by Amy Sumida
“Thank you,” Margaret said breathlessly.
“Perhaps you will remember this in the future, when we might have the need to approach you again,” Wayne said shrewdly.
Margaret grimaced but nodded. Yep, she owed us one.
“If this everything?” Drostan looked from Margaret to his accountant, a Glastig woman named Jessica Robinson, who hid her horned feet under a glamour of chunky boots.
“That's everything you—I mean he—purchased in the period you indicated,” Jessica said as she waved at the papers some of the extinguishers were looking over.
“Yes, that's everything,” Margaret added.
“If anyone approaches you looking like me, text or call me and keep them busy until we can get to you,” Drostan said to both women. “Do not try to confront them by yourselves. Just play along. They are dangerous men.”
The women nodded.
“All right, thank you both.” Drostan stood up. “I'll walk you out.”
Margaret got up with an obvious air of relief, her shoulders slumping as she followed Drostan out of the room with Jessica.
“Let's assign some teams to check out these locations,” Lance said to Nightblade.
“Did you update the Coven and the Casters about all this?” I asked Killian.
“They know.” Killian grimaced.
“They don't feel like maybe they should help now?” I countered.
“Witches haven't been affected yet.” He rolled his eyes. “And my call to Trivedi didn't help.”
“What, they're pissed off because I thought Flame Witches kidnapped me?” I huffed.
“Flame Witches are temperamental.” Killian shrugged. “At least they helped us save the world.”
“Yeah, because they live here.” Conri snorted.
“Pretty much,” Killian agreed. “That's okay. We're better off without a bunch of Vexes all up in our business.”
Most of the people in the room chuckled at that. Vexes were the witch equivalent of extinguishers or hunters, but they tended to have an attitude. Depending on what clan they came from, the attitude could be anything from arrogant to outright hostile. We were still learning to get along. It wasn't so long ago that they knew about us, but we didn't know about them. Plus, they were still adjusting to the fact that their ancestors were fairies—the very people they had secretly watched and scorned.
I'd met a lot of good witches, Killian was obviously one of them, but there were an equal amount of assholes. Not all that surprising when you think about how racist the Coven is. The Casters were, of course, the exception. But their military was small, and Killian didn't like calling on them unless absolutely necessary. He preferred to let them guard the Hallow—the secret Caster community in Alaska.
“So, where do we look first?” I asked Lance and Nightblade.
“Let's just send out some scouts for now,” Wayne suggested. “We don't want to drag everyone to every site. Once we get the reports back, we can decide what locations to search more thoroughly.”
“Okay.” I sighed.
“Don't worry, Ambassador, you'll see some action soon,” Wayne teased.
“Tonight,” Nightblade said in a grim tone at odds with Wayne's.
Everyone looked at Nightblade, including Drostan, who had just returned from seeing the ladies out.
“My team has found a nightclub that is open until dawn and is favored by those who enjoy the drug MDMA, also known as ecstasy,” Nightblade explained. “We will be visiting that club tonight if any of you would like to accompany us.”
I chuckled. “Why yes, Shawn, we'd love to attend.”
Nightblade flushed at my use of his first name, but recovered quickly. “Then it's a date, Your Majesty.”
Raza's growl chased the teasing smile from Nightblade's face.
“I mean, a mission,” Nightblade quickly amended. “Without any romantic undertones. At all.”
Raza chuckled. “I'm just having a bit of fun at your expense, Lord Hunter. I know you're not after my wife.”
Lord Nightblade relaxed.
“That would be foolhardy after all,” Raza went on blithely. “Especially since I'm your King.”
Nightblade stiffened.
“Just walk away, dude,” Killian said to Nightblade. “Don't run, mind you. That will only excite him.”
“Leave him alone,” I snapped at my husbands. “Sheesh, I can't even jokingly flirt with someone.”
“No, you can't,” they all said as Nightblade fled.
Chapter Thirty-One
I wore a glamour of an African-American woman with luscious full curls wild about my shoulders and a short red dress. Yes, Varcan's men had recognized me in a glamour before, but that was obviously because Varcan warned them and the man in the coffeehouse had snapped my picture. They shouldn't be able to spot me this time.
The extinguishers were working as surveillance since Varcan knew what they looked like and they couldn't glamour themselves, but my husbands, a selection of our knights, and the hunters were going in with me. Everyone had a glamour in place and appropriate attire, and I admit it was a little fun to see what people had chosen to wear. The hunters, especially, surprised me with their bad boy and party girl glamours. It was like Halloween for fairies.
We took one of the SUVs and several of the hunter vehicles to the club, which wasn't in Missouri but over the border in Illinois. The proximity to the house Varcan had imprisoned me in made me both nervous and hopeful. I didn't think Varcan would be stupid enough to stay in the area, but if he were that dumb, this club would be the perfect place to send his dealers.
