by E. A. Copen
Cat didn’t look convinced, but she stood and held the phone out to Dal. When he grabbed it, she didn’t let go until he met her eyes. The look on her face was tense, her eyebrows pushed close together. “I’m trusting you not to let me die. I probably shouldn’t trust a full-blooded fae to do more than fuck me but…don’t let him kill me, Dallon.”
The plea made his throat feel tight. Staring into her eyes, her face transformed into Lena’s. They looked nothing alike except in the eyes. There, the similarities were striking enough that Dal had to fight not to take her in his arms and squeeze her tight.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he promised, and then cleared his throat. “Just play along and you’ll come out the other side just fine.” He opened the bathroom door, and the two of them walked out together. “I’ll have Bill take you to your place so you can get set up. He’ll stand guard nearby. And if anyone comes looking for you, or Nessa, he’ll be there to put an end to it.”
“What about you?”
“I promised you the best glamor money can buy. I aim to deliver.”
What he didn’t tell her was that getting that glamor meant going to see Lachlan Fairchild, the last person on Earth that he wanted to see.
***
Lachlan lived in Beacon Hill in an impressive, colonial style home. From his front porch, he could see Boston Commons, the oldest park in the nation. There were enough trees in the summer with lush leaves that he lived in perpetual shade in the heat. In the winter, the house sat in direct sunlight and the many fireplaces made it warm and inviting. In the evening, the glow of the gas lights over the red brick streets made Beacon Hill, and Beacon Street, in particular, one of the most beautiful and most expensive neighborhoods on the East Coast.
The gate that lined the property was made of silver, encased in a non-iron metallic alloy, giving Lachlan’s home a strong buzz of magick on the other side. Wards and sigils hid behind everything: protective wards on the flower pots, sigils of health and happiness carved into bricks, spells for fortune and luck in the fountain, and even a warming spell to melt the ice on the stairs. In Faerie, such things would have been commonplace, but most fae on Earth couldn’t afford the time and energy needed to make such wards. Lachlan, though, didn’t have to waste his own. That’s what he had people for.
Dal stepped through the gate and paused as the familiar buzz of magick washed over him. The first time he’d been to Lachlan’s house, he’d nearly fallen over when the wall hit him. It had taken several trips before he learned to move slowly and pause at the entrance, giving his body time to acclimatize. It also gave Lachlan’s early warning wards time to activate and notify him that someone had come onto the grounds. Dal stood and waited until he saw one of the lace curtains in the second-story window move aside. Lachlan’s butler, Perry, glared down at him and dropped the curtain.
By the time Dal made it up the stairs and onto the porch, Perry had come downstairs and opened the door. Perry gave Dal his signature frown and adjusted his suit. “Master Lachlan is expecting you.”
He’d better be, Dal thought but didn’t dare voice it aloud.
Dal wiped his feet on the rug and stepped in. Inside, the house had polished wood floors, expensive rugs, and warm colors. Archways separated one room from the next, all pristine white. The fireplace in the foyer roared and crackled. Perry meant for him to wait to be shown to Lachlan’s office, but Dal could find it just fine on his own and walked on through without waiting for the butler.
Lachlan’s office was on the bottom floor, past the stairs, and through a set of sliding doors. Dal did not dare breach the barrier the doors created. Here, there was enough firepower behind the wards and symbols that it might have kept a whole army of trolls at bay. Impressive, even to Dal.
Perry rushed up, huffed once and then slid his delicate fingers into the crack between the doors, pushing them aside. “Dallon O’Connor to see you, Master Lachlan.”
Lachlan looked up from the paper he was reading, sitting on the edge of his desk. He was everything Dal was not. Tall, attractive, even for a fae, strong without looking too intimidating…and he looked good in everything he wore, from the expensive suits he wore to black tie galas to the casual brown vest and slacks he was wearing now. The man never had a hair out of place. He was the heartthrob of every girl in Boston, humans and fae alike. And Dallon hated him for it almost as much as he hated that smug, narcissistic grin.
