Yet here she was.
Samhain clearly had decided to slap Wrenn across the face the moment she stepped outside. Why, though? The visions weren’t a new manifestation with a festival, but they were coming faster and stronger than she’d expected when she’d decided to step out of her apartment.
Rich watched a Seelie couple stroll by. She blinked a few times as if being outside made her nervous. “Come in.” She looked up and down the street, as if watching for the cops even though Wrenn was the local Royal Guard.
How had Wrenn gotten to the tavern? Was this a manifestation of her flashbacks, the same as when she found herself standing over her case files with a towel in her hand? Maybe Rich wasn’t real, yet the perfect scent combination of roasting meats and warmed breads flowed out of the door. Wrenn inhaled deeply, centering herself.
Rich peered into her eyes. “Lush is having strong visions, too,” she whispered. “We both are.”
So it wasn’t just Wrenn.
“You okay?” Rich touched Wrenn’s arm.
Empathy was a commodity among the fae, and real caring was as rare and precious as gold. It was also more likely to happen among the witches.
Like Lush, Rich was a witch fathered by a fae and born to a mundane woman. Wrenn’s height and strength fueled rumors that she was a witch with elf ancestry. She didn’t know. No one knew, but the rumor did give some of the more annoying fae pause.
The magic around Rich flared outward from her like a roiling ball of reddish heat. She shuddered and blinked, then rubbed her forehead. The streetlamp flickered. The lights in the tavern brightened and buzzed. Rich looked up, frowned, and shifted how she held her shoulders.
The reddish magical heat around her danced up and into the air, and the lights went back to normal. “Sorry. Hot flash.”
“S’okay,” Wrenn said. The hot flash thing happened to all the witches in Oberon’s Castle. Except for Wrenn. Not a lot of hot to flash when you woke up every morning with cold skin.
Rich chuckled. “Got to pay the rent somehow, huh?”
In the real world, that heat often caused the witch to overheat in mind and body. But in the connected realms of Oberon’s Castle, a spellwork infrastructure siphoned off any flare-up before it hurt anyone.
Wrenn had long wondered where all that witch heat went. Still, without the siphoning, Rich and Lush would live vastly different lives, if they lived at all.
Rich waved her toward the door.
Some patrons played throwing games in the back. Some talked boisterously at the tables. All buzzed as they partied away the last of the year’s light before winter officially hit.
Wrenn followed Rich through the crowd and sat at the bar. Rich ducked behind and picked up the enchanted, always-full decanter of the tavern’s signature spiced coffee.
She poured out a mug. “You look cold still.” She waved her hand over the mug and a containment spell formed a spill-proof lid over the steaming liquid, then she pushed it toward Wrenn. “It’s on the house.”
Wrenn frowned. “You know, if I could figure out how to help with the flashes, I would,” she said.
Rich leaned against the counter. “We know.” Her eyes narrowed. “You had another flashback, didn’t you?” She shook her head. “And Samhain’s making it worse, isn’t it?”
Wrenn’s frown deepened. Sometimes witches knew more than they had a right to.
Rich stood straight and picked up her cloth again. She nodded toward the back room, and presumably Lush. “Lots of us witches have issues, Wrenn. You need to get yours settled or they will eat you up.”
Wrenn shrugged and took the coffee. “Yeah.” Her witchness would eat her up in a wholly different way than any of the other witches in the realm.
Rich tapped her finger on the smooth wood of the countertop. “Hmm.” She went back to wiping the bar, but stopped and stared into the tavern’s main room. “You should go home,” she said.
Yes, they should both be following the rules. “I have a case.” She moved away from the counter so she could tap her paladin star.
Rich continued to stare at the patrons in the main room. “Hmm,” she said again.
Wrenn turned around and scanned the fae gathered around the tables and in the game rooms.
