Shimmer

by Sharon Ashwood

  The envelope Sheila had given him protruded from the pocket. Before she could talk herself out of it, she slid the packet out and checked its thickness with her fingers. As she’d suspected, it was too fat for just a piece of paper with donors’ names—so what was Sheila delivering on behalf of the mayor? The flap was glued shut, of course, but what was to say that it hadn’t been torn in the scuffle downstairs?

  Alana pried the corner open, revealing a thick stack of currency. She couldn’t make out the value of the bills, but it didn’t matter. The point was the mayor was sending cash to Tyrell. Why?

  She stuffed the envelope back before he caught her snooping. First the attack, then the weird mirror, and now this. Alarm was building inside her like steam in a kettle. Sooner or later, she was going to have to let it out or else explode. She squirmed, wondering where Tyrell had gone.

  Her gaze fell on the mess on the table, a combination of magazines and official-looking reports on the investment potential of this business or that. Scattered among them were crumpled papers she knew all too well. Betting slips for the underground fights. The Martigen family served as the bookmakers—and she wanted to know who had won big the night Tina died.

  She picked up one of the crumpled slips, turning it over. These always had a name and an amount. She read the information before letting it fall back to the table. Then she scanned others. There were different names, but no doubt those wagers—and the people who made them—had been in Tyrell’s pocket.

  Maybe that was why the mayor was sending bundles of cash. Humans sometimes bet on fae fights, if they happened to know the right people.

  Gambling. Cash flow. The investor. The connection was almost within her grasp. She had to find his betting books.

  But that would have to wait. Tyrell was back, washed, combed, and in a clean shirt. His neck was neatly bandaged. No wonder he’d taken a while. “I’ll take you to the bathroom if you’d like to clean your wound.”

  She studied him, taking in his finely drawn features. “Was that attack just now a warning?”

  A fine line appeared between his brows. She’d taken him off guard, but not as much as she would have liked. He made an impatient gesture. “The family business is very complicated.”

  “Tell me,” she insisted. “You’re in danger, and it’s my business to protect you.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say it was an incentive to meet performance goals.”

  “Your dad said something about cash-flow problems.”

  “All businesses have liquidity issues from time to time.”

  Her gaze strayed around the room, taking in the home entertainment unit, the betting slips, and the antique mirror shimmering through the doorway—an entryway to who knew where. Some of that cash flowed right here to create this deluxe lifestyle—but not all.

  She gave him a stern look. “The fights are what’s keeping you afloat, aren’t they? If you need quick cash, just have a word with the right people and the match goes your way.”

  “Alana the Incorruptible. That’s how you got that name, right? You’d never play the game.” His mouth curled up in one corner.

  Shame burned in her gut. She’d meant to confront him—to force the truth into the open. All she’d managed to do was amuse him. “Who got rich the night my partner died?”

  “Leave it alone,” he said, almost gently. “You won’t find answers here. The fae don’t play fair in or out of the fighting circle.”

  She might have found a snappy comeback, except her wits had turned to dust.

  There was a face in the mirror, and it was watching them.

  9

  “Describe the face,” Ronan said later.

  Alana had been slow to arrive home that night. He’d known through their bond that something was up, and he’d been on the verge of going in search of her. Then she’d dragged herself through the door, bloody and exhausted.

  “The image wasn’t entirely clear,” she said. “Everything in the mirror was dark.”

  She was sitting at the table, if that boneless sprawl of fatigue counted as sitting. Ronan put a cup of tea in front of her before bending to see to her leg. The fact Martigen had neglected her injuries said far more than all the young tycoon’s smiles and handshakes.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Alana said as Ronan cut away her already-ruined pant leg.

  “No, I don’t,” he agreed, holding his palm over the wound and summoning the golden light that held a genie’s healing power, “but I’m not a grinning worm in a bespoke business suit, either. I know enough to be grateful for your courage. Describe the face.”