“Come in, Dal, and close the door.”
The cockroach of a butler scurried away, and Dal did as he was told.
“Sit.” Lachlan gestured to one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk and Dal sat. They didn’t speak at first as Lachlan did what he always did, choosing to sift through his mail and pretend Dal wasn’t there. Making him wait was his way of asserting control over the situation. Nothing would happen, not even conversation, unless Lachlan initiated it.
“Wendy gave you my message?”
“In a round about sort of way. Mickey gave you mine?”
He looked up from sorting his mail, his emerald green eyes boring through Dal’s skull. “Lena was my daughter. Sidhe. I know it’s difficult for you to understand how it works but there are rules that must be followed. Customs.”
Dal dug his fingernails into the leather arm rests and spoke through gritted teeth. “Lena and Grania were my everything. I loved her. She loved this place. I knew her better than anyone, and she would never have wanted to be buried in Faerie.”
“Love is not enough reason to subvert ten thousand years of tradition.” He dropped his mail haphazardly to the desk. “I recall us having this conversation before, Dallon.”
“And then you recanted when you saw what taking your blessing away did to her. It nearly destroyed her.”
Lachlan lowered his gaze. “It was a moment of weakness, as all fathers are prone to when it comes to their daughters.”
For the first time, Dal saw something other than steadfast resolution in Lachlan’s face. In the way he flexed his jaw and thinned his lips, Dal thought he saw regret.
“I won’t fight you further on it,” Dal offered. “You know my objection, so let’s leave it at that. But I won’t stay my hand in finding her killer. By tradition, vengeance is more than just my right. It’s my duty.”
“I didn’t authorize what you did to Blayne Sullivan,” Lachlan said with a sigh and tucked his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t authorize Mickey grabbing him off the street either. My intention was to cooperate with BSI and work through legal channels.”
“That’s bullshit!” Dal shouted and rose to his feet. “This guy cannot go to prison, Lachlan. I won’t allow it. I’ll die first.”
“That can be arranged,” Lachlan snapped back and then paused to collect himself, running his hands through his wavy, graying hair. “You have to realize that things aren’t the same as they were before the Revelation. We can’t just drop bodies and start wars in the street. There’s much more at stake than prison sentences. The entire organization could crumble with the wrong word, Dal. Things are delicate, our relations with Agent Rose even more so. If you had just waited, I would have been able to create an arrangement to satisfy both parties.”
“You mean you could have taken care of him on the inside.”
Lachlan agreed with a single bob of his head.
“But not with me pulling the trigger.”
Lachlan sighed. “There are forces and treaties at play that you know nothing about.”
“Then enlighten me,” Dal said, leaning forward. “Bring me into the circle.”
He couldn’t believe what he was asking. He’d never wanted to be a part of Lachlan’s inner circle, the small group of men who orchestrated everything within the family, deciding who lived, who died, who spoke, and who stayed silent. Mickey himself was part of that circle, and Dal never considered himself anything more than one of Mickey’s boys. But he was tired of being on the outside and running blind. Lena and Grania’s murder had pushed hi
m to a point where, if he didn’t go deeper, he might be tempted to come up for air and see things from the outside. He needed to go further into the family, see how it worked on the inside. Otherwise, he would be forced to turn his back on everything and walk away.
But Lachlan’s response was a dismissive chuckle. “A redcap in the circle? I think not.”
“Don’t call me that.” Dal scowled at the human word. It felt like a slur. All the stories, the lies, made him into a monster that killed for the joy of it. That was not how Dal saw himself. He didn’t like the idea of being reduced to nothing but the few times he’d had to use lethal force to do a job. Most of the time, the worst anyone got was a few bruises and maybe a busted rib or two. He’d certainly never dyed his hat in human blood. That was disgusting.
“The term applies. That’s what you were brought up to be. It’s the best you could hope for, given your lineage.”
