by S A Archer
Deacon knelt next to him, and patted Peyton’s shoulder in a friendly gesture that was as much a lie as everything Peyton had said the entire day. “Look at it this way; you’ll never have to go to rehab.”
Peyton slid open his eyes and glared at Deacon, as if that mere look should have incinerated the bloody Changeling where he knelt.
“This is my revenge, mate, and I intended to make it everything I dreamed it could be.” Deacon flopped back onto the sofa and picked up his paper and snapped it open once more to continue reading. “I grabbed takeout. You came home later than expected, so it’s cold, but it should still be edible and there is the microwave. There’s beer in the mini fridge or soda if you prefer.”
Peyton laid there for a bit longer, too destroyed by this new revelation. But he wasn’t one to take anything lying down. He forced himself up slowly and made his way into the little kitchen nook. As he checked the Italian in the takeout containers, his determination was only growing that much stronger.
He would find a way out. He would find a way back to who he had been.
If it was the last thing he did.
And then he would kill Deacon.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The smell of cold, dirty concrete reached Riley even before the hardness of the floor against his shoulder and hip. Moving wasn’t as easy as it first sounded, even with his pained body demanding that he roll to his back. He meant to groan, but didn’t manage it past the fabric stuffed into his mouth. Moving his tongue and jaws didn’t work it free, and slowly he realized it was because it was tied into place. Blinking into the darkness, his eyes struggled to find something to focus on in the pitch black.
The edge of light around the boarded up window was the first thing, and then the soft glow along the ceiling and walls brought him rolling further to his other side. The glow came from a computer screen that was turned away from him. Riley struggled to move his body, but his wrists and ankles were bound. More straps were binding his body, so his arms were crossed to his chest like a mummy and his thighs were locked together.
In the glow of the computer screen, the pale face of a vampire was illuminated. Dark hair hung beside his strong face, framing the paleness in shadow and dark hair. His eyes almost seemed to glow in the reflected computer light. “Awake are you?” The vampire asked.
That had to be Hunter. Or Derek, as London referred to him. His frame was tall, and he wasn’t without the muscles of someone who worked out with moderate devotion. Not that he would need to work out now, Riley supposed. Didn’t vampires just stay the same as when they were turned? He didn’t know for certain. It’d be something to ask about.
If he got out of this alive.
Unable to answer with the gag, Riley just worked himself further onto his side to get a better look at him. Each twist of his neck ached, and he had a suspicion that it was the same reason the room spun. The vampire had been feeding off of him.
Hunter pushed himself up, dressed more elegantly in the tailored black slacks and black button front than Riley would have expected in the dank basement. At least, he thought it was a basement. He strolled with the casual flair of someone who knows he’s in complete control of the situation. Riley caught himself staring, impressed by the manner and cadence of his movements. Vampires might not have the grace of the fey, but they weren’t without their skills in that department. Was the guy this sexy because he was a vampire, or did vampires just choose to change the more attractive of their victims? So many questions. That was another one he’d have to look up, when he got the chance.
Riley didn’t flinch or attempt to wiggle away from the vampire as he stalked up on him. He only watched with curiosity. Simply killing him off didn’t appear to be the goal, but he figured he’d know Hunter’s purpose soon enough.
The vampire crouched next to him, and drew the gag out of Riley’s mouth and let it hang around his neck. “Who is your Master? The magic tasted different in you.”
“My Master?” Riley asked, frowning.
Hunter gathered up the symbol that Riley wore on the chain about his neck. It was a shield Celtic knot, since Kieran hadn’t a symbol of his own yet. They’d both agreed that it was a good choice, now that Kieran was taking up the role of Champion from Lugh, who’d held it for all of known history. “This symbol belongs to your Master, does it not?” Hunter glided his thumb over the gold charm.
“My patron, yes,” Riley replied, not seeing any reason to be unpleasant, even given the circumstances. He’d charmed his way out of tight spots before. Well, maybe not charmed, but at least talked his way out of corners.
Setting aside the werewolves, which had just straight up tried to kill him. Some creatures weren’t much for talking.
Riley glanced up at Hunter, not showing him any fear. There wasn’t a cause for that yet. Even with the bonds. “I thought you were only interested in London. What’s she done to get your back up?”
A slow smile curved the vampire’s lips, revealing his fangs. “Not going to feign ignorance? You are a rare one.” He turned the charm over as if to see the backside. “What’s your Master’s name?” He repeated.
“Kieran,” Riley spoke the name softly, his fondness revealed. He shifted, the concrete putting pressure on his shoulder again, and redirecting the conversation away from the Sidhe he’d pledged to serve and defend. “Is there some way we can work things out? Perhaps we could work a deal, to sort things out between you and London amicably?”
