by Kiki Howell
WALKER WAS WAITING for him in the outer room of his offices. He gave a pointed look at his watch. Conrad was smack on time, not a minute late or early, but the other fae was still annoyed. The fucker.
Conrad shifted the backpack on his shoulder and eyed the Tylwyth Teg. “Is that a sweater-vest?”
Walker was wearing jeans, boots, and a white shirt, but in defiance of all that normalness was a green V-necked monstrosity.
“What?” The fae shrugged into a jacket, and Conrad could at least pretend that the abomination was a normal piece of clothing. Walker picked up what looked like an old-school medical bag. Conrad didn’t know they’d need to perform surgery or anything.
“If you have to ask that, then I don’t even know where to start.”
“It’s cashmere. Besides, fashion criticism from the guy who only wears turtlenecks and cowboy boots?” One gold eyebrow arched. Fuck, the guy was pretty. Conrad really wanted to break his nose. He didn’t like competition, of any kind.
“Uh, I do wear pants, you know. Plus, turtlenecks are all-purpose.” But the boots were new.
“Uh-huh.” Walker waved a hand, indicating that Conrad should head out. He shut the door behind them, and locked the brass mechanism, muttering a few words under his breath.
Protection spells. Nice.
Outside, Conrad looked down the street. It was strangely deserted, the sidewalks free of pedestrians, the casino lights glowing statically. He looked up at the sky, which was a bright midafternoon teal.
“Something’s off. Like an...energy.”
Walker shrugged. “It’s the magic. It builds sometimes, until it releases.”
Conrad bit back a ‘That’s what she said’, barely. “What happens when it...releases?”
“The lands move, new species are created, the vegetation gets carnivorous. Better off not finding out.” Walker gave his head a slight shake.
Well, that was a lot more ominous than he’d wanted to hear. Lucky for Conrad, he’d be in another part of the Borderlands, hopefully far away from any craziness that would happen.
What about Thorne?
The thought froze him in his tracks. Should he warn her?
“Hurry up.” Walker’s voice shattered his thoughts. “I don’t have all day.”
Looking back over his shoulder, down toward The Ocelot, he wondered if he had time. “I just have to—”
“If you say ‘do something’, then we’re done. I have other clients waiting.”
Fuck.
Growling low, he followed Walker as they headed around the corner of the brick building.
Thorne lives here. She’s used to the magic. But she’d been weak from his ability. She fed on you, she’s fine.
Conrad wasn’t sure that he was actually convincing himself, but the fact remained he had a job to do, and it had already been delayed for four days. Any longer, and Whisky would start asking questions and that was always awkward. Especially as he didn’t want her finding out about Thorne.
After wandering down a small alley, they emerged into a mews with a stable. Walker nodded at a waiting lad, who hurried inside and then returned with two mounts. One was a tall, thoroughbred chestnut mare, and the other was...well, it was a large horse-like creature. There were hooves, and legs. Teeth? An eye? Well, it had a mane, at least.
“Please tell me I get the horse,” Conrad muttered.
“I honestly don’t care who gets what. But Molly is a sweet beast.” Walker walked up to the thing and rubbed its...chin? It snuffled.
“Shall we?” Conrad quickly hurried over to the mare and mounted. She shifted restlessly under him, but he settled her quickly.
Walker nodded, already on top of the beast. “Follow me.” He guided the animal down the mews to where a mist shrouded the lane.
Conrad followed and then they were both on a fae roadway of Walker’s creation. Sounds were muted by the pervasive gray fog. The path was a pale white sandstone, and Conrad speculated what would happen if the horse side-stepped. Better not to wonder that. In the world of the fae, magical roads never really led to happy places.
They rode for what might have been hours and hours, the oppressive silence smothering. Even the hoofbeats and the beast’s breathing were subdued.
Walker drew his mount to a halt and tensed, checking behind him.
“What is it?” Conrad’s voice was obscenely loud.
