by Cecy Robson
Heat crests like a tsunami, scorching my skin. An orange dragon lands in a deep crouch in front of me, spilling fire as red as blood. The potent flame shoves back the hounds and forces them to disperse into their misty forms. The orange dragon shields me and Frankie, keeping the hounds away. It’s not until he kicks back my whip with his hind legs that I realize who he is.
“Stevie,” I choke.
I reach for the familiar feel of my weapon. Stevie swirls his large tail, motioning ahead with his snout. Ryker is back. He failed in his mission and now he’s in trouble.
Blood pools around Ryker where he lays gutted and motionless. I gasp. Cathasach reached Gwragedd Annwn first. The water fairy’s magic morphed Cathasach’s body twice its size, stretching his muscles against his dense green fur and making him appear unstoppable.
Cathasach hovers over Ryker, ignoring Ryker as he snatches fleeting spirits to feed his mutated body. Dugan and Phillip stand unmoving a few feet away, unable to draw strength from Ryker in his weakened state. Their vacant eyes stare blankly ahead, incognizant to the escalating chaos. Cathasach will seize them next. First, he’ll finish off their leader and source of power.
I wrench myself to my feet, anger spurring my insides. Cathasach doesn’t see me coming, nor will he likely care. He dives on Ryker and drives his massive claws into his chest. Ryker roars, his back bowing. His armor can’t protect him against Cathasach. He’s seconds from being cleaved in half.
I stumble forward into a full-out sprint. The Grim Reaper is not dying on my watch.
I spin my whip over my head and strike the tip forward, snapping it around Cathasach’s throat. Like the rising sun, the earth feels the full mass of my power.
“Bás!” Die.
Cathasach reels, jerking his immense body and howling. My feet leave the ground. I clash into a pile of rubble, my knee snapping on impact. Still, I hold tight to my whip, using my rage to surge my magic.
Pink light flares against my scrunching face, encompassing the whole of the arena. With a scream, I yank the whip taught around Cathasach’s throat when he assumes his human form. He rises, his fingers curling over the leather searing through his windpipe.
Every cell in my body burns as I force years of pain, grief, and fury through the braided leather. He fights me. Even as the whip cuts his throat in half, Cathasach fights me.
Die. Just, die!
Ryker, wounded and bleeding, launches himself from the debris. With a crack of his wrist, his scythe appears. He grips it in two hands and drives the point deep into Cathasach’s chest.
Cathasach’s head soars from his shoulders and his body buckles. The Alpha. The murderer. The hunter of Fae is dead.
With a deafening wail the imprisoned souls escape Cathasach’s burning body. The Cù-Sìth, so deadly and evil, are mortal once more.
I push up on my battered arms, anticipating an onslaught from the remaining hounds. Instead of killing us for making them whole, they rush toward the exit in a heap, trampling over themselves.
The hounds aren’t completely mindless like Ryker suspected. They know if they buy themselves time, their mystical figures will resume, and a new Alpha will rise.
Ryker holds onto his side, panting. Bill and the Ancients tear after the retreating hounds, the giant in the lead, swinging a spiked club. Frankie and Stevie also give chase, burning the death hounds that don’t quite reach the exit. Even Sebastian, who lays battered and beaten along the remains of the arena releases his fire onto the Cù-Sìth. As wicked and conniving as he is, he recognizes the opportunity in Cathasach’s death.
Ryker staggers forward, falling to his knees beside me. His eyes blue gaze melts as he takes me in. “You’re hurt,” he says.
I swallow more blood, my body throbbing like one giant wound. Between huge gulps of air, I manage to speak. “That’s one way to put it.”
He reaches for my hand, his hold gentle. “Beag tuar ceatha, you were brave, and you were strong. But time is not our ally. Will you join me and finish the hunt?”
I nod, although my tears betray my exhaustion and fear. The Cù-Sìth must die. One pregnant bitch that escapes is all it will take to start this nightmare again.
Blood trickles from Ryker’s wounds. My body trembles. I can’t be sure what’s damaged, bleeding, or broken. I’m not sure I can even walk. The two of us . . . we’re nothing more than prey now. Still, I grip his hand and permit him to pull me against him.
