by Sarra Cannon
Heath looked into the backseat, likely to check that Shaileen and Olivia were still asleep. “Mind if I tell her, Thom? I don’t tell other peoples’ tales without permission.”
Thom sighed and slowed as he approached a bustling intersection. “Let me think about it.”
The streets were lined with normal shops, all of the mom-and-pop variety. The tiny coffee place had a line out the door. A florist stood outside his shop straightening a display of cheerful mums. Two women gabbed outside a pay-as-you-go gym, clutching their yoga mats under their arms. Not even the clothing stores they passed were chains. All local. Kind of reminded Simone of a seaside town, minus the salt air.
“What’s the population here?” she asked.
Heath grunted. “A few thousand. It’s a pretty insular community, much like the Amish or a Native reservation.”
“Everyone’s related?”
He chuckled. “They try hard not to be, at least not closely. There’s a lady who keeps very good records to make sure folks don’t marry their close cousins.”
“What are they?”
“Vikings.”
She looked out the window at the mat-toting waifs one more time. “Huh?”
“Descended from them, that is. From one particular voyage that went awry about a thousand years ago.”
“How the hell did they end up in the desert?”
“Landed in Canada. Moved south to get away from the cold and west to stay ahead of the English, Spanish, and French settlers. They’ve been settled in this area for a very long time, though they keep under wraps what they are. Powerful magic in this group. Their queen, Contessa, is quite extraordinary.”
He turned in time to see the sour expression she was obviously making, because he slapped his hand over his mouth and muffled his laughter. When his merriment had died down, he shook his head, and said, “Don’t be jealous, love. Contessa is shacked up with my cousin Oliver. Matt’s dad.”
“Oliver…” and Olivia… She squinted. “Is he”—she canted her head toward the sleeping child—“you know.”
“No. No question that he isn’t. Oliver’s mother was named Olivia, too. The child was named after her. Shaileen was her maid.”
“Oh. So, Ollie is Sídhe?”
“Half. Like you.”
Huh.
“And, before you ask, my mother and Oliver aren’t on great terms. His mother left just like yours. For different reasons, but both on the winds of Mum’s rage.”
“It’ll be nice to meet someone I have something in common with.”
“Indeed. We try to be good friends to the Afótama, and not merely because my cousins belong to them now, but because they’re favored by some gods who turned their backs on the Sídhe a long time ago. Our pantheons overlap a bit.”
“What did you do to make them turn their backs?”
“It wasn’t just one thing,” Thom said. “We were losing favor long before Rhiannon and Brandan took the thrones.”
“Brandan?” Sounded mighty white for fairy supposedly born in Persia.
“Not his real name,” Heath said, obviously catching the gist of her tone. “Just an adopted one. My mother has several adopted names as well.”
“How many false names do you have?”
“Just the surname.”
She kinda wanted to know what the real one was, but she’d never confess it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she was actually a little curious about him.
Okay, maybe a lot curious. She could say a bunch of things about him, but she could never accuse him of being boring.
“So this place—Norseton—is something like a kingdom, too?”
“Queendom, technically. I think. Actually, I don’t know anymore. That may have changed recently along with the flow of power. Suffice it to say, their community operates quite differently than things in the fairy realm.”
“Seems modern.”
“It is,” Thom said. “Heath, you can tell her. I don’t imagine there’s anyone she’ll see fit to share it with.”
Interest piqued, Simone leaned forward a little more.
“Thom’s fated mate is Afótama,” Heath said in a whisper.
“And I take it she feels approximately the same way I do.”
“No. She doesn’t know.”
“Thom, you’re not the kind of guy who’d hold things back. You seem more of the pillage-first-and-answer-questions-later sort.”
“Aye, I was once. That’s why your lovely goddess cursed me.”
“Hestia?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Eh…” Heath chuckled. “Let’s just say he left one too many women crying in the morning after he left them. I won’t bore you with the details.”
Simone bet those details were far from boring, but seeing as how they’d stopped in front of a large adobe mansion and Thom had pulled up the parking brake, she didn’t think they’d enlighten her further. She had to ask, though, “The curse is why he hasn’t pursued this woman?”
“One of the reasons,” Thom said. “The other may be too perverse for your delicate constitution.”
She rolled her eyes. “Delicate. Right. How do you break your curse? I know there’s an out clause. There has to be, right?”
“Aye, there is, and it’s as exquisite as Hestia herself. I may never undo it.”
Simone started at the gentle rap on the window to Heath’s right.
A small, brown-skinned woman looking fresh as a daisy wearing in her white button-up shirt peered into the car.
Heath opened his door. “Good afternoon, Lora. I imagine Joe let you know we were on the way up.”
“He did.” She looked into the backseat.
Olivia leaned against Simone and whispered, “Where are we?”
Simone whispered back, “We are evidently in a place called Norsteon where the Afótama live.”
Her eyes went wide and her smile broadened. “Oliver and Tess are Afótama. Is that who we’re going to see?”
“I believe so.”
“Are you staying, too?”
