Three Kinds of Damned

by May Dawson

  His fingertips skate over the edge of my bra strap before he slides one finger beneath, hooking the delicate fabric. “If you’re impressed by that, I should try using the other words.”

  “What other words are those?”

  His lips graze my ear. “Beautiful.”

  “It’s the dress.”

  His hand slides beneath the fabric, his warm palm against my side, his fingers curling against my lower abs. “Let’s see.”

  I smile—I can’t help it—as I step out of the dress and leave it on the floor. He purses his lips, as if he’s seriously considering the question, and then shakes his head. “It’s definitely not the dress.”

  His gaze plays over my curves and returns to my face, his eyes soft, and I’m suddenly shy. Earthside, I tried to stay covered-up and invisible. Here, I have a role to play.

  But how do I act when I’m not lost in the role? When I’m alone with the guys?

  “Not just beautiful,” he murmurs. He draws me against him and presses a kiss to my bare shoulder. “Brave. Bright. You were amazing tonight—you were so quick on your feet.”

  Sparks of light rise in my chest, and I dip my head to hide my widening smile. I’m a sucker for a compliment—I went years without any.

  “I’m going to have to recruit you,” he says frankly, kissing my other shoulder.

  “Didn’t you already?” I ask archly.

  He hesitates, his lips hovering against the curve of my neck. “I suppose I did.”

  My head tilts to one side, inviting him. “Do you really feel guilty about it?”

  “This is—”

  There’s a creak right outside the door—Cax’s foot—and I take a step back, raising my hand to my lips. My cheeks burn, no matter how innocent my expression is when Cax comes through the door.

  Cax looks from me—and my exposed bra—to Airren, and a mischievous grin spreads across his face. I bend to grab the silky material of the dress—the boned bodice still rises stiffly around my ankles.

  “Thanks for bringing the egg.” Airren attempts to cut him off. “See you tomorrow.”

  Cax, impervious to hints, takes a seat on the side of the bed. “When do you think it’ll hatch?”

  When I give up on my dress and let it pool at my feet again, I step carefully out of it. Both men look at me, interest sparking in their eyes.

  But I’m just en route to Airren’s dresser for a T-shirt that will hang to my knees. I’m all done with silk for tonight.

  “What happened when you followed those threads?” I ask as I pull the t-shirt over my head, breathing in the lavender scent of clean laundry.

  There’s a knock on the door. “It’s the police, idiots. Open up.”

  It’s Cutter’s voice, low and angry.

  Cax tilts his head toward the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  12

  “I’m tempted to just arrest you all,” Cutter grumbles. He’s grouchier than usual, and that’s saying something about our morose detective friend.

  “We’re the good guys,” Cax reminds him, balancing a white stick of chalk on his extended forefinger. Cax is kicked back in one of the straight-back chairs in our secret conference room, right next to the blackboard, ready to scribe.

  Cutter flashes him a dark look. “Every one in Avalon thinks they’re one of the good guys, but some people are gravely mistaken.”

  Airren hovers his hand over the silver decanter. After he pours a cup of coffee, the pleasantly bitter scent rising in the air, he pushes it across the table to Cutter. “Well, after Tera was attacked—“

  “No, back up.” Cutter raises a hand. “I’d like to start with the part where you provoked the True into storming into one of those ridiculous university parties.”

  Airren cocks his head to one side. “There’s far more interesting material to discuss here than how you feel about college parties. We followed one of the True—”

  Cutter shushes him.

  Airren slings an arm over the back of his chair. His expression is chilly. “Fine. Let’s talk through your feelings before we get back to the investigation, Detective.”

  “I knew you were conducting your own investigation,” Cutter says. “That’s very different from putting the girl in danger.”

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  We all turn toward Mycroft, who had merged with the furniture until he spoke. He leans in one corner of the room, reading one of those heavy books braced across his forearm, his boot kicked up against the wall.

