by Alyssa Day
He raised his head and stared at her. He thought she’d said . . .
“What?”
“You can’t go. Don’t leave me. We can figure this out. I love you, you crazy Atlantean madman,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m not sure why you’d want a cat burglar, but you’re mine, too, so let’s make this work, okay? No more talk of leaving me. Not ever.”
He couldn’t make a sound. He took her in his arms, swept her up off the floor and back into the bed, and made his clothes vanish with a thought. Before he could speak, or think, or even offer up a prayer of thankfulness to all the gods who might be listening, he was inside of her again.
“Mine,” he said. “I love you, too. This is where I belong. For always, my princess, my ninja, mi amara.”
She traced her fingertips down his spine and smiled. “What does that mean? Mi amara?”
“My beloved. It means my beloved, and you are.”
Then he made love to her, gently and sweetly, for a very long time.
His. She was his. He would never let her go.
Fiona woke up gradually, swimming through sleep to consciousness in stages. First she realized her body was slightly sore, and she smiled at the memory of the lovemaking that had caused it. Then she remembered the rest of it, and her heart rate felt like it doubled as her eyes popped open.
Christophe came walking out of the bathroom, hair wet and a towel slung low on his hips, and strolled over to the window to look out. She took a few moments to enjoy the view before she let him know she was awake. His broad chest tapered down into sharply defined abdominal muscles, which veed down between his hips. He was a purely perfect specimen of masculine form, and he was hers.
“Good morning,” she said, and enjoyed seeing that she’d surprised him.
“I thought you’d sleep for quite a while.” He crossed to the bed and leaned down to kiss her.
She enjoyed the kiss, but decided to table any further discussion of soul-melding and forever until her emotions were on more solid ground, so she took refuge in practicality. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Change of plans. You’ve got a lot of friends who might be Fae, whether you realize it or not, and I think we can kill two barnacles with one shell.”
She started to laugh. “It’s kill two birds with one stone.”
He grimaced. “Why would I want to kill birds with stones? Anyway, the only ones slow enough for that trick would be the palace peacocks, and even I think they’re too pretty to kill.”
“I feel a little like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole again,” she moaned, still smiling at him so he knew she was teasing.
“Look, forget birds. We’re going Fae hunting. I think the Fae may be pulling a double-cross, here, urging both shifters and vamps to believe it’s the other who stole the sword and the Siren. Also, we can ask about Denal. Are you with me, partner?”
She jumped out of bed. “I know just the place to start. One of my contacts, the first to give me the tip about the man who wanted Vanquish, actually. He owns a pub, and he’s Maeve’s cousin.”
“Which means he’s Fairsby’s cousin, too,” Christophe said. “I knew that damned Unseelie Fae was involved in this somehow.”
She headed for the bathroom. “Give me twenty minutes to shower.”
His eyes flared hot, and he followed her and tossed his towel on the rack. “We’re not in that big of a hurry. I think you need me to wash your back.”
It took far longer than twenty minutes.
The Prancing Pony pub
It had taken a while to get Hopkins and Declan caught up, and even Sean had eaten breakfast with them. Hopkins had already called Fiona’s assistant, Madeleine, and given her the week off and done the same for the rest of the staff, so there would be no interruptions or distractions. By the time she and Christophe managed to escape, it was nearly lunchtime. Sean had dropped them off, darkly muttering something about errands, and promised to be back in two hours unless Fiona needed him sooner.
She had never spent so much time in pubs in her life. A lady didn’t frequent pubs, of course. She defiantly took another sip of her ale, sending a mental piss off to her grandfather.
“I’ve never liked ale before, but it’s really quite perfect with the fish and chips, isn’t it?” She chose another chip and blissfully poured vinegar on it and doused it with more salt. “I could quite get used to this pub food.”
Christophe grinned and shook his head. “I’m corrupting you. Today ale and pub food, tomorrow who knows? Reality TV?”
“You know about reality TV? In Atlantis?”
“Riley told us about it. Another sign of the decline of humanity, if you ask me.” He nodded toward the bar. “There he is.”
She turned. It was him. “How could you know which one is Maeve’s cousin?”
He was right, though. “Yes, that’s Paul.”
“Not exactly a brilliant deduction. He’s the only Fae who walked behind the bar like he owned it.” He leaned forward. “You’ve got a little salt right there.”
Instead of wiping the corner of her mouth, he kissed it, and then he kissed her some more, and soon she was necking in a pub like a proper ninny.
“Stop,” she said, pulling away. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I look at it more like I have a reputation to destroy. Namely, yours.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Sex on a balcony in broad daylight, kissing in a pub—what’s next? The fall of the British aristocracy, I bet.”
“Shh!” She looked around, but nobody was paying them any attention, except for Paul, and he was too far away to have heard. “You’re too bad.”
“Nope. I’m just bad enough, and you love me.”
She sighed. “Yes, and you’re going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”
“Every chance I get.” He tilted his head toward the bar. “Why don’t you go find out what Paul knows, soften him up before I come over? I’ll stay here and rescue any of my chips you didn’t manage to steal.”