“You mean because I’m low-blooded. Or maybe you prefer the term mongrel.” That’s what Lachlan had always called Mickey’s boys growing up. Dal recalled how he would walk down the line of them after ordering them to fight. It was never good enough, so he’d line them up and insult them before telling them to get back to it. The second fights were always meaner, harder, but so much more satisfying. Dal learned to see Lachlan’s face in every one of his brothers’ as his fist came down.
Lachlan smirked. “If the shoe fits.”
“I didn’t come here for this. I need a glamor. A good one. One that other fae can’t see through.”
The Sidhe pursed his lips, rose and walked behind his desk. “For your investigation?”
“You might say that, yeah.”
“And how is that going?”
Dal hesitated, though he wasn’t sure why. He shouldn’t have been afraid to tell Lachlan what he was doing, but after everything, he was worried Lachlan would order him to stop. Since he couldn’t, the only way that could end was with one of them dead. And Lachlan’s reach was much longer than Dal’s.
“I’m closing in,” he answered at length. “I’ve got one or two more cages to rattle, and then I’m sure I should have a name.”
“Word has it that you’ve got an elf whore in your company.”
“We all grieve in our own way.” The answer came automatically and Lachlan glared at him. “She’s got information. I’m not sleeping with her, Lachlan.”
“And what would it matter? I couldn’t care what you do on your own time. But I do care what the glamor is for.” He brought out a wooden box, the lid covered in intricate symbols and placed it in the center of his desk.
“I’m meeting with someone low on the Sullivan totem pole,” Dal lied and shrugged. “It’s probably not wise to make myself known, especially if I want the truth.”
Lachlan studied his face for a long moment, long enough that Dal doubted he’d convinced him of his purpose. Lying was a grievous crime in fae circles, even lies by omission. A lot of humans believed that meant they couldn’t lie, which was a lie in itself that the fae powers that be decided to let fester. Dal could lie. He just didn’t consider himself very good at it.
But if Lachlan didn’t buy the lie, he didn’t say anything about it. He opened the box, took out a small vial of sparkling, indigo liquid and held it out to Dal. “It’s uncut so don’t go wild, and the fact that it’s stronger means it won’t last as long. A skilled or particularly attentive fae will still know something’s amiss, but, if you’re careful, it should be enough.”
Dal took the vial and shook it. Inside, the lights danced and crashed against each other, creating even brighter explosions of bright light that seemed to fold back into the indigo dark before exploding again into a spinning tunnel of flashing colors.
He tucked it into his jacket pocket, nodded and stood. “Thanks.”
“Get it out of your system, Dal. I’m meeting with Teddy Sullivan tomorrow before the procession and could use you at my side.”
Dal frowned. Why would Lachlan sit down with Teddy after what had happened to Lena? Unless he meant to head off the war that was coming. If the statement was meant to suggest that Dal should back off and wait for Lachlan to deal out justice, it fell on deaf ears.
“What time?”
“Before dawn. Here.”
That seemed odd. Then again, Lachlan was paranoid. Here, in his sanctuary, there were dozens of doors behind which Lachlan could retreat and live to make an escape.
Dal nodded. “I’ll be here,” he promised.
“And wear something nice for once.”
Dal left without acknowledging him and imagined Lachlan stewing over that disrespect for the next hour.
Chapter Six
Darkness fell heavy over the streets of South Boston before Dal made it to the address Cat had given him. He met Bill and Lucky there and changed into his clothes before going in. He pressed the glamor into Cat’s palm, relayed the warning, and then watched as she drank the whole thing down in a single gulp. She tossed the glass vial into the trash and then slapped a lighter into Dal’s hand. “Help me light the candles.”
He looked around the tiny house. It had the minimum furnishings to make it livable, and Nessa had kept it clean but it wasn’t what Dal would call homey. Eclectic, maybe, but not homey. He flicked the lighter and held it against the wick of a pink candle. “Nessa was really into pink, huh?”
“Pink, lace, roses. you name anything soft and girly, that was Nessa’s selling point. She did all kinds of weird stuff. Even pretended to be kids for some guys. Freaked me the hell out.” She lit a stick of incense, blew it out and fanned the smoke. “I cater to a different crowd.”
