Fairy Rings and Dragon Kings (Book 7 in the Twilight Court Series)

by Amy Sumida

  “That's exactly what I'm saying,” Daxon snapped. “You don't believe me? Round the guy up when he leaves and ask him.”

  Raza's eyes narrowed, but I laid my hand over his, and he settled.

  “I can take care of this,” I said to Raza. “It's not legal, but then neither was a forgetting charm.”

  “I'll be right back, honey,” the man beside us said. “I just gotta take a quick piss.”

  “Charming,” I muttered.

  “I will handle this,” Raza said as he watched the man stand and head inside. “Stay here with Tromlaighe.”

  Raza got up and followed the man inside.

  “Seren, I swear to you that I didn't sell him the magic,” Daxon vowed. “Even when I did sell them, I never sold forgetting spells. That's a sloppy business that can easily backfire.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. “Then Raza will have proof of your innocence soon.”

  “What about her?” Daxon nodded to the poor blonde.

  “I don't know,” I said. “I can uncross people, but this is a different kind of spell.”

  “This is black-market magic.” Daxon grimaced. “It's weak stuff. Try the uncrossing with her; it just may work.”

  I glanced at the woman. She was eating with the air of a person who didn't know why she had ordered food to begin with. I sighed; no harm in trying. I gathered my uncrossing magic into my fingers as I stood.

  “Pardon me?” I asked the woman as I leaned in and touched her shoulder. “Could I steal a couple packets of sugar from your table? We're out, and I hate the fake stuff.”

  I pushed my magic into her, and then pulled it out. The forgetting spell broke like glass; a tinkling feeling for me that was more like a shattering for her. She took a deep breath and then started to whimper.

  “Hey, it's okay,” I rubbed her back. “I heard what that guy said to you. I hope you don't mind me butting in, but if I were you, I'd leave before he came back from the bathroom.”

  “He cheated on me,” she whispered. “I was gonna leave, but then something happened.”

  “I think he drugged you,” I said softly. “I saw him blow something in your face.”

  “That bastard!” She swore. “I should report his ass to the police.”

  “I don't know how you'd prove something like that,” I said. “But either way, you should get out of here before he tries to do it again.”

  “Yeah, maybe you're right.” She looked over her shoulder apprehensively. “I knew he was a jerk, but I had no idea he was a monster.”

  “I'm so sorry.”

  “No, thank you.” She clutched my hand as she stood. “I think that you snapped me out of it. Thank you so much, you may have just saved my life.”

  The woman hugged me, grabbed her purse, and rushed away from the cafe.

  “I guess it worked,” Daxon said with surprise.

  “You said it would.”

  “I said it probably would... with your magic,” he corrected me. “I had no idea if it actually would.”

  The man returned to the table, turned in a circle looking for his date, and then stormed off.

  “Hey, you haven't paid your bill!” A waiter grabbed the guy and got punched for his efforts.

  But you don't punch a waiter in LA. The rest of the staff tag-teamed the jerk, and had him restrained within minutes. By the time Raza returned to our table, the police were on their way and the man was tied to a chair with linen napkins.

  “Looks like he'll be getting his comeuppance,” Raza noted as he slid into his seat.

  “Good, that asshole,” I snarled.

  “Haven't I asked you to use another word?” Raza lifted a brow at me.

  “I thought that was only in reference to you?”

  “Quite right,” Raza agreed. “Feel free to call other men assholes.”

  “Are you going to tell us, or what?” Daxon snapped.

  “You may be innocent,” Raza admitted.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Daxon asked.

  “The man purchased the magic from a man who approached him in a bar,” Raza said. “But the bar wasn't Enchantments and the man wasn't you.”

  “Thank you,” Daxon huffed and waved his hand. “Hold on; what bar was it?”

  “Someplace called the White Lotus,” Raza said. “We'll have to report this to the Human Council. That spell was harmful, correct?”

  “Forgetting spells are a gray area.” I shook my head. “Extinguishers use a psychic versions sometimes to remove memories from humans. Technically, as it was used, it was an attack and would be considered illegal, but the attack was perpetrated by a human. The Councils still haven't reworked the law yet to deal with humans using magic.”

  “So, what do we do?” Raza asked. “We need to prove that Daxon is an acceptable consort; we can't do that if this is hanging over him.”

  “It wasn't me,” Daxon growled. “I am acceptable.”

  “Yes, we believe you.” I laid my hand over Daxon's. “It just looks bad since you were the King of the Fairy Underground.”

  “She believes you,” Raza huffed. “I'm still waiting for absolute proof.”

  “I am still King,” Daxon corrected me. “I don't have to sell magic to humans to rule the Underground. And what kind of proof do you want, King Raza?”

  “I want to know who actually sold the spell to that human,” Raza said.

  “Well, that makes two of us,” Daxon snapped. “Because not only did I clean up my business practices, I made a law that the Underground wouldn't sell magic either.”

  “It looks like one of your subjects is rebelling,” I noted.

