“Great,” I say instead, my voice cold as the steel between us. “So glad I live up to the reputation.”
“I’m not gonna to hurt ya,” he says, lifting his chin. I catch the gleam of his eyes, viciously green even in the dark.
“As if you could,” I snarl back. Truth be told, I haven’t met someone who could match me that well in a fight since...well, since I practiced with my dad. Though I try to fight it, I can’t hide my interest. “Who are you?”
The question doesn’t sound nearly as casual as I had hoped.
The rigid, aggressive line of his shoulders softens, and I could swear I see a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Slowly, he lowers his knife and straightens.
Big mistake.
I launch my fist into his face—a hard, fast jab of a sucker-punch. He grunts in surprise and stumbles back a pace. Sure, the guy may have training—he might have had the best teacher in the world, for all it matters—but he never learned to fight dirty. Which happens to be my specialty.
I use his surprise to my advantage and crash my shoulder into him, sending both of us sprawling into the wet grass beneath our feet. His body is pinned under mine, my thighs wrapped around his hips, locking him in place.
“Look,” I say, grabbing the front of his cloak in both of my fists. “I’m a fan of the dramatic entrance as much as the next girl. But even I know pulling a knife is definitely second date material. Got it?”
“Dirty little cheater,” he snarls. “Ease off. I’m no’ here to fight you.”
That brogue and his body, the hard fit of him beneath me—it’s almost enough to make me forget that he was just trying to stab me with a knife. Almost. But I still have enough sense left in me to ignore the warmth of his body against mine, the jolt of electricity it sends shooting down my spine. I lift myself off of him just a fraction. Enough that I can actually concentrate through my hormone-addled haze.
“What do you call that?” I snap, nodding toward the knife he’s left abandoned on the ground. “Dinner and a fucking movie?”
His eyes flash, and in one lightning-quick move, he’s got me on my back. I squirm underneath him, hand shooting out for the knife I dropped, but he pins my wrists to the ground before I can reach it. I curse, spitting out a string of colorful insults, bucking so hard underneath him that he’s having trouble keeping me contained.
In the struggle his hood falls back, and suddenly, I’m staring up into the most ridiculously green eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s all golden skin and dark hair, cheekbones and dimples and a jaw like a knife. Holy hell, they do not make them like this in the States. Blood circles one of his nostrils in a dark bead, then slips down in a line over his lips. He makes no move to wipe it away; doesn’t blink as he looks down at me.
Now that I’m up close, I can see that he’s not wearing a cloak at all. What I mistook for a hooded cape is actually armor—simple but elegant, with a black tunic, matching trousers, and heavy boots underneath. Dark, scaled leather plates wrap around his forearms and shins, a breastplate in place made of the same material.
I instantly recognize the uniform. My parents wore ones just like it.
For a second, I’m actually speechless. And that’s not a thing that happens to me. Like, ever.
“I need ya’s to relax,” growls the man. His hands are vice-grips around my wrists, his knees on either side of my body. His crotch grinds into my belly, and unless he’s wearing some kind of armored jockstrap, it would seem that he’s enjoying our scuffle a little bit more than appropriate. I can feel the heat radiating out from his body, his face close enough to mine that each deep breath of air he takes rustles against my hair. I can even smell him—sweat and whiskey and evergreen.
Maybe I’m enjoying this a little bit too much, too.
“Relax?” I spit back, trying to shove him off once again. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to say shit like that to ladies?”
“You’re no lady,” he says coldly, eyes going over my face, my ratty shirt, my coat spilling Slim Jims and cigarettes into the damp grass beneath us. “You’re a fuckin’ guttersnipe.”
I don’t even think. I buck, slamming my forehead against his nose. He grunts sharply, clapping his hands over his face. I shove him backward, and the moment his back hits the grass, I have his own knife against his throat.
“Bet sensei didn’t teach you that move,” I say coolly, narrowing my eyes. I feel an unpleasant prick in my side, and realize that he’s dropped his hand, and has a knife against my stomach.
