Gabby’s head shot up. Startled, she almost knocked over her fourth espresso of the day. Bleary-eyed, she glanced at the clock. It was two-thirty already. “I’ll have it for you by four o’clock,” she promised.
“You were supposed to have it for me by four o’clock yesterday, but you didn’t bother coming back in to work after lunch. Reason for that?”
She kept her eyes trained on the clock, reluctant to meet his gaze, aware she wasn’t the most convincing liar. “I . . . uh, got sick. I got really sick. I had sushi for lunch.”
“You said you were going to Skyline for chili.”
Damn the man for having a mind like a steel trap. Didn’t he have anything better to do than remember where she’d said she was going to eat? She had muttered something about Skyline when she’d passed him on the way out, not wanting him to know she was interviewing around. Knowing he’d work her ten times as hard for it. Unless the firm one was interning for believed them an eventual hire, they were downright brutal with the workload.
“I changed my mind at the last minute,” she said glibly. “I’m sorry I didn’t phone in, but I was so sick I could hardly move. You know how food poisoning is.” She forced herself to tip her face up and meet his glowering gaze, knowing she looked a fright from lack of sleep and stress, and that the dark circles beneath her eyes would reinforce her lie.
“I’m lying and deceitful?” a deep, exotically-accented voice purred behind her. “Guess we have something in common, Irish.”
Her head whipped around. So there it was; the other shoe was dropping. Sprawled insolently on the file cabinet behind her was Adam Black, all preternatural insouciance and grace. Gone were the sexy faded jeans. Now it sported snug black leather pants and a black silk shirt, complemented by gold armbands and torque. New, very expensive-looking boots, too, she noticed, briefly distracted into wondering where/how it got its clothes. Probably just stole whatever it wanted, cloaked by the féth fiada, she thought disparagingly. Figured. Thief.
Still, it was impossible not to notice that he—it—looked Old World elegant and simply to-die-for. Careful, Gabby, could be prophetic.
“We have nothing in common,” she hissed.
“What?” Jeff said blankly. “O’Callaghan, what are you talking about?”
Gabby winced, turning back to her boss. He was frowning, his gaze darting between her and the filing cabinet. She cleared her throat. “You and I, I meant,” she blurted hastily. “What I meant was that you probably wouldn’t have even gotten sick, but my digestive system is really sensitive, it always has been. The least little thing sets it off, especially raw fish that hasn’t been properly prepared, and I should have known better than to trust sushi from a street vendor, but I was hungry, and it looked good, and, listen, I’m really sorry, but I swear it’ll be on your desk by four.” Breathe now, Gabby. She breathed and punctuated it with the brightest smile she could muster, which not only felt more like a grimace but came out rather lopsided as well.
Stony-faced, impressed neither by her explanation nor the way she’d managed to mutilate a smile, he growled, “Too late. I’m due in court in ten minutes and won’t be back in time to log it. It had better be on my desk when I come in in the morning. And the Desny case. And the Elliot contentions. Got it?”
“Yes,” Gabby said, gritting her teeth.
As he turned away, she shot a furious look over her shoulder at the fairy on the files. It winked and flashed her a lazy sexy smile.
“And, O’Callaghan . . .”
Gabby’s head swung back around.
“While you’re at it, let’s see what kind of case-precedence you can establish for the Rollins case. On my desk by Monday morning.”
Only when he’d disappeared into his office did Gabby let her shoulders droop and her head fall onto her desk with a soft thud.
“Why do you do this, Irish?” came the velvety purr from behind her. “It’s a glorious day outside. The sun is shining. The world is a vast adventure begging to be had. Yet you sit in this cramped little box and take orders. Why?”
She didn’t even bother raising her head. She was just too tired to be afraid anymore. Fear required energy, and she’d depleted her reserves hours ago. “Because I have to pay the bills. Because not all of us get to be all-powerful. Because this is life.”
“This isn’t life. This is hell.”
Gabby raised her head and opened her mouth to dispute that, then took a good look around. It was Thursday. It would take her the rest of the day to finish up the Brighton arbitration. All of tomorrow to wrap up the Desny and Elliot contentions. And digging up case-precedence for the Rollins trial? Well, she might as well just drag a cot into the office for the weekend. Yes, she thought dismally, life at Little & Staller was hell.