  “Yeah, I care,” Cutter snaps. “Not in the way you care. But in a dead-Avalons-make-paperwork kind of way.”

  I duck my head, hiding a grin. For all his gruffness, Cutter cares about his job, and my hunch is that he cares about people too. Even inconvenient people like me.

  Plus, I love how Cutter antagonizes our resident alpha male.

  Cutter shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “From the beginning. Try to resist that Divide Intel impulse to lie, just for practice.”

  Airren launches into an explanation. Tera’s not safe until we flush out the True. The True’s compulsion to recruit the dark lord’s daughter is their weakness. Their words wash over me, distantly, as the two of them argue.

  When Cutter made such casual mention of an Intel habit of lying, it had a dangerous ring of truth. Something about that haunts me.

  “It’s not your place to draw out the True.” Cutter slaps his palm against the table, clearly irritated. “Divide Intel doesn’t have jurisdiction here—”

  Mycroft’s eyes flicker up from the page.

  “We’re out,” Airren interrupts. “But that doesn’t mean we aren’t concerned citizens.”

  “Concerned citizens who can get themselves arrested.” Cutter rakes a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated with us all. “You should have stayed in the Marines if you wanted to fight a war. You don’t get to come into my town and start one.”

  Airren leans forward in his chair, his cool finally snapping. “We didn’t start any war. We’re helping you finish it.”

  “You’re interfering in a police investigation.” Cutter pushes back from the table, and the legs of his chair groan as they scrape across the hardwood floor. “We’re done. No more leeway if you get in my way.”

  “So you don’t want help rooting out the True in your own department? You can’t trust anyone.” Airren’s words hang in the air, along with the implication that the people Cutter can trust are all gathered in this room.

  Cutter rakes a hand through his hair in exasperation. “You know how scared everyone is now? We haven’t seen a True show of force like than in five years. It’s been picked up by the national newspapers. Corum is a mess—”

  “Corum is already a mess,” Airren interrupts. “The True are there. We all want the same thing—to bring the True into the light.”

  Cutter sighs under his breath. He twists in his seat to address me. “Tera, are you okay with your boyfriend using you as bait?”

  It’s the second time his words have stabbed my soul in the span of ten minutes, but I smile anyway. “I’m at the Crown’s service.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Incredible.”

  “I have to play along, don’t I?” I ask, my voice tart. “I have to be Tera Donovan until you drown the last of my father’s rat army. I’d like to close that chapter sooner rather than later.”

  Cutter’s brows draw together before his face shifts back into neutral, and he leans back in his chair. “You think there’s an end to this war in sight?”

  He waits for an answer, long enough that he begins to fidget with his pencil, tapping it against the oak tabletop. Heat prickles in my cheeks. Suddenly, my plan to make myself useful and then abandon my family name seems naïve.

  “I have to believe that.” My voice comes out as a whisper, and I clear my throat. “We can’t go on like this forever. A divided country, this fear—”

  “Fear? Fear of armed True storming through campus.” Cutter s
hakes his head.

  “We didn’t anticipate that, obviously,” Airren says. “We thought they’d make contact with Tera…inconspicuously.”

  Cutter nods his head, a bit too quickly, as if he’s still impatient with us all.

  “All right, so you paraded the girl through the ball and made it clear to everyone she’s special,” Cutter says. “She’s in danger from the so-called good guys now too, thanks to you fools—I guarantee plenty of people think the True recruited her tonight. They’ll want to smash her down before the True can rise again. And what did you get for it, exactly?”

  “Tera made contact with one of the True. He was piloting a body.” Airren sits forward, more enthusiastic now. “We followed the trace magic.”

  “Great. Who was piloting?”

  Airren hesitates. Cutter throws his pen down on the table, exasperation. “All that, and nothing to show for it?”

  “We have an address,” Airren cuts in. “We’re watching the house.”

