by Nalini Singh
Everything in Bacchanalia was black. The floor was marble, the walls black glass, and the ceiling appeared as a star-strewn night sky, far away from the lights of any city. It had to be at least two-stories high. There were constellations, stars, and even the gossamer expanse that was the Milky Way. I hadn’t seen a sky this awe-inspiringly beautiful since I’d left home.
“Incredible,” I breathed.
“Focus, Mac,” Ian rumbled next to my ear.
Fairy Tails had a VIP section of cheap theater prop thrones. Bacchanalia had dimly lit, gauzy-curtained alcoves. Thanks to my magical mystery glasses, I could see way too clearly what was going on inside.
The only color came from the unbelievably beautiful men and women who worked there.
Inhumanly beautiful, I reminded myself.
“It’s perfectly fine to stare,” Ian told me. “That’s your job, look around and don’t miss a thing. It’s your first time here, staring is expected. It’s important that we do the expected. We do not want the management of this place to know who we are and what we’re looking for. If they even suspect there are leprechauns here and that our goal is to get them out . . . they are able to make leaving more of a challenge than we want.”
We were seated by a fairy, a female with wings as ethereal and sheer as the gown she wore. In contrast, the body clearly visible beneath . . . well, lush was the only word to describe it. The fairy might have been five foot tall, but height was difficult to judge with her hovering at least a foot from the floor, her pale and perfect face even with Ian’s. She smiled in a gleam of teeth set like tiny pearls against full lips of rich pink, her violet eyes taking in Ian like the long, tall drink of water that he was. I had to agree with her. My partner was one fine-looking man.
“Mr. Phillips, it is truly a pleasure to see you again.”
Then she turned those all-consuming eyes on me, and for a few pounding heartbeats, I forgot what team I batted for. And she was just the welcoming committee. Ian was right, this place was dangerous.
She showed us to a table with chairs that didn’t make me feel any more secure. They were low, leather-covered stools, more of a tuffet really, with no sides or back. Anyone or anything could sneak up on me from any direction. It would also spin in a complete circle, allowing me to watch anything going on anywhere in the club. It was then I noticed that there wasn’t really a stage to speak of, more like slightly raised platforms. Then it hit me—the place was like a freakin’ karaoke bar, but with sex instead of bad ’80s power ballads.
“All the world’s a stage,” Ian murmured, confirming my suspicions. “And all the men and women merely players.”
I wouldn’t have pegged him for a Shakespeare fan, but being impressed about it took a backseat to what I knew he meant. All of Bacchanalia was a stage, and anyone who walked in here was considered a player—and was fair game to be played or played with.
Like hell.
Any Miss or Mister Muffet—or in this place, they’d probably be called Mistress or Master Muffet—who even thought about taking me off my tuffet would pay dearly.
“What would be your pleasure this evening?” said a cool, silken voice from right behind me.
I squeaked and turned to find myself face to . . . whoa . . . with a blond god wearing a dazzling smile. That was all. The last thing I needed was more to drink, but my tongue was presently plastered to the roof of my mouth. Either that, or dry from it hanging to my knees. Blonds weren’t usually my type. I was more of a brunette kind of girl, my tastes leaning hot and heavy to the tall, dark, and slightly naughty side of fun. I didn’t know if it was the natural glow of his skin, or if he was actually shimmering.
“The lady will have a glass of white wine,” said Ian’s voice from behind me. I managed a series of mute little nods.
The waiter left as silently as he had appeared. It took every bit of control I had not to swivel around on my plush leather tuffet to see if he looked just as pretty walking away as he had standing still.
I frowned. My tuffet wouldn’t turn. Ian’s hand was on the leather seat next to my thigh, keeping me right where I was.
“Not. A. Leprechaun,” he told me.
I whistled. “You can say that again.”
“I’d rather not have to.”
I snapped out of it, embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay. It’s understandable.” He didn’t sound happy about it. “Every creature working here was hired specifically for their abilities to bewitch and seduce humans.”