“What are you doing here?” she said wearily. “Did you come to torture me? Bully me into compliance? Just get whatever it is over with, okay? Kill me. Put me out of my misery. Or don’t. I have work to do.” She puffed her bangs from her eyes with a sigh, refusing to look at it.
“Brutality is the refuge of the dull of mind, ka-lyrra. Only a fool conquers when he might instead seduce.”
“Great. A fairy that reads Voltaire,” she muttered. “Go away.”
“A fairy that knew Voltaire,” it corrected mildly. “And don’t you get it, Gabrielle? I’m a permanent part of your life now. We’ll be doing everything together. I’m never going away.”
The other day upon the stair, I saw a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today; how I wish he’d go away!
The nonsensical rhyme looping madly through her brain was one she’d learned from Gram as a small child. She’d never thought that one day she’d be living it. Trapped in it. Forced to coexist with a being no one else could see but her.
But she was. And afraid that already half her coworkers thought she was nuts. Despite her efforts to ignore Adam Black, on too many occasions the fairy had provoked a response from her, and she’d not missed the funny looks other interns had been casting her way.
Midnight. She was in bed fully clothed, blankets snug to her chin, clenched in tight little fists. Afraid to sleep, for fear she’d wake up and find it in bed with her. Or worse, not wake up in time. At least this way she figured it would have to undress her before it could make good on those heated, erotic glances it had been giving her all day, and surely that would jar her into wakefulness before it got too far.
It had dogged her steps the entire afternoon. Watched everything she did. (Well, almost everything. It’d been civil enough to stay out of the rest room when she’d turned around and bared her teeth at it before slamming the door in its face.) It had taunted, provoked, brushed its big, hard body against hers at every opportunity, and in general lounged about looking like the epically horny fairy it was reputed to be, dark and sinfully, shiver-inducingly sexual. She’d stayed at the office long after everyone else went home, until nine o’clock, trying to get a handle on her caseload, so tired and distracted that everything was taking her ten times as long as it should have.
And she might have stayed later had Adam Black not vanished, only to reappear with a sumptuous dinner pilfered from Jean-Robert at Pigall’s, of all places. Of course it had exquisite taste in food. And why not, when it could steal everything it wanted? She’d like to wear the féth fiada herself, long enough for a few hours of madcap penalty-free shoplifting at Saks Fifth Avenue, maybe a mosey up to Tiffany’s.
In silence, the tall, muscular, leather-clad Fae had spread a stolen linen on her desk, arranged her meal of roasted salmon braised with a heavenly-smelling sauce, a decadent cheesy-potato dish, a side of roasted vegetables, crusty bread with honey-butter, and no less than three desserts. It had produced, with a flourish, a single, velvety Stargazer in a tall, shimmering vase and poured wine into a delicate lead-crystal goblet.
“Eat, Gabrielle,” it had said softly, moving to stand behind her, briefly resting its hands on her shoulders. Then one big hand had slipped up, cradling
her skull, while the other had begun gently massaging the nape of her neck. For a treacherous moment, she’d nearly melted into the magic of those hands.
Plastering a fierce scowl on her lips, she’d tipped back her head to verbally lambaste it, to tell it precisely where it could stuff its stolen goods, but it had vanished again. She hadn’t seen it since.
She knew now what it planned to do to her, and it was far crueler than force. It was going to be in her life every day, driving her crazy, provoking her, exhausting her. It was going to be, not cruel and brutal, but gentle and teasing and seductive, almost as if it somehow knew of her secret obsession with the Fae. And when she was in a weakened state, it would ply its seduction on her, hoping to subvert her to its aim.
No, it wouldn’t use force; she should have seen that coming. Hadn’t the Book of the Sin Siriche Du made it clear that the thing lived to seduce and manipulate? She supposed brute force was a thing an immortal, all-powerful fairy wearied of in a mere few centuries. She could just hear it saying, Too easy, where’s the fun in that?
Force she could deal with: It would make her fight, rage, perhaps even die resisting it. Force would fuel her hatred of it and make her more stubborn.