  “Why?” Cutter demands. “This is a police matter—”

  “Your department can’t be trusted,” Airren cuts in. “We still have contacts in Intel. We’ll figure out who’s involved, you’ll make the bust with Intel support, we all get what we want. Bad guys off the streets and maybe a shield on your collar one of these days.”

  Cutter fixes him with a dark look. “That isn’t what I want.”

  “Why not?” Airren asks blithely. “You’re a good detective, a good man, loyal to the Crown. I’d feel better if you led that department.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, I’m familiar with Intel ways.” Cutter glances at me. “Save it for the girl.”

  “If you’d stop calling me the girl, we’d get along quite a bit better.” I tell Cutter.

  “Maybe, but I don’t care.” He pushes back from the table. “Fine. Carry on with your illicit investigation—but if you end up being more trouble than the True, don’t expect me to stay on your side

  “This is on our side?” Cax asks.

  The toe of Cutter’s boot catches the leg of Cax’s chair. Cax was still leaning back, the picture of casual arrogance, but now he drops the chalk, his arms flailing out to try to catch himself.

  Mycroft’s fingers flicker. The chair pauses halfway to the ground, on the verge of spilling Cax headfirst over the chair back. Cax’s outstretched arms hover in midair as he catches his breath, and he grins at Mycroft.

  “Yep.” Cutter pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “This is me being on your side.”

  I jump up. “How is your investigation going? Do you think you can name the True in the department?”

  Cax’s chair clatters the rest of the way to the ground. He groans as he rolls to his feet.

  Cutter turns back. He looks as if he’s about to bite off some caustic comeback, but his eyes meet mine. Softly, he says, “I wish.”

  He jerks the door open and walks out.

  Cax picks up the chair and sets in the corner, then turns back to me with one hand tucked in his pocket, acting as if he never fell. “You ready for your first stakeout?”

  I yawn. “I was thinking a nap would be in order after last night…”

  “No rest for the wicked.” Mycroft’s big hand settles on my shoulder. “I call first shift.”

  It sounds like he’s saying I call Tera.

  I tilt my head back to look at him, but he’s as stony-faced as ever.

  “Should be fun,” I say to no one in particular. “Tell me there will be snacks?”

  Cax makes eye contact with me and raises his eyebrows pointedly, as if he’s suggesting I disinvite Mycroft. I shrug my shoulders. Maybe some time together will do Mycroft and me good. I don’t know what to make of the man.

  “I can see you,” Mycroft says to Cax, his voice irritated.

  “I’m just trying to help you out,” Cax says. “You haven’t exactly been smooth lately.”

  Airren shakes his head. “Cax, you’re with me. We need to find out who owns that apartment. Then we need to get some rest before our shift.”

  “But then I get Tera’s company on my next shift,” Cax says devilishly.

  “Why am I in such demand?” I push back my chair and stand. “It’s because I learned so many knock-knock jokes during my time Earthside, isn’t it?”

  Airren’s eyebrows rise. “Knock-knock jokes?”

  “Oh, you are in for a treat,” I promise him.

  I wave goodbye to Cax and Airren and follow Mycroft into the warehouse. He turns to me, taking my shoulders in his hands. The familiar weight is comforting. Then I remember that no matter how close Mycroft and I may be physically—for the mission—I can’t let him in emotionally. When he studies my face intently, I look over his shoulder at the bookshelves in the distance, trying to ignore the butterflies that rise in my stomach whenever my lips are this close to his.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “I’m working on your disguise.” His gaze follows the shape of my mouth, then move up to my nose.

  I stare into his eyes as he studies me from an inch away; flecks of gold cluster around his iris, flaring into a light hazel before fading into a deep chocolate brown. “Oh, of course. How obvious. I should’ve realized.”

  His eyes meet mine, staring into them as if he’s memorizing me. I pull a face; it’s ridiculous to make such extended eye contact with a man I’m not going to kiss.

  “Stop that.” He takes my jaw in his hand, pressing my mouth closed. “You’re distracting me.”

