by Anya Bast
He’d checked up on her. Holy cow. But apparently the Black Tower had been ready for it and she was covered. Whew. “Yes. They seemed pleased with my work. I’m just glad I’m all done and can head home to take my life back up again.”
“Certainly. I’ve already called a cab to take you to the airport. You have made flight arrangements, I presume?”
She nodded. “I’ll be on the first available flight to Portland. I’m sleeping in my own bed tonight.”
“Excellent.” They came to a stop in front of the building. The cab, just as he’d said, was parked not far away. He held out a hand. “But, first, I need to search your bag and pat you down.”
“Of course.” She handed her bag over. “Glad to have it done by you, the archdirector himself.”
He flicked his gaze at her. “I don’t trust anyone else to do an adequate job.”
“Of course.”
He rifled through her bag, immediately finding the pendant and holding it up. “What’s this?”
“I bought it.” She smiled. “It was so pretty. I couldn’t resist.”
He stared at it for a moment longer, then replaced it. “I didn’t know you enjoyed fae jewelry.” His voice seemed tight, displeased.
He didn’t know anything about her; he only thought he did. “I don’t, normally. That piece was just too interesting to pass up.”
He grunted and zipped her bag up, then hand-searched her luggage, purchased in Piefferburg after her first suitcase fell into the ravine, and found nothing. Then somehow she suffered through his hands on her without shuddering.
She drew a breath of relief when they finally said their good-byes and she was able to head to her cab. Glancing back, she saw that Gideon’s gaze stayed on her as she walked to the vehicle, got in, and drove off.
Now headed to Protection City and a plane bound for home, she settled back and tried to relax. Her nightmare was over. The bonding magick had lost its grip. She was free. She should be happy.
So why did she hurt so much?
TWENTY-TWO
CHARLOTTE caught the last plane of the evening out of Protection City and made it back to her house in Portland just before one in the morning. She walked into the dining room and dropped all her things near her beloved polished Amish dining table and looked around the room.
Nothing was different than the day she’d left, yet everything had changed. The entire house felt like a stranger’s.
Abandoning her things where she’d left them, but taking the gryphon pendant, she went upstairs and showered.
Rubbing the steam off the mirror when she was through, she stared at her reflection. Dark circles marked the skin under her eyes and she looked like she was coming down with something. Felt like it, too—weak and tired. No wonder, after the couple weeks she’d had, topped off with the late-night flight into Portland.
She squinted, taking a deeper look at her face.
Her face looked leaner than it had before, her eyes darker and sharper. Oddly, she hadn’t missed her glasses at all. Was it possible for astigmatism to correct itself on its own? Was it silly to believe she could simply see better now—in more than one way?
Also strange, her lips looked fuller to her. She brushed them with her fingertips and closed her eyes, imagining Kieran’s mouth rubbing over them. Cold longing made her chest feel empty. She dropped her hand and opened her eyes.
She would probably never see Kieran again.
Picking up the gryphon necklace, she slipped it over her head and settled it in the hollow of her throat. Running a finger around its edge, she told herself she’d sleep with it tonight and hope he visited her in her dreams.
Flicking the light off in the bathroom, she climbed into her bed and tried to sleep.
KIERAN woke the instant his sleeping psyche connected with Charlotte’s in her dreamscape. The joining had happened spontaneously, just as it had back in the cottage in Hangman’s Bastion. This time he’d been ready for it. As much as he wanted to see Charlotte again, no more contact between them could be allowed. He was too far gone.
He pushed the covers away, swung his feet down to the floor, and coughed. Rubbing his palm into his chest, he frowned, sensing the oddness that had settled into his body. He felt weak, as though sickness was trying to gain a foothold within him. It was a sensation not often experienced by the fae, who were almost never ill.
Terror rocked through him.
He wasn’t too far gone . . . he was just gone.
Bowing his head, he ran his hand over his face. Charlotte. Sweet Lady, he hoped this was a one-way street. If she didn’t return his feelings, she’d be safe.
Hopefully she’d left Piefferburg, and him, just in time.
THE first thing Charlotte did in the morning was confront her father.
She dressed, drank a little coffee, and left to go to his house with the gryphon pendant around her neck.
Her stomach roiled as she shouldered her purse and walked up the stairs to his door. Her father was a multimillionaire, a former CEO of a conglomerate who had given his life to his ambitions . . . and, ironically, to her. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the information she possessed. Take it to the police and try to explain how she knew what she knew? That’s what felt right, even though it would be the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life.
But in order to get the police to believe her, she would need her father’s help.
He would need to confess to the murder.
She walked up the fancy gray stone steps and rang the doorbell of her father’s immense home. She remembered playing jacks on these stairs, remembered playing with her ball. She had lots of memories of this place, though in all of them she was alone.
Her father didn’t answer the door. She frowned and rang again, looking over at the driveway where her father’s Mercedes was parked. He had to be home.
She rang again. Still no answer. Maybe her father was in the shower or listening to opera really loud, as was his habit. It was a Saturday, so it was entirely possible.
She took out her keys and found the one she needed. Once she had the door unlocked, she pushed it open and went inside. “Dad?”