The Hammer—I kid you not, that was the club's name—was in a warehouse that sat on a huge lot on the outskirts of Belleville. The parking lot was packed and the dull thud of repetitive music pulsed out from the Hammer's nondescript, gray walls. Our cars were a bit nicer than most in the lot, but the mass of vehicles helped them blend in. We blended in too, most of the men wearing baseball caps and puffy jackets while us ladies had long coats over our short dresses. I saw a few people leave their coats in their cars and hurry into the club, so I suggested that we do the same. Not having to deal with a coat check would be good if we had to suddenly give chase.
I clicked rapidly toward the club on a pair of red high heels, holding Daxon's hand. He was glamoured to look African-American as well, with a leather jacket and dark hair in cornrows. Raza had gone Asian, despite all of us warning him that Missouri and Illinois were predominantly Caucasian and African-American. He liked to stand out, and I had to admit that his lanky, Korean, party boy look fit in with a K-Pop meets Rap Star flare. Tiernan had chosen a buff, white boy glamour, with short, dark hair under his baseball cap and a pair of goggles over the hat. Yep, goggles. He'd seen a guy wearing that combination in the photo gallery the club posted online and decided he liked it. Why you'd need goggles in a club is beyond me, but then I suppose that's why they were on the hat and not his face.
Finally, there was Killian, who had gone with what he called Psychopath Average—a plain-looking Caucasian man, late twenties, with ripped jeans and a backward baseball cap. The baseball cap seemed to be a common theme for club-goers in Illinois, at least according to the club's website, so most of the men had worn one.
On such a cold night, the doorman waited inside the vestibule to check IDs. We flashed business cards at him after Nightblade did a little fairy juju to make the bouncer think he was seeing driver's licenses. Then we strode into a vast space of pumping bodies, flashing lights, a ceiling of bare pipes, and music that was loud enough to be considered an assault. I winced, wondering why people liked this. Yes, there was something primal about the monotonous rhythm and something hypnotic about the pulsing lights, but . . . ow. Just ow. How were you supposed to meet anyone in this madness?
I watched a man stalk a woman on the dance floor, sliding up to her with a thug-nod and then sort of swaying to her bounce. In a few seconds, they were making out. Ah, yes, of course. This wasn't a place to meet Pri
nce Charming, this was a place to meet What's-His-Name.
We spread out and circled the packed room, scanning for the slide of surreptitious hands that indicated drug deals. I saw several within a few moments, but they were either bags of white powder or weed. Head bobbing to the music and eyes alert, I moved on. Daxon walked beside me with a possessive hand on my lower back while my other husbands ranged in a loose circle around us. Drostan, under the glamour of a Mexican man, was off on my left. I paused when he started getting hassled by a white guy in a Polo shirt and gold chains. Really? A Polo and rapper chains? Okay. That was nearly as offensive as his racism.
“You got a problem with Asians too, Bro?” Raza asked, sliding into an accent I'd never heard him use before. He angled his head in front of the white guy and stared him down.
“Go back to China, slant-eyes!” the guy said, making his girlfriend giggle.
“I'm Korean, you ignorant asshole. We're the ones with the crazy motherfucker in charge. And I'm crazy too!” Raza hooked the back of the guy's ankle, making him fall while looking as if he hadn't touched the man. “Whoa, man, watch out with those white boy feet. You guys can't dance or walk, eh?”
The club was mixed racially and a lot of people had wandered over at the exchange to watch and, if I was judging their glares accurately, possibly participate. When the asshole went down, they cheered and laughed their asses off, shouting things like, “Korea just launched a nuke!” and “It's a K-Pop smackdown!”
Raza turned around, bowed, waved at the crowd, and slung an arm around Drostan. “Hey now, don't forget Mexico, motherfuckers!”
“Viva la Mexico!” someone shouted.
Then there was a rush on tequila shots at the bar while the white guy slunk away with his glowering girlfriend.
As entertaining as that was, I wished that Drostan and Raza had gone subtle with their glamours and prevented that exchange. We weren't there to start a revolution, we were there to find a murderous drug lord. I wandered away, searching for more drug deals, not realizing that I had given Daxon the slip. Not until I felt a warm tingle down my arm.
I spun and saw him. He looked just like Drostan's sketch—slim build, dirty blond curls, and sharp features. Varcan grinned at me and dread shot down my spine. That smile reminded me of the painting in his bedroom.
Varcan turned and disappeared into the crowd. I cursed and gave chase, shifting and sliding through the spaces between gyrating people. His skin was so pale, it was like a beacon in the dark, but I didn't need it to find him; I could feel him in front of me. When I concentrated on that feeling, it became even sharper, turning me into a compass. I could practically see a trail through the bobbing crowd. I wove through the club-goers, focused on my prey, and stumbled out of the press of bodies and into a corridor. The reek of stale beer and puke hit my nose. Bathroom doors stood to either side of me and an exit in front. The exit door was one of those with a big metal push bar and a sign that warned that opening it would set off an alarm. Varcan hadn't gone that way.