“Um…I think I’m just here as a visitor.” She looked up to see the woman with the crisp, bright shirt staring at her. She didn’t look much like any Viking Simone had ever seen. Her skin was dark and her sleek hair the bluest black. Native or Mexican or some mix. People back east were easier to peg. She didn’t know what sorts of mixing happened in the southwest.
Simone gave a little wave. “I’m not a refugee. Just a tagalong.”
Heath muttered something indecipherable under his breath, climbed out, and opened the back door. Olivia bounded down, pulling Simone after her as if she feared she wouldn’t figure out how to extricate herself from the vehicle.
“Lora, meet my wife Simone. Simone, meet Queen Contessa’s personal assistant Lora.”
Lora’s dark eyebrows flew up. “Your wife?”
“Aye.”
Simone closed her eyes and sent up a plea for strength to any god who’d receive it. Although she was justified in her recalcitrance—at least in her opinion—she was beginning to feel like the lady who protested too much. If she and Heath were married in a fairy sense, that was between Heath and whatever gods he bargained to. She considered the match no more binding in the real world than a Vegas wedding performed by an unlicensed Elvis-impersonating officiant.
“I didn’t know you had anyone.” Lora scowled and eyed Simone from head to toe.
Simone would have normally gotten her hackles up, but she was simply too tired to muster up the indignation. Besides, Lora seemed more shocked than disapproving. Whether or not that was because Heath had a womanizing man-whore reputation, Simone didn’t want to know. He did look like he’d be one, though.
She squinted at him.
“No, you assumed no one would have me.” Heath folded his arms over his chest and rocked back on his boot heels. “Fortunately, The Fates do have some mercy for even the sorriest of motherfuckers. I couldn’t have done better
even if I’d tried. Who’d make a better princess than a woman who’s already a queen in her own right?” His knavish smile and the troublemaker twinkle in his blue eyes made Simone’s cheeks burn hot.
Damn him. She looked away. She wasn’t going to be bowed by a sweet-talker’s pretty words, no matter how badly she craved hearing them. He’d had seventeen decades to practice them, and had likely used the same ones on countless women in the past.
Countless. Women.
She narrowed her eyes at him again. How many women had he been with in his long life?
Meeting her gaze briefly, he furrowed his brow, cleared his throat, scooped up Olivia, and turned to Lora. “Okay, then. Would you happen to know where Oliver is this time of day?”
“Try the library. We had a meeting, and it ended a few minutes ago. He may still be in there with Mr. Lang.”
“Thank you very much.”
Thom started toward the door with Shaileen on his elbow. Heath followed with Olivia, and stopped. Turned. He fixed his stare on Lora. “Might you do me a favor? I know you’re disinclined to.”
She just stared at him. If she were anything like Simone, she likely had some retort all ready to go, but as she was working in a professional capacity she probably thought she needed to keep the barb to herself. “What kind of favor, Mr. Horan?”
“Thom and I need to conference with Oliver for a while, and I suspect it’ll be dull for Simone. Could you…possibly…you know?”
“Entertain her?”
“I don’t need entertaining,” Simone said. “I can wait in the truck.” And ponder my lot in life. She’d certainly done enough of that in the past six years that she’d become an expert at it. It was almost like meditation, thinking of how pathetic her life was and then immediately assuaging herself with the knowledge that, hey—shit could be worse.
Lora shook her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
Heath set Olivia down, patted his pockets, and drew out his wallet. “Maybe just point her to the shops and peek in occasionally to make sure she doesn’t abscond.” He uncurled Simone’s right fingers from the fist she’d formed and tucked a platinum card into her hand.
“I don’t want your dirty money.”
He shrugged. “It’s your money, too. Might as well spend it. I live more or less off interest income. Credit card company might call me confused as to why I’m charging anything besides cheap motel rooms and ammunition, though. Apparently, I have a spending pattern.”
“So you and your thugs aren’t cash-only,” she leaned in and whispered, knowing Lora was watching them intently. Some things just needed to be kept private.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Thom paid for your rooms with cash.”
“That’s because Thom doesn’t trust banks.” Heath grimaced. “Or people in suits, for that matter.”
She turned the card over and over in her hand. Heath A.J. Horan, it read. “What’s the A.J. stand for?”
“Aiden Jahangir. I could only fit two initials into the middle.”
“How many are missing?”
“Two.”
“You have six names?”
“Not including my titles. Don’t worry, we can set a limit of three for our children.” He grinned.
She sighed…and wondered where his credit card statements went. Certainly, the USPS wouldn’t know how to process mail addressed to Land of the Motherfucking Fairies.
“You look confused.”
“Can you really blame me?”
Lora stepped closer and motioned toward the path leading to the town square the shops surrounded. “Sorry to butt in, but I’m the kind of girl who likes to kill two birds with one stone. It’s happy hour at the coffee shop, and I could use a half-price panini right about now. Afótama meetings run long, and I didn’t have time to put in a food order.”
Simone was about to beg off to tell the woman it really wasn’t necessary, and then her gurgling stomach gave her away.
Damn it.
Heath turned Simone toward the path, gave her a little swat on the ass, and said, “Do your worst damage, love. See you in a bit.”