We vanish into darkness. The cold night air pummels me without warning, yet it’s the sight before me that leaves me breathless.
Fae, hundreds of them, from trolls to nymphs to sprites and giants, race and fly across the grounds, wielding swords, daggers, and most of all, magic.
The Fae surround the hounds attempting to double back. Dahlia’s mother and sister take down a behemoth male. Their nails lengthen to shimmering claws that slice into skin and tear the hound apart.
Scores of souls release, blurring the air. I can barely stand and barely breathe. My kind’s valor enlivens me, yet it can’t give me the strength I need to fight. But Oberon, the high king can.
Scratches mar Oberon’s regal armor and blood stains his white beard. He’s hurt, not that it stops him. This is a Fae who refuses to cower. He points his sword at me and hollers, chanting in ancient Irish.
Power dances around Oberon’s hunched frame as waves of energy engulf me. My hands quiver and I swallow down a shriek. Oberon’s magic is strong except my injuries are too serious to heal completely. My body struggles to knit my wounds closed and realign my bones. I’m better, but just enough to continue our fight.
So is Ryker.
We leave each other’s arms and rush ahead, throwing ourselves at the remaining hounds.
The Cù-Sìth remain lethal, except this time, they’re the ones outnumbered, and they won’t escape our wrath. I lash out with my whip, searing their flesh and bringing them down. The Fae see me and gather around me, helping me fight and helping us win.
The night air turns from black to misty white as the freed souls swarm us like a cresting ocean. They don’t cry out with pain. They yell in triumph. They glide through my hair, ribbon around my waist, and urge me onward, each pass a sweet touch I sense in my heart.
My whip strikes over and over. I’m briefly aware I’m beating a dead hound when someone clasps my shoulder. My body is so worn, the contact forces me to my knees.
I curl inward, sobbing over the matted creature at my feet. It’s not that he’s dead. It’s knowing no more will die because of him.
Ryker’s voice is a mere whisper against my cheek. “Vanessa,” he says. “It’s time.”
I glance up, surprised not to find him against me. The case that houses Vanessa lies open on the ground, but “she” is gone.
Ryker helps me to my feet. He won’t look at me. He won’t speak to me. He simply walks away.
Bill and Jane trudge to my side. Jane has resumed her human glamour. Dead snakes dangle beneath the hem of her long black dress, indicative of how hard she fought and how tired she feels. Bill retains his Fae form, as does Frankie, Stevie, and the Ancients who flank us.
Poor Stevie. I don’t see Sebastian. What I do see is thick black tears running down the length of his sons’ broad snout. Stevie knows what his father did, and nothing can spare him from that knowledge.
Bill places his arm around me. “Come, Livvie,” he manages through his long fangs.
He holds onto me as I limp. “I’m sorry, Bill,” I say.
His frown would send any human running. “For what?”
I sniff. “For ever doubting you.”
He smiles sadly. “Livvie, we live in a time where we all have cause to doubt. Take comfort in knowing I’ll always stand by you.”
I squeeze his hand, trying not to cry.
Bill and the Ancients lead me forward, far from the last hound I killed and toward the parking lot. I keep my head down, everything I feel coming down on me at once.
My body, so raw and achin
g, can barely move. I take a harsh breath as the path inclines, doubting I’ll manage another step. Jane clasps my wrist, keeping me in place.
“Livvie,” she croaks. “See what you’ve done. See what you are.”
I turn slowly. All I can do is stare. Around me is a field of the living and the dead. Families and friends of those taken long ago cry as their beloved children, spouses, and lovers gather around them. Their grief is tangible, but it doesn’t compare to their joy.
Peace. The dead finally have their peace.
My eyes well and I break down. I don’t notice the throng of souls part, allowing a small group through until Bill helps me to my feet.
“Livvie,” Bill says, his voice splintering.
My mother, father, and sisters step forward, crumbling what remains of my resolve.
I cover my mouth when they stop mere feet in front of me. Tears glisten against their translucent images. They can’t touch me, or feel me, but I sense their love surging through me.
