That seemed to amuse him, though his smile was the thinnest crescent. She itched to fold her arms over her stomach, to protect her vulnerable places from his scrutiny. Instead, she forced her hands to hang loose at her sides, her back straight and chin up.
“Henry Blackwell called me,” he said. “You’re here because you’re out of options.”
Henry, her coach. He’d told her she’d never fight again, and her body had seconded the opinion. Part of her still refused to believe it. “I need a job, sir.”
“And you don’t know how to do anything but fight.”
She set her jaw. “I can still work in security.”
He frowned, picking up a paperweight from his desk. It was a marble dragon, each scale exquisitely carved. “Do you know what happened to the air fae, Alana?”
She blinked, wondering where he was going with this. “They came here, like everyone else.”
“The little ones did. The pixies and flower fae, but the dragons stayed behind to fight the Shades. They shared more with the dinosaurs than long tails and bad breath. Oh, yes, they were strong, beautiful, and amazing creatures, but they were proud to the point of idiocy. Hence, you will never meet a dragon.” He put the paperweight down. “Learn to adapt to circumstances, Alana, or face the consequences.”
“I know I can’t fight like I used to, but…”
“You’re an orphan, a foundling of dubious pedigree, who never even attempted higher education. You want me to find you a job guarding important fae, yet your magic abilities are all but nil. Plus, your body is broken. You’re attempting to hide the agony of simply standing here, but I can sense it like a shrieking siren. What can you possibly offer?”
Alana’s body tensed, her heart beating faster. It was as if she’d suddenly found herself on splintering ice, and hesitation would get her drowned. But how was she supposed to respond?
He’d asked a good question. His words summoned old memories—schoolyard taunts, the disappointed eyes of her adopted parents. She’d been a useless mongrel with zero talent for the basic spells any fae toddler could do. Then she’d learned to fight better than anyone else, and doors to fame, if not exactly fortune, had opened.
Now those doors had slammed shut again. “I need a job to survive.”
“Why should that matter to me?”
Light dawned. He was testing her, seeing how well she conducted herself under pressure. Still, angry heat flared in her gut. “Maybe my welfare doesn’t matter to you, but it does to me.”
“Why?”
Another good question, but she knew the answer instantly. If she survived, then she could discover what really happened during that fight. She owed it to Tina to find out.
That wasn’t his business. “My reasons are my own.”
“And I have a reputation. I can’t recommend you to a client unless I know who you are.”
“You have my file.”
“That’s words on paper. I need to know you’ll see your work through to the bitter end.”
Alana raised a brow. “Sounds like fun.”
Barleycorn nodded slowly. “Something is motivating you besides money. Something greater than the pain in every one of your joints.”
Revenge. With a wrench, Alana realized she ached for it. She’d known it before, but in a fuzzy way. Now it was a crystalized goal with a name. She stared at Barleycorn, wondering what he wanted her to say. The guy had opened her up as if she were a shellfish. Was he spinning some kind of magic? Hypnosis? Mind-reading? She wasn’t fae enough to tell. Just another of her deficiencies.
Abruptly, she ran out of patience. The famous Barleycorn was a first-class jerk. She braced her hands on his big, shiny desk and leaned forward, hoping she left fingerprints. “You want insight? I need a job. I can’t afford to be picky. I’ll take whatever you have to offer.”
He sat back with a feline smile, as if she’d cut past the job-seeker posturing and finally given a worthwhile answer. “You truly don’t care what that job is?”
“Within reason. I’ll take anything that’s honest.”
That seemed to satisfy him. “Then sit down.”
Alana glanced around in surprise. A red leather chair had materialized where there had been none before. She sank into the soft cushion, her aches and pains easing. The relief was more magic, but she welcomed it.
Barleycorn eased a file from the bottom of a stack teetering in his inbox. “This isn’t much, but it should keep the wolf from the door.”
