Knights of Obsidian

by Shannon Lynn Cook

  I glance at Jonathan only to find him gaping at Sean Luka. “You have a royal knight marshal modeling underwear? Say he finds the culprit, do you expect him to take chase while naked?”

  And I’m sorry, but I laugh. I mean, how could I not? You try to get that visual out of your head.

  “He’s not naked.” Sean Luka bristles. “Honestly, there’s no need to be vulgar about it.”

  He then gestures for us to follow him through the crowded space. After we’ve woven past Men’s Accessories, we end up outside an arch proclaiming to the be the entrance to various collections of men’s loungewear, sleepwear, and underwear.

  “Eric’s going to kill you for getting him into this,” I whisper to Jonathan as we navigate the crowded area.

  Jonathan chuckles—a highly amused sound. “Better him than me.”

  The crowd gets thicker as we pass several elaborate displays. There seems to be an awful lot of women lingering in the men’s area. There appears to be an event live onstage, and I begin to get a bad feeling. A woman’s voice booms over the speaker, pointing out details such as cut and color.

  “See,” Sean Luka says when we break through the crowd to the front of the stage. “He’s a natural.”

  Eric stands dead center, in a Superman pose, head turned to the side, wearing nothing but a short robe and a scowl.

  “Wow,” I say, fully aware that I’m gaping but unable to look away. “Eric’s got seriously toned legs.”

  Jonathan chokes back a laugh that he’ll likely pay for later. Eric sees us from the corner of his eye and turns our way, flashing the Griffon a look of pure death.

  “What is he wearing?” Jonathan asks me. “Surely that’s not fashionable.”

  This year, it looks like they’re pushing floral prints in men’s loungewear. The robe is black satin, covered in huge watercolor roses in shades of mauve and coral. The hem is crazy short, perhaps because Eric is so tall, and it showcases a pair of thighs that could probably leg press a semi.

  To make it worse—if that’s even possible at that point—whoever put that robe on him decided the effect would be even better if there were an eyeful of bare Viking chest for the audience, so they left the top open. The result is a juxtaposition of sexy and ridiculous, and seeing it is sort of like staring at a train wreck—you don’t really want to watch, but you can’t seem to look away.

  “Sienna tried to put him in boxer briefs instead of sleepwear,” Sean Luka says from my side. “But he refused.”

  Unable to help myself, I giggle—earning a sharp look from the man on the stage.

  After a few more minutes, Eric leaves the platform, replaced with a model in a full set of pajamas in a print and style identical to Eric’s. I’m not sure if it’s worse, but it’s certainly not better.

  Sean Luka leads us behind the stage. Eric stands in his fancy robe, taking a big guzzle from a bottle of San Pellegrino. He watches us approach, looking just about as unimpressed as a man can be.

  “Hey,” I say, offering him a peace-making smile.

  Still silent, he levels me with a stare that makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing again. Finally, when he does decide to speak, he points the bottle at Jonathan and says, “You owe me.”

  Jonathan grins. “Yes, I do.”

  Hearing Eric’s voice, Charles lets out a pleading mew. With a big sigh, Eric hands me his bottle and takes the cat’s crate. He places it on a nearby table, pushing aside makeup, coffee cups, safety pins, and a random sewing kit before he pulls Charles out.

  A few of the nearby models give him a strange look, but no one comments.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Eric asks Sienna, who just came around the corner. She eyes Eric, apparently liking what she sees.

  “The cat won’t do well on stage,” she muses, pulling her hand back after Charles takes a swipe at her. “But he’ll look fabulous in photos. What do you think Mr. Don Patrick?”

  Sean Luka studies Eric and Charles, slowly nodding. “Yes, I like it.”

  Eric rolls his eyes, less of a good sport than usual.

  I sidle up next to him and quietly say, “Don’t be too upset. You looked good out there.”

  “They’re taking photographic evidence. I will never hear the end of this. I guarantee I’ll be posted on the bulletin board back in the office.”

  “Yeah, but did you see that crowd? I’m certain most of the women out there weren’t here to see the sleepwear.”

