by Cecy Robson
The hound between us returns his attention to where Bill kneels, curling the lips of his long snout into a hideous snarl. He senses Bill’s soul and wants it for himself. He sniffs again. He knows Bill is here. Like the strike of a cobra, the hound snaps at the air, puncturing through Bill’s face.
The cords of Bill’s neck strain as he struggles to contain his moans. I’m certain Bill is done for. But the magic from his talisman holds strong, veiling Bill’s presence and masking the taste of his blood.
Dark blood dribbles from the hound’s fangs, staining his dark green fur. I cup my hand over my mouth as the hound withdraws and I see what remains of my friend’s face.
Mangled skin dangles in flaps against Bill’s neck. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming. Talismans muffle sounds, but they have their limits, and nothing on earth will be able to silence the horror shredding my insides if I let loose.
Bill’s heavy hand encases my small one. He’s trying to comfort me and encouraging me to be strong. But how can I be strong when Death has arrived to tear him apart?
I jump when roars bellow behind the door. The pack of Cù-Sìth lingering outside are growing more insistent.
I press my hand tighter against my mouth to stifle my sobs. It’s not right for Bill to die this way. He’s good and kind. It’s not his time.
Two more hounds materialize like smoke through the door jamb, silencing my cries. These are swathed in matted white fur. They stalk around the office, growling and frantic to eat. One of them knocks into the green one as if demanding food. The green one barrels her over, perceiving her actions as a challenge. They fight like hungry beasts over a piece of meat, clawing, biting, and snarling.
More hounds arrive. They prowl restlessly, sniffing for prey and ignoring the fight. The white hound never stood a chance against the green. He dominates her, driving her into the opposite wall of the large office.
In one fierce move the green hound flips over the female. He pins her to the floor and digs his fangs into her belly, tearing it open like rotting flesh. Souls spill from her gut in waves of translucent images. I recognize the faint forms of dwarves and fairies, their agonized faces pleading with me to help them.
Tears spill down my face. I wish I could help. But like the rest of my kind, there’s nothing I can do except hide.
The dead try to flee, except the remaining Cù-Sìth are too fast. The pack sweeps through the door like a raging fog of white and green, mauling the already damaged souls.
Bill and I wrench our faces away, unable to stand the terror-filled cries and slurping noises of the feasting hounds.
I steal a glance as the last of the shrieks die out, hoping they’re done. The hounds remain, raking their claws and scavenging for more. The spirits all are gone . . . except for one little Fae.
A sprite hides trembling in the corner of Bill’s Juris Doctorate diploma. But just as I see her, so do the hounds.
The alpha who bit Bill’s face spots her first. He lunges, trampling over the others who try to intercept him. The little sprite shoots through the window, screaming in pain and fear.
In streams of white and dark green smoke, the hounds give chase. I want to race after her and help. But I no longer have wings to fly nor magic to save her. My pathetic attempts to summon my power proved as much.
I sniff meekly. The little sprite needs something stronger than me.
I weep in silence for the souls that will never find peace and curse all forms of Death for filling their bellies instead of carrying their charge to eternal rest.
Bill and I rise carefully when the roars of the Cù-Sìth grow too faint to hear. He keeps his hand over mine until my trembling subsides and my tears stop falling, speaking kind words while his body mends his ravaged face and Jane’s enchantments repair the damage to the office.
With Jane’s help, Bill recalls his glamour. The moment his resemblance of Laurence Fishburne returns, Jane goes to work on repairing his talisman as only an Ancient can.
It takes time and an endless well of power to recharge damaged magic. Time Jane wouldn’t have without the makeshift band the tape provided. Forged from rare copper, gold, and silver found only in Fae, and triggered by rare gemstones and diamonds from Fae mountains, talismans are a wonder. They serve to hide us and open the portals between our homeland and earth. Yet to open the portal you must remove your talisman and risk a direct call to Death.
My father took that risk and it cost him his soul.
Jane nods to Bill and lifts her wand when she finishes. He walks naked to the opposite wall, tugging on links to test her work. It’s only when her magic seems to hold that the tension around his back eases.