2
Centuries ago
The Faery Realm
Ronan roared his defiance, stabbing his spear at an enemy’s chariot. Horses shied, the driver veering away in a plume of dust and mocking laughter. Ronan spun, his short cape swirling, his weapon ready to slash. A dragon could do more damage to the enemy and, at any other time, he would have taken to the skies in his beast form. But his magic was exhausted from this fight—every spell drained in defense of the kingdom. He was just a warrior now, saving his last scraps of power for a final gamble. Ronan told himself the soldiers needed to see him at the front of the charge, sword in hand and shoulder to shoulder with his men.
They needed courage, because the tide of war had turned. At the start, the fae had been victorious, but now their losses were severe. Most were fleeing the land, but the dragons were making a stand. They chased the enemy across kingdoms to confront Harin Blacktongue, war leader of the Shades. Now they’d engaged his army, but Ronan had yet to clap eyes on Harin himself. These days, the man was a ghost.
The sun glared upon the desert lands of Faery, flaring brightly where it caught the gleaming armor of the fighters. The chariot was turning, getting ready for another attack. Ronan’s practiced eye could see the horses had been used hard, for foam flecked their midnight flanks. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t trample him to a paste. And if the beasts didn’t kill him, there were the long, flashing blades that extended from the chariot wheels like twirling swords. Those could mow him down like a stalk of wheat.
It was down to basics. He had his spirit, his spear, and the twin swords sheathed at his back. His own chariot lay in pieces, the horses fled in panic. Grotesquely outnumbered, Ronan’s army had cut the Shades in two. Yet, the enemy refused to surrender. Their magic was darker, their lust for violence unthinkable.
This was Ronan’s final stand. He thought of his family—the mother and brothers and sisters who had given their lives in this war, his remaining little sister, and his despairing father. A small inner voice pointed out that a glorious death sounded far better in a ballad than it did in reality. Ronan cursed, clenching the spear tighter to hide the tremor in his hands.
The war chariot charged, blades spinning as the wheels turned. Even in the din of battle, he heard the pounding hooves and jangle of harness. The image of the driver shimmered, reforming into a tall figure in a golden helmet. Shock froze Ronan for a split second.
Harin! No one ever saw the war leader’s face since he’d donned that helmet he wore. Some said he was cursed, others proclaimed him an empty hunger without form.
Satisfaction bloomed in Ronan’s mind. Nonsense. He knew Harin could die, for Ronan had known him long before the Shades had corrupted him. Once upon a time, he’d been a water fae and an old friend. Once, he’d lived by the lake in the mountain where the armies of the Shades had first appeared.
The gold of Harin’s armor shone against the cloudless sky, making him an excellent target. Hot, dusty air burned in Ronan’s lungs as he bellowed his rage. Harin screamed back, swerving to cut him down. At the final moment, Ronan jumped, heaving his spear. He tucked and rolled in the air, the world blurring to a jumble of dust and iron-shod hooves. But somehow, he had timed it wrong. As he landed, the spinning blades on the chariot wheels whirred past, slicing a strip of skin from his thigh. Heat flared, followed by a wave of pain as he bounced to his feet, ready to keep fighting.
But he stumbled, hitting the packed earth hard. A grunt of agony leaked through his clenched teeth, as much from the blow to
his hopes as his body. The chariot’s wheel blade had cut through more than skin. It had flayed his muscle to the bone, crippling him in the process.
Ronan closed his eyes, refusing to let despair claim him. The agony in his leg meant nothing. Flesh was flesh. Defeat was dishonor. He would fight on just as soon as he could stand—which wasn’t happening at the moment.
Harin Blacktongue leaped from the carriage. The war leader’s presence sucked the desert heat from the air around them—proof enough he commanded the darkest magic. An unseen force hammered Ronan face-first into the dirt. Then Harin’s boot heel ground between Ronan’s shoulder blades, crushing the air from his lungs.
“Your army seems to be running away,” Harin observed. His voice was dark velvet, surprisingly quiet for such a huge, muscular frame. “So much for their loyalty, dragon prince.”
Ronan remained silent. Even if he could have drawn breath to reply, there was nothing to say.
