by Strong, Jory
Anton rattled off his number. Cathal punched it into his phone’s memory as they stepped out into bright sunshine.
A car backfired a couple of blocks away. Anton jerked and reached reflexively for a gun she couldn’t see.
Adrenaline spiked through her, her heartbeat ratcheting up with something more than the fear of what might happen with skin-to-skin contact. “You expecting trouble?”
“Habit, that’s all, baby.”
Liam was absent, maybe lurking in back where the Harley was. But the unmet Myk lounged against Eamon’s car, going instantly alert. He took a step toward them but stilled, probably at some signal from Eamon.
Anton’s Harley was parked several spaces away. They stopped next to it. He opened a saddle bag, reaching in, eyes going wet. He blinked and gave her a hard look. “Tell them to back off, Etaín. Motherfuckers don’t need to be all in my business.”
She glanced from Cathal to Eamon, saying only, “Please.”
They moved, giving Anton and her a little distance, not a lot.
Anton came around to stand next to her, spreading a collection of photographs on the bike seat. “Taneshia’s three-year-old little girl,” he said of the child in one of them. “My mama has her now.”
An image started to form, despite all the reasons why honoring this promise was so dangerous—to him. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’m going to leave that to you. You come up with the art, I’ll wear it. Take whatever pictures you want.”
She pocketed a couple of them and was reaching for a third when she heard Myk yell, “Sire.”
Magic rushed across the ink on her skin, a bomb detonation of it rather than a mild wind as she was slammed into Anton. The two of them hit the asphalt along with Cathal and Eamon, like human bowling pins taken down in a single strike by Myk.
Bullets ripped into Anton’s bike, part of a spray from automatic weapons that pelted the ground all around them, deflected by a shield she thought had to be there. Otherwise they’d be bleeding. Dead.
A car sped away leaving a sudden hush. A silence that exploded in a rush, like the pop of a balloon.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. Those willing to have their names included in a police report clamored out of their cars, talking excitedly. The pile of masculine bodies on top of her lightened.
Eamon’s eyes held ice. He didn’t ask if she was okay, though Cathal did, hands roaming her body.
“I’m good,” she said, feeling the glassy stare of cellphone cameras pointed in her direction and using him in a vain attempt to shield against having her picture taken.
Justine rushed from the shelter along with a swarm of workers and volunteers, and Etaín felt sickened by the possibility that someone inside might have been hit. “Everyone okay?”
“Yes.”
Relief came with a shiver and the remembered feel of magic blasting over her. It had been no small expenditure of power, as if the shield she knew had to exist covered more than those on the ground behind Anton’s bike.
Yesss. The Earth-bound Elf protects you. He protects what you care about despite the risk.
She could feel the burn of magic from inked wristbands into her forearms like a fiery leash attached directly to the Dragon. This time she confronted the surreal beast and the possibility she was going crazy by asking, What risk?
Such a large use of magic will draw attention where a simple shield would not have. It will be investigated.
By Elves?
By more than that. Peordh. Predestination. Predetermination.
Peordh?
But the ink on her wrists and arms went cool. “Peordh,” she said, looking at Eamon. “Do you know that word?”
Justine heard and answered, “It’s the name of a rune symbolizing fate.” Adding, “I think it would be better if you waited inside, Etaín, out of sight.”
“Good idea.” Her chest tightened with the knowledge that at least one person had managed a picture of her; she’d felt it. She wondered if the early Native Americans had a similar awareness, if that’s why they’d thought the white man’s cameras stole pieces of their soul.
She didn’t want more media attention. She was lucky the lid seemed to still be on when it came to her being taken by the Harlequin Rapist. But sending the Elves looking for whoever had managed the picture didn’t seem wise.
In the gathered crowd Anton had slipped away, leaving his Harley pock-marked by bullets, its tires flat and seat lined with holes. The remaining pictures lay scattered on the asphalt like litter, but the steely clamp of Eamon’s hand around her arm prevented her from picking them up.