He punches the button on the dark mahogany paneling. Two sets of doors part, unveiling a hidden bar. He pours a large helping of Irish whisky into a glass and downs it, and another. He then removes a pair of pants and a fresh shirt from his closet. As soon as he’s dressed, he pours another drink and offers it to me.
“No, thank you, Bill.”
“Cathasach,” Jane spits through her teeth.
Bill nods. “I know.”
My gaze dances between them. “What?”
“The green Cù-Sìth,” he says. “The alpha.” Bill tips back the glass, this time only taking a small hesitant sip. His hand is quivering. I didn’t notice it before. I see it now despite the shots of courage he poured down his throat. “Cathasach is the father of all the death hounds and the first to taste Life. It was he who convinced the other forms of Death to feed on the souls of the living.” He knocks back the glass, draining it of its amber fluid.
“The Cù-Sìth originally carried the souls of mountain Fae into the Afterlife,” I say, my tears close to the surface. “They were peaceful. I don’t understand how they became what we saw.”
Bill’s eyebrows knit tight, his anger momentarily shoving aside his fear. “It doesn’t matter what they were, only what they are, creatures who lack souls of their own with no conscience or respect for the Fae they consume. Did you see their size? They’re enormous from the plethora of spirits trapped within them. There’s no rationale. No pity. No pardon. No loyalty. Like all forms of Death, they’re selfish and their appetites insatiable. Look at how easily they turned on their own.”
He pours a fresh shot and brings it to Jane. She takes a few gulps and resumes her wand waving over the admin. “Tell her she’s fired,” Bill says, his deep voice laced with resentment.
Jane nods and tosses the rest of the liquor down her throat. I retrieve her glass and return it to the bar. It seems wrong to end our conversation this way, without hope or gentle words to remind us we’re safe. But this sense of safety is a momentary luxury, nothing that’s guaranteed. Even with our talismans, Death is never far away.
I try to leave the office and this experience behind. Bill’s deep baritone halts my sluggish steps, keeping me in place. “Olivia, Cathasach knew you were here. The way he took you in, somehow he knew.”
My response is almost robotic. “We’ve met before. I just didn’t know his name.”
Jane stops chanting. Bill chokes on his next sip of whisky. He rushes to me and grips my arms. “You met him before today?”
I nod, shaking from the force of his trembles. “Twice,” I admit.
The color drains from his face. “Listen to me, Olivia. Do not remove your talisman, ever,” he whispers tightly. “If you escape a hound more than once, you become more than prey, you become an obsession. He’ll want you and not stop until he finds you.”
This is the last thing I need to hear. I break free and run from the room. In my haste, I slam into Ryker.
I bounce off his broad torso and land hard on my ass. Shock parts my lips. Considering I’m the one sprawled on the marble tile, he seems plenty pissed.
Perspiration feathers his forehead and his chest rises and falls in furious bursts. He clenches his fists, his blue eyes searing as he looms over me.
By the way his imposing form takes me in, I should be terrif
ied. Mostly, I’m baffled by his rage.
I try to stand, feeling vulnerable. Before I can make it to my feet, Ryker storms away.
Chapter Two
Ryker disappears down the hall, his stride purposeful and threatening, sending the staff loitering in the halls to skitter from his path. Despite his gift for intimidation, the women home in on his backside like it’s on sale and they have coupons. They can keep their coupons and chomp on his ass like bubble gum for all I care.
I return to my desk, passing my fingers along my talisman and praying to my ancestors for strength. As the cool metal slips from my hands, I force myself to work. Typing, filing, and copying means I’m still alive and breathing. It sounds irrational perhaps, but it beats hiding under my desk in terror. I pause in the middle of arranging the stack of discovery documents opposing counsel requested, remembering my pathetic performance in Bill’s office. Jane is certain I have something special. Can’t she see how wrong she is?
With a defeated sigh, I resume my typing. I’ve only written a word or two when Marco flies out of his office. The gold tie around his thick neck is off center and what remains of his hair is dripping wet. Well, at least he showered.