There, at a back table, a kelpie shimmered pale green in the low glow along the back wall. He sat alone in the shadows sipping at a pint, with one arm on the back of his chair and his legs out as if he were looking to trip the waitstaff. He wore a black kilt—they always wore black kilts—and a tight-fitting black polo shirt. He’d half-heartedly swept his black locks back from his face, and one still fell onto his forehead, giving him a psychotic Clark Kent look.
He wasn’t the most beautiful variation of the baseline kelpie look that she’d seen, but he was handsome enough with the standard kelpie strong jaw and five o’clock shadow. They all were. Kelpies were pretty much identically ideal in their features, fantastic to behold and bewitching, but they were murderous dark fae.
They mostly stayed in Titania’s realms, but one or two came into Oberon’s Castle during festivals. They rarely caused overt problems—dark fae were watched—but that didn’t mean this one was behaving himself. He might just be out on a Samhain jaunt, but Wrenn suspected not.
She looked back at Rich.
“He’s…” Rich blinked. “He’s been here all evening,” she said.
She blinked again.
Wrenn looked back at the kelpie, then at Rich and her continued blinking. She shook slightly and went back to wiping at the bar.
Somewhere in the back, a group of fae broke into song. Near the door, another laughed. The kelpie sat in the shadows sprawled out like a bored child, watching it all.
Wrenn looked back at Rich, who smiled. “Need a refill?” she asked as if she’d forgotten that she’d just filled Wrenn’s mug.
Which she might have. Wrenn looked back at the kelpie.
The bastard winked.
He’d enthralled Rich to ignore him.
“Want me to get rid of the kelpie?” Wrenn would have to be careful. A kelpie who felt slighted would always look for revenge. They were as petty as boggarts in that respect.
Rich nodded, blinked again, then went back to her wiping.
Wrenn stood. She smoothed her jacket, made sure her paladin star was visible, and walked toward the kelpie’s corner.
He didn’t look at her when she pulled out a chair. He sipped his pint, watched the satyrs tossing hatchets in the back room, and puffed out his chest. He set down his mug and looked up at her expectantly.
She dropped her hand to her Paladin star without saying a word.
Something was off about this kelpie. He wasn’t exuding the charm and charisma that normally acted as their lure.
This kelpie was cold.
“Nae witches out on Samhain.” He returned to staring at the game players in the back room and didn’t look at her. “Company policy.”
Something about her time with Victor kept Wrenn from being read as witch by other magicals. Robin speculated it was the same interference that kept them from reading her magical heritage, and also why she didn’t overheat the same way the vast majority of witches did, no matter whose magic they semi-wielded.
So to this kelpie, she should have read as mundane. Yet she didn’t.
He looked up at her and smiled.
Fangs.
“Out vampire huntin’ tonight, darlin’?” he asked.
Chapter 4
The proof Wrenn needed of vampires in Oberon’s Castle had walked into her neighborhood tavern, gotten himself a pint for show, and sat down waiting for her to come around.
Though he wasn’t proof of anything, really, beyond the poor judgment of kelpies. They were as likely to get themselves into dangerous situations as they were a danger for their mundane prey.
Which was the way of dark fae. Stupidly-evil is as stupidly-evil does. And this one was stupid enough to walk around in public.
She shouldn’t en
gage. She should call for backup and have his vamped-out butt hauled into headquarters so he could be properly interrogated by a fae wielding strong magic.
But headquarters might not ask the right questions. Headquarters might dust him the moment backup appeared.
“Tonight’s the night you move around the realms undetected, huh?” she asked.
He rubbed the tip of his nose with his thumb knuckle. “Or mayhap I’m just another witch’s Samhain vision, sweetheart.” He nodded toward the back room.
He’d have to be three witches’ vision for that to be true. “If you were a vision, we would have conjured up a handsome kelpie.”
His lip twitched and he flashed a fang again.
So he was a hotheaded vamped-out kelpie. She’d have to be careful with the insults.
He silently shifted in his chair—more glided or slipped than shifted—and leaned forward over the table. “Leave me alone an’ allow me a moment t’ enjoy the ambiance.”
