Cursed to Death

by L. A. Banks

  “Ohhh, that evil, evil place—yes!” The Pixie grabbed her hair with both hands and shook her head. “Penelope was going there too much and Desidera was worried about her, rightfully so. Penelope wanted Desi to dance there with her and I guess she finally gave in . . . and because the Vampires wanted her to join the club so badly, I think they let her in deeper than they even let Penelope. After that, Desi just wasn’t the same. She told us not to worry; she’d heard something that she had to tell Sir Rodney.” Gretchen bit her lip. “She was trying to help us, trying to be sure our magick would return. It had all come down!”

  Sasha hugged herself, new worry roiling in her mind. So, Rodney was also playing games—he wasn’t just going to hook up with a lover; he was there to learn what Desidera had found out. For a moment, Sasha’s heart froze. Please, God, Sir Rodney couldn’t have killed that girl . . . But she shook the thought. It didn’t make sense. If Desidera was going to tell him something about those committing sorcery against his kingdom, killing Desidera would be the last thing he’d do. Besides, why would he have called her in to investigate the crime? It would have been easy for him to simply sweep the matter under the rug. A dead Phoenix in the paranormal community wouldn’t have shown up on her personal radar. And, if Desidera didn’t tell Penelope, then why did she end up dead? One thing was for sure, she needed to make a visit to Sidhe to get in the Seelie king’s face about withholding intel.

  “Did Desidera tell you what she learned?” Sasha finally asked, bracing herself to deliver the bad news about Penelope.

  “No. She wouldn’t tell us because she wanted to keep us out of it, wanted to protect us. She said it was too dangerous,” Gretchen replied, stifling a sob. “Not even Penelope could pry it out of her, and now Desidera is dead.”

  “That’s not your fault,” Sasha said as she stared down at the distraught little being. “Did the night moths tell you anything else?” She glanced at Hunter and then back at Gretchen.

  “No. I went into hiding as soon as I heard about Desidera. I should really go back to our secret mound,” Gretchen said, glancing around nervously. “I’ve been gone too long already.”

  “But why wouldn’t you just have other Fae help you, then, instead of the Phoenixes?” Sasha said, trying to stay the Pixie’s leave.

  “Sir Rodney said that for security reasons we should keep our fading-magick problem to ourselves until he could investigate,” Gretchen said in a bitter tone. “But Penelope saw our condition with her own eyes as we closed the tea salon temporarily . . . That is not common knowledge; I don’t believe McGregor even knows. Everything has been going fallow and so hard to cultivate the more our magick wanes. We’ve told Sir Rodney all of this, but his investigation is moving slowly—Thompson Loughlin hasn’t made a dent in things and we’re left at the mercy of fate! We had to eat.”

  “Can you tell me what supplies Penelope used to bring?” Sasha asked gently.

  “Yes . . . but why?” Gretchen looked from Sasha to Hunter.

  “We’ll make sure you have supplies while all of this is being sorted out,” Sasha said, trying to soothe the Pixie while attempting to find a way to deliver the awful news.

  “No, that will only draw attention. Upon the king’s orders, this condition we face is to remain a secret . . . and we are protected from the spell-casters behind the wrought-iron gate. Dark magick cannot penetrate iron, which is why it surrounds the garden . . . far enough away from us not to leach our power, and a barrier to anyone sending ill will.”

  “Then how do you account for the fact that, iron gate or not, your powers are gone?”

  The Pixie looked from Sasha to Hunter and back again, clearly perplexed.

  “Either something got inside your gate that is impervious to iron or—”

  “No, no, no!” the Pixie shrieked, covering her ears with her hands. “Then that means the monster who laid it here cannot be Fae, only we are allergic to the iron!”

  Using her pointer finger, Sasha began drawing the sigil she’d seen in the dust on the floor. “Have you ever seen one of these? Do you know what it means?”

  Gretchen threw her hands in the air and began screaming, running around in a circle. “Erase it, erase it!” she shrieked and then held her hands over her heart.

  Sasha quickly wiped away the dust-drawn image and watched as the Pixie fell over, nearly faint.

