrap his head around it.

  Patterson gave a snort. “Oh, that does change things, now doesn’t it, mate?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Usually, Peyton’s hair was a honey brown, almost blond in the right lighting or whe
n he’d been out in the sun a fair bit. Now, the shower-damp hair in his reflection was nearly black. Leaning closer to the mirror, he checked his shave job in the foggy glass. Scruffy worked when the cover was as a construction worker, but not so much while trying to pass for a spook. The government types liked the anonymity in blending in with the business crowd. If you could be mistaken for a banker, then you had one of the qualifications to be a government agent. The tattoo of enchantment scrawled across his upper torso wouldn’t sell the part at all, but at least his shirt should cover it up. Peyton’s eyes roamed down the blurry glass to see just how close the markings would reach his shirt collar. Only, he didn’t see the dark marks in the reflection.

  He squinted as a frown tugged at his mouth. In a moment, he’d grabbed up a towel and wiped the mirror to get a better look, only to see his own pristine flesh reflected back at him. But when he glanced downward, there it was, big as life.”

  The mystery nagged him, as he finished dressing. A white button-down shirt, gray slacks with matching suit jacket, and a conservative tie in a complimentary shade of hunter green and he was indistinguishable from ninety percent of the suits that had been going in and out of the Interpol special station office he’d tracked the homing device to.

  “I think I should go with you.” Deacon said, as he sorted the equipment on the breakfast bar off of the rented flat’s kitchen nook and glanced over Peyton’s changed appearance.

  “You’re not going in with me,” Peyton repeated, pushing past the Changeling to grab another slice of the bacon that he’d fried up for breakfast.

  “Why not? I can look like an agent.”

  “Because you always start killing things the second they look at you sideways. You’re not the plan; you’re what I need if the plan fails.” Peyton double-checked the forged documents that Deacon had procured, making certain that they met the specifications. He’d be playing the role of a junior MI-6 agent returning from extended assignment. The employment history and dossier was already embedded into the MI-6 servers. The transfer papers appeared in order. The Human Resources department would be providing him with the genuine badge and passcards he would need when he checked in.

  Why break into a place when you can get them to hand over the keys?

  “You are absolutely no fun, do you know that?” Deacon pushed away from the counter and grabbed a Guinness from the stocked fridge. The Changeling had seen to that.

  “So what exactly are these marks on my chest? They don’t show up in the mirror.” Peyton kept the tone light, the conversation casual.

  “It won’t do Credne any good if you can’t pass for just another human slug. Only a fey, or someone enchanted by fey magic, can see your brand, and they will all know who owns you.” Deacon grinned that wide-evil Changeling grin that could chill the blood of even the bravest of men.

  Peyton let the insult slide, pouring a couple of fingers of orange juice to chase the bacon. “Good to know.” And it was. It meant he didn’t have to come up with a cover story for it.

  “Since you won’t let me join the party, that’s your backup plan.” He nodded to a ring on the counter.

  Peyton picked it up and examined it. There didn’t seem to be any markings or designs, just a man’s ring with a plain gold setting framing a polished cabochon of onyx. Even still, he wasn’t eager to go blithely jamming it onto his hand without knowing more about it. “What’s it do, exactly.”

  Deacon lifted his hand, showing a matching ring on his right hand. “If you blow your cover, give that stone a tap and I’ll come in claws blazing and get that cauldron.”

  “And save me?” Peyton glanced up.

  Deacon grinned that wicked, Changeling grin. “If there’s time.”

  “Good to know.” Peyton pocketed the papers, and then slipped the ring onto his right hand. “Time to get paid.”

  Chuckling at that, Deacon watched Peyton go. From here on in, he’d be on his own, unless he went banging on that jewel.

  The plain black rental waited for him on the street, and Peyton pulled smoothly out into the early morning commute before he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial for ‘Tower’.

  “’Hello,” London responded quickly, sounding bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “You’re chipper today.”

  “Just hit the ground running this morning,” she dismissed. He could almost hear the shrug in her voice, but somehow it didn’t come off completely genuine. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

  “Life’s taken a turn, so I’m reaching for a touchstone.” The traffic paused at a light, so he double-checked his skin just inside his collar in the vanity mirror, making sure Deacon hadn’t been jerking him about the markings not showing. He didn’t need to be sending up any red flags.

