by Dani Harper
Still, after his shower, he had waited until no one was in the dressing room before he draped that amazing silver chain mail around his neck and admired his naked body in the big mirror that lined one wall. Holy effin’ Conan, the collar looked good. He looked good. George struck a few bodybuilding poses and nodded to himself. He had an important match coming up in a couple weeks, and he was going to eschew the usual sponsor’s T-shirt as he strode down the walkway to the ring with his team. Nope, he was going to wear this bling thing right up into the cage until it was time to touch gloves…
Carmelita was parked around the back of the gym, the black-on-black pickup truck cooled by the shade. It was a secure parking lot too, with an attendant—but for some reason, there was no one in the booth.
That was the only explanation for the tall blonde model that was currently leaning on the hood of his truck. Her elbows rested on the hood, her chin in her hands, with long sunlit hair falling in a smooth wave down her backside. Her long, long legs were shown off to their best advantage in a pair of cutoffs and heels. The combination was enough to stop a man’s heart in his chest—or speed it up to dangerous levels.
“Excuse me, miss, you’re on my truck.” Jesus, was that the best he could do? But as gorgeous as she was, he was no idiot. She had to be a hooker. Had to be. Nobody dressed like that and struck such a provocative pose on a guy’s vehicle unless she was trying to score something.
She smiled at him, her teeth dazzling white and perfect. In fact, her flawless skin appeared naturally tanned and healthy, and her whole demeanor was vibrant. This was no meth addict trying to make a few bucks for a hit. But what the hell did she want with him?
“I watched you in the ring just now. You won every time. You’re very good.”
George didn’t know which was more surprising, that she’d been watching him or that he’d missed seeing her. Hell, how did anyone miss her? There were some bleachers on the north wall where wives and girlfriends, buddies and rivals, sometimes even kids, hung out, but if this California goddess had been sitting there, surely every man in the place would have been drooling over her. Or maybe not. It was Saturday and the bleachers were usually crowded. George didn’t recall even looking in that direction—in fact, most fighters didn’t because by the time you entered the ring, you were too busy sizing up your opponent, thinking about your strategy and your moves. Lose your focus and you lose the fight.
“Thanks,” he said, and couldn’t think of a single other thing to say. Especially when she stood up and walked towards him. Most girls in heels that high clicked along in short little steps that were as cute as they were impractical, but this woman glided over the pavement as if she were born wearing those sexy shoes. Her T-shirt was sky blue, like her eyes, and didn’t quite meet the low-slung cutoffs. A belly-button piercing boasted a silver loop of beads. Mostly George noticed the deep dip of her neckline and how the fabric stretched tight across her breasts—especially when those heels made her taller than he was. He swallowed, but there was suddenly no spit left in his mouth. At least he managed to drag his gaze up to her face again as she paused in front of him.
“I didn’t know if you would talk to me,” she said, still dazzling him with that smile. “I just wanted to ask if I could get your autograph.”
“Sure,” he managed, and miraculously added, “Thanks for asking.” His blood was definitely not going to his brain at the moment, and he had to struggle to think. Did he have a pen? A piece of paper. Maybe a program or a brochure from the gym?
He needn’t have worried. The woman had come prepared. She handed him a felt-tipped marker and pulled her T-shirt even lower on one side, exposing half of her rounded breast.
Dios.
“Make it to Felicia,” she purred, and spelled it for him as he signed her skin. He was grateful his artist’s hand didn’t fail him, that the script turned out neat and even, and most of all, that he didn’t misspell his own damn name.
Felicia seemed delighted with it. “Thank you very much.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then turned and glided away. She looked over her shoulder once and waved. “I might see you if you ever go to the Impulse. I work there.”
“Sure.” George waved feebly, feeling like he’d taken a flying kick to the head, and watched until she disappeared around the corner of the building. Then he sat in his truck for a long time until he felt steady enough to drive home.
For a moment, Aidan wasn’t sure Brooke was going to let him in. The look on her face told him plainly that she hadn’t expected him. With the way he’d left last night, he couldn’t blame her if she thought he’d left for good. Maybe he should—he’d brought her little but trouble so far. But it wasn’t in his nature to leave before he’d set things right as well as he could, and perhaps smooth things out between them if it was possible.
“Good morning,” she said and, gods be praised, held open the door.
He didn’t pass through it, not yet, but moved so his body was holding it open. “You didn’t deserve my anger last night, Brooke Halloran. Temper got the best of me. And I hope that’s not the reason you didn’t sleep well.”
“I slept just fine, thanks.”
He gave her a knowing look, and she shrugged and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, so I had some things bothering me, and you happened to be most of them.”
“I’m sorry for that. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble—”
“And a lot of worry, mister,” she added, folding her arms.
“And a lot of worry. Could we have that over-do you spoke of?”
She put a hand to her forehead then, and to his surprise, began to laugh. “I think we’ve already had the over-do part of it, thank you.” Brooke stepped back and motioned him to come inside. “And yes, I think I’m just crazy enough for a do-over.”
