Now that I know where she is and where she will be for the next two years, I’ll keep tabs on her from afar. When she’s older, I’ll approach her again. Until then, I’ll keep my distance.
I run my hands through my hair. My skin feels as though it’s electrified, and my heart, my reliably steady heart, is pounding away, feeling everything as though for the first time.
Every second that passes, the surer I am that maybe she might not be a trap after all. That she’s not just some girl, but the girl.
After all this time, I might’ve finally found my mate.
Chapter 14
Hell to Pay
May, 8 years ago
I head to George Mayhew’s place, a longtime client of mine and one of the best necromancers out there. The man is addicted to pixie dust, and he’ll bargain away his services in an instant for his next fix. Unfortunate for him, convenient for me.
I appear in Mayhew’s living room. A split second later, Hugh Anders’ bloodless corpse manifests as well, landing on his coffee table and scattering a mostly finished box of pizza and toppling a beer.
“Holy shit!” George jerks back on his couch, his game controller flying from his grip. “Hey, what the fuck, man?” he says, catching sight of me.
“Resurrect him,” I command, jerking my head to the body.
“Dude, you ruined my dinner.”
Like I care.
I glance around his place. George’s apartment smells like a pet store, thanks to the rodents he breeds. Necromancy is, at its core, blood magic. It takes lifeblood to bring something back from the dead, and George, like most necromancers, doesn’t like cutting himself up for the job when he could cut up a fluffy little creature instead.
“Do you want another supply of Dust?” I say. “Resurrect him.”
He looks at me obstinately. “I’ve been calling you for weeks now and you’ve been ignoring me. Why should I help you now?”
“Fine,” I say. I snap my fingers and the body lifts off the table. “I’ll find another necromancer.”
George stands a little too fast. “Wait-wait-wait.” He wipes his greasy hands off on his shirt.
Classy guy.
“How many grams?” he asks. His eyes have a greedy shine to them.
“Enough,” I respond.
He runs his tongue along his lower lip, pretending to actually consider it. Finally he nods. “I’ll do it,” he says.
I gesture to the body. “Then have at it.”
George stands, his attention moving to the corpse. One moment he’s a junkie, the next, a professional. He circles Hugh Anders, tilting his head as he inspects the dead man.
“Sleek looking asshole,” he comments. “What’d he do to get offed?”
I ignore George’s question.
When he realizes I’m not going to answer him, he raises his palms. “Alright, man, no questions.” He returns to the task at hand. “Beer?” he offers.
I glower at him. He and I both know he’s trying my patience.
He shakes his head. “Just trying to be polite.”
George lowers himself to his knees, grabbing one of Hugh’s arms. “Still warm,” he says to himself. He bends the appendage. “And rigor mortis hasn’t set in—this is a fresh one. That makes this easy.”
He stands, turning off his T.V. and the game I interrupted. He then heads over to his entertainment system, opening a cupboard situated next to the T.V. From it he pulls out little baggies of various herbs, several candles, and a packet of matches. Setting the candles on the floor around the coffee table, he lights them one by one.
After he does so, he flips off the living room lights and heads to his bedroom, returning with a hairy spider cupped in his palm.
I fold my arms and lean against the wall, idly watching the necromancer, my blood simmering. What happened to her … it had been going on for years. My mate had been victimized, and I had no fucking idea. I work my jaw, letting my anger turn cold and hard.
Still holding the spider captive, George begins to sprinkle the herbs around the body, reciting an incantation as he does so. Finally, he takes the spider he holds and, pulling out a pocket knife, slices the creature open.
Normally necromancers need a bigger blood supply, but since Hugh Anders is freshly dead, it only takes a spark of magic to call his spirit back to his body, hence the sacrificial spider.
A moment later, I feel the heat of George’s magic rush through the room as he converts the creature’s blood into power. The candles around George flicker. Then, all at once, they snuff out.
In the darkness I hear a gasp, then the sounds of heavy breathing.
George’s voice rings through the room. “According to the bylaws of the Seven Necromantic Accords, it is my duty to inform you that—”
I flick my hand, muting the necromancer’s voice. George clutches his throat, glaring at me.
I stride towards Hugh, my boots clinking against the floor. “You don’t know who I am,” I say, stepping up to the man. “And you don’t know where you are, only that it’s not hell.” I crouch in front of him. He can’t see me in the darkness. “Unfortunately for you, by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to return you there.”
I cock my arm back and sock the seer in the face. His head snaps back, out cold.
George stumbles away in shock, making a raspy sound that is his version of a shout. For a man who kills bugs and little rodents for a living, he sure doesn’t have an appetite for violence.
I haul the previously dead seer over my shoulder.
What are you doing? George mouths. I’ve brought him many bodies in the past, but almost always they were people someone else paid me to revive. The necromancer has never seen me go rogue.
I jerk my head, and ten bags of pixie dust manifest out of thin air, each falling onto George’s coffee table. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
And then Hugh and I are gone.