“Hi, Mama,” I stammer.
My sisters, Niamh, Sinead, and Alanna, all as lovely as I remember, smile through their tears. My father, so handsome and tall swipes at his face, trying to stay strong for my mother who openly weeps when she tries to play with my hair.
It’s a moment I want to cling to and never let go. But it doesn’t last.
Ryker stalks forward, his presence announcing we’re all out of time. With so many souls in our midst, it wouldn’t take long for more Death to appear.
Ryker meets my gaze with ice blue eyes that will never capture the character of the man behind them. “I shall keep my promise,” his throaty voice rumbles. “Just as I expect you to keep yours.”
With a whip-like snap, he ignites in a blaze of azure, the lucid bodies of every Fae streaming behind him and into the breaking dawn.
I fall to my knees, joining those who’ll always mourn the ones they love.
Chapter Thirty-One
It takes me a week and a half to return to work. My physical injuries healed enough for me to function, but the emotional trauma? That’s worth at least two Oprah specials and a visit with Anderson Cooper. I cried, a lot, for friends and family now long gone. Mostly though, I tried to find peace, knowing those I love found theirs.
The biggest hurdle I struggle with is coming to terms with the direction my life has taken. I’m not supposed to be a hero. Heroes aren’t scrawny. They have nice, normal hair and don’t speak with Jersey accents. They wield weapons without hurting friends, killing pigeons, or falling into stupid holes. I’m no savior. I’m a paralegal and PA, damn it. My typing and organization skills won’t save anyone’s ass.
So, while I recovered, I ate a carton of prepackaged cakes Dahlia chastised Jane for ordering, listened to a ridiculous amount of bad 80s music, and had deep meaningful conversations with telemarketers who made the mistake of calling my home. That lady from the credit card company was especially nice, even when she passed on my offer to take her to lunch.
Finally, I called Bill and told him I was ready to come back to work.
The elevators to the 30th floor of Macgregor and Santonelli part. I step onto the polished marble floors with my coffee carrier, purse, and a small vase of flowers. I didn’t think anyone would miss me and am surprised by all the polite nods and soft spoken “welcome backs.”
I reach Ryker’s office on my way to my cubicle. We haven’t spoken, and while I hoped for and expected his presence at night to comfort me, he never appeared. Our last interaction occurred when he escorted my family into the Afterlife. What do you say to someone who does that for you, the same someone who begs you to kill him?
My instincts tell me to play the stereotypical “tough guy,” and pretend that nothing so astronomical like taking on an army of death hounds and winning had gone down. In the end, I’m too much the stereotypical girl, ready to talk the incident to death while waving my arms dramatically and accusing him of not listening.
I pause by his door. Death’s door. No, I don’t miss the irony.
It’s as if nothing changed. His broad shoulders hunch forward as he mulls over the legal documents spread along his desk. A silver dress shirt, one flex shy of tearing, covers his stone round muscles. Even with his head lowered, I know that dimple awaits. It’s so endearing. Why does it have to be so endearing?
I knock with the point of my pink kitten heels. Ryker grips his pen tightly and slowly glances up. He knew it was me.
“Hi,” I say softly.
He nods. “Olivia.”
His blue eyes sizzle despite the ice chipping away at his demeanor. Will anyone truly ever know this man?
“You may come in,” he adds when I remain in the doorway.
I kick the door shut with my foot and hurry in before I change my mind. My feet slow the closer I draw. But I can’t go back now.
I place the items across his desk and remove a large cup of coffee from the carrying case. “I brought you coffee and a bagel.” I fumble through my mammoth purse, pull out a paper bag, and reach in. “I know you like the jalapeño ones with cheddar cheese.”
I choke on my last word. Big thick tears spill out of me. Goodness. I really am that stereotypical girl.
A strong hand gently clasps my wrist. Ryker leads me around the side of his desk to stand before him.
We wait in silence with nothing between us but our breaths. His fingers envelope my small bones, reminding me how powerful he is, and how delicate I am in comparison.