He followed her into the shop and settled on one of the stools, watching as she opened the blinds on the row of front windows to let in the morning light. One of her cats, a white and tabby mix, ran to the first window immediately, attracted by the buzz of a stunned fly on the sill.
“Jade, no! Stop that. Just let me get the damn flyswatter, will you?” Brooke called from the fourth window, but the cat was already crouched and stalking like a little panther. It had the fly in its paw and then in its mouth before her owner could do a thing about it.
Aidan’s mouth quirked; the same woman who had fearlessly struck a strange man to defend her friend was distressed over her pet devouring a tiny insect.
“Yuck.” Brooke was still scolding Jade. “I totally hate it when you do that. Don’t expect me to sit with me for a while—you have fly germs now.”
The other cats rushed over to see what treasure their friend had, and Brooke came back and grabbed Aidan’s elbow. “Come sit over here in this booth. I have clients coming in this morning. I usually phone in an order for coffee and breakfast, but Olivia just texted me and she’s going to pick up enough for all three of us.” She quickly pointed out the amenities of the place: washroom, bookshelves, and even cat toys. Brooke set a small stack of books on the table, and the message was pretty clear—he was to amuse himself, perhaps amuse the cats, and generally stay out of her way. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He slid into the booth, and nearly sighed. His human body was bone tired, his muscles sore, and this padded seat was luxurious compared to the hard surfaces he’d tried unsuccessfully to rest upon during the night. He could see shadows under Brooke’s blue-green eyes, though, and wasn’t about to mention his own lack of sleep.
He studied the shop, recognizing that it had once been a restaurant but had been cleverly repurposed. The colors were surprisingly appealing. He especially liked the bright turquoise—Brooke’s eyes picked up the color readily and claimed it for their own.
While she busied herself, he ventured off to the restroom and cleaned up a little. When he returned, an older lady with fluffy white hair was seated in the large corner booth. She had an extremely large handbag, and a small bla
ck and white dog with big eyes and bigger ears poked his head out of it. Strangely, the dog appeared to be wearing some sort of white leather outfit and what resembled a tiny black wig. Brooke sat across from the woman and her odd pet, and spread out a deck of colorful cards. As he slid back into his own booth, he caught Brooke’s gaze and she grinned at him.
He grinned back, chose a book from the stack, and opened it as if he were reading. Actually, he was settling in to listen without appearing to listen. She was in her element here, that much was certain. She talked with her customer, Florence McCardie, as if she were a friend, and she very probably was—Brooke cared about people. She’d been right when she told him that she took her calling very seriously. He envied her that, her deep concern for others, the all-consuming purpose that drove her to try to make their lives better even in the smallest ways. She gave of herself freely, generously, like a cool spring in a hillside. She didn’t just serve people; she served life.
In stark contrast, his only purpose for the past ten centuries had been to serve death—though in fairness, he had never chosen that morbid task. Now that he was a man again, his purpose hadn’t changed much. What had been done to Annwyl must be answered, must be paid for, and only blood would do. But once revenge had been exacted, what was his purpose then?
A giggle from Florence brought his attention back to the present. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the cards, but they must have been designed for some sort of divination. It fascinated him to hear Brooke discuss the possible meanings and how they might apply to the old woman’s life. Brooke was always positive, always encouraging—and from time to time he recognized an underlying pulse of magic in the air around her, like the slight teasing hint of a woman’s perfume. It seemed that he hadn’t lost all of his fae abilities after all, and he wondered how much of his power remained. Would it stay or fade away to nothing? It might be a very useful tool to have when it came time to fulfill his vow.
Yet again Aidan found himself wondering what he would do once he killed Celynnen. Would his magic be any good to him then? Better still, could he do any good with it, the way that Brooke did?
Brooke smiled at him again when, arm in arm, she slowly escorted Florence and her pet to the door and outside to the bus stop just a couple of doors down.
He liked it when she smiled at him—there hadn’t been enough of that since he’d come crashing through her roof. It felt good, but perhaps too good. If he wasn’t careful, Brooke could unintentionally distract him from his goal. But in all the pacing he’d done last night, he’d come to realize that he was ill prepared to confront the fae princess. He’d also come to the conclusion that proper preparations could take some time. Which brought up yet another reason he’d come back this morning.
He needed Brooke’s help.
In order to face down Celynnen, he needed effective weapons. His plan was to use his smithing skills to make sword-sharp blades of iron, small enough to be secreted in his clothing (a trick that Celynnen herself employed), yet weighted and balanced enough to throw if he couldn’t get close enough to wield them. She might find them—nay, probably would find them—but she would be expecting him to try to kill her. What she would not expect is that he would also be armed if he was completely naked. He would create long feather-light slivers of iron, like a woman’s hairpins, that he could slide just beneath the skin of his forearms, and tinier shards that would fit between the joints of some of his fingers, and allow the tiny cuts to heal over. The scratch of a fingernail would bring the miniscule blades to the surface, where he could use them to deadly effect. Iron was deadly poisonous to the Tylwyth Teg—but where could he obtain it in this time and place? He needed information. He needed materials. And he no doubt needed money—he would have to hire himself out to gain some before he could make the needed preparations. How did one do that in this world?