May, 8 years ago
In the world of monsters, there is still a divide between good and evil. Even the most depraved of us have a code of ethics, a rulebook that allows us to survive. The man in my arms might as well have torched that rulebook.
The rules are simple: you fuck with innocents, you get blacklisted.
The thought of what he did to my mate … I’m tempted to crush his body inward and pulverize his bones. I hold myself back.
I have something better in store for him.
As soon as Hugh wakes up, he begins to struggle against me, but it’s useless. He might have the gift of foresight, but seers cannot see their own futures. He had no fucking clue that one day I’d come knocking.
The idiot must’ve had his own future read by another seer at some point—all these guys do—but my guess is that his last reading was outdated. When someone gets their future read, it gives them agency to change that future. Hugh probably did change his future, and the ripple effects of that decision led him here, in the arms of yours truly.
I drop Hugh long enough to knock him out again, and then I sling him back over my shoulder. I head to Memnos, heading through its forests, towards the middle of the island. Creatures shriek and howl at the smell of Hugh’s dried blood. Deep in the Land of Nightmares are the Catacombs of Memnos, and at the heart of the catacombs is the Pit, where everything drops off into an abyss. The things that live there make even my blood curdle.
When I reach the Pit, I drop the unconscious Hugh at the rim of it and wait. It doesn’t take long. The reaves come first. These sickly, humanoid creatures are the gatekeepers of the place.
“It’s a human,” one of them says, curling his lip. Mortals just don’t have the same lifespan or magical capacity that fae do—at least most don’t. It makes playing with them brief and thus less fun.
I can’t do anything about his mortality, but, “He’s a seer,” I say.
They reconsider the man, tilting their heads this way and that. From the giant, gaping maw of the Pit, many different monsters begin to stir, some beginning to let
out high pitched shrieks, others, low, moaning wails. There are even a few haunting cackles. All of the noises echo along the walls of the Pit before the deep trench gobbles up the noise.
“Aye, we’ll enjoy him.”
That’s what I thought.
I back away as creatures begin to climb out of the darkness, creeping ever closer to Hugh Anders, who’s now rousing. The calls begin to build on one another; this place is working itself up into a frenzy.
The seer blinks his eyes open, staring around him in confusion.
“I’m coming back in a day,” I say. “Short of death, he’s yours.”
The man, after all, needed to appear to have a heart attack.
Hugh’s eyes become wide and frightened as he takes in the dozens of shadowy creatures closing in on him. He doesn’t need to see his future to know he’s fucked.
I turn away from the man.
The last thing I hear is Hugh’s screams. I smile at the sound.
Chapter 15
My True Love
November, 8 years ago
“Bargainer, I’d like …”
I don’t even have to hear the full sentence, calling from me from far in the distance, to know who it is.
The sweet dulcimer sound of Callie’s voice instantly warms my blood and rouses my power.
My mate needs me.
I lean closer to my latest client, the slimy Politia officer who’s still trying to act brave despite the fact that the guy is considering stiffing me.
“You have two days to get me those files on Llewelyn Baines, just like we originally agreed,” I tell him. “Use them wisely.”
And then I vanish.
A moment later I materialize in Callie’s room. I hate myself a little that my heart pounds like a damn school girl’s the moment I’m near her.
My soulmate. That realization still knocks the breath out of me.
Her body is curled up on her bed, her back to me. From here I can see that she’s rolling her beaded bracelet around and around her wrist. The sight of all those favors she owes me, favors that will keep her in my life for a long time to come, fills me with both guilt and relief. She shouldn’t have to owe me anything, and yet I relish the fact that she’s already connected to me, albeit, through her debts.
The room smells … off, and from what I can see of Callie, she looks off—too flushed, too listless.
“What’s wrong, cherub?” I ask, forcing my voice to be a little rougher than it wants to be. Look at me, clucking like a nursemaid. This girl is going to be the death of me.
“I’m sick.”
Illness? My heart beats a little faster. Fairies can suffer from ailments, but they are almost all magic-borne. Fragile humans are different. Their very environment can sicken them—kill them.
The longer I stare at her body, the more obvious it is that she is, in fact, sick. Her entire body shakes under her blankets, and on her bedside table is a tiny bottle of ibuprofen and an empty glass. It seems to be a paltry defense against whatever is ailing her.
Outside, rain batters against her window, obscuring the campus grounds of Peel Academy.
I stride over to her bedside and, leaning down, press the back of my hand to her sweaty forehead. She’s frighteningly hot.
This is normal for a human, I tell myself. But even as I do so, my mind flashes to all those other winters I’d seen on earth and all those other humans who succumbed to such fevers.
Callie stares up at me, looking painfully fatigued. “I’m glad you came,” she breathes.
As if I wouldn’t. The hounds of hell couldn’t stop me. But she doesn’t need to know that.
She licks her chapped lips. She needs water. I procure a glass of it a second later.
“Thank you,” she says weakly. She sits up, and I can tell everything about the movement aches.
The water seems just as useless as the ibuprofen.
I could give her lilac wine. All I’d have to do is pretend it’s some magical tonic. She’d drink it, and technically she would get better instantly. That, and our bond would complete itself.
