Sixpence & Whiskey

by Heather R. Blair

  “That was different, you weren’t looking to hurt me. You were just flipping me off.” His lips twitch, then tighten. His eyes never leave mine. “This time I would’ve destroyed you. I can’t hold back when my existence is truly threatened, Seph. It’s instinctive, uncontrollable. Call it an automated shoot-to-kill defense system. If you’d directed that magic at me, you’d be dead.”

  I get what he’s saying. Like nature, elemental magic has a mind of its own. It doesn’t always listen to those who wield it. If Jack’s magic wanted me dead, there wouldn’t be much he could do to stop it.

  A foreboding shiver crawls down the back of my neck. “I might beat you.”

  His smile holds no warmth. “Oh, baby, I wish you could. But I made sure you couldn’t, remember?”

  As if I’d ever forget. My own hands tighten, nails digging into my palms. “I’m not that stupid girl anymore.”

  Something darkens in his face. “You were never stupid.”

  I laugh out loud. The sound slaps harshly against wet bricks and cement, sounding so bitter and full of pain, my stomach lurches.

  I don’t feel him move, but then he’s there, a heavy weight pressing me back into the wall, hard and full of heat, my wrists shackled in his hands. His lips brush my ear, warm breath raising goosebumps all over my suddenly shivering body. “Don’t blame yourself for what I did. Don’t ever fucking do that, princess.”

  Before I can say a word, Jack is gone. There is only wind skittering down an empty, rain-washed alley.

  I lean back against the wall, trying to hold my body up with shaking legs for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  Now seems as good as time as any for a fucking drink.

  11

  I’m in a shitty mood for most of the next day. No sleep and nasty encounters with ex-friends and ex-boyfriends will do that. Thankfully, my assistant manager has the early shift again today. He’s one of three regular bartenders I have on tap, and the best (besides me, natch). I gave him the assistant manager title two and a half years ago. Best decision I ever made.

  Benjamin Collier is human and as ignorant of my world as a man can be. He’s a practical, feet-firmly-on-the-ground type of guy, and it’s kinda weird he works at a bar at all. But he’s great at it. Great at all the nitty-gritty bullshit that I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place and I love running it, even the paper pushing. But I’m all about the people, the schmoozing, the atmosphere, the booze. Benji lets me do more of the fun stuff.

  He passes the bar over to me at nine, and my mood finally starts to improve. I love slinging drinks. Then Syana walks in. I feel my tension ease even more at the sight of my bestie.

  She’s looking hot in her black leggings, white wool dress and fringy suede boots, but not as hot as the guy trailing her.

  He’s not particularly tall, though that’s relative, as he’s still got about half a foot on me. Perhaps five-eight, five-nine. Dark hair spills over shoulders that are lean but stretch the snug wine-colored Henley he’s sporting quite nicely. His eyes are black and sparkling with wickedness. I do like wicked men, though I’ve had my fill at the moment.

  Sy’s talking to him over her shoulder, hair swinging as she laughs at something he says. But he’s looking straight at me, and there’s something in his eyes I’m not sure I like.

  Then it’s gone. I dismiss the feeling as part of my lingering black mood.

  They stop in front of the only empty stool at the bar. It’s loud and rowdy, Saturday night coming down. Powderfinger on the jukebox, not the Neil Young song, the kick-ass Aussie band. There’s a sharp crack as someone playing pool in the loft gets in a solid break, and under it all, a low beeping from a dryer in back.

  “He was checking you out from the doorway, so I offered to introduce you.” She rolls her eyes, while I raise mine. The stranger smiles, his face all delicious angles deepened by the shadow of late-night stubble. “Sexy, meet Seph. Seph, meet sexy.”

  “Hello, Persephone.”

  “Hello there.”

  “I tried to tell him you’re a penis-free zone, unlike moi, but he wouldn’t listen.” Sy heads back toward the bathroom with an evil laugh and a wave.

  “Not exactly penis-free,” I correct her absently, looking him up and down. He’s not really my type, but there is something compelling in that lithe darkness. Compelling and familiar, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen this man before in my life.

