Cimmerian Shade: A Limited Edition Paranormal Romance & Urban Fantasy Collection

by Kiki Howell

  Then she propped herself up on one elbow, her hair hanging like a curtain around their faces.

  “So, ready for round two?”

  Oh gods. Kill me now.

  But he was already growing hard again. “Sure.”

  Chapter Four

  “LYING IS 99 PER CENT of what I do.”

  – Lori Hardcastle

  nout of the soft hotel bed, worn to the bone. That wasn’t her normal reaction after spending a night with an exceedingly good-looking fae. One who’d managed to keep up with her, too.

  You’re getting old.

  Hah! She wasn’t even in her prime yet.

  Maybe it was because he’d been a fullblooded Sídhe? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been with a pure fae, if ever.

  He rolled over. “Where are you going?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  To the bathroom and then out the door, never to see him again.

  Which would be a shame, but she didn’t believe in eating the same meal twice. Not after her horrible failed relationship with Todd Radcliffe. He’d been one of the few lovers to know what her species was, and he’d become addicted, craving her touch, even though it had eventually killed him.

  Well, to be fair, he’d killed himself after they’d broken up. She’d thought she was helping him, giving him a chance to be free: to have a normal, healthy life. But no, she’d just denied him the only thing he’d lived for. Her.

  It wasn’t your fault.

  But it was.

  At least, that’s what she believed. Carol had learned of the story, and she’d just been dismissive. Todd had been half-human and weak, according to her friend. And he’d had a long history of addictive behavior: drugs, gambling, sex. It was the latter that had drawn Lori to him in the first place. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d had to sleep with other people to satisfy his needs: it would have meant she could do the same. But he’d become obsessed with her.

  Hurry up.

  Right, she was going to leave. But her eyes lingered on the Sídhe’s broad, smooth chest, and muscle-packed abs. Could she sneak in another quick round? No. She didn’t want to kill the poor guy. Although, she doubted she could. He’d only lost a little bit of weight from her feeding, which only made his muscles even more pronounced. Some fae had become emaciated after she’d drunk their lifeforce – like they’d been starved for a month. Todd had had to eat like a linebacker to keep his body in shape. This guy just looked hotter.

  You picked wisely.

  Even if she did feel about a hundred years old now.

  He opened his eyes, his gray irises locking on her. They were chilly, like frost – starkly pale under his black eyebrows. “What’s your name?” His voice was husky. Probably from groaning so much during the night.

  A smile danced at the corners of her mouth. “Thorne.” It was the name she gave when she wasn’t planning on deepening the connection.

  He frowned. “First name or last name?”

  “It’s a mononym.”

  “Mononym?”

  “Like Prince.”

  Before he could ask anything further, she listed to one side. She raised a hand to her pounding head, rubbing the temple.

  “You okay?”

  Ugh. He was considerate.

  “I just need some water.”

  Damn. She didn’t think she’d drunk that much gin the night before. Stumbling into the bathroom, she shut the door behind her and filled the sink. She washed quickly, then scooped mouthfuls of water to drink. There, that should help. But why did her tongue still feel like sandpaper?

  Gripping the edges of the cold marble bench, all she could think was: I really don’t feel well. In fact, she had the hangover from hell. And she’d never been hungover before in her life. And she liked gin, a lot.

  Looking up at her reflection, she blinked in surprise. While she felt like something the cat had dragged through a bush, she looked like a supermodel. Glossy lips, bright eyes, and hair that appeared sexily mussed, rather than the bird’s nest she usually woke to. And she’d put a little weight on, but in all the right places.

  Then why do I feel like such a car wreck?

  Walking back into the room, she took in the destruction – pillows were strewn over the chair and floor, the duvet was scrunched up in a corner, and her panties were on the ceiling fan.

  Abandoning the underwear, she found her dress and shimmied into it, pulling the zipper up with a wince. Okay, maybe she’d put a little more weight on than she’d thought.

  On the bed, the white-haired Sídhe remained sprawled, his forearm over his eyes. A slight snore escaped from him, like a tiny Drake’s growl of anger.