“Like kinky stuff.”
She turned and offered a hesitant smile, adjusting the pink garters she wore. “Everything in the right light is sexy to someone. Just have to find the right light and the right someone.”
“I don’t know about that.” He lit another candle. “I don’t really do whips and chains and the like.”
“Everybody’s got a kink.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. It just makes you uncomfortable to talk about it. It’s taboo. Taboo creates allure, curiosity. Excitement. The key to figuring it all out is finding where the line is and pushing just enough to bend and not break it.”
He struck the lighter again and tipped a candle over into the flame. “You sound like you know your trade.”
Cat unfolded a pink, lace tablecloth and spread it over her plain wooden table, smoothing her palm over it. “Seventy-five percent of what I do is psychology. A lot of the time, I know my clients better than they know themselves. It’s the same with cheap fortune tellers. They don’t really read your palm or your face. They watch how you walk, listen to how you speak, look for little ticks of character in your lips and your eyes. That tells me everything I need to know about everyone. Take you for instance.”
Dal turned around after lighting the last candle and found her sitting on the table, one leg crossed over the other. “Me?”
She smirked and lowered her head. “You’re the reluctant hero type. A sort of black sheep white knight. You’ve seen a lot of pain, enough to last you a lifetime. It doesn’t make you feel inadequate. It’s your strength, the thing that gets you up in the morning. Your scars are a badge, and you wear them with pride. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You don’t pay for the sex. You pay for the chance to feel, to turn that tough exterior off. You like it when it hurts, because it reminds you who you are underneath. You think you deserve it.”
“Stop it,” Dal snapped and turned away. “You don’t know the first fucking thing about me.”
Cat sighed and hopped off the table. “This whole crusade for vengeance, it isn’t even about killing the guy, is it? Part of you doesn’t want to know.”
“Shut up.”
But she just kept on as she went around the room, adjusting things. “It’s regret that makes you do it. Guilt.” She turned and gave him a hard look and a wicked smile. “It’s always guil
t.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” Dal drew the silver cylinder from his pocket and slammed it on the counter. The candles jumped and one overturned, dumping wax all over.
“Now look what you’ve done!” she said and ran over to clean up the mess. “He’s going to be pissed if the place is a mess.”
As Cat scooped up the wax with her bare hands and tried to wipe it into the trash, the doorbell rang. “It’s him,” she hissed and gestured for Dal to hide. He slid out of the kitchen and into a small broom closet, pulling the door closed until the only light was a thin strip across his face.
The doorbell rang again, this time repeatedly until she called, “Coming, love.”
From his hiding place, Dal couldn’t see much, but he could hear. The door opened, and a deep, gruff voice responded to Cat’s greeting. The door closed, and two sets of footsteps came back into the kitchen.
“… short notice,” Cat was saying. “But I’ll make it up to you however you want.”
“Damn right you will.”
Dal leaned to the side and watched as McAlister picked Cat up and deposited her on the table. He was a big bloke, almost as wide as he was tall. McAlister had to be every bit of four hundred pounds. With his squished face, red nose, and protruding jaw, Dal wondered how he could go out without a glamor and not scare children. McAlister fumbled with his zipper.
Cat’s hand shot out and touched McAlister’s wrist lightly. “What’s the hurry?”
The move got her belted across the mouth. Cat’s head snapped to the side with enough force to send blood and spittle splashing against the nearest wall. “Don’t fucking touch me, whore!”
When Cat turned her head back to McAlister, there was fire in her eyes. Dal realized too late that Cat’s temper had gotten the best of her, and she’d broken the act. McAlister saw right through it. Glamor or no glamor, he knew he’d been tricked when she swung claws back at him. McAlister caught her hand by the wrist, and then her other wrist. He picked her up, swung her like dead weight and let go. Cat’s head crashed into the cabinets, and she lay there, barely moving as McAlister closed in on her.