“I am a cat burglar,” she whispered.
She stole another chip and waved it just out of his reach before she slid out of the booth and headed for the bar.
“Hello, Lady Fiona,” Paul said, wiping down the already spotless bar. “Surprised to see you here.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I haven’t made it over more often. Dead-lines and such. You know how it is.” She smiled, inviting him to agree.
He didn’t.
He didn’t smile, either.
“I know you know about us now, Fiona,” he said, his formerly warm voice gone cold and hard. “What do you want?”
She allowed a little of his wintry coldness to seep into her own voice. “I want to talk to Maeve, Paul. She took a friend of mine when she poofed out of my house, and I want to be sure he’s all right.”
He turned to aim his stare at Christophe. “Your friend from Atlantis is fine. You can tell him that, and get out of my pub. Both of you. I’m in danger just from your presence.”
She glanced back at Christophe, and quicker than thought, he was standing next to her. She’d wanted him and he was there. Warmth spread through her veins, as though he superheated her blood simply with his presence. The soul-meld? Perhaps. A topic to be tabled until later, certainly.
“Where is she?”
“She’s in the Summer Lands, fool. You know that and you have no recourse.” Paul picked up a wickedly sharp knife and started slicing through limes like they were butter. “I like cutting things, Atlantean. How well can you bleed?”
“Are you threatening me?” Christophe’s voice was calm. A little bored, even. She could actually feel that he didn’t consider Paul to be the slightest small threat.
Christophe answered her unspoken question out loud. “Fae vary as dramatically in power as humans do in physical or mental ability. This one isn’t much of a power. Barely even much of a Fae.”
Paul’s hand tightened on the knife until his knuckle
s turned white, but he didn’t challenge Christophe. Instead, he sighed.
“Just leave. I can’t force you to do it, but if you don’t, I’m going to suffer for it. If you ever liked me at all, Fiona, please just leave.”
She stared at him, looking for any hint that this was yet another deception, like the bit with the knife, but all she saw was weariness and a hint of fear.
“Who is frightening you like this, Paul? Tell us and we can help you.”
He laughed, and it held genuine amusement and utter despair. “You can’t help me, Fiona. You can’t even help yourself. Get out of London while you can. Run. Run all the way to Atlantis. Swim, if you have to. He’s after you next. He’s going after the Siren and then he wants you, and I don’t even know why.”
Christophe reached over the bar and grabbed Paul by the collar and lifted him up and halfway over the polished wooden surface. “Who wants her? Tell me or die now, Fae.”
Paul looked down at the fruit staining the front of his shirt and then raised his head, and a corpse’s smile spread across his face. “Maeve’s brother, of course. Fairsby is Gideon na Feransel, Prince of the Unseelie Court, and he has decided to take a human bride. He’s after you, Fiona. You need to run.”
Christophe released him, and Paul slid back down his side of the bar until he was standing there, grinning at them, his eyes twin holes blazing in his pale face. “He has old business with you, too, Atlantean, or so he claims. You should both run.”
He started laughing, clutching his middle, insanity rising in the shrieking tones of his voice. “Run, run, run. Run, little human, but there’s no place to hide. The Siren is back, the wolves will fall, Atlantis will be destroyed. Run, run, run.”
Fiona grabbed Christophe’s hand and pulled him toward the door. She managed, only just barely, to keep from covering her ears with her hands to block out the horrible laughter. The mad refrain of “run, run, run” followed them out the door and at least fifty feet down the street.
That’s when the pub exploded behind them.
Chapter 34
The wave of heat and power almost preceded the noise, or at least smashed into them simultaneously, so that Fiona was flying through the air as if knocked aside by a giant’s hand before she realized what had happened. Through some miracle of balance or Atlantean magic, Christophe performed an amazing twisting somersault in midair and caught her before she crashed down on the concrete, headfirst.
Together, they sat up and stared at what was left of the Prancing Pony. Fire, smoke, and death.
“They’re going to think it was terrorism,” she said. “We need to leave. Slowly and inconspicuously.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Christophe said, pointing.
A crowd was boiling up the street toward them. No, too big to be a crowd. More like a mob. But no ordinary mob. This one was utterly, completely, silent.
“They’re all shifters,” Christophe said, pulling Fiona back into the doorway of a shop. “Every single one. They’re shifters, and they’ve been enthralled.”
“So many? At once? That’s not possible,” she protested. Then realization dawned in spite of her brain still feeling dazed from the blast. “He’s got the Siren. This is a demonstration or a taunt, or something. Fairsby has the Siren and he’s already using it.”
Christophe’s face was grim. “Either that or Telios does. One of them must be behind the explosion in the pub, too. Whichever it is, he’s making some kind of point, and he’s making it here. We’re caught in the middle of it.”
Behind them, the shop owner locked the door. The old woman’s worried face appeared in the glass for an instant, and then she ran away, into the back of her shop, or possibly out a rear exit.
“We have to get out of here,” Fiona said. “You can’t fight that many shifters.”
“I won’t have to,” he said as the first ranks marched right past them. Every single shifter stared straight ahead, eyes blank and glazed over. “They’re not here for us.”