  “It was male, I think, with long, bony features and pale green skin. I couldn’t see the hair, as if he were wearing a hood.”

  Ronan focused on her face, attention dragged from his work. “And the eyes?”

  She shuddered. “Bright. Big. He didn’t seem to have eyelids.”

  “The color?”

  “It was odd. They were horrible, staring and evil, but the color was beautiful. Purple. Violet.” She picked up the tea in both hands and drank. “I don’t know what to call it.”

  Ronan blocked his welling emotions, forcing himself to finish sealing the knife wound on Alana’s slim, strong leg. He moved the healing light in deliberate strokes, soothing and cleansing. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was long and he didn’t stop until it had closed to a thin white line.

  Keeping her safe and well was important, but so was having something to focus on besides Alana’s report. Once, such news would have made him explode into a frenzy of fire and fang. He’d learned the hard way his temper was worse than useless against the Shades.

  Because that was what Alana had glimpsed—the nightmare that had trampled his world. Pain ripped through him, emotion so raw it was physical. He took a deep breath, choking it back. Self-control was what he needed now—the few times anyone had beaten the Shades, it had been with granite nerves and steel-bright wits.

  The healing was done, and the golden light absorbed back into his palm. Slowly, he rose to his feet. “The creatures that attacked you were foot soldiers of the Shades. The water fae you saw in the mirror was named Harin.”

  “Water fae?” Alana’s eyes were huge. “He didn’t look like any fae I’ve ever seen.”

  “He changed as he grew corrupted. We call him Blacktongue now for his betrayal of our realm. He surrendered his waters so the Shades could enter our realm.”

  Alana set down her tea, her exhausted slouch gone. “The thing in the mirror is working with the Shades?”

  “He is one of them now.” His voice had gone rough, old hatred closing his throat. “Blacktongue believed he could buy his survival, and the Shades took everything he gave.”

  Alana stood to face him. “I don’t understand. I mean, sure, some mirrors are sentient, but why did I see someone from a different place that…” She paused. “The Shades are somehow communicating between realms, aren’t they?”

  He could feel the warmth of her body and wanted to reach out, but he couldn’t tell who he meant to comfort—Alana or himself. “It is pure Shade magic. They call it the Shimmer, two reflections that coincide between realms.”

  “Figures.” She folded her arms, which showed off her slender body. “I’ve never heard anything good about magic mirrors.”

  “They’re growing stronger if they were able to send a handful of servants into this world. That is how it happened with us—scouting parties came before the final invasion.”

  “Invasion?”

  “Harin was at the center of things then, too.”

  “How?”

  “I knew him in his youth,” Ronan said. Darkness had gathered imperceptibly back then—a bit here or there, but never enough to call foul until it was too late. “He was a scholar, curious about everything. No doubt he stumbled on some means of contact with the Shades, not knowing what he’d found.”

  “And then?”

  “Then they wooed him to their side. Or threatened. It bar
ely matters now. All it takes is one fool to unlock the door, and in they come. Now he sits at the right hand of Ebor the Golden, and he leads the Shade King’s armies to war.”

  He remembered that moment when he saw the Shimmer on the black lake that had been Harin’s last home. To build a mirror of that size would have taken a century—yet all that time, the water fae had smiled and sat at Ronan’s table, drinking Ronan’s wine.

  “What do the Shades want?” Alana asked.

  Anger pounded, a war drum sounding throughout his body. “Whatever they can get. A world to conquer. Provisions for their armies. Palaces for their lords.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Whatever amusements help pass an eternity soaked in violence.”

  Alana went paler than before, but she didn’t flinch. “And they were the ones who put you in the lamp?”

  “Yes.” He held her gaze, falling into her clear gray eyes. “I’m still their prisoner. If they take me back, get possession of my lamp, you can never trust me. Promise me you’ll remember that.”

  She couldn’t trust him now, but under the power of a creature like Blacktongue, he would be a far worse monster.