“I’m in here, sweetie,” she heard him call from the family room.
Her whole body tight with the prospect of confronting him, she held her bag close and walked through the foyer into the family room.
He was standing near his bar, pouring himself a scotch. She frowned. That was out of character. He kept the liquor there for guests and rarely drank it himself, especially not on a Saturday morning.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
He walked toward her. “Yes, we do.” His voice sounded stern. “It’s not like you to just run off that way without telling me. I had to call your boss to find out where you’d gone.”
So he knew where she’d been.
She closed her eyes for a moment, knowing this was going to be hard all the way around. Of course he’d worried when she hadn’t called. She usually spoke to him at least once a week. Of course he’d called her boss and asked them if she’d been in. “Then you already know I was in Piefferburg.”
Rage enveloped his face. “Piefferburg, Charlotte! You took a job in that mecca of evil?”
She held up a hand. “It’s a long story and it’s not important.”
“Not important?” he roared, the amber liquid in his short, chunky liquor glass sloshing over the rim with his movements. “How can it not be—”
She interrupted him, raising her voice, anger surging through her veins. “The important thing, the thing I came here to talk about, is that I had some very interesting revelations while I was there.” She dropped her purse onto a plush, dark green couch and glanced around the room at the furnishings, anywhere but at her father.
This was the room where he’d murdered her. Sorrow rose up into her throat.
She summoned her rage to war with her grief. Rage she could use. Grief would only handicap her. “Revelations about you.”<
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“About me? What are you saying?”
She frowned. What was that dark brown spot on the white carpet near the edge of the couch? Was that . . . blood? Actually, there was more than one spot. And, wait, over there . . . was that . . . a shoe? It was an expensive shoe, by the looks of it, and there was a foot still in it.
Oh, no.
TWENTY-THREE
HER stomach dropped to her feet and her mind fell into a black hole. She paused, taking a moment to process the situation. That was her father’s fancy designer loafer. And if her father was lying there, on the floor, bloody, then who was standing here pretending to be him?
The blood in her veins turned to icy slush.
She looked up from the shoe with wide eyes, completely incapable of hiding her shock. The person—the fae—wearing her father’s image dissolved it. A good-looking woman with dark red hair and pale, perfect skin stood before her. The woman’s green eyes were cold and hard and she wore a mocking smile on her lips.
“Hello, Charlotte. My name is Máire. I think you must know my sister, Maeve? Wait, you know her as Risa. I wasn’t expecting you so early, but all’s well. Your arrival has saved me from having to hunt you down.”
Another shiver of shock ran through her. She took a step backward.
“I know, but it’s not as confusing as you must be thinking. I’m sure you’ve heard of us, the Three Sisters? We’re practically famous in the world of the fae for the miracle of our births. Not unlike your friend, Kieran, and his twin brother, right? My sisters and I . . .” She paused. “Well, my sister and I have the same ability Kieran and Diarmad had—that ability to experience through each other. It only works in times of intense emotional spikes. Times of intense fear, pleasure, or rage. In fact, when that bitch of a fae, Emmaline, killed our oldest sister last year in Israel, both Maeve and I experienced it.”
Charlotte fought through her shock and forced her mind to follow the logic. When Risa/Maeve had tried to kill her, this woman, Máire, had seen it through her eyes.
Charlotte drew a breath, marshaling her panic. “Then you must know your bitch of a sister, Maeve, is clapped in charmed iron right now.”
Pain flashed through her eyes. “They’ve done a whole lot more than just clap in her charmed iron, girly. One of my sisters is dead and the other is being tortured. The latter is a fact for which I’m inclined to make you pay.”
Oh, shit. She glanced around the room, looking for a weapon. Then she remembered the old antique charmed iron sword her father kept in his library. Could she get to it? It seemed like her only shot.
“So,” said Máire, sauntering toward her, “I saw my sister try to kill you. I saw her battle with Kieran Aindréas Cairbre Aimhrea and the Blacksmith afterward. Since then I’ve experienced bits and pieces of my sister’s conversation with both of them and with her torturers. I know who you are, Charlotte.” She cocked her head to the side. “How are you feeling these days? Sick at all? Are you dying yet, for the love of a fae?”
She shook her head. “I feel fine. Kieran and I aren’t in love. The curse hasn’t been triggered. I’m not the human who can pull the piece.”
Máire laughed. “Bullshit.” She motioned to Charlotte’s father. “I came here and searched his memories, looking for anything about you I could use. I saw your pathetic childhood and boring adulthood. Any woman with a history like yours would be immediately enamored of a dangerous, captivating fae man like Kieran Aimhrea, so cut the crap and talk to me like a woman to a woman.”
“It takes two to trigger the curse. He doesn’t love me so . . .” Kieran’s words rang through her mind. In a confrontation, never back down. Display confidence, even if you’re scared shitless. She shrugged carelessly, smiled, then her voice went low and dangerous. “So back off, bitch. You’ve got the wrong woman.”
“Oooo, the kitten grew claws in Piefferburg. That’s good. You’re going to need them with me.” Her gaze focused Charlotte’s throat. “The gryphon? Where did you get that?”