  Lifting herself to stare at Sasha, Gretchen’s bottom lip quivered as she spoke. “Where did you see such a horrible thing?”

  “On Desidera’s and Penelope’s bodies,” Sasha replied as gently as possible.

  “Penelope’s?” Gretchen whispered. Her lip quivered and more tears rose to her eyes. “You are sure?”

  “It was not your fault,” Sasha said quietly. “But we’ll help you. I promise.”

  Gretchen hugged herself, her tiny shoulders shaking as she finally gave way to a good hard cry. “Thank you,” she finally murmured, not bothering to wipe her face.

  “If you need me,” Sasha said, writing her number in the dust on the floor, “here’s my cell number . . . or you can send me a Fae missive.”

  Gretchen simply closed her eyes and nodded.

  “I think it’s time to have a conversation with Sir Rodney,” Hunter muttered as he slammed the jeep door and pulled away from the curb.

  “Ya think?” Sasha said, completely irate.

  Before long they were back at Dugan’s Bed & Breakfast. She waited for Hunter to find a parking spot in the back lot, fuming. Critical information had been left out of the equation. Ethan might have even been aware of some of it—and that damned Fae code of secrecy had her and Hunter out all night and at dawn on a wild goose chase! There was no discussion necessary as she and Hunter jumped out of the jeep and headed for the closest shadow.

  CHAPTER 4

  They came out in the middle of the bayou and the first thing Sasha did was begin yelling Sir Rodney’s name. Within seconds, Fae archers appeared in the trees calling out their customary greeting.

  “Friend or foe?”

  “Very pissed-off friend at the moment,” Sasha said. “But harmless to your king.”

  “And you?” another archer shouted down at Hunter.

  “I’m unarmed and just along for the ride.”

  The archers looked at one another, and then their captain called down again. “We’ll have to get you clearance, wolves.”

  “You do that,” Sasha said. “Tell Sir Rodney I bring him some news that just can’t wait.”

  It didn’t take long for the relay to occur, and soon they were marching toward the hidden castle with a retinue of palace guards. Annoyed didn’t begin to describe how she felt. Sasha bit her lip to keep from shouting obscenities as they trudged forward. Her team and Doc were due in this afternoon, all hell was breaking loose—hell that had nothing to do with them—and her nerves were shot.

  The moment the gates appeared from behind the Fae glamour, it was all she could do to go through the pomp and circumstance of gaining proper palace entry. Hunter looked like he was ready to spit nails. She could definitely understand it. How were they supposed to investigate and help if they didn’t have all the facts?

  Sir Rodney’s personal valet greeted them at the drawbridge. “I’ll take it from here,” he said in a calm tone. “Milady, milord,” he added, ushering them forward with a genteel sweep of his hand.

  Neither Sasha nor Hunter responded verbally. Instead, they just kept walking in the direction they were being led, through the unusually quiet streets of the small town beyond the gates, and through the main square to the palace.

  Stoic palace guards never blinked as they passed, climbed the immense stone steps, and went through the huge barricade of doors. But the longer she walked, the longer she followed the security escort, the angrier she became. This was all such bullshit.

  At a large double door, the valet stopped and gave a nod to Sir Rodney’s personal bodyguard, who then ushered them in to see the king.

  “Your guests, mil
ord,” the bodyguard said as he opened the door to what looked like a war room. He shut it gently and stood just inside the room, armed, with his back against the door.

  “Yes, do come in,” Sir Rodney said, seeming distracted and agitated.

  Sasha’s gaze quickly assessed her surroundings within the large stone room capped by a high, vaulted ceiling. Sir Rodney paced before a massive, round table that had high-back, hand-carved chairs. He kept his palms clasped behind him, occasionally raking his disheveled hair. It looked like he also hadn’t slept last night, which was the only small consolation that Sasha would secretly allow herself at the moment.

  Five dour-looking Gnomes in monk’s habits, their age evident in their deeply lined faces and the frail wisps of white hair that pocked their bald scalps, looked on, seeming dispassionate. But their eyes held smoldering rage, just like their ancient hands and wands could conjure extreme magick when called upon.

