by S A Archer
London practically melted into Lugh’s body as he lifted her into his embrace and carried her to the sofa where they stretched out together. She tucked into him and held him tightly. His arms encircled her and she felt his kisses on the top of her head. It was like this that she fell asleep almost immediately. And even when the light of the sun finally touched her face to wake her once more, she still felt as if he was there, even when she opened her eyes and knew that he was not.
Chapter Thirteen
Peyton hadn’t been overly concerned with using a razor when he’d first been on the run from Deacon, and now that lapse in habit worked to his advantage. Three days without shaving and the chiseled features that usually got people giving Peyton a second look softened, changing his appearance enough that even people that knew him wouldn’t have recognized him with a casual glance. He had that kind of face. In another life, Peyton could have been an actor, becoming the role that he played. That kind of talent served him well enough in this line of work. He could blend in when he wanted to, and catch someone’s eye if he meant to. This time, it was all about going unnoticed.
Yellow safety helmet covering his brown hair, safety glasses hiding part of his features, and the typical scrubby, ill fitting jeans and bright yellow safety vest over an untucked undershirt, and he was just another worker ant on the scene. With a pick axe balanced on his shoulder, he walked through the gate with the rest of the crew cleaning up the debris of the fallen building. Moving with the same unhurried pace, the same easy stride, the same overworked slump to his shoulders as everyone else, and he started into the wreckage.
Slipping away from the others, Peyton turned in behind a backhoe and then ducked into the cavernous entrance created by the fallen hunks of concrete and spines of metal. No doubt this was off-limits after the rescue crew and forensics made their sweep. Although the crumbled structure seemed to have settled, the rubble could shift at any time, crushing anyone unfortunate enough to be in the way. Demolition would be a top-down process, once this wasn’t still classified as a crime scene. Peyton could only imagine the things that Interpol and MI-6 were uncovering in the wizards’ decimated stronghold. Fey body parts for certain. They’d slaughtered dozens of them in the past month alone, preparing potions and enchantments for Manannan’s major power play.
Only, he and London screwed that plan all to hell for them. She’d been gung-ho to save the fey and he’d just been looking for his way out from under the wizards’ twisted thumb. That’s what Peyton told himself, and that’s what he needed to keep believing. He’d bounced from the frying pan into the fire, falling into Credne’s clutches, but Peyton wasn’t going to give up and fry. He’d play the game, just like he’d played it with the wizards, and he’d keep his eyes open and his reflexes sharp for his chance to dodge this crap-tastic fate.
Avoiding the twisted rebar and loose chunks of concrete, he moved into the shadowed depths of the building’s remains. Even knowing the layout of the place inside and out didn’t help with the crushed walls turning the guts of the building into pathways like the random twists of bowels. Once he found the remnants of the stairwell, now on its side and rising at a broken sixty degree angle, he used the pick axe to climb the narrow passage.
Reginald’s office had been close to the heart of the structure, on the fourth floor near the elevator shafts. Through his office had been the access to the vault, which was where the cauldron had been stored, according to the files.
Peyton picked his way up through the twisted debris to a point where the section of stair above had broken free and dropped onto the ones below. He crawled up as far as he could, and then gazed up at the landing four or five meters above him, that dangled upon bent metal bars that didn’t look like they could support a man’s weight. The only thing connecting the lower part of the stairwell to the landing above was the handrail that snaked along the wall.
Using his pick axe to gouge into a crack in the concrete, Peyton climbed onto the handrail. Agile and experienced in climbing, he figured that he could manage this. It wasn’t like he could go back to Credne empty handed. The magic within him still vibrated, reminding him endlessly of the price of failure. What vibrated pleasantly now, would transform into an aching torment before shredding him completely. He’d done his research. He knew what awaited him, should he disappoint.
Peyton shimmied up along the handrail as far as he could with his makeshift handholds. Then he rocked back, pulled the axe free, and flung himself towards the landing.
The axe embedded itself into the concrete and when his weight jerked on it, the landing shifted. It angled more sharply, but did not break free. A hissed curse whispered past his gritting teeth, as his grip locked harder around the handle. He swung, dangling in midair over the deadly protrusion of metal below. Peyton knew this well enough, and didn’t bother to look down. Instead, he focused on locating his next handhold. Swinging himself, he managed to reach a twisted steel bar sticking out of the concrete. Then he dug his toes into the surface of the wall to give himself a shove upward. Hoisting himself upward until he lay on his stomach, legs still hanging off, Peyton took a moment to catch his breath. Then he squirmed the rest of the way onto the slick, dirt-covered landing. He was well dusted in the debris by the time he crawled his way to the doorway to the fourth floor.
The fire door was bent in half and busted off the hinges. Peyton stepped over it onto the floor beyond. It was pitched at a sharp angle, so he was actually walking along the wall, instead of the floor, as he made his way to Reginald’s office.
