by Carter, Mina
“I am Oberon.”
“You already told me that.”
He smiled down at her, aware the crowds were parting around them like water around a rock. It created a little oasis of calm for his precious wife-to-be to occupy, unmolested by these… mortals.
“I did?” He couldn’t remember. “Your beauty obviously stupefied me—”
“That wouldn’t be difficult.”
He ignored the sarcastic voice of the not-cat and held her gaze, reaching out to hook a finger under her delicate little chin to make her look up at him.
“I was attempting to find out your name, my bride.”
She blinked, those beautiful amber eyes holding him spellbound for a second. He didn’t think she had enchanted him. No, this was a more ancient and primitive form of witchery—that between a man and a woman. It didn’t matter that she was a mere mortal, and wingless. She was beautiful and she was…
“Mine!” The growl slipped out before he could stop it and broke the spell. She looked up at him, her brows snapped together.
“I most certainly am not yours! My name is Daffi McGee, and absolutely, in no way shape or form, am I yours!”
“You said that twice.” His smile spread and he leaned in. “Methinks the lady argues too much.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth!”
“I do not!” she said instantly and then growled in frustration, throwing her hands up in the air. “That’s it! Today needs way more cupcakes for me to deal with a stubborn hottie like you! We’ll have to take the long way home and swing by Daphne’s bakery.”
She broke from his hold and stormed ahead. Oberon slid a smug look at the not-cat. His wife-to-be thought he was hot. This boded well.
Then she swung around so quickly he almost trampled her underfoot and poked a sharp nail into his chest. “And,” she demanded accusingly, “how the hell is no one noticing you wandering around dressed like a reject from some epic fantasy film?”
“All fae have inherent illusion enchantments when in the mortal realms,” he informed her. “They see what they expect to see.”
“Plus,” the not-cat added from ankle level. “This is London. Believe me, twinkles here isn’t the weirdest shit people’ll see on the streets today. Not by a long shot.”
“Ohmygod… these are so good,” Daffi mumbled, stuffing her face with chocolately goodness covered in sprinkles almost before she had managed to get their little rag-tag group through the door.
After today and the spells she’d cast, she needed the boost. And it was totally worth the extra time getting home. Being a witch was awesome, but her crazy-high metabolism because of it meant she needed to eat… like a bodybuilder in an eating competition level eat… to maintain the curves that suited her petite frame. Otherwise she just looked dead and not in the current trend fashion-model-type skinniness, but “girl, you need an intervention, or the zombie hunters are gonna nab you” type dead.
Spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, she hooked a booted foot around the door and slammed it with a practiced move, right in the face of her pain-in-the-ass neighbor, Mrs. Askhole. She was a bustling, pretentious ego of a woman looking for something to be offended about. Unfortunately for Daffi, that was often her.
Just as she suspected, the woman hammered on the door, which did absolutely sweet nothing because the wood was spelled to be soundproof. All she felt was the vibrations through the wood.
“Hey, hey, hey, no touchy the cupcakes!” she hissed, spotting Oberon’s large hand reaching for the last double-chocolate, chocolate mousse and chocolate chip cupcake. Daphne called them “Genocide by Chocolate.”
“Touch it,” she warned the fae king with narrowed eyes, “and they’ll have to rename it to ‘Regicide by Chocolate.’”
“She means it,” Garlick commented from ankle height. “Oh, hey, her grand high bitchiness from next door sent us a note.”
Daffi gave Oberon a warning glare and looked down. Sure enough, a pink note was wiggling its way under the door. She snatched it up and read it while eating the last cupcake. Oberon could pull puppy dog eyes all he liked. Cake was cake.
She snorted at the contents of the note. Mrs. Askhole’s writing was as uptight as the woman herself in tightly regimented cursive with aggressive flicks.
“What’s it say?” Garlick asked, jumping up to sit on the console table by the door.
