The sight of Mable’s lopsided bun sliding down the back of her head always made me smile.
She was a bean-tighe, a housebound spirit. They were one of several nocturnal races of Seelie. Their personal glamours were usually of the cookie-baking, apron-wearing, booboo-kissing grandma variety, but Mable had taken her illusion one step further. She emulated the ultimate grandmother figure. She was a dead ringer for Mother Christmas, if Mrs. Claus had never met a shade of pink she didn’t love. And possibly if the North Pole was, in fact, a dude ranch staffed by ten-gallon-hat-wearing elves.
“Knock, knock.” I waited while she adjusted her alarmingly fuchsia glasses. “Did I interrupt your dinner?”
“Thierry.” Her round face split into a grin. “Always good to see you, sweetie. Come on in.”
“I brought you something.” I pulled the troll skin from under my arm. “Quinn O’Shea.”
“Oh dear.” She covered her mouth with a plump hand. “An execution.”
“I...” Old guilt tightened my throat until it trapped my excuse. “It was self-defense.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She bent down, opened the mini fridge under her desk and produced a pitcher of iced tea and a glass that matched hers. “Yours is a dangerous job.” She poured the syrupy liquid to the brim then passed the drink to me. “Out in the field, anything can happen. You do the best you can to see that justice is served, and then you do whatever it takes to get home in one piece.”
The miserable tightness making it hard to breathe eased enough that when she passed me a tray of my favorite iced lemon cookies, the smile bending my lips was as genuine as the affection behind it.
She jabbed her finger at the chair across from her desk. “Go on, sit. I’ll get the papers together.”
“First, I have a gift for you.” I reached into my messenger bag, a graduation gift from her, and pulled out a small jar. “Basswood honey.”
“Basswood, you say?” She clasped her hands together. “I haven’t tasted that variety in years.”
“I’m glad you approve.” I passed it to her. “I’ll bring avocado next time.”
Despite being employed by the conclave, tradition dictated a price be paid for the services of the bean-tighe. Mable loved her honey, the more exotic the better. Sucking up to the lady who handed out case assignments was always a stellar idea, but Mable was like family. Spoiling her with rare honey made me happy.
“You are too good to me.” She unscrewed the lid, her eyes closing as she sampled it by dipping her pinky into the jar and licking honey from her finger. “Divine.”
I dropped into the spare chair and leaned forward, propping my elbows on her desk. Two more cookies vanished while she filled out my bonus voucher and printed the necessary paperwork. Chasing O’Shea must have worked up an appetite. “What do you know about the Morrigan’s son, Raven?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I don’t involve myself with Faerie’s politics when I can help it.” Mable capped her honey and placed it in a desk drawer. “Why do you ask?”
I licked my fingers before remembering where my hands had been. Ick. I gulped Mable’s lemony sweet brew, swishing it around in my mouth. Brushing my teeth with a palm full of sugar would have had the same scouring effect. “Someone claiming to be Raven showed up when I summoned the Morrigan earlier.”
I had been working cases solo for over a year now. Factor in five years of education in the fae private school system, plus sixteen weeks of marshal academy, and my summoning skills should have been topnotch. When I summoned the Morrigan, I expected the Morrigan. Not her next of kin.
“Give me a moment.” Mable cleaned her hands with a wet wipe then clacked a few keys on her computer. “I don’t see any cross-realm travel paperwork filed under his name—or hers.” She glanced up at me. “Did you get a good look at him?”
“No.” The cookie turned sour in my mouth. “He appeared as a floating glob of energy.”
“Hmm. That sounds like a scavenger to me.” She clicked a few more keys. “I’ll file a report and let the magistrates know there was a poaching incident. That’s the fourth one this week.”
“There have been more?” Poaching from the Morrigan was suicidal, so understandably rare.
“Oh, yes.” She bobbed her head. “Territorial disputes happen to us all from time to time, and she holds the monopoly on conclave business. I can’t imagine the other death dealers are too pleased about that.”
I sat back and drummed my fingers on her desk. “So there’s no way it was Raven?”
“No.” She printed out an incident form and slid it over for me to initial. “It’s not possible.”
“Are we talking no-way, no-how possible—” a curious note entered my voice as I signed off on an official version of the event, “—or unlikely?”
Breaches rarely happened, but where there was a will, and a powerful fae, there was usually a way.
“Princes are physically bound to Faerie.” She took the paper, folded it and stashed it in an envelope. “They have other means of visiting. Astral projection. Cognitive illusions. Those sorts of things.”
“I wonder who answered my summons.” I swirled the cubes in my glass to hear them clink.
“I can send you copies of the other reports, if you’d like.” She reached for her notepad. “If a bounty is placed on him, I’ll let you know.”
Figuring the sum would be tidy, I grinned. “That would be much appreciated.”
“There is particular interest in these incidents,” she hedged.
Competition for the higher bounties was to be expected.
“Oh?” I sipped on my tea to get one last cookie down. “Who else wants it?”
“Shaw.”
Despite the drink, my tongue turned cotton-ball dry. “Shaw?”
“Oh dear. You didn’t know.” Her brow wrinkled. “Of course you didn’t. Why would you?”