  He smirks at my perusal and leans over the bar, just about the time I realize somethings wrong. “I’m Tyr.”

  I suck in a breath and it is my undoing. Quicker than thought, he’s half over the bar, slapping a hard hand over my mouth before I can form words.

  In the same instant, the bar goes quiet, all movement around us slowing to a stop. People dancing freeze in place, one guy with his hand inches from squeezing the red satin-wrapped ass of his partner, a girl at the bar next to me with her pretty peppermint martini halfway to her lips. The jukebox has gone silent, and the only sound I can hear is my breathing muffled against his hand.

  “Shut it, sweetheart and come along like a good little girl. Wouldn’t want your customers to get hurt in the crossfire, would ya?”

  My eyes widen at the threat and so does his grin. Asshole.

  I shake my head and try working up a few tears, but his hold only tightens, strong fingers digging into my cheeks. Okay, not a man to be moved by tears. Or one to waste time. His other hand is already fisting the back of my pink mohair sweater, lifting me off my feet.

  He may not be a big guy, but he’s strong as an ox. In a finger snap, he’s got me the rest of the way over the bar like I weight about half as much as I actually do. Not surprising, considering what he is. I gather my thoughts as I let him manhandle me to the door of T&T.

  Tyr, no last name. He’s a legend.

  An assassin of the realm. Despite the name, it’s not just offing people his type is known for. Theft, torture, the acquisition of rare items, protection, etc. You name it—and if it’s dangerous, nefarious or both—an assassin of the realm can handle it. Including kidnapping.

  I can’t believe Georg would stoop this low. There is a sick feeling deep in my stomach. Using Jack was one thing, but this? I blink back the sting of real tears and force myself to focus on the man in front of me.

  He’s got to be packing some serious scrollwork, from the state of my bar. Witches can make a shitload of money doing scrollwork. A freeze spell of this quality and duration demands a heavy price. It’s only as the door shuts behind us that I hear the music and voices start up again. I wonder how many more like it he’s got up his sleeve. No time like the present to find out.

  As soon as we hit the sidewalk I give my innate magic an impatient prod. Zap him!

  He shudders, but his hold on me doesn’t loosen. Okay, packing spells and some form of protection against innate magic. After a second I spot it, an amethyst amulet hanging from a cord around his throat, imbued with a hell of an absorption block. Well, then.

  I twist and elbow him hard in the throat. Sy has managed to teach me a thing or two.

  He gags and sputters and suddenly I’m free. I back toward the bar’s entry, slipping a little on some ice and catching myself just in time. Dammit, somebody needs to salt this sidewalk before somebody gets killed.

  Like me …and me.

  Tyr straightens.

  There’s a sword in his hand now. Rose-gold and seriously pointy. I recognize it as a longsword, since Jett has one just like it, except hers is made out of crystal, forged in her own magic. This one glows almost hungrily in the streetlights, the cross guard pulsing above its master’s fingers.

  I don’t like the look of that thing. Breathing the beginnings of my rhyme, I jerk back as the sword cuts at my face, avoiding it by a hair’s breadth.

  “Nice jab,” he smiles tightly, “but it’ll take more than that to stop me.”

  “And it will take more than the likes of you to catch me,” I retort between lines.
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  Something like regret flickers over his features. “Ah, but I’m not here to capture, lovely. I’m here to kill.”

  If he thinks to unnerve me, it works. Someone sent a fucking assassin of the realm to kill me? This is not Georg. No fucking way.

  I shrug, shoving aside twin spikes of panic and relief. “Well, alrighty then.”

  Finishing up the verse, I raise my hands on the last word just as Tyr raises his sword, fire slicing through the night.

  The door bursts open. Sy plows into my back, throwing the nifty flying-daggers spell I just formed into the stars instead of Tyr.

  Shit. I have just enough time to toss up a defense around us with the dregs of the cast before he closes. The sword slides over the invisible (to him) barrier, sending up sparks and making a screech like a banshee.

  Tyr swears, his arms and shoulders absorbing the recoil before he steps back to contemplate the space between us.

  “Sweet Persephone, I knew you wouldn’t make this easy.” He sounds pleased.