I watch his fingers slide across my skin to grasp my hand, his thumb teasing my palm in small circles as he releases a surge of his power. As easily as it began my sorrow eases. It’s only then that I dare meet his addicting gaze.
Ryker’s intensity softens, leaving only a deep compassion the finest poets would fail to compile into words. “I’m sorry,” I say, tears moistening my cheeks. “I know what I promised, but I can’t.” I let out a breath. “And I won’t. You’re my friend and . . . stuff.”
Stars in heaven, kill me.
A flicker of sadness reflects in Ryker’s face as he speaks. “When I came into this realm, I was a different man, foolish and bitter. When I asked you to help me find my peace, I only knew emptiness and wrath.” He works his jaw. “Since knowing you, I’ve started to see things in ways I’ve never dreamed possible.” His hand gives me a squeeze. “I’ve changed, Olivia. I don’t dare admit how much, but I have. You . . . you’ve given me purpose.”
I nod, understanding where he’s coming from. “I know exactly how you feel.”
Ryker tilts his chin. “Do you?”
I blow out a breath. “Of course. I didn’t sign up for this crazy either. Now that we’re a part of it, maybe we can do more good.” I wipe a trailing tear with my free hand. “I’m going to need some serious training. My fighting skills are pathetic at best and my magic untamed even during the best of times.” I make a face. “There’s so much I don’t know. With time, maybe I can learn.”
“I agree,” he says. “And I’ll help. But that’s not what I mean.”
Before I can ask, he lifts my chin with his fingertip. His touch slides along my jaw line, sending streams of heat and electricity through my skin, the sensation increasing as his hand cups the base of my skull.
Ryker leans in, his lips meeting mine, soft like silk for a man so hard. His tongue sweeps in for a taste, prodding gently until I allow him in.
My lips part, searching him out. But then my tongue touches his and I lose my ever-loving mind. The kiss, our kiss, that began so light and innocent turns hard and needy.
Ryker’s mouth is a dark, bewitching realm that begs my tongue to explore. I regale in his deadly allure. My arms hook around his neck. His hands drag along my back. Heat. Need. Want. This is what it means to lust and desire.
Ryker swears, leaving my mouth. He trails his lips over my throat and tangles his fingers through my hair. My heart throbs against his. My body demands more. I skim my hands down, digging my nails into his―
�
��Holy shit!”
Marco’s voice slaps the horniness right out of me. He stands in the doorway with Stevie, clutching files as if they can shield them from the level of whore-dom overtaking the room. If that’s not humiliating enough, half the staff is gaping at us through the fishbowl office.
I jump out of Ryker’s arms, a hell of an accomplishment considering how hard he held me, and, good God, were my hands gripping his ass?
“Hello, sir.” Ryker clears his throat. “Is there something I may assist you with?”
Is this the best Mr. Harvard grad can do? I grab the drink carrier, my purse, and the flowers, using all three to mask my severe case of nipple protrudicus.
Ryker calls to me. “Olivia, wait.”
I hold out a hand when he reaches for me. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no. So not going there. Sorry about that.”
I run out the office, past the stunned group of attorneys and PAs. Honestly, don’t they have murderers to defend?
Stevie chases me, speaking not so softly. “Liv. You like, totally sucked face with Death!”
My face heats. He’s so right. What was I thinking? I practically had sex with him across his desk. Forget that I threw my hard work and reputation out the window―I’m Life and I made out with the Grim freaking Reaper!
I reach my desk and dump everything rather ungraciously, spilling some coffee.
“Was he good?” Jane croaks.
My head slowly swivels in her direction. How did she . . . We’re on the other side of the office.
Jane points to her computer. “Olivia Tongued Ryker” is the subject line on the mass office email.
Nice.
For lack of something better, I sort through the stack of memos and mail overtaking my space. No one lifted a finger to help Marco over the last week. He was likely a total monster to deal with. But as I turn back to the flowers I purchased; I remember why.
I make quick work of organizing the hot mess before me, giving my racing pulse time to slow. I stack all the documents Marco needs to sign in one pile. With every letter I skim through, I think of Ryker. My better judgment warns that this isn’t a man I should allow in my bed.