“Is he—? Shaw’s back?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well. All right.” I set the glass down before my jittery hands dumped it in my lap. “That’s good. Great even.”
Mable cast me a doubtful look.
“I wonder if the Morrigan knows about the poacher,” I blurted to have something halfway sensible to say.
“If she did, she would have killed him by now.”
“If he can be killed.” Not all death-touched fae could be ended.
“There is that.” Mable turned pensive. “You two might consider working the case together. You’re the best suited pair for the job.”
“For old times’ sake?” I asked softly, wincing at the grit in my voice.
“Shaw has seniority,” she reminded me. “If he decides he wants the case, I have to give it to him. If you worked together, you could split the bounty.”
“I’ll think about it.” I picked at my nails and stared at her from underneath my lashes. “When are you expecting him back?”
“He ought to check in before dawn.” She glanced up then, brows drawn and lips pursed like she had sucked a whole lemon out of her tea glass. Clearly, she wasn’t hot for this idea either. “Do you want to wait for him?”
“I— No. No need for that.” Heat crept up the base of my neck. “I’ll be in my office wrapping up O’Shea’s paperwork if you need me.”
The last thing I wanted was for Shaw to find me waiting on him like a lovesick puppy.
Chapter Four
The staccato rap of knuckles on wood brought my head up in time to spot Jackson Shaw lean against the doorjamb in my office. A flannel shirt hung from his shoulders in tatters with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, exposing vivid crimson slashes across his forearms. More gashes bisected his torso, leaving his abs peeking out at me from under his T-shirt. Dried mud caked his boots, and he smelled of...
I coughed into my fist and reached for a bottle of water. “Is that sauerkraut?”
He shrugged while shutting the door then crossed the room and perched on the edge of my desk. “Don’t ask.”
“Fine. I won’t.” I swigged tepid water to wet my parched throat. “What brings you here?”
His gaze jerked from my lips to my eyes. “Mable said you had a proposition for me.”
“Um, no.” Heat blistered my cheeks. “Well, not exactly.”
Fabric tore as he removed his flannel shirt and used it to wipe his face clean. He glanced up and caught me staring. A heartbeat later, the scent of bergamot and patchouli stung my nose, the heady fragrance sinking heavily into my lungs, tingling in my limbs with every inhale until my tender nerves sizzled.
Shaw’s voice dipped into a husky register. “It’s been a long time, Thierry.”
Twelve months. Twelve. Too long. Not nearly long enough.
“Don’t.” My voice sounded as small and pained as a wounded animal. “Just don’t.”
I dug through my satchel for the vial of smelling salts I kept there. I inhaled until my sinuses burned and my eyes watered. Thank God, the pungent scent still cut through his sultry lure. As to why I kept the vial on me, call me sentimental.
His jaw tightened. “The conclave—”
“—had nothing to do with you rolling out of my bed and right into someone else’s.” Bitter laughter stung my throat. “Five someone elses.”
“Give me some credit.” He fisted his ruined shirt in his lap. “I tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
Being faithful to me had almost killed him. Learning he had been unfaithful? Well, that almost killed me.
Shoving from the desk, Shaw began pacing the room. “Did you want something or not?”
I leaned back in my chair. “Mable wants us to work the Morrigan’s poaching case together.”
A moment passed between us then, and I knew he was remembering the first case we had worked as partners. We had gone after poachers then too.
He planted his feet and gave me his full attention. “I’m listening.”
Leaving nothing out, I filled him in on my visit from “Raven”.
“Dealing with a death-touched fae means hazard pay.” He considered me. “If we split the bounty, we’ll both come out with a nice check.”
One niggling doubt kept pecking at my brain. The first rule of investigative work was to rule out the obvious, even if the obvious was impossible. “Mable says Raven can’t physically be here.”
“Black Dog bound him.” He shook his head. “Only he can unbind him.”
That was news to me. Mable was right. Shaw was leaps ahead of me in the research department.
I wondered, “What about a spell?”
Incubus or not, Shaw was the best spellworker the Southwestern Conclave had.
“Not likely.” He scratched his jaw. “Most spells perform a single function. If Raven projected his likeness, he could converse intelligently with you. If he tapped into the invocation circuit the marshals use to summon the Morrigan, he would hear the calls and could send his magic to consume the tithe. The odds of him crafting a spell complex enough to accomplish both tasks are slim.”
I nodded in deference of his expertise. “So poacher it is.”
Fragrant spice burst in the air between us, twining through my senses until my body softened.
“I missed this,” he said. “Us working together.”
I made a noncommittal sound and planted my palms on the desktop.
He seemed to take my grunt as agreement. “I’ll email you what I have so far.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Eager for a breath of fresh air, I rose and crossed the room to open the door. “I’ll send you a copy of the incident report Mable filed on my behalf.”
He boxed me in, the knob cutting into my hip as he stood there, soaking me up like sunshine. A zap of connection jolted a gasp out of me when his fingers slid along my jaw until his palm cupped my cheek.