She noticed his car as he guided her past it and into the shelter. It hadn’t escaped the spray of bullets.
Blinds allowed them to see out but not be seen as the first patrol car arrived, lights flashing and siren screaming. There was no point in trying to make an escape, though she contemplated it. A second patrol car arrived, followed by a TV van.
“Peordh,” Eamon said. “Where did you hear the word, Etaín? Why did you ask about it when you did?”
His voice was smooth, cool, water without a ripple in it, but she sensed the riptides beneath the surface and shrugged, preferring no answer than to struggle with a lie.
The hand on her arm tightened while his other cupped her cheek, the heat of it offset by the chill in his eyes and the frost in his voice. “You’ll answer the question I’ve put to you, Etaín.”
Lord once again, but given what he’d done she gave it a pass, turning her head to place a kiss in the center of his palm. “You shielded the people in here from stray bullets. Thank you.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “It was not a rational decision, Etaín. In the end, it may well cost more than one Elf their lives.”
“Your people?”
“Our people.” He smiled slightly. “And no. If not for the fact that you didn’t grow up among us, Liam would take offense at the question. As would Myk.”
Mention of the unmet Elf gave her an excuse to continue avoiding talk of Peordh. She turned her attention to the dark-haired man—one as mouth-watering as all the other Elves she’d seen.
“Thanks for the save,” she said.
He gave a small bow. “Lady.”
“Peordh, Etaín,” Eamon repeated.
“It popped into my head.” True enough.
Through the window she saw Justine speak with a policeman, and that policeman speak into his shoulder mic before heading in the direction of the shelter door. Etaín had never been so glad at the prospect of being interrogated. “Looks like they’re ready to talk to us.”
He didn’t say more about the rune. She hoped the reprieve wasn’t temporary. He didn’t protest when the uniformed policeman entered and led her away, but with Liam present, hidden in some obscure shadow, why would he.
Detectives joined the uniformed cop. What she had to say took only a few minutes. She’d seen nothing. She knew nothing. She could only offer a guess, that Anton was the target given what had happened at the Cur’s hangout. But they kept her, making her repeat herself, a stalling tactic she understood as soon as the captain stepped into the room, dismissing the other cops.
She tensed at being alone with him, tried desperately to blockade her heart against a rush of hope. But that hope crashed easily through the barrier she’d erected when he crossed to her with quick strides, hugging her fiercely.
“Christ, Etaín. Enough of this. Enough. You could have been killed.”
Impossible with Eamon at her side but she couldn’t give her father that reassurance. “I’m okay.”
“For now. I’m putting you into protective custody.”
“No.” It wasn’t even a remote possibility. “Eamon’s got top-notch security. He’ll keep me safe.”
Her father pulled away. “For how long? Until it no longer suits the Dunnes?”
“Despite what you think, Eamon is not involved with Niall and Denis any more than Cathal is involved in their busin
ess.”
“I’ll cede you Eamon, but not Cathal. I’ll believe you didn’t knowingly become an accessory to murder, but he made you one regardless. Don’t let the Dunnes destroy you. It’s not too late, Etaín. I can help you out of this mess. The first step is going into protective custody.”
The burst of warmth she’d felt at his greeting and hug faded. Ugly suspicion crept in.
If she was in protective custody, rumors could be circulated, making her bait, a target for Cathal’s father and uncle, a trap set. Or the prospect of having those rumors circulated, and the possibility of an ordered hit, could be a threat used to get her to admit to having touched Brianna then drawn the scenes from her memories and given them to Denis.
Etaín couldn’t forget those moments of fear and horror when the police had arrived at her doorstep, dropping her to the floor and cuffing her. Of being taken to a place that held remembered terror and locked in a small confined space, as if they’d known it could break her. As if they’d been told that by the man in front of her, or by Parker. The captain had never been shades of gray when it came to the law and his duty to it.