  “Life does that,” London agreed. “Spooks tapping at your door with uncomfortable questions?”

  “No, can’t say I’ve had that.” The light changed and Peyton maneuvered with the traffic, looking for his chance to merge right and prepare for a turn. “They been peeking up your skirt, have they?”

  “Among other unpleasant places,” she dismissed. “So, touchstones and such.”

  “Right,” he murmured, as she was trying to move him to the point. With Deacon practically attached at his hip lately, contacting London was risky, and arranging a meet closer to impossible. Still, he pressed, “Any chance I could impose on our friendship and set up a face-to-face with your special friend?” There was a long pause, during which he felt her withdrawing. “Look, London, I’m in a bit of a spot. None of us can afford to be burning bridges now.”

  “I’ll get back with you.”

  The phone clicked off and Peyton pocketed it. The plan felt like a longshot, but London was a longshot kind of lassie. And given his illustrious career so far, Peyton was a longshot kind of chap.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Given their past, you wouldn’t think that London and Malcolm would be sitting across from each other without the flash of metal or explosion of magic. The past was complicated, and messy, and most of it London’s fault. The rest of the blame didn’t fall to Malcolm, either, but to the Changeling that ‘introduced’ them. As unlikely as this bond was, she couldn’t help but be fond of the kid. Malcolm sat on the wide windowsill in the Green Room at the back of the club. His scruffy tennis shoes dangled above the linoleum floor. The swinging of his foot lazily back and forth dragged an untied shoelace across an upturned young cat that played with it. Somewhere along the way the cat had attached itself to Malcolm, London understood, and it added a hint of charm to the otherwise wild youth.

  His dark eyes were just a sharp as they’d always been; only there wasn’t hatred burning in them now. They’d gotten past that, and this initial friendship was something that seemed to surprise them both. His scruffy jeans and untucked T-shirt where more a part of his uniform now than just lazy teenage fashion, since his T-shirt sported the name of his band. Even though his dark hair had started to grow out again, the point of his elven ears were still prominently visible. The kid was a Sidhe. Because of that, more than any of the other fey, Lugh had wanted London to protect him that day in the Brightner Building. Since Malcolm had not been able to protect himself from her, when they first met months earlier, her guilt just doubly loaded the responsibility onto London’s shoulders.

  Joe stood beside them, with his arms crossed. He gave a nod to Riley, his partner, where he sat across the room. “The best we’ve been able to figure so far, is that this vampire picked up the bounty job from a website that Riley has been monitoring. It looks as if London is his primary target, and so far, besides the fey girl used to lure London out into a dark alley and into a trap, he’s not appeared to have been focused on the fey.”

  “But we can’t rule
out that he might make an attempt on one of the band,” Riley said, giving a nod to Malcolm, and then a glance over to Kaitlin and the other band members that sat nearby listening. Kaitlin was a Sidhe, too, but the others were merely dark elves. Any one of them, though, would possess the fey blood that might attract a vampire’s hunger. “So, Tiernan wants us to start running security at the club during your shows, as a precaution.”

  London asked, “Have you noticed vampires in the crowd, Malcolm?” It was a reasonable question to ask, given his magical abilities. He could detect magic and energy like no other. It was what made him a bloodhound, but that wasn’t the only reason most of the fey feared him.

  Malcolm’s foot swung, dragging his raggedy shoelace back and forth across the furry belly of the cat. It scrambled each time to catch it, and add more fray to the already worn lace. His hands were folded in his lap as his eyes slid to the side, accessing memory. “Usually during one of our sets I’m really into the music,” Malcolm explained. “Kaitlin throws off a lot of magic, and it’s quite a display to try and see past. I have caught the sense of a vampire now and then, while we’re playing, but they’re always gone when the music stops. So far I don’t think any of us have had any trouble.” He glanced at the guys in the band, getting head shakes and shrugs. Malcolm looked back. “I can start keeping more of an eye out, if you want me to.”

  Joe was the one taking charge of this mission. He’d already worked some of the tactical angles of setting up surveillance. “I don’t want you trying to engage these vampires, Malcolm. We’re going to start maintaining a regular security at your shows. If you see a vampire, give me a signal and I’ll take care of it.” He gave a nod to the teenager. Joe’s military background was starting to show and he tended to want to take charge when that happened.