  Behind me, Sy is trembling and cursing in low tones. I ignore her, trying to think. WWJD? Which in my case translates as, what would Jett do?

  Well, for one thing, she wouldn’t waste time protecting a human. Leaving Sy vulnerable is not an option, though, not for me. And I’m not a sword girl, so what are my resources here? My mouth, like always.

  “You look like a clever man, Tyr. Maybe you should just walk away. My sisters won’t take kindly to the man who took me out. Save that pretty face while you still have it.”

  He laughs, fumbling for something on his belt with one hand. “I’ve made worse enemies than your sisters over the years.” Tyr sends me a wink as he throws something into the air, something that sparkles and rains down on my spell. “And I knew you liked the looks of me.”

  “Puh-lezh.”

  “Oh, come on now, love.”

  It’s already clear to my eyes, of course, but I hear Sy gasp as the contours of our protective cage become visible to her as that freaky dust comes down. Tyr sees it, too. He grins in satisfaction, raising the sword again. “Don’t lie. I saw that look.”

  An assassin with a monstrous ego. Figures. “Dream on.”

  “Bullshit.” He stops in mid-swing, pulling the blade to give me a look of his own. “You were checking me out. Admit it.”

  Okay, okay he’s right. I was checking him out, but only because I was still seething from the run-in with Jack and trying to distract myself. “Hey, I’ve got an overactive libido, what can I say? But you’re really not my type.”

  “Pity, as you’re definitely mine.” Those dark eyes trail over me again, lingering on my ass in the black Frame jeans I’m sporting. “Such a fucking pity.”

  With a sigh, he lifts the sword once more. I hold the shield around me and Syana, unblinking as Tyr cuts at it, lightly this time. To my horror, the fiery blade slides through my golden lavender shield like the proverbial knife through butter. Snow swirls inside our cocoon as he peels it back with a flick of his wrist. Tyr smiles at me.

  How the hell is he doing that?

  “Sy, sweetie?” I turn my head slightly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Run. Now.”

  Steel flashes at my face, so close I can feel the heat of the blade. I hear the pounding of Sy’s footsteps as she hauls off down the street, but I can’t spare her a glance. I need to focus on him. Tyr keeps me too occupied avoiding his sword to cast. He’s fought witches before, I can tell.

  Back and forth we weave. It can’t be more than five minutes, but it feels like hours. Every bit of physical prowess I possess, which isn’t much more than your average kitten’s, comes into play. I’m barely holding my own. I can spare no time or breath to cast, it’s only innate magic and Sy’s lessons in hand to hand keeping me from death. Between his protective amulet and my flagging energy, that’s wearing pretty thin, pretty fast.

  That blade of his wants to taste my flesh. It sings as it cuts through the icy air, nearly taking off my head. Sliding on the sidewalk, I stumble to my knees. Hot pain slams through my legs, radiating up and down, before the icy slush soaking my jeans freezes my skin. Tyr closes, immediately pressing his advantage.

  I think I’m starting to see double, because for a second there seems to be two of him. Then I realize there’s a figure racing up to Tyr from behind.

  Sy. Oh shit.

  Desperately, I throw a handful of the nasty mixture of ice and muck lining the sidewalk into his face. He curses and lifts a sleeve to his eyes.

  Behind him, Syana raises …what the fuck?

  Is that a frying pan?

  The ring of cast iron on skull is oddly hollow. Tyr folds to the slushy sidewalk, his sword skittering towards me, still hungry for blood. I stumble to my feet and place a boot on the cross guard. It quivers under my sole like something alive. Damn if I’m going to touch it. I work a quick containment spell which seems to take some of the mickey out of the demented thing, then turn to Sy, who’s pale, but beaming.

  “You knocked him out. An assassin of the realm. With a frying pan.” I shake my head in amazement. “Where’d you get it?”

  She jerks her head at the Chinese place next door. “Told Lu Lu I needed it. She didn’t argue.”

  I vow to eat out at Lu Lu’s at least once a week for the next year.

  “Now what do we do with him?”

  I give Sy a slow, evil smile as I study the man who tried to kill me. “Actually, I’ve got an idea about that.”

