by Richard Amos
Ah, well. Worse things happened at sea.
Apparently.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Orla as I sat at my work desk—we were allowed back into Jake & Dean Investigations now.
Orla’d been all queenly and handed Izzie’s arse to her.
She’d helped us out. Defended us. Used her muscle.
For us.
And I’d been nothing but frosty to her this whole time. Was there something wrong with me? I mean, I still didn’t trust her. Even after that. The poxy niggling doubt wouldn’t let up at all.
Yeah, I was broken somewhere, right? Naturally rude? A complete knob head?
Niggle, niggle. Something not quite right.
Ugh. So bloody judgmental. Just because she looked better in heels than me.
God. That time I’d tried some stilettos on backstage at a runway gig in the modeling days. I was stoked, excited to get out onto the catwalk. Waiting around brought on that whole idle hands thing. I’d needed something to calm my nerves, so I’d tried on some heels. Had a lesson from one of the other models, tripped, and almost cracked my head open.
The designer proper screamed at me but bought me a cocktail afterward.
Dangerous things, but they’d looked so good with my outfit.
The buzzer went, booting me off memory lane.
I paused my research into fae magic and pods, not coming up with much on the Paranormal Eyes VPN that linked the two. Pushing away from my desk and not in the mood for new clients, I stood up, swigged the last of my tepid tea, and went to the window.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so negative towards the buzzer. Business was business, right?
Bollocks to business!
Dean was at that weird door with the Gaelic writing on it in Flevopark, the place where the candy-striped creature had made its nest back at Christmas time.
Ah, memories.
That door was still locked, still a mystery.
I froze at the window.
What. The. Fuck.
I rubbed my eyes. This wasn’t real. I was hallucinating. Must be dodgy milk in my cuppa or something. Had to be! Because there was no way that was who I thought it was standing on the street, pressing my buzzer again, three hot men with him. Seriously hot. Especially that guy with the long, dark hair, white vest showing off some major tattoo on his right side.
He looked up, spotting me, then tapped the shoulder of the bloke who looked like Dylan Rivers.
But it couldn’t be. No one ever saw much of the pop star and, as it turned out, the last siren in existence. He had a pretty low profile nowadays.
The maybe-Dylan looked up, offering me a smile and a wave.
I opened the window. “Hallo.”
“Hi there. You must be Jake Winter. My name is Dylan. May I come in? Make that all of us? I need to speak with you.”
Fuck me! It was him! “I, erm, I…” And so the starstruck crap came.
If Nay, one of my besties, were here, she’d probably faint. Actually, she would faint. I was on the verge myself.
“You’re Dylan Rivers,” I said stupidly as others started to notice him.
He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Slashed black jeans, rose gold shirt, and artfully crafted blonde hair did nothing to make him blend in. I think that was the point. His brown skin glistened with a gold sheen. Did he bathe in gold leaf or something?
His goldness was classier than Evander’s by a long way.
“Mr. Winter?”
“Ye-yes?”
“Can we come in?”
Cameras were flashing. Dylan even stopped to sign an autograph.
Okay. Better let him in. Recuse him and find out what the frig he was doing here.
I poured the last of the tea for my guests, my nerves settling to a gentle tremble. I’d bloody spilled all of the last pot I’d made over the floor. This fresh load fared better, actually getting into the tea-stained mugs. No fancy crap here, much to my shame.
“Thank you,” Dylan Rivers said, sat in the chair opposite me. He smelled of expensive cologne, green eyes practically emeralds.
Here in the offices of Jake & Dean Investigations.
Right. Here.
Two of the guys with him sat at Dean’s desk, while the bloke with the tattoos and long hair stood up, the mug looking too small for his big hands. His name was Seph. A kelpie. Muscles galore, olive skin, aquamarine eyes that screamed sex. The slender man with the red-gold hair was Andy, a fae from the summer lands of Faerie, with sun-kissed skin and green eyes. Opposite him on Dean’s desk was Pranay, a brown-skinned werewolf, just as muscular as the kelpie, with dark eyes and an amazing haircut—buzzed at the sides, long and swept back on top.
Now the introductions were over, and I’d calmed down a few degrees, I got down to it. “So, what brings you here?”
Dylan sipped his tea, placed the cup down, and crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair. “What can you tell me about Parker Smith?”
Wasn’t expecting that. “You know Parker Smith?”
“No. I have never crossed paths with this gentleman in my life, yet he decided it would be fun to send me a package containing chocolate pod truffles, which I received a month ago.”
“You what?”
“Yes. Artful chocolates. An absolute design triumph. They would have made any chocolatier proud. A bit too beautiful. Pranay smelled the pod straight away. Every truffle was laced with it, mutated by the pod to be pretty.”
I explained about the likely pod manipulation by fae magic.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Where did you receive the package?”
“In London. It had a postmark from Amsterdam. Circumstances slowed me down in coming here.” He didn’t elaborate.