“Apparently we flush the toilet too loudly and you scream too much,” she told him, crumpling the note up and disintegrating it with a thought just in case. For a witch, Mrs. Askhole was careless. Her handwriting was a piece of her and something a witch with less scruples could use against her. Daffi was not that witch. No way, no how… even if she did know at least four curses she could cast using the pen and ink as a basis as well as three more using the bad feeling Mrs. Askhole obviously felt toward her and Garlick.
The cat paused his ongoing cleaning regimen and looked at her over the foot that was currently getting some in-depth attention. What he had between his toes that required a deep dive like that she did not—or did not want—to know.
“I do not scream,” he sniffed, offended. “I enunciate clearly, like a fucking lady.”
“You’re a cat.”
He flicked an ear. “Your point?”
“You can’t be a lady if you’re a cat.”
“Discrimination!”
“Based on what? You’re a cat and titles like that are for humans.”
Garlick huffed sulkily. “I identify as a lady.”
Oberon blinked and looked at the cat again. “You were once human? A human woman? What manner of foul sorcery is this?”
He took a step closer. “Did you have… as well?” he asked in a stage whisper, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
Daffi sighed. “He was never human, nor female,” she told Oberon, handing him the empty cake box. What the cauldron she was going to do with him, she had no idea. She looked at Garlick. She definitely didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with a cat who identified as a lady.
“You do you, your ladyship.”
She sighed as she stalked into the main part of her apartment. Then she froze, catching sight of someone out of the corner of her eye. Whirling around, she met her own gaze in the mirror over the fireplace. Wide amber eyes, dyed pink hair…yup, definitely her. Odd. For a moment she thought she’d seen Sybil.
The photo of her family on the mantlepiece went fuzzy, words starting to form in the picture. Her hand shot out and turned it over. They wouldn’t be having any of that. Today had been weird enough, thank you very much.
“Garlick,” she called out, dropping onto the sofa with a groan. “I think it needs to be takeout night. Be a love and order something yummy for us. Would you?”
“Woohoo! Takeout!” the cat yodeled. “Come on, muscles. Let me introduce you to the wonders of Chinese takeout.”
The two wandered off and Daffi stared at the ceiling as she tried to make sense of what had happened during the day. From the elation of realizing she’d interpreted the ancient sigils correctly right through to the panic of the fae dragon and now having Oberon in her apartment.
“I am so screwed,” she murmured, raking a hand through her hair. In her head it had been intended as a nonchalant movement worthy of the movies—the one where the plucky heroine takes a moment to reflect while looking all elegant and interesting. Yet, all she managed to do was mess up half her messy bun as pink hair fell around her face in loops and snarls.
“Great,” she hissed, yanking the band out of her hair and snapping it around her wrist. The unruly curls of her hair, currently dyed shocking pink, immediately wrapped themselves around each other. She sighed. She’d never been able to do anything with her hair. It had a mind and life of its own, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was part gorgon. So far it had driven four hairdressers to drink, defeated three straighteners, and eaten so many combs she couldn’t even count them.
And tomorrow the dye, which had
been bright pillar box red yesterday, would be completely gone and her hair would be pure white again. Since she wasn’t anywhere near the crone stage of life, she continually dyed it.
All. The. Time.
“Should’ve bought stocks in a hair dye company,” she groused, sitting up and reaching for her tarot cards. She needed guidance to figure out what the fuck she was going to do with a real-life fae king who claimed she was his promised bride.
“So not happening,” she chuckled. Even though Oberon was as hot as fuck, and she’d happily climb him like a tree if he was anything else… like a nice witch or warlock. Hell, she’d even do him if he was a Shifter. But a fae? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this realm and a long-distance relationship was just not in the cards. Her life was here, and with a guy like that being away? She’d need shares in a battery company as well.
“Okay, guys,” she murmured to her cards as she began the spread. “Tell me what I need to know.”
Her lips pursed as she studied the cards. The ten of swords lay on her left indicating an unwelcome surprise. Great, she didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit. But… the fae dragon had been a bit of an unwelcome surprise. She couldn’t say the final warning was since Whipsnide had been gunning for her since she’d started work at the museum.