“Taught me well enough to beat the likes of you.”
God, that brogue. His voice is a deep rumble in his chest, one that vibrates against my entire body. He’s underneath me once more, but I can still feel his excitement digging into me, thrusting right against my center with each subtle move that he makes. I have to bite back the groan that rises in my throat and push the knife hard enough against his throat to draw blood. Enough to stop him from moving. He just stares up at me, his expression almost curious.
“Who are you?” I bark out, and he smirks.
“An ally.”
“Then why did you just try to kill me?”
He laughs, and I feel the knife in his hand split the fabric of my shirt and bite into my skin. The sting is sobering; almost nice. Almost pleasurable. “If I wanted ya dead, guttersnipe, you’d be dead.”
I press my lips together, leaning my weight into the knife. He grimaces, but only pushes his own harder against my skin. I feel the hot, familiar release of blood. “Who sent you?” I ask.
His deep green eyes flash, but he doesn’t hesitate. “The Làidir.”
I can’t believe I drop my guard, but the word is so surprising it takes the air out of my lungs. Then the guy is back on top of me in an instant, his entire weight holding me in place. I can’t fight. Can’t move. I can barely breathe. The man holds my eyes, his gaze hard.
“My name is Castor Blake,” he says, voice steady. “I’m a Slayborn operating out of Dublin for the remaining members of the Làidir. And I was sent to recruit you.”
No. Impossible. The Làidir is gone. Done. Dead along with every Slayborn that perished within its walls four years ago. Dead along with my parents.
“You’re lying,” I say, my voice thin. “The Làidir is through. There’s no one left—”
“There are some,” Castor interrupts, unblinking. “Just a handful of us. But enough to rebuild.”
Rebuild. The thought sends a flutter through my gut. When the Làidir fell apart, my life fell apart with it. Spiralled down into booze and sex and lines of Crux. A new Order...I could reinvent myself. I could become what I was supposed to be. What my parents wanted me to be.
But as much as I want to believe him, hope always comes at a price. Whatever this pretty boy here is really selling? I’m not buying it. I can’t.
“No,” I say. “I don’t believe you.”
“Y’should.” Castor’s hand over my wrists tightens. “There aren’t many Slayborn left. The Làidir can rise again, but no’ without the right support.”
“Liar!” I struggle to break Castor’s hold, but his words have gutted me, and my heart’s not in the fight anymore. Still, in a surprisingly gentlemanly move, he loosens his hold and lets me go. I sit up, then leap to my feet, shaking. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Berkeley—”
“Dude,” I whip around, narrowing my eyes and jabbing a finger at him. “Shut up. I swear to God, just shut up.” I start out of the park, purpose in my step. I know I should stay, kill the fenodyree, keep all the little suburban crotch goblins safe. If anything, I should at least find out what this guy is really about. No one’s ever approached me about the Làidir. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even heard the word spoken. Not for four years. Not since—
“We’re going to kill him,” Castor calls out after me, interrupting my train of thought. My feet slow of their own volition. I beg them to walk, to keep moving. But I can’t. Hatred lights inside of me like a fuse. Hi
m. Neither of us have to speak his name to know who Castor Blake is talking about.
“He killed your parents,” Castor continues. His hard jaw is set, green eyes bright, thick black brows furrowed. “We’re going to end him for what he’s done t’us. To our people. But there’s not enough Slayborn left to do it alone.”
End him. End the man—no, the creature—that killed my parents. End him. The words have a nice ring to them. But as much as I want to believe what Castor says, I can’t.
“No one can kill him,” I say simply, quietly. “My parents were two of the best Slayborn in history and he cut off their heads. Slaughtered like cattle. Just like every other poor Làidir bastard in Dublin that day. The time of the Slayborn is over, and if you believe anything else, then you’re a moron. We’re at his mercy now.”
Castor lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong, love.”
“Oh? And I should believe you? How do I even know you’re a Slayborn like you say?” Anger seeps into my voice, and I don’t even try to hide it.