“But why?”
“There’s more,” Andy added.
“Three days later, I received a letter.” Dylan reached into his pocket, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. “Same postmark. Here.” He handed it to me.
I unfolded the paper. There was the familiar scrawl of Parker Smith. He’d sent me a letter too—a big reveal moment where I’d wanted to put my fists through a wall.
I read it.
Dear Dylan,
Hello to you. My name is Parker Smith. I hope you have enjoyed the chocolates, or at least those closest to you have. If not, I am disappointed. You see, all of this has been in the name of research. What would happen if a siren came into contact with a pod? To a lesser extent, the other creatures in your household too. Isn’t that a fascinating idea? How long, I wonder, until I get to see the results?
Parker
“He’s a fucking fruitcake.” I told them about the slaughter of the goblins, about the Conclave and Elijah Hart, then showed them the letter he’d sent me.
“We saw there’s a hunt for them on the news,” Pranay added.
“I’ll rip the prick’s head off,” Seph added, his voice laced with a Spanish tone. “Both of them.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Dylan said. “Strange times.” He sipped some more tea. “It looks like we’ll be stopping in the city for the next few days.”
Dylan Rivers was in Amsterdam! OMG! Nay was gonna die when I told her.
Keep it cool. “So, what hotel are you staying at?”
“Hotel Firefly. It is a charming place.”
“I know someone who got married there.”
He spotted my engagement ring. “Will you be doing the same soon?”
“I’d love to, but, you know, PIA stuff gets in the way.”
He placed a finger on his cheek, tapping it. “Yes, indeed. As much as I love Amsterdam, I would rather not be here and cannot stay long anyway due to certain circumstances I won’t divulge. I would rather be at home, with my feet up.”
“Have you retired?” I asked. “None of my business if you don’t want it to be.”
“You could say that.” He looked to the men in the room. “But retirement is supposed to be easy, isn’t it?”
“I don’
t believe in easy anymore.”
“Quite. Well, we must be going. Please feel free to stop by anytime at the hotel or call me on this number. Ready?”
I grabbed a pen, and he told me the digits.
I had a direct line to Dylan Rivers! What a way to brighten up a Monday.
“We’ll get this bastard one way or another.” The pop star siren stood up. “I am extremely determined when it comes to revenge.”
I nodded. “I heard the story.”
“Indeed. It was lovely to meet you, Jake. We’ll be in contact.”
“Cool.” I shook his hand, then the hands of his men. “Thanks for stopping by. Nice to know people like you are on this too.”
When they were gone, stepping out into a circus of cameras, the office phone went wild with callers wanting to know about him. Press, fans, all sorts. In the end, I had to turn the ringer off just to think and revel in the fact a world-famous star had been right here, talking to me, and I had his number.
I mean, squee!
Time to call my man.
Fourteen
Dean
Whenever I came to these muddy tunnels beneath Flevopark, I’d set up my relatively new equipment I’d got online for reading magical locks. It was a series of gold cogs on a vertical pole with a small globe on top. A wire connected the globe to a handheld screen similar to a tablet. When the cogs turned, the globe generated electricity, which in turn generated a reading onto the device. A series of codes danced across the screen, telling me nothing. Jumbled words and letters in Gaelic, even numbers in random places. No rhyme or reason, not even an acronym.
This time, I didn’t need it, didn’t even need to bring it with me. Dad had rendered it useless.
“This is a prison,” he said, stroking the wood and the Gaelic letters.
I could read Gaelic. It was the original language of the fae.
‘The city between is closed.’
“A prison? But it says city.”
“They were cities, once. Not now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t seen one in a long time. They were used to seal away evil fae, quite fashionable many years ago. A prison built behind the door which should never open, trapping the condemned in a sprawling city of endless torment and torture. The method was to hunt the prisoners every day, maim, and even kill them. Seeing as the magic within the prison didn’t allow the prisoner to die until it was broken or commanded to kill, the hunt could be repeated day after day. And the prisoner would forget with reset of the game. The prisoner’s desperation and fear really got the blood pumping. Not mine, these prison cities were before my time.”
“It was a sport,” I said.
“Yes. You could call it that. However, this method fell out of favor, seen as too expensive and complex. Also, the doors would move around too much. It was difficult to keep track of where the prison cities were. Sounds ridiculous, I know. They were either closed or shrunk down into something else to house the condemned. Mostly abolished, save a few. Nowadays, execution or being locked in the iron pits are preferred methods of punishment.”
This door had been driving me crazy since Christmas. “Can you tell what’s behind the door?”
He rested his head against the wood. “I can’t tell. You will need someone with access to open it.”
“And how do I speak to this someone?”
He patted me on the back. “Have no fear, Son. You’re in luck. A fae guard will be able to do it for you.”
“Any fae guard?”