Thick lashes rimmed his burnished copper eyes, a snare that stole my breath. His sun-kissed skin burned where it touched mine, and I struggled against the urge to lean into that heat, to tuck a mahogany curl behind his ear. The absence of his usual smile left stark white creases in the corners of his eyes and faint bracket lines on either side of his full lips.
Damn him and his stupid lure. Damn me too for being stupid enough to be alone with him.
“We’ll make this work.” His whiskey-rich voice poured warmly through my ears. “Partners?”
I swallowed hard, tasting him on each swallow. “I should— Mai is expecting me.”
His finger traced the line of my jaw, sliding down my throat and across my collarbone until he spread a wide palm over my frenzied heart. Fire lanced from his hand to my soul, searing my chest where we touched. With a blistering sigh, Shaw licked his lips, his voice gone hoarse. “You should go then.”
My head bobbled. “I should.”
But I didn’t.
His head lowered, his lips hovering a breath above mine.
Our almost-kiss was interrupted by a fat pink purse bouncing off the side of his head.
“Boy, you better get back.” Mable cocked her arm. “No feeding on conclave property.”
“Feeding?” I slurred as Mable swam in and out of focus.
“Out.” Mable elbowed Shaw into the hall then hooked an arm around my waist. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I let her guide me back to my chair. “Fine.”
The lure must have hit me harder than I thought.
She cupped my face and tilted my head back. “I never should have let that sweet talker up here.”
My eyes drifted closed. “He’s fine.”
“No.” She shook my shoulders. “He was wounded and hungry, and you were an easy mark.”
That jolted me awake. “What?”
If my coworkers started thinking I was easy pickings, I wouldn’t last the week. If I wanted to keep running with the big dogs, I had to show them my bite was worse than my bark.
Chapter Five
I ran down the stairs after Shaw, shoved through the front door of the office building and took the steps two at a time. I hit the gravel and jogged across the parking lot until I fisted the back of his ruined T-shirt. “What the hell kind of stunt was that?”
“You wanted to make a deal. I wanted to heal.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Now we’re even.”
I snagged his arm and spun him around. Both his forearms were healed. The angry slashes from earlier faded to silvery white lines as I watched. “You slurped on my soul without my permission—”
“Not slurped. More like sipped.” He wet his lips. “You taste as good as I remember.”
Hunger peered through his eyes, sparking heat south of the border I’d sworn to never let him cross again. My nipples tightened, ached. The way his lips pursed promised he would soothe away the sting.
I had taken a step closer to him before warning bells started clanging in the back of my head.
“Keep your metaphysical lips to yourself.” I planted my fists on my hips. “Or you will regret it.”
“I saw O’Shea, what was left of him.” He cocked an eyebrow. “As long as you’re feeding, your soul replenishes itself.”
So he knew I had just fed and had energy to spare. Too bad he hadn’t asked me to share.
“How can you be sure?” I raised an eyebrow of my own. “You always eat and run.”
“About that.” He jingled his keys. “You’re interfering with the running part.”
“If you’re going to be here, then you’re going to have to learn to respect boundaries.” That or I might have to invest in a Taser. “My office, my body and my personal life are off-limits.”
“Off-limits works for me.” His head lowered a fraction toward mine. “You’re the one making this personal.”
A pang in my chest made me think he might be right. What was I to him except a free meal with a familiar aftertaste? I was the one lashing out. I was the one hurting. Same old tune, different dance.
I pressed a finger to his forehead and nudged him out of my personal space. “I’ve had a long shift. Em
ail me your case files tonight. I’ll go over your information tomorrow.”
I had turned toward my car when his hand closed over my arm.
A throat cleared behind us, saving me from whatever he might have said to make things worse.
“Shaw,” Mable called from the sagging front porch. “Take your show on the road.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tipped the brim of a nonexistent hat and let me go. “Later, Thierry.”
Mable and I watched him swagger over to a pickup that wasn’t his usual black monstrosity. A white printout from the dealership still clung to the window, and an orange price sticker blocked part of the front windshield. This truck was a glossy, sapphire-blue dream come true for someone who drove her mom’s hand-me-down sedan with peeling bumper stickers from her middle-school days plastered on it.
Shaw climbed into his new ride, punched the gas and churned up a cloud of dust in his wake.
“Give him a ten-minute head start,” Mable cautioned.
Waiting implied Shaw wanted me specifically, when he had made it clear that was no longer the case.
I cast a fond smile over my shoulder. “I will.”
“Don’t be a stranger.” She waved. “Remember, you said avocado next time.”
I lifted a hand and started walking toward my car. “I’ll remember.”
Thanks to the magic of basswood honey, she had given me two more cases to work. Both FTAs, failure to appears, which would keep me occupied for another couple of weeks while Shaw and I tracked the poacher.
Unlike Quinn, whose capture padded my bank account by five grand, these two were worth half that. Half the risk meant half the fee. Yet another reason why tackling the case with Shaw made good financial sense. Factor in the hazard pay, and we would each walk away with four grand. Not too shabby.
As I stabbed the sticky door lock with my Mom of the Year key, a flicker of movement caught my eye.
Trapped beneath the windshield wipers, a silky black feather whipped in the breeze.
Magic stung my fingertips when I retrieved it.
Heir of the Dog Page 2