The Tylwyth Teg frowned. “I am not sure. But we’re here.”
Beast and fae moved forward, and the fog dissipated, giving way to a twilight sky of burnt oranges and bright blues. All round them, fields of golden wheat spread out, and a stone pathway led toward a small orchard, bright red apples bobbing on trees.
“I thought you said we were here?”
Walker nodded. “Just follow the path.”
“You’re coming with me.”
The Tylwyth Teg blinked. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
“I need a lift back, which you agreed to. I don’t know how long I am going to be here. Hopefully only a day or so. And I know you’ve been paid obscenely well for this.”
Walker didn’t respond.
“So you’re coming with.”
“I’m not.”
Conrad’s power welled up inside him, fighting to burst out, but he held in check. He needed Walker, and turning him into a screaming wreck wasn’t going to win him over. Unfortunately.
“The sooner you agree and come with, the sooner we can leave. And the White Queen will be very happy with your services.”
The threat was implied, of course. If Walker failed to stick around, Conrad would provide an unsatisfactory report. While the Tylwyth Teg might live outside the courts, a fae monarch’s reach was still vast.
“Bastard.”
Conrad turned his horse down the path to the Count of Tears’ castle. “Better believe it.”
Chapter Twelve
“WHY STOP AT ONE PIECE of chocolate when you can eat the whole block? No, don’t roll your eyes. I really want to know.”
– Lori Hardcastle
“There’s someone here to see you.”
Lori glanced up at Carol, who had propped her hip against the door jamb. Her friend’s yellow and pink hair was tied back in a fat bun, and she had a strange look in her eyes. The smell of spirits wafted over, and Lori wondered if Carol had been drinking. That would be odd – while she sold booze to her customers, Carol didn’t normally drink much of it herself, except for when it came to good bourbon.
“To see me?” Lori got up from her seat on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles out of her rose-colored trousers and white shirt.
Carol came inside, shutting the door behind her. “That’s what I said.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like it.” The reek of alcohol was stronger now, on her friend’s breath.
“You don’t like my visitor?” Lori frowned. Far point, though: for someone to have sought her out specifically was unsettling. Maybe it was one of her clients? She worked as a relationship counsellor normally. Which was fucking hilarious, when you thought about it.
“I don’t like any of the things that have been happening lately,” Carol said. “You with that asshat, this visitor...something’s up.”
Carol was suspicious by nature, so Lori wasn’t sure how much weight to give to her friend’s worries. After all, when you were a human living in the Borderlands, you had to be skeptical about everything. It’s how you survived. Carol didn’t just survive here, she thrived.
“Look, I know you don’t like Conrad, but he seems like a nice guy.” He’d looked after her, smoothing her hair away, wiping down her brow, rubbing her shoulders, refusing to let Carol feed her any more medications, and making her laugh, with his commentary on the television shows they watched and the misdeeds of his youth – even with his horrible upbringing.
“Hah! Nice guy, my ass.”
Lori ignored the comment, striding toward the door. She wasn’t going to see Conrad again, so none of it re
ally mattered. Sure, he’d said he’d come back, but he wouldn’t. She had been a conquest that had gone wrong – he’d hung around to get his magical ability back, and as soon as it had returned, he’d fucked her and left.
He didn’t have to sleep with you again.
No, but then, she was an easy lay now, wasn’t she? A Succubus who had to feed to survive and he’d liked having sex with her. Too bad it had been the best of her life.
Chin up, move on.
That saying had become an unfortunate mantra of hers.
“So who’s here to see me?” Lori asked.
Carol’s blue eyes narrowed, but she just shook her head. “They said not to tell you.”
“And you’re going with that?”
Her friend’s lips formed a thin line.
Whoa. There weren’t that many people around who could keep Carol quiet. This was interesting – and also slightly terrifying.
They made their way downstairs, emerging behind the bar.