  “Perhaps we should hunt this fairy together,” Raza suggested. “Then I will have my proof, and you will have your vengeance.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “We can't go vigilante in HR.”

  “You have a deal, King Raza.” Daxon shook Raza's hand.

  “Oh gee, look at that; I've been ignored again while the men make plans.” I rolled my eyes and stood.

  “Seren!” They both called after me.

  “I'm going to the bathroom,” I said calmly. “If you two don't adjust your chauvinist attitudes by the time I return, I'll be walking out for real.”

  They looked properly chastised.

  “Nicely done,” our waitress whispered to me as I passed her.

  “Sometimes you just have to remind them who has the power,” I said.

  “You mean who has the pussy.” The waitress winked at me.

  “You're damn straight that's what I mean.”

  Here's a look into Amy's new series, The Spellsinger, with the first book:

  The Last Lullaby

  Chapter One

  I hunched my shoulders in an attempt to lift my coat collar a little higher around my ears. The weather in Seattle was dismal in December. Hell, in my opinion it was dismal during most times of the year. I longed for the kinder climate of my home, where even the rain was warm. But I couldn't go back to Hawaii yet, I still hadn't met with my client, and the payday for this job promised to be worth a little discomfort.

  I finally made it to the top of the ridiculously long driveway, my eyes scanning the area surreptitiously from within the cashmere confines of my coat. I'd had the taxi drop me off a little ways down the street so I could do a bit of surveillance on my approach. Even in the gray, grim weather, there were at least eight guards spaced around the front of the house. One of them moved to intercept me, and I acted as if I hadn't seen him.

  “Hold on, Miss. This is private property.” The overly muscled man in combat pants held a gloved palm out to me in the traditional “stop” gesture. I saw the gun on his hip, but he hadn't drawn it. That was mistake number one. I was in the driveway already, which made me a threat.

  Bad guard, no biscuit.

  “I'm expected.” I could have announced myself right then, but I wanted to test Adam MacLaine's security team.

  That was my client, MacLaine–or he would be soon. If this guy was an accur
ate representation of MacLaine's security, it was a wonder the man wasn't dead already.

  “Do we have a guest arriving today?” Mr. Combat Pants asked a little microphone clipped to his shirt.

  He had to open his leather jacket to access the mic, giving me a flash of the knife he had secured to an inner pocket. Damn this guy was dumb. He even turned away from me to talk into his comm. Like he couldn't conceive of a woman being a threat. I could have killed him three times already. I suppose I should have berated him for his bad habits, but I hated doing other people's jobs. And it was definitely someone else's job to whip this guy into shape. The mere thought exhausted me. I do not suffer fools.

  “Name?”

  “What?” I asked, completely distracted by his ineptitude.

  And the spaghetti stain on his shirt. It was nearly invisible from a distance, but now that I was up close and personal, I could clearly see the crusty red mark on the black fabric. So, a fool and a slob. Definitely not the type of man I'd have chosen to protect me.

  “What's your name, Miss?” the slob asked.

  “Tanager,” I said, whispering to see if he would make the mistake of coming in closer to hear me.

  “What was that?” He sure did. He leaned in close enough for me to stab him in the throat.

  Of course I would never deign to dirty my hands in such a manner. My mother raised me better than that. I killed like a lady.

  “The name is Tanager,” I said more clearly. “And I'm cold.”

  Whoever was on the other side of the microphone heard me, and must have barked something into the muscle-head's ear. He flinched, then straightened.

  “Sorry, Ms. Tanager,” he stammered and gestured to the looming house. “My team wasn't notified. Go on in. Someone will meet you at the door.”

  “Thank you, Mr. . . ?” I drew it out into a question.

  “Uh, you can call me Jake, Ms. Tanager,” he stammered.

  “Thank you, Jake.” I walked off, striding quickly to the beckoning warmth of the open front door.

  A woman stood within the golden light of the doorway, her features as stern as her severe bun, and her eyes razor sharp. She nodded to me, and shut the door behind me after I entered.

  “May I take your coat, Ms Tanager?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I slid out of it and sighed.

  I had worn my usual getup to greet clients–pencil skirt and modest blouse. But instead of heels, I'd chosen knee-high boots. It was just too cold outside to go without something covering my calves. The woman looked over my prim outfit, and nodded in approval. With my long, dark curls pinned up, I looked very professional.

  “I am Mrs. Chadwick,” the woman introduced herself as she hung up my coat. “Mr. MacLaine is waiting for you in his office. I'll take you there now.”

  I followed Mrs. Chadwick down a corridor much too wide to be called a hallway. It was lined with expensive artwork, and the sounds of our footsteps were muffled by a silk carpet runner that looked as if it had taken years to weave. It was nice, but I'd seen all of this before. Done better, to tell the truth. My clients were the wealthiest people in the world. They had to be in order to afford me.

  “Mr. MacLaine, she's here,” Mrs. Chadwick said as she walked through an open door.

  “Thank God,” a man's voice groaned.

