by Jory Strong
In the gathered crowd Anton had slipped away, leaving his Harley pock-marked by bullets, its tires flat and seat lined with holes. The remaining pictures lay scattered on the asphalt like litter, but the steely clamp of Eamon’s hand around her arm prevented her from picking them up.
She noticed his car as he guided her past it and into the shelter. It hadn’t escaped the spray of bullets.
Blinds allowed them to see out but not be seen as the first patrol car arrived, lights flashing and siren screaming. There was no point in trying to make an escape, though she contemplated it. A second patrol car arrived, followed by a TV van.
“Peordh,” Eamon said. “Where did you hear the word, Etaín? Why did you ask about it when you did?”
His voice was smooth, cool, water without a ripple in it, but she sensed the riptides beneath the surface and shrugged, preferring no answer than to struggle with a lie.
The hand on her arm tightened while his other cupped her cheek, the heat of it offset by the chill in his eyes and the frost in his voice. “You’ll answer the question I’ve put to you, Etaín.”
Lord once again, but given what he’d done she gave it a pass, turning her head to place a kiss in the center of his palm. “You shielded the people in here from stray bullets. Thank you.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “It was not a rational decision, Etaín. In the end, it may well cost more than one Elf their lives.”
“Your people?”
“Our people.” He smiled slightly. “And no. If not for the fact that you didn’t grow up among us, Liam would take offense at the question. As would Myk.”
Mention of the unmet Elf gave her an excuse to continue avoiding talk of Peordh. She turned her attention to the dark-haired man—one as mouth-watering as all the other Elves she’d seen.
“Thanks for the save,” she said.
He gave a small bow. “Lady.”
“Peordh, Etaín,” Eamon repeated.
“It popped into my head.” True enough.
Through the window she saw Justine speak with a policeman, and that policeman speak into his shoulder mic before heading in the direction of the shelter door. Etaín had never been so glad at the prospect of being interrogated. “Looks like they’re ready to talk to us.”
He didn’t say more about the rune. She hoped the reprieve wasn’t temporary. He didn’t protest when the uniformed policeman entered and led her away, but with Liam present, hidden in some obscure shadow, why would he.
Detectives joined the uniformed cop. What she had to say took only a few minutes. She’d seen nothing. She knew nothing. She could only offer a guess, that Anton was the target given what had happened at the Cur’s hangout. But they kept her, making her repeat herself, a stalling tactic she understood as soon as the captain stepped into the room, dismissing the other cops.
She tensed at being alone with him, tried desperately to blockade her heart against a rush of hope. But that hope crashed easily through the barrier she’d erected when he crossed to her with quick strides, hugging her fiercely.
“Christ, Etaín. Enough of this. Enough. You could have been killed.”
Impossible with Eamon at her side but she couldn’t give her father that reassurance. “I’m okay.”
“For now. I’m putting you into protective custody.”
“No.” It wasn’t even a remote possibility. “Eamon’s got top-notch security. He’ll keep me safe.”
Her father pulled away. “For how long? Until it no longer suits the Dunnes?”
“Despite what you think, Eamon is not involved with Niall and Denis any more than Cathal is involved in their business.”
“I’ll cede you Eamon, but not Cathal. I’ll believe you didn’t knowingly become an accessory to murder, but he made you one regardless. Don’t let the Dunnes destroy you. It’s not too late, Etaín. I can help you out of this mess. The first step is going into protective custody.”
The burst of warmth she’d felt at his greeting and hug faded. Ugly suspicion crept in.
If she was in protective custody, rumors could be circulated, making her bait, a target for Cathal’s father and uncle, a trap set. Or the prospect of having those rumors circulated, and the possibility of an ordered hit, could be a threat used to get her to admit to having touched Brianna then drawn the scenes from her memories and given them to Denis.
Etaín couldn’t forget those moments of fear and horror when the police had arrived at her doorstep, dropping her to the floor and cuffing her. Of being taken to a place that held remembered terror and locked in a small confined space, as if they’d known it could break her. As if they’d been told that by the man in front of her, or by Parker. The captain had never been shades of gray when it came to the law and his duty to it.
She jammed her hands into her pockets, because she couldn’t risk touching him. “I don’t want to argue with you. Am I free to go now?”
“Etaín.” He swallowed, and her own throat tightened at the tears she thought she heard in his voice.
Reaching out, he gripped her upper arms, and though it wasn’t skin-to-skin contact, it seemed as though his fear was real, pulsing into her, creating a fist around her heart that squeezed and released in time to the subtle tightening and release of his hands. “You’re going to get yourself killed. It’s a miracle you didn’t die today. You can’t count on surviving the next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. Today I was in the wrong place with the wrong person. I admit it. Okay. Satisfied?”
“No.” He shook her to emphasize the point. “This drive-by may have had nothing to do with the slaughter in Oakland. The Dunnes killed four boys, one of them was a Brazilian diplomat’s son. You can’t know that boy’s family didn’t have ties to one of the South American cartels. You can’t be certain this drive-by wasn’t retribution. Accept the offer of protective custody. Please, Etaín. Right now. We leave immediately.” While she was separated from Cathal and Eamon. While there were plenty of cops on the scene.