  Good. He was asleep.

  Finding her shoes near the door, she sighed. Bending down hurt. She ducked quietly out into the hallway, but as soon as the door shut behind her, pain clawed at her stomach. It was getting even worse. Just one foot in front of the other.

  Maybe she’d caught a virus from one of the humans in the bar? Fae didn’t normally suffer from the same ailments, but with so much intermixing happening nowadays...

  Door after door stretched down the hallway toward the central staircase, and as she hobbled by each locked portal, the pain increased, along with feelings of anxiety, fear, happiness. It was like she was on an emotional rollercoaster. What was wrong with her? Had something gone wrong with her feeding? Had the Sídhe somehow poisoned her?

  By the time she made it to the street, she was shaking. The pain was even worse; her bones were rubbery, her stomach was a mass of knots, and her skin burned.

  How am I going to get home?

  Taxis weren’t exactly common in New Vegas. Most of the casinos were on the inventively named Main Street, so people just walked up and down the brightly lit strip, their accommodation usually within close proximity to their vices. On the outer edges of the street, large, angry-looking trees shoved leafless fingers toward the sky, like they were giving it the bird. She wouldn’t be surprised if they were. Growing up in the Borderlands had taught her that the land and sky had an uneasy truce: the Cold War of the magic world.

  She was just glad the Borderlands didn’t have an ocean. What a mess that would be.

  Mind in the game, Lori.

  Right. Get home.

  But as she stood in the bourbon-colored sunrise – what color would the sky be today? – home seemed like a really, really long way away.

  It’s only four blocks.

  Four blocks full of casinos, bars, and hellholes populated by skeevy fae and a shitload of sleazy humans. Four blocks that she would have to walk on foot. Great.

  “Need a ride?”

  Turning slowly to face the speaker, Lori wilted in relief... then nearly collapsed on the ground as her knees gave out.

  “What the shit!” Carol was out of the cart she’d been waiting in, and lifted one of Lori’s arms over her shoulders. She grunted with the added weight. “Stacked on a few pounds, haven’t you?”

  “Shut up, bird bones.”

  “You shut up.”

  Two steps from the cart, Carol paused, then swore quietly. “One second.”

  Leaving Lori wavering on the sidewalk, Carol bent down and scowled at something under the cart. There was a light pole nearby, so Lori propped herself against it.

  There. Standing mastered. Score one for Lori.

  “I wouldn’t even think of doing that,” Carol said to someone under the cart.

  “Fuck off,” came the reply.

  “You did not just say that to me.”

  “You’re just a human.”

  “I will kill, skin, and motherfucking eat you,” Carol hissed.

  That escalated quickly, Lori thought.

  A little fae scampered out from beneath the cart and Lori blinked at it in surprise. It was a Pixie; Lori hadn’t seen their kind in this part of the Borderlands before. The little male’s hair was a spiky nest of needles, and his face was pointed and sharp. Some Pixies had wings, and others were land-boun
d, and Lori peered at him to see what kind he was. No wings. That just limited their mayhem, though.

  “You’re bluffing. Humans don’t eat people!”

  No, but some fae did. That said, Lori had heard of an underground poaching ring that sold fae flesh to some countries in the Human World.

  Carol stepped forward. “Tell the others to get away from my cart.”

  The problem with Pixies was that when they wanted something, they just took it. And transport was hot property in the Borderlands.

  “I don’t think so.” The Pixie’s smile was wide, and it showed a horrifying number of shark-like teeth.

  Lori’s mind was growing fuzzy with pain. Hold on. She couldn’t leave Carol alone and surrounded by hostile fae. Sure, they were only as tall as her knees, but they were nasty.

  “Leave, or I will end you.” Something about Carol’s face changed: just flicker for a second, and it was gone.

  Then the Pixies attacked en masse. Carol disappeared under the weight of tiny bodies, all sporting those horrible teeth.

  This is all my fault, Lori thought. Throwing out her hands, she screamed, “No!”

  At which point the darkness claimed her.

  Chapter Five

  “THIS IS WHY I CAN’T have nice things.”