  It was a pleasant voice, and it matched the office I entered. Not nearly as pretentious as the rest of the house, this room was more personal. It held framed family photos, an old chair that must have come from a time when MacLaine wasn't so wealthy, a wide desk made for function instead of form, and several sitting areas; one before the desk, one before a picture window to the right of the desk, and one in front of a modest fireplace. That's where MacLaine had been, at the fireplace enjoying its comfort instead of working at his desk. In the crowd I normally contracted with, that said a lot.

  Adam MacLaine was around forty, with a trim build that suggested he didn't spend all of his time making money. His oak-brown hair was lightly sprinkled with white at the temples, and his skin had a healthy tan, but not the sunbed tan so prevalent in Seattle. His skin had seen real sun. Blue eyes crinkled as he smiled in relief, and came to meet me halfway across the room, hand extended.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms Tanager.” He shook my hand firmly. “Could you close the door on your way out, Mrs. Chadwick?”

  “Of course, sir.” She smiled a little, showing a hint of affection for her employer. That said a lot too.

  “Would you like something to drink?” MacLaine offered as his hand swept to a sideboard where several bottles waited. Not decanters, mind you, he had straight up liquor bottles out on display. The social elite would be shocked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “All right then.” He looked unnerved by my refusal. “Would you care to have a seat?”

  “Yes.” I slid into the chair across from his, and he relaxed a little, coming over to join me.

  “I don't know how–” he started to stammer, but I held up a hand.

  “Mr. MacLaine, who wants you dead?” I cut through the pussyfooting.

  “I believe it's a man named Jonah Malone.” He sighed, and sank back into his chair. “His company was failing, and I bought it at a . . . well, for a song, really.”

  “Uh-huh.” I chuckled at the song reference.

  With the exception of his ironic wording, my clients's stories were always so similar. Someone got the better end of a business deal. Or they were cheating on their spouse. Or cheating on their mistress. Or cheating on their taxes. No, that last one doesn't require my intervention. Not usually. But the issue was often about someone screwing someone else in some form or another.

  “I assume you've compiled a dossier on him?”

  “Oh, yes,” MacLaine fumbled with something on the floor beside him, and then handed me a manila folder.

  “What exactly do you want me to do to Mr. Malone?” This was the line I asked all of my clients. I needed to be very clear with them. A lot of them assumed I was purely an assassin, but that wasn't the case. I thought of myself more as a fixer. I could kill when necessary, but death was the most extreme result I offered.

  “I . . .” He gaped at me. “What are my options?”

  Just as I'd thought. Cer hadn't told him. My old friend was having a laugh at my expense right about now. MacLaine had doubtless been referred to me by one of his friends, but he'd had to go through my friend, Cerberus Skylos, before he could arrange a meeting with me. Cerberus made sure the client was someone I'd want to work with before he passed on the info. And he usually did me the courtesy of explaining who I was, or at least, what I could do, to my potential customers.

  “Do you know what I am, Mr. MacLaine?” I asked gently.

  “An assassin,” he whispered, as if he might be overheard.

  “No,” I shook my head. “I have killed people, but that's not who I am. Or what I am.”

  “Uh.” He started to look confused. “Are you a vampire?”

  “Good guess,” I chuckled, “but no.”

  The mere fact that I was sitting there, facing him, meant that Adam MacLaine knew about the supernatural world that existed in the shadows of the human one. “The Beneath.”– or just plain “Beneath.” is what we, the denizens of said community, called it. So, MacLaine knew of it, but it was very doubtful that he knew the scope of the situation. He hadn't even known the correct term for a vampire–blooder. The wrong titles give away ignorance in a heartbeat.

  Humans who were aware of the Beneath usually knew about the forerunners of paranormal society, the obvious races; loups (don't call them werewolves, they hate that), other shapeshifters, and blooders. Sometimes they knew about fairies, but the Shining Ones were really good at covering their tracks, so that was rare. What was even more rare was when humans were acquainted with the other races; gods, witches, demons, dragons, angels, and so forth. Things that went bump in the night, and did a fair amount of rabble rousing during the day as well. We just knew how to hid
e our supernatural gifts better than the shifters and blooders.

  “A friend of mine told me about you. He said you were the best. That you never failed,” MacLaine's face started to fall into the sharp lines that always preceded my revelation of the Beneath. It was like they could sense I was about to tell them something that would change their entire life. Or at least their ability to sleep through the night.

  “That's true,” I agreed. “So you know about vampires. What else do you know?”

  “What else?” He scowled. “The shapeshifters, of course.”

  “And that's it?”

  “There's more?” MacLaine's eyes widened.

  “Oh yes,” I smirked. “There's quite a bit more. But that's not for me to reveal. I only have the right to tell you about my own kind. Now, do you know what a siren is, Mr. MacLaine?”

  “Like in the Odyssey?”

  “Yes, exactly,” I smiled, relieved that I wouldn't have to explain everything. “My mother's people are considered to be a class of god. They were minor deities, more like an entourage to the more powerful gods, but still considered a divine race.”