But seduction from that sexy dark fairy?
She was in a world of trouble, and she knew it.
Sad thing was, it hadn’t even had to look very far for a weakness to exploit. She liked nice things. She was rarely able to have them, what with her meager income barely covering her most essential living expenses and tuition. She was just as much a sucker for good food, pretty flowers, and expensive wine as any other girl. Though she’d berated herself the entire time, she’d nonetheless eaten the fabulous meal after Adam Black had left, knowing she’d never be able to afford Jean-Robert at Pigall’s on her own. After she’d finished the last succulent bite of chocolate-macadamia truffle tart smothered in whipped cream, she’d been so disgusted with herself that she’d given up and packed it in for the night.
And she had a dreadful suspicion that it was only getting warmed up.
The world is a vast adventure begging to be had, it had said as she’d sat in her gray cubicle surrounded by oodles of other gray cubicles in a gray office building, pushing paper, or rather, being pushed by paper that daily thieved more of her life; she rarely saw the sun anymore because it had yet to rise when she went in to work and had often set by the time she got home.
A vast adventure . . . Had she ever felt that way, excited by all the possibilities life might hold?
No. She’d always felt compelled, driven to be responsible. To get the best grades. To have a respectable career. To excel at said career. To be kind to small children and old people and animals. To do everything right. You don’t need to prove anything, Gabby, Gram had chided her years ago. You’re perfect just the way you are.
Right. That was why her mom had left. Because she was so perfect. If she’d been any more perfect, Gram might have left too.
With a grunt of exasperation, Gabby punched her pillow and rolled over. Her sweats got twisted, the underwire of her bra dug into her skin, and her shirt rucked up. One sock was annoyingly half-on and half-off, a disgustingly droopy feeling. She never slept in clothes and, despite the open windows and the rhythmic paddling of the ceiling fan, it was hot in her turret bedroom. Sweat was trickling down between her breasts and her hair was clinging damply to her neck.
“I’m going to kill you, Adam Black,” she muttered tiredly, closing her eyes.
Then opened them again, wide, electrified by the thought.
It was in mortal form.
Holy cow.
It could be killed.
And wouldn’t that just solve all her problems?
“I only want four of you,” said Darroc, barely concealing his distaste. He didn’t know why he even bothered to hide it; the Unseelie Hunters were far too barbaric, too brutish, to care.
“A score of us will find him more swiftly, Darroc,” said Bastion. The oldest and most powerful of the Hunters, he shifted his leathery wings, glancing hungrily around at the lush, rolling fields.
Darroc watched Bastion’s nostrils flaring at the scent of the human realm. He’d chosen to release the Hunter from his icy prison—that grim, hellish Fae realm to which the Unseelie had been condemned—and bring him to the Hill of Tara to remind him of all the Unseelie had lost. Also to ensure that the Unseelie King, who at times supported Aoibheal and at other times didn’t (and none could ever predict when, not even her) did not overhear. Though the King of Darkness rarely emerged from his dark fortress in the bleakest of reaches within his realm of shadow and ice, Darroc had no desire to draw the notice of the formidable . . . creature.
“Haste is not the issue, stealth is. A score of you in the human realm is too risky, and our plans might never come to fruition. Seek you to roam the earth freely again, Hunter, as you did before The Compact?”
“You know I do,” growled Bastion.
“Do as I say and it will come to pass. Disobey me and it will never happen.”
“The Hunters obey no one.” Dark wings rustled angrily.
“We all obey, Bastion, and have since The Compact was sealed,” said Darroc, striving for patience. The Unseelie tried his patience at the best of times, and these were not. They were dangerous times, and he didn’t need the danger compounded by rogue Hunters who refused to obey his commands. “A thing I’m trying to change. Will you follow my orders, or am I to assume you are content in your realm? Trapped. Stabled like lowly beasts.”
Lips drawn back in a scowl, Bastion nodded once, tightly. “Very well. Four of us, no more. Have you any idea where he is?”