“I can’t.” She nearly added Dad, but knew that’d only make what she had to say next even worse. “I am going to marry Cathal Dunne. Disappearing isn’t a possibility for him. He’s got a club to run.”
The hands on her arms fell away. “This is just the beginning of the trouble, Etaín.”
He left the room first. She followed, searching the shelter and finding Eamon and Cathal together after passing the officer who’d apparently been making sure they remained at the far end of the building while she was taken into protective custody.
They came instantly toward her, emotions rising like a tidal wave and slamming through her at their approach. She wrapped her arms around their waists the instant they arrived, closing her eyes and savoring their heat and strength.
There hadn’t been time for this after the shooting, with the rush of witnesses and the need to get out of sight of cameras and reporters. “My fault,” she admitted. It seemed her past was coming back in a dark rush.
“Bullshit,” Cathal said, slamming his mouth down on hers, tongue surging past quickly parted lips to rub and twine with hers. He didn’t care who saw. Who knew he was sharing her with Eamon, because Eamon’s kisses along her neck made it plain they were both her lovers.
Jesus. They’d all come close to dying.
Not the truth. Not today with Eamon and the other Elves present. Intellectually he understood there’d never been any possibility of it, but that didn’t prevent his body from believing otherwise.
He wanted to take her back to his place and make love to her. More than that, he wanted to keep her there, safe from her own choices. And the fierceness of that desire, and that it was so similar to Eamon’s, was enough to bring him up short.
His mouth left hers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Etaín laughed. “Guess that means group hug time is over.”
Eamon’s hand moved upward along her spine, slipping beneath her hair to gently stroke the back of her neck. “You and Cathal are more
vulnerable on the motorcycle. It would be wiser for us to leave together in the sedan. Liam can ride your bike. If increased safety isn’t incentive enough, I’ll even make you the same offer I did the other night. If the Harley is damaged in any way I’ll replace it with another of greater value.”
It wasn’t solely her decision. “Cathal?” she asked.
He nodded, and as if waiting for just that clue, Liam stepped into the doorway, a hand out, ready to take the bike key. “Myk is out back with a different vehicle. There are no obvious watchers.”
“Excellent,” Eamon said, eyes meeting hers then Cathal’s. “Shall we?”
They left, Etaín pulling the Harley’s key from her pocket and giving it to Liam as she passed him. In the car Myk asked, “Where to?”
“Sean’s boat,” Etaín said, the drive-by only making her more determined to do what she could to find those responsible for the bar invasion and slaughter.
Eleven
Sweet,” Ernesto Jacko Munoz said as Cyco opened the case to reveal the weapon inside.
“More than sweet. War on drugs means there’s some pretty toys to be had. You’re looking at a Milkor M32A1, nine grand of killing power.”
Jacko lifted the grenade launcher. “I could have me a lot of fun with this.”
“Yeah, that mother carries six rounds and I got four different types of load.”
Cyco caressed the charges like they were a woman’s titties. “One smoke. One flash-bang. Three standard high-explosive rounds. And one called a hell-HOUND. Know what that stands for?”
“No assholes left alive.”
Cyco laughed, the sound of it and the way his eyes looked doing it the reason for the street name he’d lived up too. “You got it, homie. High Order Unbelievably Nasty Destruction. HOUND. Double the killing power of the standard round.”
“They’re showing you some major respect.”
“Yeah. They know I’m the big dog when it comes to getting things done.”
Cyco’s cellphone rang. He checked the incoming number, answered by asking, “You finish it?”
A minute later the call ended. “The fucker survived. Two camaradas emptied their guns and they didn’t hit him.”
“Where was he?”
“In front of some homeless shelter.”
Jacko handed off the grenade launcher like it was a pacifier. “You want me to throw in some of my crew?”
“Na, man, I got it handled. Next time Anton shows up, there won’t be any mistakes. Besides, you got your own thing to manage, killing the Irish dude.”
Jacko hefted one of the grenade launcher rounds. “Should be easy enough to do.”
*
The sight of Sean’s boat coming on the heels of the encounter with the captain had an ache sweeping through Etaín like a small wave of salt water over an open wound.
Would it ever stop hurting?
No.
She’d only be lying to herself if she thought it would. He and Parker had once been her anchors in a world as foreign to her as the supernatural one Eamon had revealed.
Until she’d been left in San Francisco, the only permanent thing in her life had been her mother. They’d moved constantly, changing names with each move. She’d had dozens of them by the time she was presented to the captain as his illegitimate daughter.
He’d accepted the truth of it immediately, refusing to give in to his wife’s demands for a paternity test, not that it’d stopped Laura from getting it done. Even now, Etaín didn’t know exactly when he’d found out she wasn’t actually his. She knew only that he had forbidden it from becoming public knowledge, despite intense pressure from Laura and her moneyed, politically powerful family.
Etaín remembered those first months, rushing to the door each time the bell rang or she heard a car in the driveway. Always certain it was her mother coming back for her. There’d been no warning, no preparation for the abandonment that had marked her life, the shadows of that pain haunting her still.