  “I’m not a fool,” she said quietly. Then she took his face between her palms. He moved to pull away, but she gave a quick shake of her head, demanding he stay still. “Listen to me. I will fight to keep those things out of my world.”

  “As you should.”

  “I’ll be fighting for you, too. I’ll help you if I can.”

  Her words sank into his soul, cool and sweet as a healing balm. Also insanely optimistic, but that barely mattered right then. She’d made him feel a little less alone. Before he knew what he was doing, Ronan bent his head, his lips hovering over hers. Her breath was sweet with the honey from her tea.

  A last grain of sanity held him back for one heartbeat, then two. But then he surrendered, his need to touch her too powerful to cage any longer. Her lips melted under his, as smooth and soft as he’d imagined. Her hands slid from his face and roved through his hair, caressing and demanding in ways he’d forgotten. He had been solitary for so long.

  And he shouldn’t touch Alana now. It would lead to heartbreak, but he was like a drowning man coming up for air. He couldn’t not breathe.

  He tasted her again and again, suckling her ripe lips until they were flushed with kisses. Her skin was soft and pale against his, like starlight against tawny desert sands. Ronan ached to feel the strength of her body work against his. She might not be one of the Bright Wing dragons, but she would give as good as she got, matching strength for strength. Alana would know enough to test his mastery even as she comforted his sorrows.

  By the Wheel, she was nothing like the noble females he’d taken to his bed. She worked for her bread, claiming no pedigree or power. Bloody and disheveled, she stood before him now, her clothes beyond repair. Yet, she was everything he wanted.

  She’d stripped off her suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Her crisp white blouse was stained and wilted, but her weapons shone securely in their sheaths and holsters. He approved—and began helping her out of the buckles and straps. A lusty male had to help his lover shed her defenses, but he’d never done it quite so literally before.

  When she finally discarded the rest of her clothes, his gaze feasted on the sleek shape of her limbs. Scars tracked across her body like angular lace, or poetry in a savage script he did not know. The beauty of that desecration surprised him. They were her story, and he was suddenly glad she hadn’t let him wipe them away. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in her rich scent, committing it to his memory and soul.

  He lifted her by the waist, and her long legs wrapped around him. Slender though she was, her breasts were surprisingly full, the peach lace of her bra barely enough to hold them. He tongued one nipple into his mouth and sucked it to a peak, enjoying the rough sensation of the fabric against his lips. He did the same with the other, coaxing a low moan from Alana’s throat.

  She released the firm clasp of her thighs and grabbed the front of his T-shirt, pulling him hard toward the bed. Ronan let himself be led, let her peel the shirt over his head and press her lips to his throat. Her teeth scraped his skin, a gentle bite of possession that made him growl.

  His hands skimmed her arms, feeling lean muscle beneath the velvet softness of her skin. The combination intrigued him. She wasn’t simply a siren or a warrior, but an intoxicating combination of both.

  He pushed her down to the bed, parting her knees. She wore a slip of fabric there, barely a token to modesty. He ran his tongue over the softness of her inner thigh, drinking in the warm female scent. It was a soft, unmistakable perfume that had nothing to do with cosmetics. It was pure Alana, as unique as her.

  He kissed her, tasting her through the useless undergarment. In a fit of impatience, he ripped through the flimsy thing and tossed it aside. When she drew breath to protest, he took her with his mouth and turned her curse to a helpless moan. She opened wider, inviting him in with that scent, warmth, and wetness. He circled her nub with his thumb, drawing a shudder from her frame. She was primed, sensitive, ready for what he had to give. With his tongue and teeth, he gave it.

  When his hands found her breasts again, he finally released them from the cage of lace and wire. Alana was breathing hard, her eyes unfocussed. She threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling him down to find his mouth, then rolling him over to run long-fingered hands over his flesh as she straddled him. He was hard, but she teased him until he ached with agonized need. Heat and cold and incandescent need tore through him, urging him to give in to her demands.