  “Now I just feel cheap,” he says before taking another sip of his sparkling water, but I spot his wry smile.

  “Gray is supposed to be here tonight. Maybe he can talk to Sean Luka for you? See if he can move you to activewear?”

  “Maybe.”

  Another mini-crisis draws the attention of Sienna and Sean Luka, and Jonathan joins us. “See anything unusual yet?”

  Eric gives his floral robe a pointed look.

  “Other than that.” Jonathan rolls his eyes. “And stop whining. This works better anyway—now I’m free to walk the show and take inventory of all the Aparians in attendance. And you’ll have no trouble getting the models to start talking—you’re likable, right?”

  Eric only grunts.

  Sienna hurries over. “We’re doing photos in five, Eric.”

  The harried knight marshal shifts Charles in his arms and rolls his neck, almost like he’s preparing himself for war. “Do me a favor,” he says to us before he follows Sienna. “Go look at shoes or something. I don’t need you here to further witness my humiliation.”

  I lean in to give him a sympathetic hug. At the last moment, I remember what he’s wearing and decide against it, settling for an arm pat instead. “Hang in there.”

  Jonathan chokes back a laugh, but I shoot him a warning look.

  Eric grunts and turns away. Jonathan digs a phone from his pocket and hollers Eric’s name. As soon as the Bunny turns, Jonathan snaps a photo. To me, he explains, “You never know when you’re going to need a good blackmail picture.”

  “I hate you,” Eric says tonelessly and then follows Sienna through a doorway in the black curtain partition.

  I shove my shoulder against Jonathan, silently reprimanding him even though I’m trying not to laugh. Poor Eric.

  Jonathan glances over as the announcer makes another introduction, cringing when a scantily clad young fellow makes his way onto the stage.

  “What?” I ask.

  “There is entirely too much man chest parading around here. I need out of this section.”

  Grinning, I grab his arm and pull him toward the exit. Selflessly, I plan to take him to Women’s Accessories. Who knows? Maybe a magic-stealing Fox is hanging out there.

  “Do you have any idea how many of the models are Apari—” I begin but am cut off by an ear-piercing shriek.

  We whip around, facing the door Eric just entered.

  Jonathan takes off at a jog, his gun seeming to appear in his hand out of nowhere. People are already crowding the entrance. Models and agents and assistants with Bluetooth microphones attached to their heads like fashion accessories all gather together.

  “Madeline,” Jonathan reaches back when he realizes I’m not right behind him, beckoning me to follow him into the thickening crowd. Just that one scream seemed to trigger an immediate response out of the humans. They’re like sheep, bleating and shoving.

  Jonathan pushes his way through, flashing a badge that I thought he only used as a prop to pick up women. People part for him, their eyes wide. Sienna emerges from the doorway, clutching her stomach. Several of the male models follow her, all of them looking either pale or puce, even under their heavy stage makeup.

  Eric appears at the door just as Jonathan shoves his way past the front row of lollygaggers, and the two men nearly collide. The taller knight steps out of the way, and Jonathan swears as he enters the room.

  Before I can go in behind Jonathan, Eric blocks my path. “You don’t want to see that, Maddie.”

  But it’
s too late.

  Just inside the changing area, there lies a puddle of black silk pajamas covered in gaudy watercolor roses. All that’s left of the model who wore them on stage not five minutes ago is a desiccated corpse. Judging from the way the…skin…lies there like a discarded piece of wrinkly old leather, the recently deceased man’s bones must have crumbled or disintegrated or something unnatural.

  Like a mummy mask, empty eye sockets stare at the ceiling, and a mouth is open with shock—like the model gasped just before he fell dead.

  The humans around us mutter to themselves, and several phones are held in the air as they capture the moment like dozens of nosy little members of the paparazzi. Soon the image is going to be all over social media sites, and the guild is going to have some work on their hands.

  My phone vibrates, and in a half daze, I answer it.

  “I just got through luggage,” Gray says. “Did you rent a car? Can someone pick me up or should I get a taxi?”