“All dark fae are to be surveilled while in Oberon’s Castle,” she said. Best not to tell him that his fangs meant a dusting once she called him in.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Samhain.”
“I could stake you right here and now and be within my rights as a paladin,” she said.
He laughed. “Ye think I’m nae real.” A wave in the ambient magic moved out from his body. No new magic appeared, only the ripple that hit her and bounced back to him.
So that’s how it works, she thought. A true vampire’s enthrallings weren’t visible in the magic. But this vamp was also a kelpie.
“Get up.” She pointed at the exit as she pulled out her phone to call him in. “The Royal Guard would like to know how you got yourself vamped.”
He didn’t move. “I’m wi’in my rights here.” He picked up his pint again. He may have been sipping at it, but it was full still. He hadn’t been drinking.
Technically, yes, he was within his rights. Dark fae might be surveilled, but they were common and mostly left alone as long as they didn’t indulge their darker behaviors while within Oberon’s Castle.
She whipped the chair around and sat with the chairback between them. “I take it you’re someone’s experiment?” Being someone’s experiment counted as a dark behavior.
The kelpie set down his pint.
His fingers drummed on the table in a soundless smooth wave. When she looked back at his face, he’d curled his lip enough to show yet more fang.
Wrenn pulled out her phone. She opened her recording app and aimed the microphone at the kelpie. “You have to tell me how you got yourself vamped. I bet it’s the best dark fae origin story ever.”
A low groan rolled from the kelpie.
“Let me guess,” Wrenn said. “You tried to enthrall some meek lass but you weren’t paying attention and ended up almost sucked dry by one of those vampires who preys on magicals.” Wrenn nodded. “But she liked your lovely face and your lovelier abs and now you’re some depraved Gulf Coast clan’s boy toy.” Now she sniffed. “Because none of the real European clans would give a shit about a kelpie.”
He moved so fast she didn’t see him come over the table and grab the back of her chair. “Watch yer mouth,” he said.
Wrenn didn’t flinch. She stared at the kelpie’s lovely ice green eyes. “Do you know why I’m a paladin?” she asked.
He slid back into his chair. “I’m nae from around here.”
Kelpies lived in Queen Titania’s realms. Seemed she liked all stallions, even the murdering kind.
“Obviously,” Wrenn said.
He grinned. No fangs this time, at least.
“I don’t thrall.” She didn’t. “You won’t like the taste of my blood, either.” Vampires found her “difficult.”
Yet another bit of resilience she could hang on Victor Frankenstein.
“Steadfast an’ sturdy,” he muttered.
“Who do you work for?” She might as well be straightforward.
He chuckled again. “Who said I worked for anyone?”
She shrugged. “Kelpie boy toy, remember? Not one of you is smart or powerful enough to run anything beyond your loch.”
“Some o’ us are.” He breathed out a long string of Gaelic swear words which, if they hadn’t come from the mouth of a kelpie, would have been more entertaining than frightening.
Then another wave pulsed out from his body, but not toward her. He pulsed out to the tavern.
He was fast, but so was she. They were both up and with a hand on the other’s throat before the enthralling wave reflected back to the kelpie. They were the same height, though he was significantly wider at the shoulders and longer-limbed. He gripped her with ease. She had to twist her shoulder toward him.
“Threatening one of Oberon’s paladins is enough to bring you in,” she said.
“Goadin’ a dark fae is enough t’ get ye killed,” he answered.
Wrenn reached into her pocket with her free hand, pulled out her phone, thumbed open her camera app, activated the vampire filter, and made a point of taking a picture of the kelpie’s head and her hand around his neck.
“That photo willnae show anythin’,” he growled.
Someone wasn’t keeping up with his tech news. She thumbed her Royal Guard app, switched to the front facing lens, and snapped a photo of his hand around her neck.
He grabbed her hair with his other hand.
She stood her ground and snapped another picture.