  “You didn’t tell us the whole story!” Sasha blurted out, unable to deal with the tension of protocol.

  “It was complicated,” Sir Rodney said, his gaze now locked with hers and Hunter’s.

  “It always is, but we’re either in it with you as full partners that you trust, or not,” Sasha said, so angry that she was now talking with her hands.

  “Trust,” Hunter said evenly, “is the way of the wolf when we bond . . . Without it, friendship is in jeopardy.”

  “If we tripped over a critical fact, unwittingly, we could have gotten killed.” Sasha got up in Sir Rodney’s face. “From now on, either you tell us what’s happening or we’re out. If you need us, we’re with you, but only as though we’re pack. Real family, all right?”

  Sir Rodney watched his lead advisor slowly reach inside his robe sleeve to begin fingering his wand. But the monarch held up his hand as his personal guard tensed, ready to draw arms in case one of the wolves decided to lunge.

  “You’re right,” Sir Rodney finally said, releasing a hard exhalation. “But it is not the way of the Fae to disclose sensitive information outside of our community.”

  “When did you realize your magick was fading?” Sasha asked more calmly. “Or better yet, why did I have to finally go to starving Pixies to find out just how bad it had gotten?”

  “That is a security breach, if it were to be common knowledge.” Sir Rodney said, lifting his chin.

  Sasha looked at the five o’clock shadow that covered the Fae monarch’s normally clean-shaven jaw. “Although you were calm enough when I showed it to you, that sigil we found truly freaked out Ethan and nearly sent a Pixie into apoplexy,” she said carefully. “So you want to start at the beginning so we can investigate this thoroughly on your behalf?”

  Sir Rodney let out a long, weary sigh. “A few months ago, the Will-o’-Wisps and the Pixies of the Small Court began to see their magick wane. Their glamour was sporadic, causing them to have to take extra measures to hide themselves from humankind, lest they be discovered. The Faeries in the teahouse gardens were also affected. Now a small section of the outer garrison wall can be seen by the naked human eye, if we don’t redouble our efforts daily to cover it—which is no trivial feat. It has been like a creeping death.”

  “Sorcery, Vampires, the sigil is black magick, right?” Sasha looked around the room. “There’s an iron fence around the teahouse, so someone sending in bad vibes should have literally been stopped at the gate, right?”

  No one answered and quiet strangled the room.

  “Ethan’s wife Margaret didn’t come with him to check on a possible plague; she came as a medical and spell professional . . . to examine Penelope’s body for the same sigil that had been on Desidera’s—tell me I am wrong,” Hunter said, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Yes. And I want to know who is responsible for this dark malfeasance!” Sir Rodney spun on his advisors, his gaze hot with unspent fury as he waited for answers. “The mark was on both girls, and still we have no answers? Desidera tells me that she is hiding something in the cellar, and then that is where we find her dead?”

  “That information would have been helpful to know while we were down there,” Sasha said as calmly as possible.

  “It might have saved us twenty-four hours of blind searching,” Hunter said through his teeth.

  Sir Rodney looked away. “It was a Fae matter.”

  “And now it’s not?” Sasha said, challenging him.

  “Have you any idea what would happen to the Sidhe if rumors of a loss of power were to get out?” Sir Rodney paced away from Sasha and spoke with his hands behind his back as he walked the perimeter of the room. “You have no insight into Fae culture or you would be aware of just how dangerous any perception of a loss of power could be.” He stopped walking and stared at both Sasha and Hunter. “A weak monarch is a failed monarch. If he or she cannot keep the magick strong in the community, then he or she is destined to be overthrown—that’s why it was a matter of Fae national security.”

  Sasha relaxed slightly and turned to Hunter. “No less than a weak alpha at the helm of the Wolf Federations . . . Someone would be bound to call a challenge match.”

  Hunter nodded and relaxed. “We gave you our word, and our word is our bond—to help you. That pledge will not change.”

  “Thank you,” Sir Rodney said.

  “But you need to tell us about the blood scent as well as the sigil,” Sasha amended.