Once big, buff, and blond was out of sight, he was also out of mind. And a fog lifted.
I sat up ramrod straight, my skin suddenly cold and clammy with fear that I’d been swept under that easily—and that was just from the waitstaff—and that it could happen again at any time. Then I remembered what he’d ordered for me.
“Wait a minute; why did you order white wi—”
“Bacchanalia is known for their wines. And you won’t be drinking it.”
“Oh, if that’s the—” I stopped. “Wait, why won’t I be drinking?”
“Anything served here is—or could be—drugged.” Ian was speaking without moving his lips as his eyes gazed around the room with what appeared to anyone watching to be lazy appreciation. I hadn’t known Ian Byrne for more than a few hours and I knew I was seeing an act, and a very convincing one it was.
“I take it Mr. Phillips is doing a little window shopping?”
“He is.”
“Convincing.”
“It has to be.”
“Dark mages who can detect glamours?”
“And spies.”
“And don’t look kindly on either one.”
Ian’s single nod was barely detectable.
The glass tables were softly lit from beneath, providing just enough illumination to find your drink. Our drinks had been served and I hadn’t seen anyone approach, and if our Adonis waiter was any indication of Bacchanalia’s waitstaff—and the bounty presently on view everywhere in the club told me that he was—I would have noticed.
“Magic?” I asked Ian.
He nodded. “Pixies. Tiny and fast.”
The table’s soft glow sent shimmers of gold up through the delicate stem of the glass and into the wine. Pretty. And highly tempting. I remembered Ian’s warning and slid my hands under my thighs, to keep them from reaching for anything gold and shiny—either a possibly drugged drink or a definitely intoxicating waiter.
I resumed scanning the club for leprechauns. “If they’re here, how do we get them out?” I asked Ian, trying not to move my lips. “Do you have a plan?”
Being SPI’s top agent meant you didn’t walk into a goblin den without a plan, but being the control freak that I was, I wanted to know precisely what that plan was—and how it involved me.
When Ian didn’t respond, I turned toward him and was hit with my partner’s heated gaze.
My hand suddenly took on a life of its own and lowered my sunglasses. “Is the mostly naked hostess behind me?” I whispered.
“No.” With that, Ian reached over and hauled me right off my tuffet, across his lap, and kissed me like he was diving for lost treasure.
I saw twinkly lights that didn’t have a damned thing to do with the star-strewn ceiling. Realizing I’d forgotten to breathe, I panicked and inhaled all the air in a ten-table radius through my nose.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re being watched,” Ian held me tight, keeping me right where I was. “And listened to,” he breathed against the curve of my ear.
If it’d been anyone else, I’d think he was taking advantage of the situation to get some on-the-job action. Ian must have been doing it to preserve his cover.
His lips were at my throat. “The mics have been turned on in our table.”
Microphones in the tables? My karaoke analogy was closer than I’d thought.
Though the mic wasn’t all that had just had its switch flipped. I’d just developed tingles in all of my favori
te places. Apparently being borderline molested by a gorgeous, dangerously hot, monster-hunting secret agent was a huge turn-on for me. Who knew?
“We’re being spied on?” I breathed against his earlobe, and felt him shiver in response. One point for me.
“A guest—or more than one—has apparently asked the management if you’re available.” His lips skimmed the side of my neck, up and down with maddening slowness. “They’re trying to find out. I’m making it clear that you’re with me. My job is to protect you. I’m doing my job.”
And a damned fine job he was doing.
Air must have been in short supply again. I was starting to pant. “Protection? So that’s what the kids are calling it now.”
“As long as it’s obvious you’re with me, you’re safe. That innocent librarian look of yours is attracting the wrong kind of attention. It’s almost as hot to these people as a schoolgirl costume.”
I was hot? I pulled back as much as I could, which with Ian’s arms locked around me was about an inch.