But Castor Blake doesn’t flinch. He just patiently starts unbuckling his armor. For a second, I’m too shocked to move. Heat flares somewhere in my depths. I raise my eyebrows and give my head a small shake.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
His chestplate falls open, and he begins unbuttoning his hooded shirt. It opens wide to reveal a scarred, sculpted chest, along with tight abs that immediately draw my gaze downward. But this isn’t a fuck-me-invite.
This is an I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
Because inked over his heart is the ancient symbol of the Làidir: Dagda’s harp surrounded by a Celtic knot, encircled by a ring of clasping hands.
“So you have a tattoo,” I snap, but my voice shakes in a way that is embarrassingly telling. “You could have gotten that in any dirty parlor in the city. Anywhere. It doesn’t mean a thing!”
He must know that I don’t have one, because he doesn’t ask to see it. “Y’know that’s not true,” he says slowly.
No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t possible.
“I don’t know shit,” I say, jabbing a finger at him as if in accusation.
“Yes. Ya do.” He starts walking toward me in slow, even steps. “This tattoo can only be inked by the Blade of Goibniu, heated by the eternal flame of the Làidir. And it can only be removed from a corpse.”
I stagger away, throat tightening, tears threatening. When he’s close enough to touch, he takes my hand roughly in his and pushes my fingers against the tattoo. I try to flinch away, but he holds me there until the ink begins to burn. Tears rise in my eyes, more in reaction to the white-hot pain of the tattoo against my skin than anything else.
He lets me jerk away and I cradle my hand, fingertips swollen and red. I don’t want to say anything. All I want to do is run. But the question spills from my lips before I can think it through.
“Why now?”
It’s the only thing I can think to ask. My mind is a frenzy of questions, all slamming into one another, splashing and spilling like blood. It’s the only thing I can grasp onto.
“Because,” Castor answers, holding my gaze. “You’re no longer safe here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Underking.” Castor’s voice drops to a hiss, and my heart plummets like a stone off a cliff. It’s one thing to think about him, but to hear his name said aloud? Outrage. Ice in the veins. “He’s raised an Unseelie army.They’re huntin’ every last Slayborn alive. It’s a slaughter, Berkeley. None’a us are safe.”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly regretting every drink I had last night as bourbon and vodka and cheap beer all come foaming up as one. I regret leaving my bed. Leaving the house. I regret it all.
I should have died with the rest of them.
“They’re already in the city,” Castor says, buttoning his shirt closed and strapping his armor back on. “You need to come wi’ me.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Look, your parents were two of the best Slayborn that Ireland—the world—has ever seen. You’ll be the first name on his list.”
Fuck. He’s right. “I don’t care,” I snap. “Let him come.”
“He won’t,” says Castor. “His men will. And when they do they’ll kill you, easy. You’ll ne’er see the man responsible for your parents’ deaths. You’ll ne’er look into his eyes. And you’ll ne’er get the chance to plunge a knife into his heart. To watch the life leavin’ his eyes. You can’t do it alone.”
I look at Castor, pressing my lips together, and he stares back without an ounce of shame. His face is flushed, pupils blown, eyes dark. I don’t miss the brief flicker of his tongue as he wets his lips. I can practically taste his hunger like I can taste my own. I can feel the heat of his hatred. Every ounce of rage. Every flare of passion. And I find it’s no different than mine.
“Who?” I ask before I can stop myself, though it’s all too obvious. I just need to hear him say it. “Who of yours did he kill?”
His nostrils flare, jaw tight. For the first time tonight, he seems like he can’t hold my eyes. He looks away.
“My parents.”
Silence falls between us, and a long moment passes. Though my bottle of Jack fell out on the grass during our scuffle, right now, all I want is to down the whole thing, gulp after bitter gulp until the world goes happily black and I forget that I’m alive.
But something is happening right now. Something inside of me is waking up. I feel more sober than I have in years, even with the booze still sloshing through my system. My life is looking me right in the face, and I don’t like what I see.