  “Uh,” I say, pulling my eyes away from the body. “We have a bit of a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?” Gray demands.

  Without another word, I hang up my phone, grit my teeth, and snap a picture. Two seconds after I send it, Eric’s phone rings.

  “Oh, look.” The Bunny grimaces as he looks at the screen. “It’s Gray.”

  16

  Thirty-eight of us sit in a small room just off the main conference, waiting for Gray to begin. Chloe stands with Thomas and Brett, who arrived with Gray only five minutes ago. The trio of techie Squirrels talk amongst themselves, and though they’re quiet, all the flailing hand movements lead me to believe their conversation is rather animated.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Gray says, calling the room to attention. He stands at the front of the space, his expression unreadable. He has Wolf written all over him, and the crowd obeys so quickly, I almost wonder if he didn’t accidentally slip a little persuasion into the words.

  Once he captures the attention of his audience, he looks down at a print-off in his hand and gets right to the point. “According to his Massachusetts driver’s license, Franklin J. Norton was twenty-seven years old, but our records confirm he was actually born sometime in the eleventh century to a Cristatus family. He was one of the gifted, and his Peacock magic acted as an Aparian Fountain of Youth of sorts. When his magic was siphoned, his body succumbed to its age.”

  The room is silent as we process that.

  “Chloe and her team had not yet finished setting up their surveillance equipment in that section, but they have obtained the humans’ recordings. For privacy purposes, they did not have cameras in the changing area, so the siphoning wasn’t captured. However, there was a camera positioned at the entrance. Sienna and Sean Luka have watched the footage with Chloe, Thomas, Brett, and me. Approximately two minutes before the incident, an unknown man in a suit entered the changing area, confronted the guard, and slipped inside without incident.

  “An hour ago, the guard was found asleep behind one of the clothing racks, unharmed, and has no recollection of the meeting. The recording does not show the man in the suit leaving, but he’s nowhere to be found. Which leads us to believe he’s a shapeshifter.”

  I groan under my breath, already knowing what Gray is going to say next.

  The Wolf continues, speaking to the whole group, though his eyes lock on mine. “In light of this new information, we now are confident we’re dealing with a pixie with a gargoyle venom siphoning charm.”

  “No.” I toss my hands in the air, pacing the guys’ hotel room. They watch me, not yet speaking. “It can’t be Trent. Not again. This is ridiculous—he can’t be everywhere!”

  “We don’t think it’s Trent,” Gray says from his spot on the chair in the corner.

  I turn to face him. “But we don’t know for certain.”

  Gray shakes his head. “Technically, no, but—”

  “Wait.” I shift my attention to Jonathan, who leans against the wall. He stands with his arms crossed and his dark eyes focused on me. “Did you see the surveillance video? Could you read his magic? Is it blocked?”

  “I can’t read magic in recordings.”

  I bite my tongue, barely trapping in a snarky retort. But seriously, is there a faction as limited as the Griffons?

  “Madeline,” Gray says in an obnoxiously calm voice. “I’m nearly positive it’s not Trent.”

  “Why?” I set my hands on my hips, challenging him to come up with a good enough reason for me to believe him.

  “Because this started while we were still in Redstone—while Trent was posing as the cop.”

  Oh. That’s a pretty good reason.

  Slowly, I let down my guard and exhale, releasing the tension. “Okay. So it’s just a pixie?”

  “This one is, though we have no way of knowing if he’s the only one. Multiple people could have responded to the ad while it was up. But he’s our key to finding the Fox that’s inevitably behind this.”

  “Must we always assume it’s a Fox?” I demand, though I know I’m being snippy. “Can’t we just say, I don’t know, villain? Bad guy? Perp?”

  “Perp?” Gray grins. “Have you been watching 90s cop shows?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Fine. He’s the link to finding our perp.”