She turned her attention to the middle card. The knight of cups. She closed her eyes for a moment. The knight of cups meant a knight in shining armor and appeared when a courtship was on the cards.
“Subtle much?” She shot a glare at her cards but knew better than to recast and ask for clarification. They were, literally, cats and got bored easily. Especially when she bothered them for the same reading more than once. If they could have knocked themselves off the table, they would have. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to the last card in the spread.
It was the death card.
“Oh hey, who’s kicking the bucket?” Garlick asked, jumping up onto the sofa next to her and looking at the cards.
“It doesn’t always mean death, you know,” she told him absently, musing the appearance of death in this spread. It was upright, which meant an ending or a change.
“Perhaps the death of my career if Whippy finds out about tall, handsome and wingy over there.” She flicked a glance up at Oberon, who was sitting in the easy chair opposite, engrossed in studying the TV remote in strong hands. As she watched, he held it like a sword hilt, swung it around, and then looked disappointed when nothing happened.
Bless.
“Yeah, but…” the cat pressed with eagerness. “It could mean an actual death. Couldn’t it?”
She chuckled and packed the cards away.
“Garlick, sometimes for a familiar, you are way too bloodthirsty for comfort.”
“Yeah, but it’s part of my charm.”
“If you say so.”
6
Daffi’s morning started with no death, real or predicted, in the cards. Her morning reading was full of the usual fluffiness her cards liked to give her—chance of rain at 3 p.m.… avoid the shellfish at Marconi’s… tall, handsome stranger ready to sweep her off her feet and take her traveling. Since she was sure that last was Oberon influencing the cards, she ignored it. Fae magic could interact with mortal magic in unpredictable ways, and she was fairly sure the cards liked him.
And so did everything else. Unlike most mornings, this one went off without a hitch. The trains were on time, there were fewer crowds than normal (although she did notice that with Oberon about, people moved out of her way really quickly) and they arrived at the museum at half past eight, with breakfast muffins in hand since they’d had time to stop at the seller just outside the station. Daffi’s stomach grumbled in anticipation of the raspberry ripple lemon confection that was this morning’s breakfast.
The only Sybil in the ointment was the sight of Ms. Whipsnide’s second in command just ahead of them. Deliberately Daffi shoved at Oberon, pushing him behind one of the twin dragons at the bottom of the steps.
“Well, hello, wifey-to-be,” he murmured, sliding a hand around her waist. “I was beginning to think I’d lost my charm when you didn’t come to my bed last night.”
“You didn’t get a bed last night,” she told him, looking around his broad shoulder to see if Sybil had gone in yet. “You got the couch.”
“Okay…” he murmured. “You didn’t come to my couch. But… I cannot blame you. There was not enough room to lavish you with the attention a queen deserves. You should have silken sheets and the finest feather mattresses. Eiderdowns of the best fae satin and… of course, me.”
“Think a lot of yourself, don’t you?” she snorted and tried to push off from him, but the instant her hands contacted the broad, muscled slab of his chest, all her higher brain functions went bye-bye. Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, her knees wanting to weaken into a swoon—
“And that is more than enough of that, thank you very much,” she told him and her traitorous body firmly as she stepped away. Luckily, she hadn’t crushed her breakfast muffin or she would be licking it off his chest and not for any amorous reason. Cake was cake. There was no excuse for wasting it.
Besides, she’d have been licking it off his t-shirt anyway, not his bare chest. Unlike yesterday, today he was dressed like a mortal. More or less. The t-shirt and jeans she’d conjured for him stretched over his impressive muscle mass, making her tingle in her lady parts and relive that almost kiss all over again. Through some trickery of fae illusion, his wings had disappeared.
“What are you looking at?” he asked as she lifted up on her tiptoes, frowning as she looked at his shoulders.
“I can’t even see a bulge,” she murmured and then heat rushed to her cheeks as Garlick gave a dirty snigger.
Oberon’s grin broadened and he slid a hand down his body to cup his groin. “Need to look a lot lower, beautiful, and it’s all yours.”