The Làidir is back.
The Underking is back.
They both want me—and I can’t do it.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” I finally say, crossing the grass to retrieve my whiskey bottle. I point it at Castor. “Don’t follow me. Don’t ask about me. Fucking forget I exist, OK? This whole thing.” I gesture toward him. “Your whole world? It’s not mine. It never was. And it never will be. I work alone.”
I turn away but Castor grabs my arm. His grip is tight, his skin hot. He holds my eyes, and I glare right back. “This isn’t over, Berkeley. This is just the beginning.”
I grip the knife in my hand so hard my knuckles turn white. I raise it to his face, blade poised to fly, and for a second I see real panic in his eyes. With a flick of my wrist I send the knife soaring. It sails right past his face, sinking into the hairy mask behind him.
The fenodyree lets out a wild shriek and sinks to the ground, clutching at its ratty little face, spasming twice before falling completely still.
“For you, maybe,” I say, turning my back. “For me, this is nothing.”
Chapter Three
A Burger, Bitch
The sun’s up by the time I arrive at Malcome’s. I’m still fuming, my hands shaking. But the quakes and the anger get better with every sip I take until I’m half-deep in my whiskey. I took a roundabout way to Malcome’s, which was probably not the best idea purely because of lost time. But I needed to think. Needed to process.
And I’m no closer to any kind of resolution than I was last night. I’m just confused, and pissed, and tired. And horny. Always horny. Some part of me hopes I cross paths with Castor fucking Blake one more time, just for a good old fashioned hit it and quit it. God knows I need it, and judging by the sizeable bulge between his legs, so does he. Maybe I should have just gone for the gold back there on the playground. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have said no.
I rap at the door of Malcome’s trailer, wait a solid second and a half, then knock again.
Some snot-nosed grunt answers, a half-rolled blunt in one hand. “The fuck?”
“Hi, yeah, great.” I lean against the door and peer into the filthy hovel, flinching when the stench of ass and cheap pot come at me like a punch. “Ever heard of Febreeze, Walter White? I’m here for Malcome.”
He glares at me. “Not here.” He goes to close the door, but I catch it with one hand and force it back.
I glare at the kid. He seems too young for his receding hairline and distended beer gut. “Nice wife-beater,” I say, flicking the joint out of his hand, to his abject horror. “Now tell Malcome that Berkeley is here. And throw a little jog into it—maybe you’ll be able to see your own dick by Christmas.” I flap a hand at his stomach.
He screws up his face, cheeks ruddy, then leans out the door and spits on my boots. I gasp, the liquor in my veins slowing me down just enough to keep my knife in my jacket pocket and out of this guy’s forehead. “Said he’s not here, bitch. ‘Sides, he ain’t got shit for you. Paid someone else to do the job your lazy ass couldn’t handle.”
I blink at him, stammering in surprise, unable to form a coherent sentence. The kid just smirks at me before slamming the door in my face. I stomp off the porch and back to the street, shoving a cigarette in my mouth and holding my whiskey under one arm while I fury-text Malcome.
Me: fuck? U paid someone else??
Malcome asshole Dickface: what do u call a cow that doesnt give milk berkeley?
I stare at my screen, gaping, cigarette burning itself low between my lips. I’m so busy trying to process being called a heifer that I don’t have enough time to write out a witty reply before Malcome has shot off another text.
Malcome asshole Dickface: a burger, bitch
I glare at the Goldengate Bridge like if I concentrate hard enough, it’ll burst into flames. The park spreads out beneath the red bars, shadows stretching as day turns into evening. I don’t know how long I’ve been out, but it’s not like it matters. There’s a party at the house tonight—like there is every night—but I can’t imagine anyone’s expecting me.
I’ve switched to a forty, and the brown paper bag crinkles audibly as I bring it up to my mouth. A group of artsy trust fund kids snicker as they pass. I very elegantly flip them off.
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