The vampire smirked at him. “You think I am interested in London?” He gave a jerk on the chain, not breaking it and not harming the back of Riley’s neck where the chain refused to snap. No one but his patron could remove it, and it couldn’t be used to harm Riley. The magic ensured this. “How do you use it to summon your Master?”
Riley’s eyes grew wider slowly. “You aren’t interested in a druid, with the magic of the Sidhe in their blood.”
“Not when I could get the purified magic blood from the source.” The smirk was cruel in its amusement. Hunter’s hand shot out to choke around Riley’s throat. “Summon your Master.”
“No,” his breath caught under the pressure of the grip squeezing him. Riley struggled, as much as he could, which wasn’t a lot given the bonds holding him in place.
Hunter flicked up a finger before Riley’s face. “Summon your Master.”
Riley shook his head vigorously.
A claw dragged down his cheek, bringing the hot run of blood.
The vampire’s chilled tongue swept up his face, stealing the trickles away.
Every book and movie that claimed the sensual nature of the vampire wasn’t wrong, but the dread wasn’t for the tongue lashing or the first hint of pain. It was for the safety of his patron.
“Summon your Master,” Hunter commanded again, no less serious, no more irritated.
“No,” Riley hissed. All other thoughts abandoned him, but the vision of Kieran. The Sidhe wasn’t even twenty years old yet. Kieran’s combat training and magic aside, he was Riley’s to protect. Hunter meant to use London for bait to draw out her patron, he knew that now. Kieran would be an even easier target than Lugh.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Better to die today than be the reason Kieran was harmed.
Hunter’s sharp nails dug into Riley’s torso, eliciting a pained gasp, and then he tore open the front of Riley’s shirt, leaving him bare to the waist on that side. If you didn’t count the fresh trickles of blood.
The vampire licked at the escaping vitality. “Keep refusing. This is enjoyable,” he chuckled. “Do you think he will feel it when you are drained?” A single claw sliced across one of Riley’s pecs, bringing another sharp outcry. “Summon your Master.”
This was going to be one long, bloody day. Riley closed his eyes, tamping down his connection to Kieran, determined
to keep it silent, even if the pain was beginning to wash over it.
“Look at me,” the vampire purred.
Riley forced his eyes open to meet that cold gaze.
“Fingers or eyes?” The smirk was absolutely chilling.
“What?” His voice squeaked.
“Fingers?” Hunter curled one hand around Riley’s left index finger. “Or eyes?” His other hand cupped Riley’s cheek, so his thumb caressed the soft skin just inside the eye socket.
Oh, crap.
“Fingers.”
Riley screamed with the snap of the first bone.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kieran’s voice demanded, echoing with fury off the bare concrete walls.
Jerking his head back, Riley caught sight of the handsome, young Sidhe storming closer, his hand already raised with the summoning of his magic.
“Kieran! It’s a trap!” He screamed.
Before the words could leave his lips, Hunter already had his gun raised. He fired off a shot that took Kieran down instantly.
“No!” His voice ripped from him with even more pain than his broken finger.
“Don’t worry.” Hunter laughed, dumping Riley as he rose and crossed to the downed Sidhe. “It was just a tranquilizer that will keep him quiet until I’ve got him secured for transport.” He reached down and swept a finger across the trickle of blood from where the needle penetrated the shoulder, and then licked it. “Premium stock. You’ll both make tasty additions to Dante’s stable.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Peyton flopped into the booth like it had already been a really long day, and it bloody well had been, to be honest. Sleep fought him all night, and he couldn’t even turn to a hit of the ambrosia to give him a boost this morning. Life had run him over with a truck, and he was feeling every groove of the tire tread.
He’d managed to turn himself into what? A triple agent? In the course of a day? Here he sat, across from London, meant to be pretending that he still worked for the wizards, while supposedly working for Interpol, on loan from MI-6, while actually working for the fey, via Credne. It was enough to make one’s head spin like the needle on some game board. Where would it land? Where did his loyalties really lay?
Not that that was ever a question he didn’t know the answer to.
Whenever he spun the dial, his loyalty always landed squarely on himself. It was about what would keep him alive for another day. Alive, sane, and still fighting. As long as he had that, he was still in the game.
From his side of the booth, his back was to the other agents around the room. All it took was a casual gesture, opening his jacket to reach inside the pocket, to disguise his quick movement. With London looking right at him, and his open jacket blocking the view of others, he tugged open his unbuttoned polo to expose the top of the body microphone he was wearing. Their gazes met, and she knew what it was, so he let the shirt fall closed again and he reached inside his jacket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and tossed them on the table before him. No doubt she’d seen the marks Credne had left in a magic only someone Touched with the power of the fey could see. If she understood what it meant was something he couldn’t be certain of yet.
With the agents watching him, Peyton pulled out a cancer stick. “This is a habit I really need to break, even if I probably won’t live long enough to suffer lung disease. If ever I get a handle on my life again, I might give those nicotine patches a try. It would be kind of stupid to survive supernatural dangers just to end up killing myself with something as ridiculous as tobacco.”