  I try to tell him how weird he’s being, but I can only mumble through my closed lips.

  “Sorry, Princess,” he says tartly, “but you’re going to have to look a little less beautiful for the next eight hours.”

  Funny how he can be an asshole and disarming all at the same time.

  As he murmurs his spell, still holding my jaw, he places his thumb against my nose. He incants as he touches the corner of my eyes and my hairline, then presses a finger against my lips to finish. The pad of his thumb against my lips, with his fingers lightly resting against the edge of my jaw, is oddly erotic. I glance away again, over his shoulder, looking at the neat rows of shelves filled with priceless relics. I wonder what other trouble I could find in here.

  “There.” He releases me and takes a step back, clearly pleased with his handiwork. “I have to go piece-by-piece or you’ll end up looking like someone I know.”

  “It’s worrisome you have a system for this.”

  His lips part as if he’s going to shoot back something, but instead he asks, “You really plan to start over under a fake name after all this?”

  “I can’t go on like this, can I?” I ask.

  “You could be useful.” He moves to the shelves of relics, searching for something, and finally picks up a reflective silver box. He glances at his own face, muttering his spell again. He blurs, and I shake my head, trying to clear away the wrongness of watching Mycroft change his face in front of me. His skin lightens and his close-cropped hair grows longer, curling up under his ears, as his chiseled jaw shrinks.

  “What do you think?” He takes his jaw in his hands and twists it as if he’s cracking his neck. When he turns to me, he’s a man of average height, just a few inches taller than me.

  “You’re significantly less scary than you were before.” But I’m going to miss looking at Mycroft’s gorgeous face. Not that it matters, I suppose. Since there’s never any emotion to change that unsmiling expression, his face is easily committed to memory.

  “That’s the idea.”

  It’s only when we’ve made our way halfway up the concrete stairwell that he asks, “I’m scary?”

  “You know you’re scary. Don’t tell me you don’t love it.”

  “To them.” He makes a casual hand gesture that seems to encompass the known universe. It wouldn’t be hard for me to believe Mycroft is the bogeyman Ravengers warn their babies about.

  Although I don’t answer him, my lips part in a smile. Mycroft cares what I think.
He doesn’t want me to be scared of him.

  Well, I’m not.

  He takes a few bounding steps up the stairs and grabs the door handle, pulling the door open for me. By the time he turns around, I meet his eyes with a gaze as stony-faced as he is. I hope.

  I don’t intend to do the talking for the two of us. He can try dealing with his own brand of silence.

  An hour later, Mycroft and I sit at a table in a café on the square, across from a three-story building which houses a bakery and a set of apartments. Our table is against a wrought-iron fence, from which hangs wrought-iron window boxes. The prickly gray stems inside are heavy with red and orange blooms. The trees around the square blaze red and orange, too, and leaves shuffle across the cobblestones, making a whispering rattle whenever the wind rises and pushes them along.

  All around us are other, real couples, having a leisurely brunch. The couple seated at the table next to us is so deeply in love, they can barely keep from throwing the plates of pancakes to the floor and climbing on he table. As they hold hands, the man strokes his thumb against the inside of the woman’s wrist. She, in turn, slips her foot out of her shoe and rubs it against his ankle, delving under his pants leg. It’s distracting me from the stakeout.

  Then the waiter sets their plates in front of them. Their hands remain linked, and they dedicate themselves to eating single-handed, their forks occasionally scraping awkwardly across the plates. I raise my eyebrows as I turn back to Mycroft. Lord help me, I’ll never be that in love. I do adore my breakfast.

  Mycroft lifts the pot and pours himself a fresh cup of tea, then sets it down without offering any to me.

  I take the last sip from my now-empty cup before I say, “You can tell you never went to boarding school.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you can tell you never went to boarding school.” I tap the top of the tea kettle; my fingernails making a ting against the ceramic. “You’re supposed to offer to the table when you serve yourself.”