Garlick gagged.
She shook her head at the pair of them and stalked off up the steps. There was no sign of Sybil, so she pushed her way through the rotating doors, letting the boys catch up when they were done being arseholes.
She passed Dave in the gift shop with a small wave, noticing absently that he looked a little upset. Probably been given the boot by one of his many girlfriends. Footsteps rang out behind them as they approached the Pendle witches.
“Whaddup, Daffs!”
She turned to find Meg behind them, running to catch up. As she slid to a stop, she swiped a corner of Daffi’s breakfast muffin in a practiced movement.
“Did you hear the news? Sybil bought it last night!”
Daffi sighed and wrapped her napkin over her muffin protectively. Otherwise she’d have to stab Meg, and stabbing your friend just wasn’t on. Besides, she’d have to clean the blood up and wouldn’t get her section cleaned and ready in time for the tyrant-in-chief, Whipsnide’s, little check.
“Bought what?” she asked, in no mood to play guessing games—unless the prize was another cake. She’d do a lot for cake.
“The farm!” Meg’s eyes were wide, her hiss more sibilant than usual.
“Kicked the bucket. Well, someone nailed her, and not in a good way…” She drew her finger over her neck and made a kkkkreeeeeeeuuuugggh sound.
“Sybil’s dead?” Daffi frowned. “She can’t be. I just sa—”
Her mouth closed so quickly she heard the snap. She’d seen Sybil after she was dead. It was happening again.
“She’s dead?”
Meg nodded, shoving her swiped piece of muffin into her mouth and speaking between chews. “Killer got her down Gore Alley.”
“How?”
“Hellfire machete.”
Daffi winced. Witches and Warlocks were seriously hard to kill, but a machete bathed in hellfire would do it.
Then her eyes widened. “Wait… Gore Alley? I usually go home that way.”
Meg nodded. “Yeah. The watch said it was about half-six last night.”
Daffi’s
breath caught in her throat. A horrible feeling settled in the pit of her stomach like the after effects of dodgy takeaway. She normally walked home that way between 6 and 7 p.m. Apart from last night.
“Shit.” She ran her hand through her hair. “If we hadn’t gone to Daphne’s I could have seen the killer. I could have been the killee… is that even a word?”
Meg had sidled around to Daffi’s other side while she was distracted and swiped another piece of muffin as she eyed Oberon up.
“We?” she asked pointedly, popping her purloined section of cake in her mouth as she looked Oberon over.
Daffi smiled a smile she didn’t mean and linked her arm with the fae king’s. She didn’t like the predatory gleam in the other woman’s eyes.
“This is Ron, my boyfriend. He’s helping me out while he has time off.”
Meg cocked an eyebrow. “Really now?”
“Really.” Daffi’s voice was harder as tension swelled in the air. Not the tension that would indicate power being called but an older, much more primitive tension when alpha females butted heads. People thought men were bad for competition…
“Fight… fight… fight…” Garlick stage whispered.
Daffi kicked at him and it broke the spell. Meg shuddered and shook her head. “Anyway, Old Whippy’s got a watchman in The Office. Wants to see you.”
Daffi groaned, an automatic reaction to having to go see the tyrant-in-chief, and turned to Garlick.
“Take O… Ron up to get started. I’ll be up soon.”
“You wanted to see me, Ms. Whipsnide?” Daffi called out as she pushed open the door to The Office. It squealed loudly. Malevolently.
“Yes… come on in, Miss McGee. Sergeant Abberline, this is Daffodil McGee,” Ms. Whipsnide said as Daffi edged around the door. Not because she was nervous but because the damn thing had a habit of snapping back and catapulting the unwary back out into the corridor.
Ms. Whipsnide was sitting behind her desk, her teapot hovering in the air as it poured tea for her and the other occupant of the room. A watchman sat beside her with a plate of biscuits in front of him. Daffi cast them a quick look. Custard creams. Whippy had pulled out all the stops.