Harin leaned down, shifting his weight to cause maximum discomfort. “From the generals down to the lowliest foot soldier of the fae, I crushed your little tribe. Those who did not die fled deep into the mountains and forests to weep and lick their wounds. Some even captured a Shade and then forced him to open the Shimmer to a distant land. But here you are, little princeling, desperate to save the day. Who do you think you are?”
“If you are going to kill me, have done with it.” Ronan longed for his dragon form. Then he could roast Harin and take to the skies, but it was fruitless wish. Even if he had the strength to shift right then, a change so profound took more than a limerick and a pinch of pixie dust. It took hours, and his time had run out.
Harin laughed, the sound holding both sadness and cruelty. “Did you think I would grant you an honorable death, old friend?”
“You were one of us!”
“And since that time, my new lords have lifted me out of obscurity and into glory. I’m not sentimental in the least.”
Harin drew back, allowing Ronan to push himself up. Agony stabbed from his wound, where large blood vessels had been slashed through. He should have bled to death by now, but the war leader was sparing his life through magic. Why? Slowly, painfully, he shifted his position to confront the enemy—or at least his golden armor. A latticework grill hid Harin’s features. He might have been ordinary, repulsive, or invisible for all Ronan could detect.
Harin’s army milled some distance away. A smaller entourage waited closer to hand, servants and personal guards bearing fierce-looking weapons. Two of the largest soldiers flanked the war leader. They were Shades—tall and almost slender despite their armor. Long hooded cloaks fell to their ankles, the hoods drawn up to hide their faces. They hovered close to the war leader, blades drawn and ready. Even though Ronan was wounded, Harin was being cautious.
He glared into Harin’s golden mask. “You think you’re lifted into glory? You’re nothing but the boot boy to the King of Shades.”
“Your arrogance amuses me,” Harin said. “It always has.”
“I’m protecting my own.”
“So you are. No one else has presumed to attack me directly, but of course you had to try. For that presumption, I have a special use for you.”
“Use?” Ronan had gone beyond fear into a kind of blankness, as if this were happening to someone else.
“You don’t believe I would waste a creature with your power, do you?”
Harin gestured, and an aide in dark livery brought him a wide-mouthed goblet. Ronan expected Harin to drink—though the helmet would have been an issue—but instead, the war leader drew near. Harin signaled to the guards beside him and they grabbed Ronan’s arms. He struggled, but they held him tight. Harin brought the goblet close. Ruby wine shimmered inside, reflecting Ronan’s face.
His heart jumped in panic. Shades used mirror magic, and this was as good as any looking glass.
Harin bent so the golden mask stared into Ronan’s face, and Ronan could see the flicker of glowing violet eyes. “If you had one wish right now, what would that be, dragon prince?”
Freedom. Futile though it was, he scrabbled for his magic, straining to summon his dragon form. With claw and fang and fire, he could be done with Shades.
“Too late,” Harin said in his velvety voice. To his horror, Ronan understood that somehow Harin had gained the power to read his mind.
The reflection began to tear the white dragon from inside Ronan. It should have been impossible—it wasn’t as if the two halves of his being were separate things—and yet, it did. His mouth opened in a wordless cry, the agony too great to draw breath and scream.
“The dragons should have run with the rest of the fae rabble. Instead, they believed they could save everyone all by themselves. Now here you are, at my feet.” Harin’s gloved fingers touched Ronan’s cheek. Chill radiated from those fingertips, leaving him blessedly numb. “That’s your first lesson about pride.”
Harin snapped his fingers. This time, the aide stepped forward with something that gleamed in the sun. It was a lamp, which made no sense. Who needed light, when the sun beat down like a flame?
Harin took the lamp with the air of a showman performing tricks. “Now let me introduce you to lesson number two.”
Present Day
The Human Realm.
Comfy Chair Books and Collectibles was not the natural habitat of a professional fighter, but that was where Barleycorn sent Alana. She soon discovered retail sales had all the adrenaline rush of lukewarm porridge.