“This way.” Carol strode out past the counter and into the taproom, toward a booth tucked away in the corner.
Most customers never went near this seat, because it was spelled with all kinds of magic. It was only used for private conversations, and if you wanted its benefits, then you had to pay for it. Carol liked it because people could chat in public, but no one would be able to work out what had been said.
A woman was already seated there. Her gray hair was piled on top of her head in an old beehive style and she wore a pink and green dress with a white flamingo pattern. It was painful to look at.
“Here,” Carol said when they reached the booth. Her upper lip moved back from her teeth, and something feral slithered across her face. “I’ll get you a drink.”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the bar, leaving Lori alone with the old woman. There was something very familiar about the wrinkled face and hard, dark eyes.
“Laurel Paynters. Nice to see you again.”
Lori took a step back.
“No, no.” The old woman waved a hand. “Come sit. We need to talk.”
Without meaning to, Lori sank down into the booth. The energy of its spells washed over her, prickling her skin, and its leather squeaked in protest.
“My name is Mrs. McKenzie.” The woman smiled, showing sharp teeth. “We met once when you were a child.”
Memories assaulted her: pain, horror, fear. Her father’s anger. And a cool hand pressing a cloth to her forehead. It had been the last day of her childhood, if you could have called her prior existence that.
“The Sheerra.”
“So you remember me.”
“How could I not?” Lori muttered.
Carol returned, thunking a gin – with a dash of tonic – on the table for Lori, and a piña colada in front of Mrs. McKenzie, complete with miniature paper umbrella. “Enjoy.”
The Sheerra’s gaze followed Carol back to the bar. “Interesting.”
Lori wasn’t sure that was a good thing, not coming from the most powerful fate-weaver in the fae world. But her attention soon swung back to Lori. “Apologies for arriving unannounced, but I know you would have made tracks if you’d known I was coming.”
Damn right she would have. The last time they met, Lori’s entire life had changed, and not for the better. Because of the Sheerra, she’d been on the run most of her adulthood.
The old woman played with the umbrella. “I was weaving the other month, and there was an...issue.”
That didn’t sound good. “An issue?”
“A knot.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Sheerra sighed and sipped her drink. Her eyes closed in bliss for a few moments, before she reopened them and settled a sharp stare on Lori. “When you were a child, I wove your family’s fate. There were two futures: one, if your brother was to receive the power in that ceremony, and two, if you did. Trust me when I say that you inheriting the magic was by far the better outcome.”
Well, Jayden was a complete and utter fucktard. But— “You played with my life,” Lori said. “Thanks to you, I’ve never been able to settle down, have a home. My brother has been trying to kill me ever since he realized he could.”
“That was still better than the alternative.”
So screwing up Lori’s life was the nice choice.
Well, that would just be in line with everything else that has happened to date.
“You said there was a knot?” Lori asked.
“Right. Your...situation has played on me ever since I did that Transfer Spell. So I wove your fate again, and the result? A knot. I don’t get knots.”
That still hadn’t really explained anything. Lori picked up her gin, but Mrs. McKenzie placed a hand on her wrist. “A woman in your condition shouldn’t drink that.”
Lori blinked. “A woman in my what-now?”
“You don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“You’re pregnant.”
Lori let go of her gin and laughed. “Really?”
Fastest pregnancy ever. Since she hadn’t had sex for months until Conrad. And the first time had been four days ago.
Mrs. McKenzie frowned and pulled out a cloth from a large bag, spreading it out with care on the table. She ran a finger over an orange thread. “Maybe I was wrong.”
Relief poured through Lori.
Mrs. McKenzie rolled her eyes and waved a hand at herself. “Uh, hello? Me? Wrong? You’re pregnant. Future-weaver here.”
“Okay.” Lori wanted to argue that it was highly unlikely, but whatever. This woman was a Sheerra. She wouldn’t dare Mrs. McKenzie to force fate into making her a mother. If it happened, it happened.