“It’s a challenge to every man in here.” Ian’s hand was sliding up my thigh, his breath hot against the hollow of my throat. “Like waving a red flag in front of a herd of bulls.”
Ian Byrne was making me crazy. His lips and hands were doing more to short-circuit my brain than a baker’s dozen of naked male fairies could hope to do on their best night. Either the man was one hell of an actor, or maybe he didn’t mind being my partner as much as I thought.
My hormones didn’t care one way or another; they stood up and cheered for the Peeping Tom who was spying on our table, whoever or whatever it was, and encouraged him to keep up the good work.
God, I loved my new job.
“Can you see them?” Ian murmured, his lips kissing their way south from my throat toward the first button on my blouse—a button that suddenly wasn’t buttoned anymore.
“Uh . . . the bulls?”
Ian’s mouth was making a run for the border and the hill country beyond. “Leprechauns.”
If my brain and other places weren’t sizzling like bacon in a skillet, I’d be able to tell him.
Ian’s attention went to the bar. He swore. And worse, he stopped.
“What?”
He disengaged himself from me. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to our contact.”
“I’m going with you.”
“He’s undercover, so am I, and you’re not.” He indicated Mike, Steve, and Elana’s table and tuffets near ours. “Go. Stay. I’ll be right back.”
I grabbed my purse and scurried on over. “Psst, Elana.”
“What?”
“Go to the bathroom with me.”
“What?”
“I have to pee. Now. I’m not going anywhere by myself. Come with me.”
Steve stood. “We’re all going.”
Huh? “Won’t that look weird?”
The three of them just stared at me.
“Right.” Weird was relative in a place where people were getting cozy in groups all over the place. “Come on, girls. Let’s go.”
We walked by Ian in a pack, and I mouthed “Bathroom.” My partner gave me a curt nod.
That Bacchanalia had clean bathrooms was an understatement.
I could see myself even in the surfaces that weren’t covered in mirrors. Mike and Steve stuck their heads in and determined that Elana and I would be the only people in here.
“We won’t let anyone in,” Steve assured me.
Mike glanced around nervously. “And hurry.” Standing outside a bathroom in a goblin sex club was bound to make a pair of elves nervous. That made all of us.
Elana snorted. “I’ll stay out here and protect your virtues,” she told them.
There were five stalls, and they were huge, polished black marble, and even more mirrors. At least half a dozen people could fit in here. I ignored everything that implied and was even more motivated to take care of business in record time.
I lined the seat with more toilet paper than I knew was necessary, but considering where I was, who had probably been in here, and what he, she, or they could have been using this Stall Mahal for . . . a little paranoia equaled a whole lot of peace of mind.
Besides, it was quiet in here, and while my headache from the first club had stopped pounding in time with the music, the music was softer in here, and as a result, so was the pounding. I wondered how long I could stay in here without Ian or the others coming to look for me. Probably not nearly long enough.
I unzipped my pants and froze. If the tables were bugged, then what would they have done to a room where women got naked from the waist down? There could be a camera filming me right now and posting live to YouTube. Or what if stall number three in the Bacchanalia ladies room had its own channel on Perv-Per-View?
The door handle clicked on the stall next to mine. Holy shit, someone was in here. They must have been standing on the toilet when Steve had checked for me. I heard the click of a lighter, and two blinks later I smelled it.
I debated what to do. I had no problem with two guys sneaking off to smoke a little weed, and they obviously didn’t care if I knew they were doing it or not, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to come out of the ladies’ room smelling like pot and sit down next to my new partner, a former NYPD detective who might still be looking for any excuse to get out of being my partner, even if it meant getting me fired from SPI.
I reached for the stall door, and the smoke really hit me.
It wasn’t pot. I knew from prior experience that one whiff of pot would fling open the doors to the mother superior of all migraines.
Instead the pounding in my head stopped. Completely.
I was awake and alert.
And I felt good. Damned good.
Any hesitation I’d felt about confronting the midnight tokers vanished just as fast as my headache.