  When it was impossible to hold on, he entered her, groaning his appreciation of her tight, wet heat. When he withdrew and thrust again, Alana moved with him, using all her muscles. He pushed once more, matching angle to angle as she rose to return the pleasure tenfold. She was like lightning to his core, shorting every conscious thought. The beast in him broke its cage, driving them both to mindless pleasure.

  Later, his head spun, filled with the aftermath of sensation. Impressions of Alana were foremost—the wild woman who had ridden him moments ago, then the softly breathing form now draped in his arms. At the edges of his mind floated broken images of his mountain home—scraps of landscape, glimpses of half-forgotten faces. Alana had stirred emotions that in turn unlocked the past.

  Grief and anger unspooled from somewhere deep in his soul, filling him until the pressure made it hard to breathe. He sighed, releasing it slowly to relieve the ache. He’d sworn to protect his home, and he’d failed.

  He turned his head to study Alana’s sleeping form. He had nothing to offer her—or any woman—until he had broken the lamp’s curse. Then he could reclaim his father’s realm and lay it at her feet. He took her hands in his, pressing his lips to her battered fingers. “Mistress, I am yours to command.”

  He spoke the words quietly, so she didn’t awake. That was fine, because the hope in them was so new, so fragile, he wasn’t ready to share his impossible dream. What if I was free of the lamp? What if there was a future we could share?

  I am yours to command. A genie said such things a thousand times a day. But this time, his words had a very different meaning. Alana had given him the courage to fight again, to redeem his honor and free his home. Somehow, he would go back and win the battle he’d begun.

  Alana was everything to him. She had brought him back to life.

  Alana awoke curled in Ronan’s arms, her head cushioned against his chest. She quickly closed her eyes, not wanting to admit the night was over, and breathed in the spicy scent of his skin. Her acting wasn’t good enough, though. His fingers slid over her bare shoulder to twirl a lock of her hair.

  “A person’s breathing changes when they wake up.” His words echoed in his chest, rumbling beneath her ear.

  She pushed into a sitting position to better see him. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a very male smirk and she automatically reached for the bedsheet, folding it around her.


  “Good morning,” she said before yawning.

  The expression in his eyes softened. “Good morning.”

  Such a small phrase to capture everything that had passed between them. She was struck by the thick sweep of his dark lashes. How had she never noticed those lashes before? And how did anyone look that good first thing in the morning? She pushed her hair out of her eyes, suddenly self-conscious.

  He reached up, cupping the back of her head, then pulled her down for a kiss. It was slow and greedy. Ronan was nothing if not thorough. Already, that act of possession felt familiar. If he was supposed to be her slave, there was absolutely nothing subservient in his lovemaking.

  He rolled her over, so her back was pressed into the mattress, then caged her with his arms and legs. “When are you required to show up for your work?” he asked, the hint of a growl just below the surface.

  “It’s my day off,” she replied. It was suddenly hard to concentrate, much less form words. “I would love nothing better than to spend it right here. It’s been a long, dry spell these last months.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Not many guys want a woman who can bench press their own weight.”

  “Fools,” Ronan repeated, the gleam in his eye telling her that he was making plans.

  Reluctantly, she sat up, forcing him to sit back on his heels. The morning light seeping around the curtains gilded him, showing off every curve and shadow of his honed body. Yowzah! Her mouth all but watered, but she clung fiercely to her resolve. “Day off or not, there was a Shade attack. We need to figure out how they got on this side of the mirrors.”

  Ronan’s features hardened as he grew serious. “From your description, those were foot soldiers. Mere minions. In some ways, that is good news. It means the Shades aren’t ready to send a full army yet.”

  “Yes, but it’s the thin edge of the wedge.”

  “I know.” With a regretful sigh, he rolled off the bed, finding his jeans. “What do you propose to do?”