“Not yet. Aoibheal has forbidden his name to even be spoken at court, hence my spies have been able to tell me nothing. Go first to Scotland, the Highlands. He once sired a son there.” Unfortunately, Darroc knew little more than that. He had no idea if the child had even survived to maturity. Those Tuatha Dé Adam might count as friends had never been friends of Darroc’s, and Aoibheal kept her own counsel where the prince she’d been so wont to indulge was concerned. If not for Mael, he’d have known nothing at all of Adam’s fate. He—a bloody Elder of her High Council—kept in the dark. Still, a number of his race hadn’t been seen for several mortal months, coinciding with a time shortly after Adam’s banishment to the human realm. He had no doubt he would soon find one of his brethren who knew exactly where Adam was, if the Hunters didn’t find him sooner.
“And when we find him?”
Darroc smiled. He could sense the Hunter’s restlessness, his hunger for a return to old times and old ways. It mirrored his own. He felt every bit as caged on the Fae Isle of Morar as did the Hunters in their prison-realm. “You may kill him, but”—he placed a forceful hand on Bastion’s arm—“you must make it appear an accident. As if he died of mortal causes. Removing Adam Black is only the first step in my plan, and the queen’s suspicions must not yet be aroused. That means no hint of anything remotely Fae anywhere near his body. Human wounds only. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make the other three understand and obey you?”
“I will choose well.” Bastion shifted impatiently.
“Then, name your three, and I will bring them here,” said Darroc.
Bastion’s flame-colored eyes flashed as he called forth his Hunters.
8
Gabby awoke just before dawn. For one blissful moment her body was awake, but her mind was still muzzily cocooned by dreams, and she thought it was a day just like any other. Normal, peaceful, filled with trivial issues and manageable concerns.
Then, wham-bam! memories battered her: She’d blown the job interview, betrayed herself to a fairy, had a week’s worth of work to do today, and her life was a living hell.
Groaning, she rolled over, trying desperately to fall back asleep so she wouldn’t have to face it all yet.
No such luck.
Adam Black was in the shower.
She c
ould hear him, er—it—splashing around in there.
A mere dozen paces down the hall from her bedroom. A tall, dark, sexy, and very naked fairy. Right here in her house. In her shower. Using her soap and towels.
And it was singing. Sexy voice, too, with that strange, husky Celtic accent. Nothing less than an old Sophie B. Hawkins song: Damn, I wish I was your lover, I’d rock you ’til the daylight comes . . .
I just bet you would, a teenage voice sighed dreamily inside her mind.
“I need a gun,” Gabby whispered.
“I need a gun,” Gabby told Jay as she stepped into her cubicle.
Placing her cup of coffee on her desk, she tucked her purse in a drawer, dropped into the chair, smoothed her skirt over her hips, then spun about, facing the aisle. “Where does a person buy a gun, Jay?”
Jay Landry, co-intern and inhabitant of the cube catty-corner to hers, slowly spun his chair around and glanced at her searchingly. “Gabby, are you feeling all right? Jeff said you were sick. Are you sure you’re better? You’ve been acting funny.”
“I’m fine,” she said, legs crossed, one foot briskly tapping air. “I just wondered where a person might buy a gun.”
“What do you want it for?” he hedged.
“I don’t feel safe living where I live,” she lied baldly. It wasn’t as if she could possibly get caught and tried for what she was planning to do, she reassured herself. In order to establish murder, one had to have not only a weapon but a body. And since nobody but her could actually see the body-to-be, voilà—no crime. Besides, it was self-defense, through and through.
“Take a karate course.”
She rolled her eyes. “And what do I do for the next however-many-years it takes before I manage to become remotely proficient at that?”
He shrugged. “Make your boyfriend move in.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” she said peevishly.
He didn’t look at all surprised. “Probably because you work so much, Gabby. I bet he got sick of you being married to your job. I would. You know”—he glanced around and cautiously lowered his voice—“Jeff wouldn’t push you around so much if he didn’t know you’d take it. He knows you’ll spend the whole weekend researching the Rollins case. He knows you’ll bust butt trying to prove yourself. And what’s he planning to do this weekend, you ask? I’ll tell you. I overheard him making plans this morning to meet some buddies and spend the weekend golfing at Hilton Head. He’ll be out catching some rays, drinking some beer. While you sit here in your—”
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