No doubt Brooke had the answers to all of those things, or she had friends who did. And when he’d succeeded in designing the unique type of weaponry he had in mind, Aidan hoped to persuade Brooke to add her magic to them. His chances of success would be increased if his iron creations could be spelled so that their potency might be amplified, that they might not be taken away from him, and that they might not miss their intended target. Plus, she could heal the little wounds in his arms and hands made by the placement of the tiny weapons so that no scars would be visible.
More than anything, however, he needed to find his way back to the faery realm. All of his preparations were completely useless if he couldn’t do that much. The silver torc he’d once worn as a great black dog had disappeared, probably destroyed during his transformation. Otherwise, Aidan might have tried to use it to call on Lurien. Might, had they parted on friendlier terms. After all, the last time he’d seen the Lord of the Wild Hunt, Aidan was still a grim and had his long sharp teeth sunk deep into the dark fae’s hand. Besides, why would Lurien help him in his quest, when the dark fae had designs on Celynnen of an entirely different nature?
No, it was much more likely that Aidan would have to return to Wales itself, possibly to the mound outside of Aberhonddu, to find one of the ways, the strange doorways that led to and from the kingdom under the Black Mountains. He supposed a way might exist somewhere in Brooke’s enormous, sprawling country, although he’d never heard of one. Finding it would be almost impossible, however. He was no longer a grim, no longer a fae creature, and the ways were invisible to most human eyes. Most. A few people had the Sight, however—they saw the Fair Ones as clearly as they saw their fellow humans. And those who worked in magic the way he worked in iron? Sometimes they could see the fae as well.
That meant that Brooke Halloran just might be able to find him a way. Once he got to the faery realm, he would take care of the rest himself.
“So, George says he met a new girl at the gym this morning,” announced Olivia, as she spread the contents of two bags and a cardboard drink holder in front of Brooke and Aidan. The three of them had taken over the big corner booth. “He asked me to tell you that he can’t stop by today. He’s going to put some hours in at the studio on the latest Devina of Hades issue, so he’ll be free tonight to see Felicia.”
“Pretty name,” said Brooke. “What happened to Cyndi?”
“What happens to any of them? He gets bored, or they do.” Olivia drank down half her coffee while fanning herself because the drink was hot, then exhaled heartily. “Dios, I needed that this morning. No, no more Cyndi, or Katherine, or Jasmine, or Amber—I could make such a list, m’ija, but you know what I’m talking about.”
“George has had quite a few girlfriends over the years,” Brooke whispered to Aidan, by way of explanation. He looked puzzled.
“Why?” he asked.
“That’s what I keep saying. Why?” Olivia selected a cruller from the big bag of doughnuts. “No one seems to stay together. Young people just don’t take love seriously anymore.”
“I do.” Aidan’s voice was quiet.
“You, sir, are very far from young,” said Brooke. “You don’t count.”
“I am not much older than you.”
“Give or take a thousand years!”
“Are you certain we should count that, m’ija?” asked Olivia. “After all, he was a dog during all that time.”
“I was a grim. That’s no ordinary dog.”
Brooke snorted. “Neither is Mrs. McCardie’s Chihuahua. Omigod, did you see the outfit she had on Mr. Socks today? He was dressed as Elvis.” She lapsed into giggles. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to read the tarot while looking at that? There was even a tiny little guitar charm hanging from his collar.”
“You’re kidding me. I would have paid to see that,” chuckled Olivia. “But that little dog is the closest thing Florence has to family. A woman has to have someone to fuss over, you know. It keeps her young.”
“Now I know why you fuss over me and George,” teased Brooke.
“And I have Aidan to fuss over now too. So that’ll keep me even younger
.” Olivia nudged a doughnut his way. “You have got to try one of these maple crèmes.”
He took Olivia’s hand and kissed it, which delighted her. “Thank you for sharing your meal with me,” he said. “I was about to ask Brooke how to go about finding work. The mortal world still requires money, and I have need of some. Especially to buy food like this.” He hefted his second egg-and-bacon sourdough special.
“You want to get a job?” Brooke exchanged glances with Olivia. “For someone who just became human again, you don’t waste any time. But it’s going to be a bit of a problem,” she said. “You have no ID—no birth certificate, driver’s license, credit cards. Most of all, you have no social security number. So basically you don’t exist.”
Okay, could she have made a poorer choice of words? Brooke had seen that shadow cross Aidan’s face before.
“I seem to be very good at not existing,” he said. He put the food down, his eyes unreadable.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that! Of course you exist—you just don’t happen to be registered in the government’s records. And you need that in order to get a job.”
“You’re saying I cannot take care of myself? I cannot provide for me and mine in this time and place?”
Olivia rolled her eyes and put her hands up in a classic football ref’s T. “Time out, you two. It’s like listening to George and Lissy,” she declared. “Of course, Aidan can survive without ID, at least for a while. All he has to do is take on odd jobs for cash.”
Brooke was grateful for her friend’s intervention—the last thing she wanted was for Aidan to get frustrated enough to walk out again. But she wasn’t sure if Olivia’s idea could work. “How do you find something like that? I don’t see much in the classifieds.”