Run and keep running. See but don’t be seen. Those were her mother’s lessons. And yet she’d brought her to San Francisco, left her at an age when it was impossible to either run or remain unseen.
The smell of the bay was a reminder of the happier times that had come after she’d finally accepted that her mother wasn’t coming back, when comfort offered had led to fierce love, for the man she believed was her father, for the older brother who was constant companion, best friend, and protector, two relationships that were now like a still smoldering and smoking ruin.
Etaín became aware of the heat in her tattoo-encircled wrists, the burn flowing through the ink her mother had put on her just prior to coming to this city. Looking down, she was reminded of those moments in the shower with Cathal when the water had washed away her blindness.
She’d seen and understood that her mother wore tattoos exactly like the binding ones she’d placed on him. Now, for the first time, it struck her that the emerald green woven throughout the design at her wrists was like a long strand of interconnected sigils, one that spread upward into the tattoos on her arms and was the exact color of the Dragon.
Yesss.
The voice jerked her gaze upward, the motion abrupt enough Cathal asked, “You okay?”
She shook off the effects of the voice, wondering if her throat would constrict and her jaw lock if she tried to ask Eamon about it, the same way she’d only barely been able to ask for his help in preventing her from harming Parker with the touch of skin to skin. “Just thinking about how things used to be, with Parker and the captain.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do to change it.”
“You think like a human,” Eamon said.
She smiled at hearing his tone and recognizing it was very carefully neutral. Lord Eamon just might be learning his lesson.
“I am human, in the ways that matter.” But curiosity didn’t allow her to leave it there. “What does thinking like a human have to do with my relationship with the captain and Parker? You weren’t exactly putting out the welcome mat for them at your place.”
“You didn’t yet know what you are, Etaín. What I told Cathal applies to you as well. You will have a say as to whether those you are close to are brought into our household. Knowledge fosters understanding, and distance where there are strong emotional ties is hard to sustain when life is measured in centuries, not decades. If you make them part of our world, things can be made right again.”
There was no denying the flare of hope fanned by his words, though her mind shied away from the full ramifications that came with having that kind of choice. Of what it would be like to keep living as those she knew died not from drugs or accidents or violence, but from the causes associated with old age. To know the cycle would be repeated over and over again wherever she lived.
Maybe that’s why Eamon preferred to keep himself insulated from the human world. He avoided being touched by death, from having acquaintances become friends he would one day have to make a decision about—because the flip side of that was what happened if they declined.
Sean stepped out on the deck of his boat, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and shirt opened to expose a gorgeous, tanned chest and tight abs above well-fitted jeans. She couldn’t help herself, she sighed, because damn, he still had the whole Johnny Depp playing a pirate thing going on.
Her fingers twitched with the desire to touch that lovely skin, though in her defense it was a fantasy born in ink rather than a carnal one, not that she couldn’t appreciate a nice looking man despite having two stellar specimens of masculinity on either side of her.
Cathal hooked her with an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against him so their heads touched. “You remember you’re taken, right?”
She laughed. “Taken. I like the sound of that. It’s shades of some kind of wicked erotic scene. Maybe we could act it out when we get back to your place.”
“I’m up for it.”
That had her attention dropping to the front of hi
s pants. “So danger turns you on.”
“You turn me on.”
The huskiness of his voice changed the nature of the heat burning at her wrists and forearms, moving beyond the ink to settle in her nipples then sliding downward into her labia to become a liquid reflection of desire. Fierce need, not just for him, but for Eamon too, accompanied a hope that they’d overcome several hurdles in their relationship today.
Myk moved in front of them for the first time, with the clear intention of boarding first. Sean recognized him for what he was, a bodyguard, giving tacit permission with a quick upturn at one corner of his mouth, and a, “Knock yourself out, but don’t expect either Quinn or me to let you pat us down.”
Etaín smiled at the mention of the man she’d added ink to several days earlier, hiding the Arian Brotherhood tattoos he’d collected while working undercover. She could see the Dragon she’d put on him in her mind’s eye.
Her smile widened, because satisfaction at a job well done wasn’t the only thing she thought of with respect to Quinn. Days ago he’d not only been coming up from undercover, but stepping out of the closet about his sexual orientation.
In a stroke of pure genius—if she did say so herself—she’d set him up with Derrick—a total win-win, though thinking about one of her best friends brought an ache of a different kind. She’d been away from the shop for days and she missed it. More than that, she needed the connection to other people. She needed to create her art, to make it come to life on canvases of skin.
She opened and closed her hands, opened and closed them, the eyes flashing as though they winked. She couldn’t return to Stylin’ Ink to work now, she understood that, but at some point she’d get control of her gift again. And then she would. She had to. When she’d accepted Eamon and Cathal’s importance in her life, she’d known it would necessitate change, but their relationship couldn’t define the entirety of how she lived.
She glanced at Cathal then at Eamon, who turned his head as if he felt her attention, maybe even the nature of her thoughts. Their eyes met, held, his unreadable until he smiled.