Fiona scanned the street. “Everybody is running and hiding, but they’re ignoring the people for now. What is this about?”
A flash of bright blue caught her eye and she cried out. “Christophe, that’s a child. He’s caught right in their path. If they don’t stop, they’ll trample him.”
She tried to run out there, but he yanked her back. “Let me.”
Before she could argue, he transformed into a cloud of sparkling mist and swirled rapidly through the crowd of shifters, then circled the sobbing child and, still in mist form, lifted him off the ground and above the heads of the oncoming shifters, who kept marching as if they’d seen none of it.
They probably hadn’t.
Christophe carried the child to his mother, who’d fallen down while chasing him but appeared unhurt. She took her child and hugged him close to her body, surreptitiously making the sign against the evil eye at the sparkling savior who’d delivered her baby safely to her arms.
Fiona wanted to smack her. Superstitious fool. Christophe had saved her child. She hoped he hadn’t seen the hurtful gesture.
He returned to her and transformed back into his physical self. She launched herself into his arms, kissing him all over his face. He pressed her against the wall and returned her kisses so thoroughly she was trembling by the time he released her.
“You are my hero,” she said, hoping every ounce of her love for him showed in her face.
His eyes widened, and his expression rapidly cycled through smugness, terror, and an almost tentative happiness. Her own eyes widened when she realized she wasn’t reading all that from his face. She was actually feeling his emotions.
“The soul-meld. Can it, does it make me feel your emotions? Like, what did you call the princess? Aknasha?”
“Only for me, and I for you. But let’s discuss the finer points of the soul-meld later. Now we need to see what they’re up to, but it’s too dangerous for you. I need to get you out of here.”
“We both need to get out of here,” she said firmly.
“Yes, but only your human body would be harmed by another explosion. If I’m mist, it would pass right through me.”
“If you saw it coming. Last time, we didn’t.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. Another reason to depart. But first I need to know if I can learn anything from one of these shifters.”
Quicker than thought, he leapt into the street and grabbed one of the enthralled marching men by the shoulders and hauled him up onto the sidewalk. The rest of the mob never even broke stride. In fact, none of them seemed to even see him do it, as if they were blind to anything but their purpose, whatever that might be.
“What are you doing?”
“Marching. Marching. Marching,” the shifter said in a singsongy voice.
“Yes, I can see that. But why?” Christophe’s eyes glowed hot with power and Fiona realized he was trying to break the enthrallment.
The shifter started shaking, as if caught in the throes of a fierce internal conflict, and then he slumped and fell to his knees. “Experiment,” he said hoarsely, staring up at Christophe. “Telios said we were an experiment. What did he do to us? Why—where am I?”
“You’re going to be all right now,” Christophe said, helping the shifter lean back against the wall. “Just rest for a few minutes and try to remember what else Telios told you. Was he holding anything when he talked to you?”
The shifter clutched his head in his hands, his face screwed up with pain or effort. “A sword. He was holding a sword, and the blue stone on its hilt was glowing like it was lit up from within. But why? Why—what?” He cried out. “It hurts to try to remember. The rest is blank.”
“Do you know where you were? This is important. I need to know where Telios was when he talked to you,” Christophe said.
“Please,” Fiona added. “We must stop him from doing this to any more of your people.”
The shifter shook his head back and forth. “I don’t know.
I just don’t know. It’s like there’s a big block between me and the memory.” He clutched his head again. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just want to go home.”
“We need to get out of here,” Christophe said. “He isn’t going to remember any more.”
“I’ll call Sean.” But she’d no sooner pulled her phone out of her purse than she saw Sean angling the car into a space at the next cross street.
“I swear that boy is psychic.”
“Or he could have heard the sirens,” Christophe pointed out, as the sound approached, shrieking its urgency.
They ran for the car.
“This is bad,” Sean said, as he accelerated away. “Really bad. The radio news says Telios is claiming responsibility and that the shifters who aren’t enthralled are screaming for war. The prime minister is calling in the army, and it looks like London might become a battleground. Again.”
“So it’s Telios,” Fiona said. “The shifter was telling the truth. That answers one question.”
“Does it?” Christophe shook his head. “If I’m Unseelie Court and I want to stir things up, I do something pretty awful to one side and make it look like the other side’s at fault. Boom. Instant war. Then the humans call in the mobs with torches and pitchforks—”
“The army with missiles and tanks,” Sean said.
“Yes, or that. The Fae retreat to the Summer Lands until the dust settles and there you go. No more vampire or shifter problem.”
“Holy hell.” Sean whistled. “Pardon me, Lady F, but holy hell. That’s devious. That’s bloody brilliant.”
“Fae aren’t known for their stupidity,” Christophe said dryly. “Avarice, lust, and greed, yes. Stupidity, no.”
“But we’ll all be caught in the cross fire,” Fiona said. “Humans, and all of the shifters who don’t want war. Even the vampires, and we know there are some who just want to live out their existences in peace. It’s not fair to any of them.”
“This war is on the ground, too. No time to put the children on trains,” Christophe said, his gaze far away.