“That would be pretty dumb,” London agreed, watching him toy with his cigarettes.
Peyton pulled out one and fiddled with it, not really inclined to light it up. Handling it like it was lit, just not puffing on it, Peyton focused on the part he was meant to play. And the actual conversation he intended to have. “Things have been a bit wild lately, haven’t they? The corporation took a major hit with that terrorist attack. You look like you are doing ok. Didn’t lose a limb or anything.”
“Nope. I still have all my fingers and toes,” she agreed. The small movement of her eyes, while her head remained facing him, traveled around the pub, no doubt picking up on a few of the agents hanging about. It was almost comical, that of all the people they could have targeted for an investigation, that they would clue in on London.
“Lucky us, eh?” Peyton gave her a smirk when she met his gaze, and she knew he was talking about this moment right here, with the two of them in the government’s spotlight with a handful of agents hanging on their every word.
“No kidding,” she agreed, but didn’t volunteer anything.
And that was fine. Peyton wanted to do the talking just now anyway. “Looks like you and I both managed to find some real winners to end up working for.” His gaze fixed on her charm, the fey symbol for the sun god, Lugh. Peyton did a little research, after he’d gotten a good look at it the first time. The casual scratch to his neck brought her focus to his own symbol; in the form of the magical tattoo.
That got the barest lift of an eyebrow as she finally caught the meaning.
Peyton shifted forward, and started in, like he’d been talking about the wizards all along. “Reginald Brightner was killed, had you heard? And he wasn’t in the building when it went down, either. Apparently, he’s not the only top bloke that missed all the excitement.”
“No,” she played with the cold chips on her plate, eating one anyway. “But then again, I didn’t really know anyone. My security badge wasn’t even cool from getting laminated, yet.”
“So no one has contacted you, trying to bring you back into the company?” This was her ‘out’, and it was a gift that wasn’t going to come without a price tag. “That is probably for the best. Whoever bombed the building might not be satisfied that their work is done. Best to steer clear of it.” And now for the cost. “Better to settle down and find someone special to give your life to. I’d really like to see that. To see the one that can give your life meaning.”
“I have no intention of working for anyone from that corporation again, you can be certain of that.” London leaned closer. “And you shouldn’t either, if you want to be around long enough to see my special someone, whoever he might end up being.” Her gaze slid lower, and onto his tattoo once more. “I’ve learned my lesson about working for dubious employers. You do the same, yeah?”
He stuffed his cigarette back into its box, and tucked it away inside his jacket pocket. He’d given the government goons enough of a show to support London’s innocence, but not enough that he couldn’t turn the spotlight right back onto her, if she didn’t hook him up with her patron, and they both knew it. To her comment, he said, “I’m working on it.” Which was a sincere reply, even if he made it sound like a joke.
But the way London laughed was too dark to be actual mirth. “You never cease to amaze me, Peyton.” There was something almost wicked in the way she purred that.
Like she wasn’t without her own cards to play. And Peyton, in all honesty, was walking a tight wire in more ways than one, without a net in sight. “What do you mean?”
“You, coming here like you are oh-so-worried about little me.” She tossed down the remainder of her chip, and wiped her hands on a napkin. “As if you aren’t always just looking out for yourself.” Her smile was not so much amused as cruel, and somehow, it seemed almost a reflection of what she saw inside him.
He frowned, not following where she was going with this, or what angle she was playing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Leaning forward, as far as she could, given the table between them, she whispered. “Name one person you care about, besides yourself. Name just one.”
And he couldn’t.
For some reason he couldn’t articulate, that Dorian Grey moment of
having his soul reflected back at him bothered Peyton to the core. He couldn’t even summon up a comeback that might save a fragment of pride or turn back her cutting remark upon herself. The entire past day, and every bit of finesse and skill that went into the execution of it, suddenly felt hollow and pointless. He left her there, giving nothing but a cold glare. “Call me,” he muttered, and there was a threat underlying that otherwise offhand remark. And she’d better, or he could hurt her much worse than just a cutting remark.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Granger gripped the steering wheel harder. Only his clenched teeth kept his cursing at bay, as Patterson closed the laptop and slid it into the space between the front seats. Nothing they’d recorded of London’s conversation with Agent Price was going to get them anywhere.
With his car parked against the curb just outside the restaurant, he angled his head towards the door as Price stepped out of the building. The MI-6 agent strolled up to Granger’s open window, reaching up under his shirt and jerking off the wire. He dumped the wire and the transmitter unit that had been tucked into his pocket into the window of the car and into Granger’s lap. “I don’t know how successful that was,” Price said abruptly. “If you really want to pursue her, we can try again later, but I wasn’t feeling it. She’s not the one we should be focused on.” He didn’t wait for Granger to respond. He just added, “Sophia King is the one with our answers.”