Charlotte touched the pendant. “You can’t have it.”
“I’ll take anything I want, little one.” Máire lunged toward her.
Charlotte turned and ran. She had to get to the library, had to get that sword.
Behind her, Máire laughed. “That’s right, you better run, girly.”
Footsteps sounded right behind her even though she was running faster than she’d ever run before. She rounded the corner into the foyer and nearly slipped on the marble floor. Máire probably thought she was going for the front door, but she swerved at the last minute and lunged into her father’s library, slamming and locking the door behind her. Going out the front door would have meant she’d be murdered on the front lawn. Charlotte had no illusions about her chances against a fae, no illusions that Máire cared whether the neighbors saw her committing murder.
Máire hit the library door from the other side and swore. That door was heavier than most, but Máire seemed to be extra strong. Charlotte was sure she’d find a way through.
Charlotte found the sword above the mantle over the fireplace and pulled it out of its sheath. She tested the blade. It wasn’t very sharp, but it would have to do. She didn’t know much about sword fighting, but she was pretty sure she could stick the pointy end in Máire if her life was in danger.
Máire continued to throw herself against the door. The wood around the frame cracked ominously. It wouldn’t be long now.
Weapon in hand, Charlotte went to a window and pulled up the shade. Her car was parked next to her dad’s Mercedes, but her keys were in her purse . . . which she’d left back in the family room. Damn it! She fumbled at the window’s lock. Maybe she could get outside and hide in the woods that surrounded her father’s house.
Just as she’d pried the window open a little, the door behind her crashed in a shower of splinters. So much for that idea. Time to fight. Oh, god.
Charlotte whirled, sword in hand, feet apart, trying her best to look fierce. The effect was probably ruined by the fact that she was quivering like a leaf in a very strong wind.
Máire stood in the ruined doorframe looking dangerous. “So you have a sword. My, my. What do you plan to do with it, girly?”
“Kill you.”
“Really?” She raised a bloodred eyebrow. “How many people have you killed before, dearest? By the look on your face I would say . . . none.” She smiled, showing very white teeth. “Guess how many I’ve killed?”
“Guess who’s got the sword?” Charlotte lunged toward Máire.
Máire spun to the side, laughing, and picked up an iron poker from the fireplace. She took up a convincing posture in the middle of the room and they circled each other. Damn it, Máire looked like she actually knew how to fence.
Charlotte circled warily, both hands on the grip of the sword.
Máire moved with total confidence, one hand on the poker and the other on her hip.
Suddenly Máire feinted, knocking the poker into the blade. Charlotte gasped, holding on to the sword with everything she had as the hit reverberated down her arms and into her hands. Sensing Charlotte’s weakness, Máire pressed her advantage, moving forward and hitting the sword’s blade over and over until Charlotte backed herself up against the wall. It was all she could do just to hold on to the hilt, never mind swing it.
Time seemed to slow as Máire lifted the poker higher and Charlotte knew what was coming—the next slash wouldn’t be aimed at her sword . . . but at her face. With Máire’s strength, it would tear her head right from her shoulders. Up until now Máire had just been having fun.
This was it. Charlotte knew she needed to make some kind of move, or she’d die.
Panic coursing through her veins, she gave a shout of mingled rage and terror, stepped forward and pushed her arms straight out as hard as she could. The tip of the sword found Máire’s soft stomach and slid in.
Charlotte used all her strength to push it in even farther and then let go, backing away, totally shocked she’d
found her mark . . . and that Máire wasn’t made of steel but flesh and blood just like everyone else.
Máire’s eyes and mouth opened wide and her skin went white.
Then she collapsed. Blood pooled around her folded body. She stretched out a red-coated hand still clenched around the handle of the poker, as if trying to hit Charlotte with it. The poker dropped to the floor with a thunk. Máire took a long, shuddering breath before she stopped breathing altogether.
Charlotte stood over Máire for a moment, her hand to her mouth, staring at the protruding sword. How many people had she killed?
One.
She backed away, hit the wall, and jumped, startled. Her mind was a tangled mess, reviewing what had just happened with disbelief. But she didn’t have time for this luxury. She needed to move, get out of here. Maybe Máire hadn’t been alone.
That thought spurred her to action. She ran into the hallway, back to the family room. Kneeling beside her father, she felt for a pulse and got nothing. She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. Of course she didn’t get a pulse; his eyes were open, unseeing. He was dead.
She bowed her head over his body for several minutes, dragging in huge gulps of air, and tried to calm herself. Tried to reconcile grief, shock, confusion . . . and a worrisome niggle of relief she wished was not present.
Raising her gaze, she looked at her father’s face. This was a man who had loved her in his own twisted, harsh way. This was also the man who’d killed a young, vibrant woman and let his daughter grow up thinking her mother had never cared about her. This man was a murderer.
And now he was dead. She would get no confession, no explanation, no revenge, no closure. Dead.
She wasn’t sure what to do with all the emotions crowding her brain at the moment, so she focused on the physical things she needed to do. Getting out of here was primary on her list in case Máire had summoned others.