That door, too, was missing. It appeared busted in after the building fell, possibly by rescuers in search of survivors. He could see the footprints in the dust that certainly were only left recently. Standing on the wall beside the open door, the floor here pitched at maybe a thirty degree angle, he crouched and peered inside.
The hidden access panel to the vault was busted off the internal guide track and fallen into the now open vault. Peyton shined his flashlight into the black void. No need to climb down there. He could tell from here that it was empty.
Truthfully, he wasn’t surprised. He’d hoped, but hadn’t counted on getting that lucky.
Peyton sat back against the wall, and pulled the small knife from his waist pouch. Taking a pinch of the dust around him, he rubbed it over the surface until the dust filled the crevices convincingly. Then he stuck it back into his pouch and followed the footprints leading away from the office.
As he’d hoped, it led to a ladder down to the scaffolding in the restricted area. Not making any attempt at stealth now, he climbed down right into the thick of the government spooks and their forensic blokes.
“Hey,” he called out to them, waving for their attention. “Take a look at this!”
One of the guys in a white, forensic jumpsuit collected the knife from Peyton, and held it carefully in his gloved hands to inspect it. “Where did you find this?”
Peyton didn’t get the chance to answer as one of the suits in sunglasses stepped between them. “What were you doing in this part of the building?”
“I got lost inside that maze, and this was just where I came out. But look at this! Pretty fancy, huh? Do you think it’s worth something? Like a collector’s item? Do you suppose there’s a reward for it?” Peyton rocked the working class, British accent like a native. Not even one of his family back in Cork would have believed it was him.
“A reward? Is that what you were thinking when you went traipsing through the wreckage? Looking for a reward, were you?” Suit-and-tie guy, who was probably MI-6 rather than Interpol, given the attitude, snatched Peyton by the back of his dusty shirt collar and marched him over to the edge of their taped off section of the crash site. “You’re lucky I don’t get your ass fired. Get the hell out of my crime scene!”
Suit-and-tie guy at least lifted the safety tape before shoving Peyton, wh
o intentionally stumbled a few steps before recovering his footing. “Hey, I was only trying to help. I brought it to you, didn’t I?”
Suit-and-tie guy didn’t answer, already storming back toward the huddle of white coveralls marveling over the dagger. He couldn’t blame them. It was fairy-made and a very nice piece.
Of course, he had six more just like it at home, but the first time he’d taken one he’d been impressed, too. That knife might not have been the most spectacular fey-made treasure in his footlocker, but it had a special feature.
If you knew how, you could open the handle of the blade to the small storage space within. Fairies might keep a small vial of a potion in there, or some memento of a loved one, like a lock of hair.
That was the reason he’d picked it. The knife that he’d handed over to the forensic team contained a small tracking device. With any luck, by the end of the shift, it would be sitting within shouting distance of that cauldron.
Chapter Fourteen
Something about spending time with her patron always renewed her, more than just the refreshment of the Touch that cleared her head and gave her purpose. Knowing that he believed in her, trusted her, needed her to do her job, and gave her the desire to do her best. The fey depended on Lugh. She did, too. But Lugh depended on her. It was symbiotic. It was the real meaning of being a druidess.
So with fresh coffee bracing her, a delicious breakfast set beside her laptop at her favorite cafe, and the light of a brand new day streaming through the window, she got down to business.
As the laptop booted up, London checked her phone. No texts or messages from Selena. Time to get some answers for herself. London logged into her instant messenger, and then opened a chat window with Reggie. For a werewolf, Reggie was a really good guy. She couldn’t take him to dinner any more, for payment of services rendered, not with the fey scent all over her and embedded with that magic within her skin. She’d been around werewolves in the past, since being enchanted, and it could be a hit or miss proposition. Not wanting things to turn uncomfortable, or dangerous, between them, this seemed like the safer route.
She typed into the messenger, Hey fur-face, got a minute and some hacker mojo you can spare?
While she waited for a reply, London slathered the jam onto her biscuit and took a contemplative bite. The early sunlight through the cafe window glared on the screen, so she tilted it to a better angle. As she was adjusting the screen, the icon for Riley blinked on, indicating that he’d just signed in. It was just a minute more before his instant messenger window popped up on her screen. Guess what?
She typed back, What?
I killed my first werewolf.
Just then, Reggie’s messenger window flashed with his response. London was glad she wasn’t in a chat room where they could see each other’s replies. That would be seriously awkward.
London replied to Riley first, How’d that come about?
Then she switched windows to read Reggie’s message. He’d said, You just love me for my skills with a keyboard, but my hands are good at other things.
She snorted out loud, and then typed back, Flirt. Sorry babe, I’m not interested in having your puppies. But I could use some help tracking down a vampire. I know how much you love them. Which she well knew was not at all.
Riley’s window flashed and London left it blinking for a moment while she ate a few more bites. Reggie replied before she could switch over. What vampire? And can I help you hunt him?
She typed, All I know is that his first name is Derek and that he’s over here from the States on some matter for his sire. But he appears to be freelancing, because he’s said there is a bounty on my blood that he intends to collect.
Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll check flight manifests… Reggie responded, and London figured he’d be a little bit working on that, so she returned to the conversation with Riley.
He was the type that sent multiple messages to convey a thought, especially if he didn’t get a reply straightaway.
So I was checking out some websites, right? And there was this one where it looked like vampires and werewolves have been passing back and forth information on prey, as well as other stuff. A few were looking for fey targets, and someone else gave them a suggestion of where to look.
Me and Joe went to check it out. And bam! A whole pack of werewolves looking for a meal. And me and Joe being the only things anywhere nearby that even smelled half-way like fey.
And Joe said it was a waste of time. Pfft. Whatever. But I proved different, so I’m going to high-five myself. *Gives self a high-five, all dorky-like.* We kicked their bums, and the fey are safer.
London just laughed at the goofiness, as Riley used the asterisks to indicate an action. She returned the IM-speak, *Pats you on the head.* You were a good boy. *Gives you a cookie.*
Riley returned, *Gobbles the cookie.* So how about you? Any exciting news?
Reggie’s IM window wasn’t blinking yet, so London continued, You had werewolves, I was dealing with vampires. Mine didn’t turn out quite so well. Seems I have a bounty on my blood, according to this bloke. I feel special.
Riley replied back quickly. Does this bloke have a name?
Derek, but I don’t have a last name. I just know he’s from the US.
Riley went quiet, and Reggie still hadn’t gotten back, so London leaned back for a moment, giving her neglected breakfast some attention before it was all cold. Of the two, Reggie replied first. OK, I have the details. Derek Hunter (probably his stripper name, LOL! I can’t imagine that’s his real one) came in on a private jet from Seattle, and arrived in Shannon a couple of weeks ago. The plane was paid for by a chap named Dante. Now Dante is a really bad dude, into all kinds of nasty trade, mostly of the addictive and paranormal nature. I’m going to have to tread carefully, because as soon as I put out feelers on Dante, I was getting flagged by Interpol’s cyber hounds, and I had to do some fast footwork to get them off my tracks. It does look like Derek’s using a credit card from Dante’s shadow company, so I can probably check for car rentals and hotels, once the heat’s dropped a little.
You are the wolf! *hugs you* Yes, please. I’ll take any information you can dig up on Mr. Nasty. London couldn’t help but grin.
*Hugs you back* I’ll keep you posted. Reggie left it at that for now, so London closed out his window, to see what Riley had sent her. His window had just started blinking.
I think your Derek might be on this site! Riley’s typing icon was showing, so he was actively typing, and London scooted onto the edge of her seat. There is some chatter about you on one of the posts, and the user’s name is just ‘Hunter’.
That’s him. I just got the confirmation from an informant of mine that he’s going by the last name of ‘Hunter.’ London felt the dual sensations of dread and excitement, as she got more information, but every bit of it was sounding unsettlingly serious.
I don’t know much about his client, but seems to be going by the codename ‘Prince’. The best I can tell, you are wanted alive, so that is a good thing, but it is your blood that ‘Prince’ is after, so that is a less good thing. Want me to keep checking? I’ll have Joe give you a call.
Yes, keep checking. Can you both meet me at the club in Waterford this afternoon? She checked her watch, gauging the time it would take to drive down from Tiernan’s place near Belfast where they stayed. Of course, they could just ask the ‘Unseelie Kingpin’ to teleport them. He was into the same line of trade as this Dante, by the sounds of it, so maybe he’d know something.
We’ll be there. Riley assured her. And London… We’re going to catch this guy. Don’t worry.
Now that you and Joe are on the job, all worries are gone, she lied.
Chapter Fifteen
Granger tossed down a plastic evidence bag next to Patterson. “Get the blood
on that handkerchief analyzed for me.” He dropped into his own office chair and picked up his fountain pen to twirl it between his fingers. “So we found fey body parts, and a bunch of empty cages. Assuming those cages were full of fey, what would that make the people who owned the Brightner Building?”
Patterson swung around in his chair to face Granger. He had that been-up-all-night look about him; tie askew, hair finger-combed into disarray, bags under his eyes. “Not werewolves, that is for certain. They would have torn them to shreds right out of the gate.”
“Right. And we know they weren’t demonic, since there wasn’t residue on the premises.” He tapped the pen into his palm. This fountain pen had belonged to his first partner, and even though Granger seriously hoped that Thomas rested in peace, keeping it handy gave him the sense that somehow he was still around, still offering guidance. “What about wizards? They were known for mutilating the fey.”
Patterson shook his head. “Wizards are more isolated. Solo practitioners. Like serial killers keeping their victims in their basements.” He swiveled side to side, considering. “I’m thinking this has to be vampire-related.”
And there had been a vampire chomping on London like she was a cheeseburger, making noises about there being a price on her blood. Maybe for her part in the Brightner Building incident? “Doesn’t feel vampire, though. No tinting on all those windows. The video showed most of the principal members of the staff coming and going during daylight hours.” And London had said that they weren’t vampires.