I considered the woman's restroom, but I figured there would have been some shouting if a guy had gone in there, and when a couple of ladies walked out, laughing, they cinched it for me. I turned and went into the men's room. A guy was pissing in a urinal. He looked up, then did a double-take.
“What the fuck, bitch?” he growled.
Varcan stepped out of a stall, casually grabbed the back of the man's head, and slammed it forward, into the wall. The man crumpled to the ground, his junk out and dripping over his jeans.
“That's the fucking Twilight Star, you cretin!” Varcan hissed at him. Then he stretched his shoulders and stepped forward. “It is you, isn't it, Seren?”
“Hello, Varcan,” I drawled.
“Fuck! Where are you, Seren?” Wayne growled in my earpiece. He must have heard the exchange.
“Fancy meeting you in the men's room,” I added smoothly, not wanting to spook him by speaking to Wayne.
“I'm sending help now,” Wayne added. “Don't engage him! Just keep him there.”
“Are your husbands on their way?” Varcan asked casually.
“Is that your real face?” I asked instead of answering. “I hope not. You look like you're in a boy band.”
Varcan's eye twitched. Then a guy walked in, and Varcan blasted him with a stream of fire. The man screamed and fell to the floor.
“He's not with me, you asshole!” I shouted at Varcan as I used air magic to smother the flames.
The man moaned and went still, his body blocking the door. Varcan shot forward while I was distracted with the guy. In a split-second, he had my wrist in a tight grip. I had a moment to look up at him in horror, meeting those cruel, ice-blue eyes, then smoke filled my nose and everything shifted. Embers burst into existence around us. As they fell, they disappeared. I disappeared. Cold night air hit me and the bathroom was replaced by winter woods. A body lay in the snow a few feet away from me—a woman curled into a fetal position.
“Eliane!” I ran forward, recognizing the glamour as belonging to Eliane Blue, one of Nightblade's hunters. Luckily, her mór was an ice magic, and the cold wouldn't bother her, but she wasn't moving.
“She's just sleeping. I wasn't sure which of the women in your group was you,” Varcan said as he grabbed my upper arm and pulled me away from Eliane, then he spun me around.
I went with the motion and punched him in the face.
“Ow!” Varcan whined and backpedaled. “Stop punching me!” With all those golden curls, he looked like a petulant child.
Men stepped out of the forest and surrounded us, but they didn't surprise me; I felt them coming. I dropped my glamour—no sense in wasting the magic now—and swept a circle of fiery thorns around Varcan and me. The fire probably wouldn't stop them, but the thorns should buy me some time. Unfortunately, they didn't have to go through my barrier, they simply disappeared in bursts of embers and popped back into existence inside it.
“Son of a bitch!” I hissed.
“You remember Balidet, don't you, Seren?” Varcan waved a hand at the man beside him.
Balidet, AKA Bal, Mr. Italian playboy, grinned at me wickedly. “Nice to see you again, Your Majesty.”
I blew dream dust off my palm and into his face. Bal gaped at me as he crumpled into the snow.
“Son of bitch!” Varcan mimicked my exclamation as the other men stepped back.
“Yeah, I got dust too,” I growled. “I can also do this.” I used my apportation—a human psychic ability—to pull a sword right from the sheath on one guy's belt and move it to my hand. I swung it in a testing arch to find a comfortable grip, then settled into a battle stance. “I may not be able to burn you, but you can't burn me either. So, let's do this old school style, shall we?”
“Seren!” Raza was shouting in my earpiece now. “Where are you?”
“I don't know, babe,” I muttered. “Check my tracker. I'm a little busy at the moment.”
Everyone who had gone into the club had trackers in their comm units, just in case of a situation like this.
Raza snarled a curse, then said, “We're on our way.”
“See you soon.”
“Seren, I came back for you,” Varcan cajoled, his expression as soft as an angel's.
“Yeah. And?” I huffed.
“That means it wasn't a lie.”
“It wasn't . . .” Right, I had said that to him when I still thought he was Drostan and was trying to comfort him about Verisande. “Don't you fucking throw my words back at me, sleazeball. Verisande had a relationship with you; I did not. And, as it turns out, neither of us knew who you really were, Varcan. That makes everything a lie.”
Varcan narrowed his eyes at me, all softness gone, then flicked his stare at his men and nodded. Damn, but he looked no more than 17. I knew that looks didn't matter, he could be anywhere from 17 to 117, but still, it was unsettling. I had kissed him. Ew. Did that make me a cougar?
Varcan's men closed in around me, and the ones who still h
ad swords drew them. I sensed a man approaching my back and spun just as his sword came down. The clang of our blades colliding echoed through the trees and sparks popped as I dragged my sword down his, then continued the motion down the center of his chest. He screamed as things that should stay inside oozed outside. A shiver on my right had me shifting rapidly, then tumbling to avoid a grasping hand. A flare of heat to my left and I was spinning with my sword, slashing low to hamstring my opponent. A man started to scream.
“Get her! For fuck's sake, just stone her, you fools!” Varcan shouted.