A full-throated yowl-screech rose out of his throat. No one in the tavern moved. No one noticed. Every single patron ignored them as if they weren’t there.
He’d enthralled everyone. She’d underestimated his power level.
And his strength. He pushed her down and to the side. Her knee buckled, and her elbow screamed. She let go of his neck and stumbled to her left, off balance and completely under his control.
She got her phone back into her pocket before he slammed her face into the table. Pain burst outward from her cheekbone and her ear. She pushed on the table to get her footing but he shook her and kept her off balance.
“I ken ye sent in those photos,” he slammed her head against the table again to emphasize that he knew exactly what she’d just done. “Do ye think someone’s gonnae come to yer rescue? It’s almost midnight.” He held up her head so she could see the tavern emptying out.
They were all going outside to watch the world move from the light half of the year to the dark.
The kelpie hauled her up again so they were face-to-face. She grabbed his wrist and twisted.
He only laughed. “I came here for th’ witch in th’ back.” He leaned close. “Ye can trade in substantial favors when ye ken what currency is most valuable.” He sniffed her ear. “I wonder what one o’ yer kind would bring in.”
There was only one other of her kind. Unless…
“Are you working for him?” One other victim of Victor Frankenstein still walking around. Except the other wasn’t a victim. The other was a vampire. “Where is he?”
The kelpie dragged her toward the tavern’s back room. “Who, darlin’?” He slapped her hard. “I’m a Gulf Coast boy toy, remember?” He pushed open the door and slammed her against the frame. “Th’ rest of the fae, they ken nothin’ about what’s happenin’ in North America.” He dragged through another door and into the kitchen. “Noth—”
Heat hit her hard. The kitchen had been cleared out but the fires still roared. Meat still sizzled on a spit.
A steel frying pan bounced off the kelpie’s face. Iron would have been better, but there was no cold cast iron in the fae realms.
The kelpie swore and let go of her neck and hair.
She grabbed his legs on the way down and toppled him into the kitchen. This time, the wielder of the pan slammed it into the back of his head.
It didn’t do any good. The kelpie rolled, kicked her in the face, and swept his arm at the goat-legged fae wielding the pan.
Robin. Oberon’s Second-in-Command stood over th
e kelpie vampire like an adorable sack of horned, sweet boy.
He was in full uniform—midnight blue jacket with silver buttons and a silver hem on the cuffs. Midnight blue trousers tailored to his goat legs. Black shin and hoof guards that acted as boots. A pristine white shirt. Silver caps on his cute horns that set off the room’s light as white-hot bolts of glare.
A handsome if stern and self-absorbed face.
A bubble of magic formed around Robin’s hands.
There was a reason he’d cleared the staff out of the kitchen. She’d caught the backwash from the last time he’d tossed that spell at a dark fae. She knew exactly what was about to happen.
“Don’t!” Wrenn yelled. “He’s part of a case I’m working! He knows something about—!”
“No vampires in Oberon’s Castle!” Robin interrupted. “You sent in pictures, Wrenn.”
“But—”
The ball of magic elongated into a spike. Robin pulled back his arm. And that spike pierced the kelpie’s vampire heart.
Light magic blazed. Dark magic roiled. The kelpie-vampire turned into a suffocating dust cloud.
She couldn’t see. She couldn’t breathe.
“Robin…” she gasped as she blacked out.
Chapter 5
Wrenn woke up face down on an ornate parquet floor. Tiny inlays fanned out in a circle in front of her face as if her nose was the epicenter of a wood halo. Intricately-cut bits of oak entwined with equally intensely-meshed teak and mahogany, all of which had been set into the sleek white lines of birch.
And the whole thing smelled of white strawberry varnish.
Which meant she was in one of the large Armory practice rooms. Not her apartment. Not in any of the Royal Guard magic recovery rooms. Not an infirmary or even the kitchen behind Rich and Lush’s Tavern.
No. She was in the one place in all of Oberon’s Castle where Robin Goodfellow felt comfortable enough to talk about delicate issues.
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