“See here?” The Sheerra held out the cloth. There was a small lump in the weaving, near the corner. It was a combination of yellow, green and orange threads.
“Yes?”
“This is the issue. And while it isn’t really a Sheerra’s place to alter the future, I already have interfered in yours, so the others can bite my ass.” She carefully folded the weaving, and popped it away. “So this is what I know. You have been targeted for assassination by the White Death.”
Lori gripped the edges of the table. Even she had heard of the White Queen’s professional killer. Ruthless, efficient, and with a strange sense of humor. Oh gods. She’d been right. Now that the Hunter was out of the equation, her father had finally decided to do something about his ‘problem’.
“The White Death is currently in the County of Tears, trying to find out more about your identity, so you don’t have much time. You have to go back to the county.”
“Go back to the county? Where the assassin is who has been sent to kill me?”
Now that was flawed logic, if ever she’d heard it.
“The knot, it has three threads. Yours, the White Death’s, and your sister’s.”
Betty? What did she have to do with anything?
“If you don’t return, your sister’s life will be forfeit. You can choose to save her, or stay here and wait to be killed. It’s really up to you.”
“How is this related to the White Death? Will it save me from him?”
“Everything is always related. And I’ve said more than enough.”
Well, that was disappointingly vague. Why should Lori return to the most dangerous place in the Borderlands for her? To the sister who had learned to hate her?
Because she’d loved you as a child, before Jayden and Father had poisoned her.
“How do I know you aren’t setting me up, like you did the count?”
Mrs. McKenzie took a sip of her cocktail. “You don’t. But let me tell you, what I did to your father was for the best. He’s a scum-sucking piece of codswallop.”
Lori had no idea how that worked. But she wasn’t about to talk grammar with the Sheerra.
“Sadly, he won’t get nearly what he deserves. But I don’t like things cropping up in my weaving that shouldn’t be there. In the last few years, it’s happened a
little too frequently, and while those responsible for my tangled threads can’t be dealt with right now, this I can fix. If you go back to save your sister.”
Lori didn’t know why, but she believed the fae. Sheerras were weavers in general, but only a few could see fate in their art. And Mrs. McKenzie was the best of the best. So what if the pregnancy thing seemed like a joke? The rest rang a little too true.
“What’s in it for you?” Lori asked.
“Let’s just say guilt doesn’t really sit well with me. And once I’ve helped you, we’re more than square.”
“When do I have to get to the county?”
“Tomorrow.”
Lori spluttered. “Uh, you do know that that will be impossible.” Even if she’d been able to afford to hire a Tylwyth Teg, they were usually booked out for months in advance. And the way the Borderlands moved? The county was weeks away, the only direct route through the Hills.
There was an awkward cough, and then someone said, “Ah, excuse me? The lady at the bar said I should come over here.”
Lori’s gut did a strange little flip. The speaker was a Sídhe, tall and willowy, with pale green hair and bright yellow eyes. She was beautiful, model-quality, and was also one of Lori’s former ‘meals’.
The fae pointed. “You!”
Lori gave an awkward smile. “Me.”
“Ah yes,” Mrs. McKenzie looked pleased. “You two have already met.”
The Sídhe leaned toward the table, placing her fists on the wooden surface. “She stole my power.”
“About that, she needs to, uh, borrow it again.”
The woman drew back, crossing her arms over her chest. “No.”
“Now, don’t be so quick to refuse, child.” Mrs. McKenzie narrowed her eyes. “You do know who I am?”
The Sídhe took a closer look, and gulped. “Mrs. McKenzie of the McKenzie Sheerras.”
“That’s right.”
And that was enough.
Mrs. McKenzie’s expression was smug. She knew her worth in the community. Rumor had it that the last White Queen had murdered Mrs. McKenzie’s husband, to get the Sheerra to work for her. Suffice to say, the Queen hadn’t lasted on her throne for much longer. And that was almost five centuries ago, now.