She jammed her hands into her pockets, because she couldn’t risk touching him. “I don’t want to argue with you. Am I free to go now?”
“Etaín.” He swallowed, and her own throat tightened at the tears she thought she heard in his voice.
Reaching out, he gripped her upper arms, and though it wasn’t skin-to-skin contact, it seemed as though his fear was real, pulsing into her, creating a fist around her heart that squeezed and released in time to the subtle tightening and release of his hands. “You’re going to get yourself killed. It’s a miracle you didn’t die today. You can’t count on surviving the next time.”
“There won’t be a next time. Today I was in the wrong place with the wrong person. I admit it. Okay. Satisfied?”
“No.” He shook her to emphasize the point. “This drive-by may have had nothing to do with the slaughter in Oakland. The Dunnes killed four boys, one of them was a Brazilian diplomat’s son. You can’t know that boy’s family didn’t have ties to one of the South American cartels. You can’t be certain this drive-by wasn’t retribution. Accept the offer of protective custody. Please, Etaín. Right now. We leave immediately.” While she was separated from Cathal and Eamon. While there were plenty of cops on the scene.
“I can’t.” She nearly added Dad, but knew that’d only make what she had to say next even worse. “I am going to marry Cathal Dunne. Disappearing isn’t a possibility for him. He’s got a club to run.”
The hands on her arms fell away. “This is just the beginning of the trouble, Etaín.”
He left the room first. She followed, searching the shelter and finding Eamon and Cathal together after passing the officer who’d apparently been making sure they remained at the far end of the building while she was taken into protective custody.
They came instantly toward her, emotions rising like a tidal wave and slamming through her at their approach. She wrapped her arms around their waists the instant they arrived, closing her eyes and savoring their heat and strength.
There hadn’t been time for this after the shooting, with the rush of witnesses and the need to get out of sight of cameras and reporters. “My fault,” she admitted. It seemed her past was coming back in a dark rush.
“Bullshit,” Cathal said, slamming his mouth down on hers, tongue surging past quickly parted lips to rub and twine with hers. He didn’t care who saw. Who knew he was sharing her with Eamon, because Eamon’s kisses along her neck made it plain they were both her lovers.
Jesus. They’d all come close to dying.
Not the truth. Not today with Eamon and the other Elves present. Intellectually he understood there’d never been any possibility of it, but that didn’t prevent his body from believing otherwise.
He wanted to take her back to his place and make love to her. More than that, he wanted to keep her there, safe from her own choices. And the fierceness of that desire, and that it was so similar to Eamon’s, was enough to bring him up short.
His mouth left hers. “Let’s get out of here.”
Etaín laughed. “Guess that means group hug time is over.”
Eamon’s hand moved upward along her spine, slipping beneath her hair to gently stroke the back of her neck. “You and Cathal are more vulnerable on the motorcycle. It would be wiser for us to leave together in the sedan. Liam can ride your bike. If increased safety isn’t incentive enough, I’ll even make you the same offer I did the other night. If the Harley is damaged in any way I’ll replace it with another of greater value.”
It wasn’t solely her decision. “Cathal?” she asked.
He nodded, and as if waiting for just that clue, Liam stepped into the doorway, a hand out, ready to take the bike key. “Myk is out back with a different vehicle. There are no obvious watchers.”
“Excellent,” Eamon said, eyes meeting hers then Cathal’s. “Shall we?”
They left, Etaín pulling the Harley’s key from her pocket and giving it to Liam as she passed him. In the car Myk asked, “Where to?”
“Sean’s boat,” Etaín said, the drive-by only making her more determined to do what she could to find those responsible for the bar invasion and slaughter.
Eleven
Sweet,” Ernesto Jacko Munoz said as Cyco opened the case to reveal the weapon inside.
“More than sweet. War on drugs means there’s some pretty toys to be had. You’re looking at a Milkor M32A1, nine grand of killing power.”