I flung open the door on the next stall.
And stared. I think my mouth fell open.
It was two tall, skinny white guys—one in jeans, the other in khakis, both in Polos—and both were glamoured leprechauns.
I’ve been told I should never play poker. I can’t lie, and my emotions are all over my face.
The leprechauns instantly knew I knew.
I was in danger, my team was in danger, and the financial stability of the supernatural world’s entire banking system was in danger—all because these leprechauns and their friends wanted to get high and get lucky.
Before I’d gotten a snootful of that smoke, I’d have yelled for help.
Now I just wanted to pound the crap out of them.
A human stare could capture them. I couldn’t lock eyes with both of them at once, but there wasn’t a rule that said I couldn’t take them down the old-fashioned way.
They turned and scrambled for the door, but not before both of them blew smoke in my eyes, breaking my stare and burning my eyes.
Sons of bitches.
Half-blind, I launched myself toward the sound of scuffling loafers on tile, and grabbed a handful of whatever I could get—the belt of one, the waistband of the other. If they were gonna make a run for it, they’d have to drag me along with them.
I didn’t think the leprechauns would want to draw attention to themselves.
I was wrong.
They started screaming for help like a pair of stoned banshees.
“Rape!” squealed the one with my fist death-gripped in the waist of his khakis.
Naturally, my Taser was in my purse hanging on the back of the stall door. What good was carrying the thing if I couldn’t get to it?
The door slammed open, and Steve, Mike, and Elana charged in.
Khaki Guy was squirming like a greased pig, kicking at me until his shoes flew off. I heard the rasp of a zipper, and the next thing I knew I was left holding an empty pair of khakis. There was an “oof” and sounds of a scuffle. Once my eyes had stopped watering, though they stil
l stung like hell, I squinted to see a pasty guy wearing only a yellow Polo, tighty-whiteys, and argyle socks trying to run, but mostly sliding, down the hallway with Steve and Mike in hot pursuit.
I groaned and squinted my eyes shut. I was never gonna be able to unsee that.
Steve tackled the half-naked leprechaun and I helpfully flung the khakis in his general direction. I was straddling Jeans Guy and doing my best to literally stare him into submission. Unfortunately he was the one screaming “Rape!” though at least he was still wearing his pants.
Elana was leaning against the open bathroom door teary-eyed from laughing.
A bouncer rounded the corner, took one look, and busted out laughing, but still managed to put out a hand, and snatch Tighty-Whitey Guy off his feet by the collar of his Polo.
“These the two you looking for?” he asked someone behind him.
Ian stepped into view, and didn’t look the least bit surprised to see me. “These our boys?” he asked me.
I managed a nod, still gasping for smoke-free air. I hadn’t found any yet.
Ian took a sniff, swore, and shook his head.
“It’s not mine,” I told him, keeping my eyes locked on the leprechaun.
“I know it’s not.”
“You do?”
“You’re human. That’s a recreational drug popular in the Seelie Court called clover weed. It wouldn’t do you much good.”
Now I was curious. “Why?”
Mike caught a whiff, blanched, and scuttled away fast.
“Sir, I—” he began to Ian.
“Get some air.”
Mike fled. That was the only way to describe it.
“Steve,” Ian asked, “How much did you get?”
“Not enough. I’m fine, sir.”
Ian paused, not looking convinced, then muttered another curse. He keyed his comms: “Yasha, we’ve apprehended two of our leprechauns. More than likely the other three are in here somewhere. I need secure transport back to a holding cell at HQ.” Ian paused. “And I need additional agents. Human agents. Steve and Mike may have been compromised.” He paused for a moment, probably listening to Yasha. “Clover weed.”
Yasha’s booming laugh came over all of our headsets.
I wanted to see Ian’s reaction, but if I looked away from Jeans Guy before we got him cuffed, in a blink he’d turn back to his leprechaun form and squirm his way into an air duct or something.