  Sir Rodney dragged his fingers through his hair. “That is complicated.”

  The eldest advisor stepped forward, speaking slowly as dictated by his advanced years, but that in no way was an indicator of his keen mind. “Milord, as you know, Thompson Loughlin . . . one of our shrewdest Fae investigators, has a lead.”

  “Good man, Loughlin,” Sir Rodney said, nodding, and ignoring the advisor’s overt hint that they had their own man working on the case—therefore there was no reason to involve Sasha and Hunter. “Finest nose for discreet investigations . . . I believe his mother served in a high post in my mother’s court years ago. His father was a digger Gnome in the Netherlands—a unique blend that makes him the best at unearthing hidden treasures and hidden truths. Yes, I am pleased that he is involved . . . Go on.”

  Okay, now she knew something was being held back. Sir Rodney had just gone into a politician’s stiff spiel in front of his advisors, and he’d completely evaded her question about the blood. She’d wait for them to go through the motions, but not for long.

  Glancing around the room when only silence greeted him, Sir Rodney reassured his skeptical staff. “These are unusual circumstances where we would break from tradition to speak freely before outsiders. But I trust the Shadow Wolves with my very life.” He looked at Sasha and then Hunter. “We may speak freely before trusted friends.”

  Both Sasha and Hunter gave Sir Rodney a nod that contained unspoken thanks as their bodies visibly relaxed.

  The elderly advisor drew a weary breath and extracted a wand from his billowing robe sleeve. Tapping on the round war table, he waited as a small, spherical miasma formed, creating a ball of mist that soon cleared as though a snow globe had settled. All eyes stared at the grisly scene of a scorched bird carcass still smoldering.

  “We have seen the sigil . . . but it is not one we are familiar with. It will take some time to decode it, even though we know it is a brand of chaos magick. Some of the markings are taking us an inordinate amount of time to decode. But the basic feel to it is darkness.” The ancient advisor calmly returned his wand to his sleeve, causing the miasma to dissipate.

  “This is an outrage; we will call for a Vampire inquisition. She could have been assaulted by a Vampire’s Black Death charge or their sorcery, if the markings of the sigil are impossible to read! It must be in their guttural language. How do we know for sure that’s not what it is?” Sir Rodney slammed his fist against the table and then walked away. “This is war.”

  “Inadvisable, milord,” his second advisor warned, stepping forward with the others in a subtle display of soli
darity.

  “If you bring an inquisition on such speculative evidence as a Blood Oasis membership card and a few calendar markings, with only partial hearsay testimony that something was wrong from a dead Phoenix girl and your own special investigator, and we later learn it is not the bloodsuckers who are at fault . . . then we have not only presented a weak case that will come to nothing at the United Council of Entities, but we will have also alerted our archenemy that our defenses are weak, that our magick is fading . . .”

  “Penelope gave us nothing through the Pixie,” Sasha added, siding with Sir Rodney’s advisors. “Gretchen was waiting for her and she never showed—they never talked. That’s a dead end.”

  “I have been king of the Seelie Court for more than three hundred years. Never,” Sir Rodney said through his teeth, “has my court ever experienced such an insidious attack. Who else but Vampires would do this?” He spun on his advisors. “No . . . the better question is, who beside the Vampires would be strong enough or brazen enough that they could do this?”

  “Need I remind you of your ex-wife, sir?” The eldest advisor just stared at him.

  Sir Rodney waved him off and walked away. “After all these years, with her territories solvent, there is no reason to provoke war between us. We’ve already been down that path—she took her lot and I have taken mine here in New Orleans. There’s no motive.”

  “Unless your powers were waning and your borders were weak. She is an excellent strategist and a very patient sort.”

  For a moment, no one in the room spoke as Sir Rodney stared at his top advisor. Sasha and Hunter shared a discreet look.

  “This is why I caution you to employ temperance until we learn more, milord,” his eldest advisor pressed on, his monotone voice slowly stating the facts. “There are those who would dare not challenge you while strong, but if there is any indication that there was an erosion of your power, you would have to fight off enemies as though a swarm of locusts.”