“You forgot your briefcase,” I call out.
With a curse, he rushes back into his office, slamming the door when he reappears with his briefcase.
“And your phone,” I add.
More swearing, more rushing.
He flies past me. I pick up my office phone to warn his driver to be ready. Marco has fired six drivers in the year and a half I’ve worked at MacGregor and Santonelli. I don’t have time to interview another. Patient, punctual, and ass-kissing drivers are hard to find in the Tri-State area.
Jane shuffles by a few minutes later and returns to her seat. She motions with a jerk of her narrow chin to Bill’s office and holds up ten fingers. I hit the speed dial to Bill’s line. It rings ring from his private bathroom. “Liv?”
“Jane says you owe her ten grand.”
“What? All she did was alter a memory and clean up the office. A brownie would’ve done it for a few bills.”
I look at Jane. She smacks her butt and hooks a thumb across her throat. With a rather smug grin, she shakes her talisman at me.
Jane is an ancient of few words, only speaking when she feels it’s absolutely necessary. Those of us who know her understand her well enough. I clear my throat. This is not a conversation I want to engage in with Bill. “Jane feels a brownie would have abandoned your ass at the first sign of Death and insists no brownie alive can fix your talisman.”
“But―”
“Bill, take it up with the Hydra.”
That’s not a joke. Bill goes gargoyle with a human’s kiss. Jane becomes the Hydra, a serpent-like beast with poisonous breath and multiple heads flailing wildly from her tiny black-swathed body.
A pause follows his defeated sigh. “Fine,” Bill says, and disconnects.
I’m finally starting to get work done when a soft, flirty laugh rings a few feet away.
My roommate and best friend, Dahlia, shimmies down the hall. The associates and staff abandon their tasks, scrambling to gawk at her sensual beauty.
Her nymph-ness always guarantees attention, whether she wants to or not. It’s not intentional. It’s simply what Dahlia is.
When it comes to executing her bookkeeping and office manager duties, Dahlia always dresses somewhat conservatively, somewhat. After all, a nymph is a nymph and all that good stuff.
Today’s outfit is a 50’s inspired navy baby doll dress. The wide white collar and bright red bow tied at the center suggests playful innocence. Dahlia might have pulled it off if the hem didn’t stop above her knees and her hips didn’t swing seductively.
An associate dives in front of her, anxious to strike up a conversation. Dahlia edges away from him as if he’s doused with gasoline and he’s offering her a match, not a date.
Fae are “allergic” to humans. Any level of physical intimacy be it a kiss, or something more, results in disaster. Some Fae lose their glamour, like Bill. Others morph into their dormant forms and sprout snakes for limbs, like Jane. Even more lose their magic for days.
Dahlia breaks out in head to toe boils.
I seem to be the only Fae immune to human intimacy. My lack of magic probably has something to do with it. I won’t complain. Last time Dahlia broke out, she had to soak in a bathtub filled with swamp water for hours while enchanted frogs scrubbed down her skin.
Dahlia offers a pleasant smile and hurries down the rows of offices and cubicles. The associate scoffs. He’s not used to rejection. Neither are the other young men and the occasional woman who have attempted to get to know Dahlia. It’s the reason she rarely leaves her office on the floor below. She doesn’t want to be rude, but better rude than be-boiled.
She leans her tall form over Jane’s cubicle, her midnight hair falling forward as she hands Jane a crisp new check. “Good morning, Jane,” she says sweetly. “This is from Bill.”
Jane takes it and shoves it through the collar of her black dress, tucking it in her bra located roughly at her waist. Dahlia straightens and opens the cover to her iPad. “We’re ordering lunch from the deli. Would you like a sandwich, darling?”
Dahlia grins when Jane meets her gaze, teeth brilliant white against her ebony skin. “Roast beef on rye with ketchup it is.” She frowns when Jane blinks twice. “Jane, I’m not ordering those prepackaged pies. They’re bad for you―” Dahlia sighs when the skin around Jane’s beady eyes crinkles. “Fine, Jane. But no more than two, missy.”