Chapter 10
Simone’s “worst damage” needed some work. Apparently, she’d forgotten how to spend money. Shit, she’d forgotten what it felt like to have money.
She’d ended up purchasing a large rolling suitcase from the haberdasher, and pushed it from one shop to the next, ogling this and that but picking up nothing.
Lora, who leisurely followed Simone while sifting through messages on her phone as she sipped her massive coffee drink, said, “You’d be more likely to buy stuff if you tried some on.”
“I keep talking myself out of every purchase. And it’s stupid. I can’t lie to myself and say I don’t need it. I haven’t been shopping—really shopping—in six years. My entire wardrobe at the moment could fit into Heath’s duffel bag.”
Lora shuddered. Whether it was at the thought of anyone going near Heath’s smelly bag or the fact that Simone’s wardrobe was so small, Simone couldn’t guess.
Lora looked up from her phone and arched a brow. “You and Heath seem to have an, um, interesting relationship.”
Simone grabbed three pairs of jeans in different sizes and headed toward the changing stall. “I don’t know if I’d call it a relationship. I’m his fated mate, and for some reason that doesn’t strike me as romantic in the slightest bit.”
“You didn’t grow up knowing about this world?”
“No. I didn’t even know my mother was Sídhe until…” Simone stopped walking and furrowed her brow, thinking. They’d jumped across so many damned time zones and then reversed that she wasn’t even sure what day it was. Giving up on calendar math, she sighed. “Until very recently.”
“Ah.”
Simone stepped into the stall, pulled the curtain closed, heeled off her sneakers, and pushed down her pants. “You’re probably used to all the weird stuff, huh?” she called out.
“Yes and no.” Lora’s voice came from just outside the stall. She was probably leaning against the wall in front of it. “I’ve lived in Norseton since I was twelve. I was fostered and then adopted by a family here. There are a lot of adoptees here.”
“Why is that?”
“Because so many of the families had children kidnapped.”
Simone nudged the curtain aside. Lora’s expression was an emotionless blank—as if the topic of discussion was par for the course in Norseton. Hell, maybe it was.
Lora shook her head. “Long story. Let’s just say that finding missing people is an ongoing concern for the queen.”
“I bet that’s why your meetings run long.”
Lora nodded.
Simone let the curtain fall closed again and picked up the first pair of jeans. “How did you end up being aide to the queen? Pretty sweet gig.”
Lora snorted. “I don’t know if I’d call it sweet, but it suits me. I worked for her grandmother first, and Tess kept me on after Muriel retired. Hardest part of the job is keeping all those big lugs from steamrolling me.”
“I take it you don’t mean physically.”
“No. The chieftains and I don’t always agree when it comes to operational concerns, and of course, Heath and Thom tend to support them over me.”
“They’re pretty ornery.” Simone got the skinny jeans halfway up her muscular calves and changed her mind. She didn’t want to work so hard to get into pants. She tossed them onto the bench and tried the next pair. “You seem to hold your own pretty well.”
“It’s a constant battle. If you let up just a little…”
“Right. I already know where you’re going with that. They’ll take advantage of your kindness. I hear you loud and clear.” Simone managed to get the second pair of jeans up to her waist, probably due in part to the stretchy give of the fabric. Elastic was a curvy girl’s best friend. “So, you’ve met Heath a time or two, I take it?”
“Yes. He, Thom, Siobhan, and Caryl actually stayed
at the mansion for a few weeks a few months ago when we were interviewing new guards.”
“How do you feel about them?”
“The guards?”
“No, the Sídhe.”
Lora chuckled. “I like the ladies. They can be a bit silly at times, but I think that’s just a front so people underestimate them.”
Yeah, they were definitely silly, and Simone would offer up Siobhan’s very eclectic iTunes playlist as evidence of that. “And the guys?”
“Drive me nuts.”
“Ditto, but any particular reason why?”
“It’s not just the Sídhe, but all of them. The chieftains included. They’re disorganized. Inefficient.”
“I’d say that’s men in general.”
“I’d say you’re right.”
“So, you don’t have any particular aversions to anyone?”
“Simone…”
She cringed at the sound of Heath’s voice and whipped around to see him standing in the doorway.
Shaking his head, he clucked his tongue. “Fishing for info?”
“Can you blame me? And did you do away with Lora?”
“No, Lora is standing right here. She’s going to go pull some shirts off the shelves for you, though. Seems like you’re having a hard time.”
Simone couldn’t see her, but she heard Lora’s sigh.
He stepped into the stall and closed the curtain.
Simone gulped and fidgeted the price tag of her fancy stretchy jeans. “There’s really only room for one person in here.”
“It’s a mite uncomfortable, having two, isn’t it?” He smirked. “The sooner you try on, the sooner you can leave.”
“I think I’m done.”
“Looks like you’ve got one more to go.” He crooked his thumb toward the dark rinse pair still clinched on its hanger.
“So I do. Get out.”
“Are you afraid I’ll actually like what I see?”
“Don’t try to use reverse psychology on me. Doesn’t work.” She stepped aggressively out of the pair she was wearing and hung them by the belt loop onto a hook. Like hell if she cared if he saw her panties. She didn’t care one damn bit.