Jacko lifted the grenade launcher. “I could have me a lot of fun with this.”
“Yeah, that mother carries six rounds and I got four different types of load.”
Cyco caressed the charges like they were a woman’s titties. “One smoke. One flash-bang. Three standard high-explosive rounds. And one called a hell-HOUND. Know what that stands for?”
“No assholes left alive.”
Cyco laughed, the sound of it and the way his eyes looked doing it the reason for the street name he’d lived up too. “You got it, homie. High Order Unbelievably Nasty Destruction. HOUND. Double the killing power of the standard round.”
“They’re showing you some major respect.”
“Yeah. They know I’m the big dog when it comes to getting things done.”
Cyco’s cellphone rang. He checked the incoming number, answered by asking, “You finish it?”
A minute later the call ended. “The fucker survived. Two camaradas emptied their guns and they didn’t hit him.”
“Where was he?”
“In front of some homeless shelter.”
Jacko handed off the grenade launcher like it was a pacifier. “You want me to throw in some of my crew?”
“Na, man, I got it handled. Next time Anton shows up, there won’t be any mistakes. Besides, you got your own thing to manage, killing the Irish dude.”
Jacko hefted one of the grenade launcher rounds. “Should be easy enough to do.”
* * *
The sight of Sean’s boat coming on the heels of the encounter with the captain had an ache sweeping through Etaín like a small wave of salt water over an open wound.
Would it ever stop hurting?
No.
She’d only be lying to herself if she thought it would. He and Parker had once been her anchors in a world as foreign to her as the supernatural one Eamon had revealed.
Until she’d been left in San Francisco, the only permanent thing in her life had been her mother. They’d moved constantly, changing names with each move. She’d had dozens of them by the time she was presented to the captain as his illegitimate daughter.
He’d accepted the truth of it immediately, refusing to give in to his wife’s demands for a paternity test, not that it’d stopped Laura from getting it done. Even now, Etaín didn’t know exactly when he’d found out she wasn’t actually his. She knew only that he had forbidden it from becoming public knowledge, despite intense pressure fro
m Laura and her moneyed, politically powerful family.
Etaín remembered those first months, rushing to the door each time the bell rang or she heard a car in the driveway. Always certain it was her mother coming back for her. There’d been no warning, no preparation for the abandonment that had marked her life, the shadows of that pain haunting her still.
Run and keep running. See but don’t be seen. Those were her mother’s lessons. And yet she’d brought her to San Francisco, left her at an age when it was impossible to either run or remain unseen.
The smell of the bay was a reminder of the happier times that had come after she’d finally accepted that her mother wasn’t coming back, when comfort offered had led to fierce love, for the man she believed was her father, for the older brother who was constant companion, best friend, and protector, two relationships that were now like a still smoldering and smoking ruin.
Etaín became aware of the heat in her tattoo-encircled wrists, the burn flowing through the ink her mother had put on her just prior to coming to this city. Looking down, she was reminded of those moments in the shower with Cathal when the water had washed away her blindness.
She’d seen and understood that her mother wore tattoos exactly like the binding ones she’d placed on him. Now, for the first time, it struck her that the emerald green woven throughout the design at her wrists was like a long strand of interconnected sigils, one that spread upward into the tattoos on her arms and was the exact color of the Dragon.
Yesss.
The voice jerked her gaze upward, the motion abrupt enough Cathal asked, “You okay?”
She shook off the effects of the voice, wondering if her throat would constrict and her jaw lock if she tried to ask Eamon about it, the same way she’d only barely been able to ask for his help in preventing her from harming Parker with the touch of skin to skin. “Just thinking about how things used to be, with Parker and the captain.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing I can do to change it.”
“You think like a human,” Eamon said.
She smiled at hearing his tone and recognizing it was very carefully neutral. Lord Eamon just might be learning his lesson.