  I look at Eric for backup, but he’s laughing too. And yep, Jonathan is as well—traitors. Rolling my eyes, deciding to ignore them all, I look back at Gray. “If the pixie is still working, that means he has a way to contact the person looking to buy the Peacock magic, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  For most teams, finding a shape-shifting pixie in Vegas would be worse than searching for a needle in a Mount Everest of haystacks, but luckily for us, we have a Griffon.

  I turn to Jonathan. “Sorry.”

  He gives me a questioning frown. “For what?”

  “For thinking your faction was kind of worthless when you said you couldn’t read magic in videos.”

  He chokes out a laugh, clutching his chest as if wounded. “Your confidence in me is humbling.”

  Grinning, I walk into my own room and close the door. It’s after dark, nearly time for dinner. We’re going out to eat, and I should touch up my hair and makeup, but the day has been a blur, and all I want to do is fall on the bed and sleep until morning.

  My phone rings as I pause in front of the mirror to check my hair.

  “Hi,” I say to Rafe when I answer, attempting to adjust a bobby pin one-handed. We’ve texted back and forth most of the day, a little more frequently after I announced we found a nine-hundred-year-old corpse.

  “Learn anything new?” he asks.

  “Gray thinks the guy who stole the magic is a pixie.” When Rafe doesn’t immediately answer, I quickly add, “Not Trent.”

  I give up on my hair and sit on the edge of the bed. Charles leaps up next to me, stretches, and pads across my lap, demanding love for the first time in days.

  “What about you?” I ask. “Have you found anyone who knows how to track someone wearing a clipeum medallion?”

  “Not yet, but there’s a disturbing amount of talk about you.”

  “Me?” I sit up straighter and drop my hand. Disgruntled, Charles head-butts my arm.

  “Not you specifically—not that I’m aware of anyway. But the Entitled has noticed the creatures have been coming out of the shadows. They know you’re alive.”

  That’s not good. The last thing we need is them looking for me. That’s the whole reason Rafe disposed of Curtis—so I could live in peace. If the Entitled knows I’m out here somewhere, they’ll stop at nothing to find me.

  And as awful as that thought is, another one flits in its place: the Entitled might have the information I need—where the thresholds are located. Maybe even how to open them. If I could somehow infiltrate their ranks without them learning who I am…

  It’s dangerous, too risky.

  But how else am I going to figure it out? It’s not like
I can waltz into the Royal Guild and demand the information. And I can’t ask my parents. Jonathan said he’d help me, but where will we start?

  “I need you to do me a favor,” I say, lowering my voice. “Do you think you can learn the location of several of the thresholds, preferably ones located in the United States?”

  “I can,” he says immediately, no questions asked, no attempts to talk me out of it.

  “So, where are you? You’re not actually with the Entitled right now, are you?”

  “No.” He groans as if stretching. “Not right now.”

  “You’re being careful?”

  “Always.”

  There’s something about talking to him that makes our connection feel stronger. I can almost see him somewhere, standing in a small, somewhat dingy apartment. He wears a black leather jacket, and his arms are crossed. The picture is so clear; it takes me by surprise.

  “Where are you?” I ask him suddenly.

  “San Francisco, same as earlier.”

  “I know, but where? House? Hotel?”

  “An apartment I’m temporarily sharing with the resident roaches.”

  “What are you wearing?” I demand, trying to ignore the insect bit.

  The question takes him by surprise, and when he laughs, there’s a deep hitch in his voice. “Are you sure you want to go there, Lexie?”

  I flush, realizing how it must have sounded. “Just humor me.”

  “Jeans, shirt…”

  “And your leather jacket?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I realize I can see his expression clearly in my mind, the questioning look that crosses his face.

  He looks down at his clothing and frowns. “Yeah.”

  “And your T-shirt is the burnt orange one with the falcon silhouette?”

  In my mind, I see him glance at his phone, almost like he’s checking to see if we somehow started a video call and he didn’t realize it. “Yes.”

  “I can see you,” I whisper. “You’re standing by an ugly table with an ashtray and an old corded phone. There aren’t any curtains on the windows, just beat-up mini blinds. Whoever lives there probably has a cat, because several of the slats are busted toward the bottom.”