I hadn’t known when I first met her that our clashing magic prevented me from feeling her the way soulmates usually do. Our connection won’t fully form until our power becomes compatible. One sip of lilac wine would take care of that; our bond would lock into place …
You selfish bastard, you’d steal her chances at a normal life.
A horrible sort of frustration stirs through me. I have to just watch this play out.
She takes a shallow sip of the water.
I feel my brows furrow. “Drink more.”
Callie is well enough to glower at me. “You don’t have to be so bossy, I was planning on it.”
Ah, there’s that attitude. I could live off of it. It curbs the worst of my worries and steadies my uncertain heart.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, looking her over.
She shakes her head. “The dining hall is too far away.” And the storm’s too bad and she’s too sick to make the trek.
I frown at her. No one thought to bring her anything to eat or drink? A flash of anger and protectiveness swell within me.
Safeguard your mate.
Fuck it, tonight I’m going to be that clucking nursemaid.
“What sounds good?” I ask her. I half expect her to say that she has no appetite.
“Soup,” she says.
My heart breaks a little at her answer. So she has been hungry, but she’s been too sick to get herself something to eat.
There’s something seriously wrong about that.
In other news, I might be the world’s shittiest mate. Can’t even take care of my siren until she calls on me.
Fighting my better nature, I brush Callie’s hair away from her face. “I’ll be right back.”
I vanish from her room and head off to a ramen house on the other side of the world. The restaurant happens to make halfway decent soup—if, you know, you like watered down shit.
Apparently, sick girls do.
Callie eats the ramen in five minutes flat.
“Thanks, Des,” she says once she’s finished, setting the empty take out bowl on her bedside table and laying back down. “Both for the soup and for staying with me.”
I nod, trying not to act like any of this situation is getting under my skin. “I’m going to have to leave soon.”
Liar.
“Can you stay with me?” she asks.
For the rest of the evening, she means. This is her wish, for me to sit by her side through the night.
This is new. I’m used to getting propositioned by frisky fairies, not sick teenage girls who can’t keep their eyes open.
And gods, how I want to say yes. I want to drop this farce and be honest with her, but the fact remains that she’s a teenager and I’m not.
I shake my head.
“Please.”
Stop making deals with me, I want to tell her. I can’t resist them. I won’t. I crave her too much.
She reaches out and threads her fingers through mine.
I frown at our joined hands.
I can’t even brush a kiss along her knuckles, not without opening a can of worms I’m really not ready to deal with. So reluctantly I give Callie her hand back.
“No, cherub.”
I see a little bit of hope shrivel up and die in her eyes.
You bastard, your mate has no one else.
Why does everything I do with this girl leave me so damn conflicted? There’s no middle ground with the two of us, it’s either all or nothing, and the more I toe the line that divides the two, the worse off we both are.
She rearranges herself in her bed, and I practically feel her pull away from me. I nearly growl at myself in frustration.
I use my magic to heat the room up to make her more comfortable; it’s the best I can do. A minute later she stops shivering, and several minutes after that, I hear her breathing even out.
Sick girl is out, which means I should go.
Instead, I sit down on the floor next to her bed, my back resting against the edge of her mattress.
What I would give to lay next to her! Even now I can imagine slipping under those covers and tucking her body into mine. It would be worth the heatstroke she’d give me.
Fuck propriety and whoever came up with it. I don’t think it’s doing either of us much good right now.
Using my magic, I call Callie’s colored pencils and a sheet of her computer paper to me, and then I begin drawing out my frustration. The image takes the shape of healthy Callie—how I will her to be.
I’ll leave once I finish, I promise myself.
It’s no accident that this particular portrait takes me longer to complete than it should. When it’s finished, I let it drift onto her computer chair.
Cautiously, I creep to Callie’s side, placing my hand against her forehead for the second time this evening. She still feels feverish.
Can’t leave now. Not until I get some reassurance that she’s getting better rather than worse.
So, using a little of my magic, I mask myself from her. If she woke up this minute, she’d see an empty room. But I’m still here.
Every time her glass of water runs low, I fill it back up. Every time she kicks off her covers, I lower the temperature of the room, and every time she begins to shiver, I heat the place back up. And I make sure there’s always a bowl of steaming soup next to her bed.
It’s sometime in the deep night, hours after I should’ve left, when it hits me for the first time—
I love her. Those three words just pop into my head, fully formed.
I love her.
This isn’t some bond-borne magic being shoved down my throat. This isn’t even romance. This is love-you-till-your-skin-sags-off-your-bones. Love you till then and beyond. It’s not lustful, it’s not selfish or petty. It’s what has me lingering in Callie’s room right now when I should be collecting bargains or ruling my kingdom because I can’t stand the thought of her being sick and alone. It’s what’s made me flee Callie’s room every time she gets too close because this emotion is bigger than me—bigger than the night itself—and I want things for her that my presence can’t give her, like a chance to be a teenager.
The Emperor of Evening Stars (The Bargainer Book 3) Page 11