Jane, now satisfied, resumes her two-finger typing. Dahlia flounces into my cubicle and sits with swan-like grace at the edge of my desk. “What would you like, darling?”
I’m not up to eating. I’m barely up to breathing. I start to tell her when she snatches my hands into hers, her long fingers frantically stroking me. “Livvie, you’re shaking. What’s wrong, darling?”
My nerves remain on edge and my hands reflect as much, trembling violently as if I’m standing naked in the middle of an icy tundra. I withdraw my hands from hers and reach for my tea. The cup doesn’t quite make it to my lips when I spill the tepid liquid on my dress.
Dahlia takes the cup from me and places it back on the desk. She grabs a small stack of tissues from the box and dabs the front of my dress. “Livvie, darling....”
“The Cù-Sìth were here,” I manage.
Dahlia stills, then very slowly, turns from side to side. “It’s all right,” I say quietly. “They’re gone.”
Dahlia’s chocolate brown eyes shimmer with fear. She leans. “How did this happen?”
I take the wad of tissues from her grip and toss it in the trash, the effort resuming a sense of normalcy I wouldn’t expect from such a mundane task. “Bill changed when the new hire’s tongue met the back of his throat. His talisman is fixed to his watch. It snapped off when he went gargoyle.”
Dahlia’s long braids brush against her shoulders as she shakes her head. “I’ve told Bill more than once that he needs his talisman around his neck, not on that blessed watch.”
“I know. His dormant form is too immense.” I blow a breath hard enough to flutter my long bangs. “I suppose he never thought a human, especially one here, would be so bold.”
Dahlia smiles sadly. “Humans are bolder than we give them credit for, darling.”
“I’ve noticed,” I reply, my small smile reflecting hers.
Dahlia has a way of calming me just by being her. Like the flower she’s known for, she’s vibrant and beautiful. She glances behind her to where Jane tap . . . tap . . . taps on her keyboard. “Bill should have Jane incorporate his talisman into a long chain. Perhaps something with a spring capable of expanding.”
“He should,” I agree. “But I bet it will be pricey.”
Jane stops typing and winks. Yup. It’s going to cost Bill a fortune.
Dahlia plays with her talisman, running the strand of pearls it’s fixed to bet
ween her fingers. “Darling,” she says. “I didn’t so much as sense them. No one did. I heard thunder but dismissed it as a passing storm.”
“I think it’s because you weren’t in close proximity to Bill.” I motion around. “Jane and I are the only Fae on this side of the building.” My voice lowers. “We were with Bill when they manifested.”
“Asshats,” Jane croaks.
Dahlia gapes at me. “You saw them?” I nod. “My darling, of all the forms of Death that could have appeared . . .”
“It had to be the one who killed my family,” I finish for her.
Fear pricks at my skin. This time, so does anger. I wish I possessed the power to destroy Death or, at the very least, enough to fight back.
I was only four years old when we crossed over from Fae. My father shut the portal behind us, protecting us from Cathasach and preventing his pack from following into Earth’s realm. Father’s talisman was the key to that portal. In removing it, he revealed himself to Death and it cost him his life and soul.
Sometimes, I still hear his screams at night.
“Darling?”
I refocus on Dahlia, unsure how much time passed. Tears I didn’t realize I’d shed dampen my cheeks. “I’m sorry. What?”
She brushes the final tear that follows. Her fingertips are warm and her touch gentle against my skin. “I asked if you wanted to take the rest of the day off? I’m certain Bill will insist upon it given your state.”
I smirk. “Are you saying you’ll take over Marco duties when he returns from court?”
Dahlia makes a sour face and waves me off. “Pffft. Certainly not.” She angles around, her smile magnetic. “Jane darling, do you think you could take care of Marco this afternoon? Nothing special. Perhaps just fetch his coffee and answer a few calls?”
Jane responds with a stiff middle finger. She’s hated Marco since the time he held a mirror under her nose to make sure she was still breathing.
“He’s not that bad,” I insist. I reach into my bottom drawer and grab a stack of paper to load into the printer. “He just mourns differently than the rest of us.”