  We use the tattoo shop entrance, hoping Jett doesn’t have a customer at the moment. It’s late, but she keeps odd hours. It is a goddamn tattoo parlor. As soon as we get him through the doorway, I send Sy back to the bar. The natives have to be getting restless. Thank goodness, Sy got her alcohol certificate awhile back, so she won’t get me in trouble with the liquor board. After two minutes, I regret sending her away. Tyr may not be a big guy, but he’s no fucking lightweight either.

  I’m huffing and puffing when Jett steps out of her shop, keys in hand.

  She locks the door, then turns to watch me yank Tyr’s ass down the hall, his boots clicking over the mosaic tiles. Leaning against the doorframe, she just shakes her head.

  Jett isn’t much taller than me, and she’s got her own share of curves, but somehow she always manages to look comparatively long and lean. Bitch.

  The badass biker boots help. As does the attitude. And the fact that she actually works out and I…don’t.

  My arms are looped under Tyr’s armpits, his head lolling under my chin. I’m sweating, and I know my face has to be approaching fire-engine red. Jett cocks an eyebrow.

  “Kidnapping men now? Is this some kind of retaliation for Georg’s crap? Not that I’m opposed, you understand, but this one doesn’t look like a bear.”

  “Shut up and grab his feet, would you?” I puff. For a moment I think she’s gonna refuse, then with a sigh, she wraps her arms around his knees. We haul him the rest of the way down the stairs in silence. Well, except for the blue streak I’m cursing in my head as what muscles I have start to whimper and cry. I really need to get in fucking shape and lay off the whiskey.

  I have a spot for Tyr in mind, toward the back, behind the forced-air heating system. The original brick walls are still uncovered here. The remains of a half-finished bath, complete with semi-working toilet sit in one corner. It’s dank, musty and dark.

  “This will work,” I say.

  Jett drops him without a word. So do I. There’s a pull string for a light around here somewhere. After a second of batting around in the greyish gloom provided by the glass-block basement windows, I find it and give a yank.

  Jett eyes him, using the toe of her boot to turn his face toward the scant light. “I don’t recognize this one. Not bad. Another former lover?”

  I snort and lean against the wall, my heart still pounding. “Not quite. This is Tyr.”

  “Tyr? The assassin?” Her head swivels slowly from the man at her feet to me. At my nod, she raises
her eyes to the unfinished ceiling. “What the fuck, baby girl? Seems a little odd, all the attention you’ve been attracting lately, Frost coming back, Georg going all medieval macho on you, now one of the realm—“

  “A wendigo tried to eat me the other night, too.”

  “What?”

  “I ate him instead. It was right before Jack turned up.”

  Jett shakes her head slowly, her eyes going hooded. “You remember all that crap when you were younger?”

  I remember.

  When I was really little, there was a rash of what you might call unfortunate events. A gnome (not Merry) tried to get me to eat poisonous toadstools, a couple of sylphs nearly drowned me in a puddle and a satyr almost gored me. Honestly, for awhile, it seemed like every FTC in the vicinity was after my head. My sisters said it was because I was such an annoying little brat. (Well, Jett and Ana did—never Carly.) Mom went a little ballistic and the incidents slowed down to a trickle. I kinda got used to watching my back, and it really isn’t that easy to get the drop on a witch, even a baby one.

  The incidents finally petered off around the time Jack and I got together. But for several years there, it seemed like I was on the menu of some connoisseur hungry for a particular flavor of witch. I haven’t thought about all this for years, but it seems like somebody might’ve gotten a craving again.

  Jett looks down at Tyr again. “If I were you, Seph, I’d start asking some questions.”

  “Why do you think I hauled his ass down here?”

  She nods approvingly. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I listen to the clang of her boots going back up the stairs and repress a shudder. I really hope I don’t have to go quite that far.

  I’m not nearly as fond of blood as my sister is.

  12

  A few hours have passed before he comes to. I’m sitting cross-legged on a cushion I hauled down from my office. I’ve been a busy little beaver.

  “Where am I?” Tyr rubs his head, straightening slowly.