  – Conrad Death

  Conrad woke alone in the hotel room. Was that a pair of panties hanging from the fan?

  “Ah-hrm.”

  A maid was staring down at him, her white and green uniform so starched and ironed the straight lines made his eyes hurt. And what a terrible shade of green: like puke. Maybe it was in case the patrons got a little sick? So it wouldn’t show the stains?

  “Sir?”

  Right. This required actual interaction. Sitting up, and sliding the bedsheet over his lap – how on earth did he have another erection? – he ran a hand over his face. Stubble. How long had they been holed up here while Thorne screwed his brains out?

  Best. Night. Of. His. Life.

  “What time is it?”

  She pursed her lips. “Past checkout.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll give you five minutes to get ready. But you gotta get a move on.” The woman turned and stalked out the room, offended pride clinging in the air. Conrad was so tired he couldn’t even pick up on her true emotions. Still, the cleaning lady seemed human, and they were always the hardest for him to read.

  And she was offended? So much for him being an expert assassin. The cleaner – hah! – could have done away with him and he’d never have known. Hell, he probably would have died with a smile on his face.

  After the door clicked shut, he struggled out of bed, getting tangled in the sheet. Man, his legs were like cooked spaghetti. In the bathroom, he turned the shower on, surprised to find that the hot water was almost instantaneous. Even the Dawn Court didn’t have that kind of perk.

  The first hit of spray burned, but was so good he moaned. In fact, despite the bone-aching weariness, he’d never felt better. Like he’d been drained, but restored in the same process.

  Looking down at his cock, which was still hard, he shook his head. “Aren’t you tired yet?”

  It bobbed in the water. Damn. He was going to ignore it. And then, after he’d finished his mission, he was going to have track down his one-night stand, and upgrade her to a three-week orgy.

  At least he knew her name. He had a vague memory of Thorne leaving, but after that, just blissful sleep. It was something that Conrad never experienced, not back at court, and especially not on an assignment. When you were a member of a fae court, it was inevitable that someone wanted you dead, and considering his job, ‘sleeping with one eye open’ had a special meaning for him.

  He could almost thank Lady Whisky for sending him on this farcical mission. Track down a woman with no birthdate, no physical description, and a reason to hide. He shook his head, rivulets of water running down his face. Why, after this girl had been alive for five or so decades, had the queen suddenly decided she was a problem now?

  Better to not know what the White Queen thinks.

  A truer thought he’d never had.

  Time to roll.

  Turning off the faucet, he wiped excess water from his body with his hands, the smell of lemongrass strong in the misty air. He couldn’t remember ever having a better shower. Toweling off, he strode to the mirror, wiped the condensation from the glass, and froze. What the actual fuck?

  He looked like he’d lost fifteen pounds.

  And he’d been ripped before. Now, rope after rope of muscle was visible, as well as the eight-pack he’d always said he had. The lower part of the abs was generally the last to show its muscular-awesomeness, but now it stood out in stark relief. His cheeks were a little hollower, too, making the contrast between his dark brows and pale eyes even more striking.

  He whistled, low.

  I’d do me.

  Hah! That hadn’t changed. But his new, improved looks? That could only really mean one thing: Succubus. He’d thought they were extinct. Hell, everybody thought they were extinct. The fae hadn’t really tolerated the race – Succubi could steal life-force, which wouldn’t necessarily kill a mostly immortal being, but would weaken one for a short time. And a Succubus could take the shape of your innermost desires: they could look like literally anyone. That was the issue: shape-shifters weren’t viewed kindly, not when one could pretend to be your mother, father, or queen. A shape-shifter that could weaken you? That was a really, really bad combination.

  And he’d just had his brains fucked out by one.

  Great.

  This, he would have to keep to himself. If Lady Whisky ever learned that he’d allowed himself to be seduced by a Succubus, it would only end badly. For him, and the little sex-addict he’d screwed. And for some reason, he didn’t want Thorne to be hurt; at least, not until he’d banged her again and learned more about her so-called extinctness.

  Drying his hair, he reached inside himself for his power, to sense if the cleaner had returned.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  Zip.