“Oh, these aren’t any old guards. No. These are Orla’s guards, royal guards, specially selected folk with great skill and high ranking, and completely loyal to not letting bad things happen to the queen or slither out of closed doors. They would have the ability to check what’s inside.”
“Orla isn’t queen yet, and she has royal guards?”
“We told you her victory is guaranteed.”
Arrogant. “Oh.”
“Let me put in a call for you.”
I’d take a gift like this when handed to me. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
As he made his call, my phone rang, and I answered to an extremely excited Jake. At first, I panicked, then shock hit me at the news of Dylan Rivers being in our place of business.
The Dylan Rivers.
The days just kept getting weirder.
A dark-skinned fae woman in human clothes arrived twenty minutes later, a sword strapped to her back.
She bowed to us. “Sirs, I am Cara, and I am at your service.”
“Hi, Cara,” Dad responded cheerfully. “Be a dear and help us with this door, would you.”
She approached, her head tilting to the side. “This is one of the old fae prisons.” She placed her hand on the wood. “It is empty of a prisoner.”
I stepped forward. “What?”
“The way has been opened before, releasing whoever was inside.” With her right index finger, she touched the wood, and the edges of the door ignited with pink, cooling to a gentle silver.
A click and the door popped open a crack. Cara pulled it the rest of the way.
Woodland, at night, waited over the threshold. Tall trees with a thick canopy blocking out most of the moonlight and stars, only traces of them getting through the tangle above. Shrubbery lined a grassy path that led down to a pond. Behind the water were more trees so thick there was no way through. That was the same on the left and right of the path too. There was only the path and the walls of trees.
“This really was shrunk down from being a city,” I said.
Dad nodded.
“The air stinks of rot,” Cara said, stepping inside. “This place is very old.”
She was right. It was faint, probably stronger for her full fae nose, but it definitely had the whiff of rotten potatoes and out of date milk. “Any idea who would’ve been in here?”
Cara headed down the path to the pond. I didn’t follow, wary of the door slamming closed behind me.
I watched her look into the water, then she came back. That water was dark, still, incredibly creepy.
“There is trickery here,” she said. “A prisoner powerful enough to manipulate the environment, to maybe even open the way to escape. To end the prisoner’s life, you must destroy the prison as it is tied to their lifeforce, though it will not be easy to do so here. You must find the source of the magic and break it. No simple burning will work, nor poisoning of the land. The prisoner was cunning with many secrets woven into the fabric of their existence, protecting the magic even. It will take some investigation to find the magic, yet it is breakable. I can have a team here to see if they can find the name of the prisoner. There is no guarantee, however.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That would be great.”
Orla coming here had been useful. Helpful. Not a bad thing.
“There you have it,” my father announced. “It will be dealt with. I have a meeting shortly that I must not be late for.”
“A meeting?”
“Very important meeting with a delightful human woman who knows how to use her hands.”
“You’re paying for—”
“A massage, Dean. Don’t let your mind drift into the gutter too much. Anyway, the windows are closed, remember. Not that they’re the only places to visits for such needs.”
I needed to be away from him fast. “Sure. Let’s go. Thanks again, Cara.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
The first name that sprung to mind was Parker, then Elijah. There was fae magic on Melody’s body, along with the other victims.
Were they fae themselves? No outsourced fae help?
I’d head home and send a report to the council immediately.
Two prisoners cunning enough to trick a fae prison? Even protect its magic?
These were some dangerous fae, but why would Elijah be part of the Conclave, sending the message that he hated fae along with every other supernatural being? It made no sen
se.
“Come on, Dean,” Dad barked. “Time is of the essence here.”
“Go if you’re that desperate!” I snapped back but ended up leaving with him right then anyway.
Louise was with Sophie and Luuk at their house, doing her maths work, seeing as she was home educated like everyone else in the city and most other places around the world (the majority of schools were closed due to pods). I’d let Sophie know I was home and that I’d come over soon to pick her up.
No rush. She was having a movie break. Take my time. Their house was just as safe as ours, warded to the hilt. And right next door.
It was strange having the house to myself.
An hour after sending off my report, the doorbell rang.
Orla’s face was in the peephole.
I opened the door. “Orla?”
“Hi, Dean.”
“What’re you doing here? Where are your guards?”
“No one knows I’m here. I slipped out. I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Can I come inside?
I hesitated. “I don’t—”
“And you still don’t trust me.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk. Please. I think I saw something from my hotel window.”
“Really? What?”
“I don’t know. A man watching. My guards didn’t find anything when I told them, so I came here.”
“Alone?”
“I know, I’m an idiot.”
“Come in.” I didn’t want to talk on the doorstep, and those dark clouds indicated rain.
“Thank you so much.”
For the second time, she passed through the wards of my home. Not an enemy. Twice the proof.
So, why was my stomach in knots over letting her inside?
Was it me? Something deeper?
No. Fucking. Way.
We went into the living room. I didn’t offer her a seat, nor did I sit down myself. “What can I do for you?”