She wasn’t afraid of hard work, but the confinement irked her. She was used to jumping, running, and pushing her physical limits. Everything here was claustrophobic. The store was dark and cramped with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an impressive collection of dust and spiders, plus an occasional mouse. Still, it was a job with just enough pay to live on. All she had to do was show up and take money from the customers. It was a good-enough gig until she thought of something better.
A few weeks into her new career, a regular customer came in with a plastic bag of junk from a swap meet. Mr. Corby, the proprietor, bought the whole thing for cash. This was the collectibles part of Comfy Chair—a scattering of rotary-dial phones, tin soldiers, and ancient staplers graced the front area. Once the customer left counting his loot, Corby sorted through the bag’s contents.
Alana leaned across the front desk. She wasn’t that interested, but it was something to break up the interminable slog between lunch and quitting time. “Anything good?”
Corby was a squat demi-fae who appeared old enough to be her grandfather. Giving her a sharp look, he pulled a creepy doll out of the bag. “There are a couple of items we can put out front. The rest is garbage.”
Alana eyed the doll, which—even to her poor magical sensors—gave off a whiff of unsavory magic. “What about that?”
“There’s a collector who might be interested.” He said it in a way that didn’t invite more questions from the hired help. All the same, Alana had seen him stash items in his office safe before. He had a side hustle selling objects to select clients.
Alana folded her arms. “The guy who brought that in was human. He probably didn’t know what he had.”
Corby laughed—a rasping cackle. “Certain fae objects find their way into the outside world. Some humans recognize them as unique, but don’t understand why.”
“But they know they’re valuable enough to sell to someone like you?”
“Indeed.” He held the creepy doll up to the thin stream of light wavering through the dirty window, turning the ugly figure this way and that. “It’s worth paying for a load of junk to pick out the one or two bits worth having.”
“Then why not buy just those pieces?”
His smile was full of small yellow teeth. “Never let the customer know which are the gems, or they’ll ask for more money.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Alana pointed out.
“That’s business. Buy low, sell high. I’ve no obligation to give free appraisals.”
“But…”
“If an item has magical properties, it doesn’t belong with humans. It’s not just a waste; it could be dangerous.”
Since Alana agreed with the last point, she let the subject drop. The school bell down the street had just signaled the end of the day, and now three boys came in searching for old graphic novels. Corby watched them in a way that said he knew exactly how much money was in their pockets, and he intended to get every cent. He oozed forward, hands clasped. “Can I help you young gentlemen find something?”
Alana slid off the stool behind the sales desk, then went into the back to refill her coffee mug. The perks of the job were few, but Corby kept a pot brewing most of the shift. She poured, deciding to take it black since the milk in the fridge was slowly turning to cheese.
A feeling of being watched prickled the back of her neck. She turned, glowering at the shadows. This part of the store was largely unfinished except for Corby’s office and a workspace for unpacking and pricing books. The rest was bare floor stacked with overstock and bric-a-brac that hadn’t quite made it to the garbage. She lifted her mug and sipped, still searching for whatever had set her nerves on edge. A rat? A ghost? A spell-book lost and discontented among the old thrillers? Whatever it was had to be strong, because subtle magic would sail right past her.
Her gaze slid to the open door of Corby’s office. It was in there. She crossed the floor slowly, remembering she was never to set foot in her boss’s personal space—as if anyone wanted to hang out in a broom closet that smelled like old pastrami. But then again, the safe was in there, with all the special goodies for his special customers.
She could feel the warding spell before she’d made it across the room. It didn’t matter if the door was open—it was as good as locked and bolted. That didn’t stop something from peering out at her. She paused just beyond the spell’s reach, trying to see what was bugging her with the persistence of a hungry mosquito.
A flutter of excitement ran through Alana. Without the need to battle opponents, she’d relaxed her guard since coming to the store. That had been good for her healing body, but she’d grown restless. A touch of mystery—even just an odd feeling—made her come alive.
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