  Shock rooted his feet to the tiled floor, and the towel slipped from suddenly numb fingers. He probed deeper down, but he couldn’t even find the core of his root ability. Cursing, he ran back into the room. No wonder he felt so goddamn good. He wasn’t bottling his power up any more, letting it build steam.

  “Where are you, clothes?”

  There – his shirt was scrunched up in a corner, his pants on the only chair in the room, and where were his shoes? After he gathered together his weapons, glad he’d only brought a couple of knives, he dressed as quickly as possible.

  Where had Thorne gone? How long ago? What time was ‘after checkout time’?

  Jerking open the door, he spotted the cleaner emerging from the room over the corridor, a blue feather duster in her hands. She was speaking to someone behind her, in some kind of human language that wasn’t English.

  “What time is it?” Conrad asked.

  She turned to him, her blue eyes annoyed, but he couldn’t feel if she really was irritated, or just acting it. “As I said before, after checkout.”

  He ran a hand though his damp hair. “Translate that for me into actual hours and minutes.”

  “An hour past checkout.”

  He shut his eyes, asking for patience. If he’d had his ability, he would have sent a shot of sharp pain at the woman for her attitude. Just for a second, but so she’d know that she was messing with the absolute wrong fae. “The room is all yours.”

  The maid peered inside. “There are still items of...clothing in there.”

  “Keep them.” He strode down the hallway, his long legs eating up the distance. He didn’t have the time for mind-games.

  At the reception area, he walked up to the desk, grateful there was a clock above it. Midday. He had about an hour to find his Tylwyth Teg contact. Grinding his teeth, he signed out of the room and then hit the street. The scent of cigarettes, wood smoke and bloo
d was in the air.

  Blood?

  Looking down at the sidewalk, he saw small smears of dark liquid and a dead Pixie, its body broken and bent. That contorted posture was a little too familiar. What the hell?

  A human skulked near the entrance to a nearby bar, smoking, and Conrad strode over to him. The man paled.

  “What happened here?” Conrad asked.

  “I’m smoking?”

  Conrad doubted that the man intended for that to be a question. “The dead Pixie.” He even pointed, to help the poor fool out.

  That had him shaking his head and growing paler still. “Don’t know nothing about that.”

  “You sure?” He reached for his ability, then cursed inwardly. Gone. He’d have to rely on good old physical intimidation.

  “Real sure.” The human threw the cigarette on the ground, and dashed back into the relative safety of the Smoky Cow Bar.

  Raising an eyebrow at the establishment’s name, Conrad decided not to pursue the issue for now. He was running behind for his date with a Tylwyth Teg.

  FARREN WALKER DIDN’T even look up when Conrad walked into his office.

  The fullblooded fae was seated at a hardwood desk, a black leather blotter taking up the majority of its surface, and a bronze lamp in one of its corners. The green glass shade reminded him of human noir movies. Bookshelves lined with expensive tomes finished off the theme.

  “Walker.”

  The Tylwyth Teg held up a finger, and then continued reading for another few moments. Conrad didn’t know if the man was actually attending to work, or just delaying to piss him off. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter.

  Finally, he looked up. “Death.” Reaching over, he picked up a tumbler that was half-filled with an amber liquid.

  “Walker.” Conrad didn’t particularly enjoy repeating himself.

  “You’re late.”

  “I’m on time.”

  One pale gold eyebrow shot up. That was the thing with Tylwyth Teg, they were often blond-haired and pale-eyed, but Walker’s eyes were so dark, they could have been black. “Five minutes late.”

  Conrad gritted his teeth. “I don’t have a watch on me. Apologies.”

  Gods, it galled him to have to play nice, but this wasn’t related to his sudden lack of magical ability. No, this was because Walker was a choosy prick and could easily decide his schedule was booked up for the next century. He was the most pureblooded Tylwyth Teg Conrad had ever met, and could create paths between here, there, and everywhere. Could even do it in the Human World. That meant two things: Walker only had to take on the jobs he wanted; and he had enough ‘friends’ that he was magically protected at all times.