by Jory Strong
A week, corresponding with Eamon’s deadline. Aggravation rushed into Cathal with the reminder, followed by amusement as he imagined Etaín comparing him to one of Pavlov’s dogs, where thinking of Eamon or hearing his name took the place of ringing bells. He couldn’t believe Eamon had stayed away this long.
Etaín plopped down in a chair, guiding the conversation to what had happened in Oakland with a mention of Kelvin. Justine returned to her seat behind the desk, settling into it with a weariness that held decades of failure and disappointment, and worse, grief over lives lost after they’d been turned around to become shining examples of hope and accomplishment.
Like she’d done with Momma Leeona, Etaín worked back to her teen years, to the kids she hadn’t seen in a long time and didn’t know how they’d turned out. Not a request for a list as they’d set out to get when they left his place, but a subtle interrogation and collection of names because Liam’s presence changed the equation, and Cathal understood that Etaín feared what might happen to those who wore her ink if Eamon were made aware of what they were up to and why.
Ultimately Etaín worked Vontae’s name into the conversation as well as inquiring about those she’d tattooed at Justine’s request. Cathal made mental notes, but other than that moment of recognition they’d experienced in the dream, there wasn’t anything to identify the shooter.
He caught himself rubbing the back of his neck, anxious to come up with a list of names and turn that list over to Sean, to get back to some semblance of normalcy.
Right. And as if the lack of normal conjured him up, Eamon entered the room.
Cathal restrained himself from baring his teeth. Barely, and only because a glance from Etaín had a little bell going off in his head.
On yeah, very Pavlovian.
Time to go, Etaín thought, easing the conversation to a conclusion and saying goodbye to Justine with a hug, the mix of things she felt when she finally turned toward Eamon leaving her as jittery as a junkie in need of a fix.
How had she missed the brush of his magic against hers before today? She could probably get high just closing her eyes and soaking it in.
Yesss.
Not just high, totally hallucinogenic. She was not going there right now.
The draw of like to like and magic aside, desire pooled and spread through her, a hunger made sharper and fiercer by separation. Need solidified by visceral memories of what it was like to be with him. With them both.
She introduced Justine to Eamon and it occurred to her that maybe that’s what he needed, more contact with humans outside his insulated world. That maybe if he spent time with her and Cathal, he’d come to understand the whole Lord thing worked against him when it came to them. And that Elf or changeling, this was still who she was and she had no intention of walking away from the important things in her life: the shelter, Stylin’ Ink, the crime victims she could help, her friends, including Derrick, Bryce, and Jamaal, who were family in the way she wished Parker and the captain could be.
And the changes in her gift? The question sent her optimism plummeting.
Sssafe. The word came with a flash of fire through the inked bands at her wrists.
Hearing the Dragon’s voice in her head suggested the opposite. But…A new day, a new start. It was what Justine preached here, making this the perfect time and place to reach out and take Eamon’s hand.
His smile had need rippling through her, not just lust but a desire for peace, for a relationship that was fun instead of filled with anger and discord. “I want to give you a tour of the shelter.’”
A goodbye to Justine, and Etaín stepped from the office, her free hand capturing Cathal’s when he might have walked ahead of them, consciously or subconsciously denying Eamon’s presence with a turned back.
The hallway was empty, though sounds from the first floor filtered upward, several babies crying, an overlay to conversation and the laughter of children. The sound of pots and pans, of the cooking staff joking, the lingering scent of breakfast mingled with that of too many people in one building, not all of them freshly bathed.
“We lost our shadow,” Etaín said, noting Liam’s absence.
“He waits outside, along with Myk.”
Eamon halted near the stairwell, his hand tightening on hers, forcing her to stop walking. Cathal choosing to do the same rather than release her hand.
It amused Eamon, and in truth he had no objection to it. The magic had chosen Cathal, and there was no denying that the human’s presence heightened his own desire for Etaín. Lust and magic were inextricably tangled, as they had been from the first moment he’d looked down onto the terrace and seen the two together.
Turning to face her, Eamon cupped her cheek, the sultriness that slid into her eyes an indication she didn’t intend to avoid the touch of his lips to hers. “It was a long night. Unbearable even.”
“You brought it on yourself.” Bold challenge, not words spoken in anger.
His thoughts flashed to deadly ocean waters and another changeling. “You can’t know how important you are to me, to those who will call you Lady.”
He claimed her mouth, wanting a response other than spoken words from her, needing it far more than he intended to admit, though his body didn’t care if she knew his desperation.
A moan escaped in the first sharing of breath and taste and heat. Relief and satisfaction came with her tongue greeting his in a sensual, taunting slide.
Her pelvis pressed to his, the rub of her mound to his erection causing the fire that was his element to pool in his testicles and become a hot furious roar in his cock. Desperate for a deeper reassurance after the way things had ended the night before, he pushed her against the wall. His hand went to her breast, his pleasure doubled at encountering the hardened nipple, at having her whimper and arch her back.
He’d feared that Etaín would be greatly weakened after nearly dying at the hospital. Instead, raw, wild magic poured into him, changeling magic unfettered by any sense of control. And he, who understood well the danger of it, of her particular gift, allowed it to continue. Believing his protections would hold, he deepened the kiss until he forget where they were, his hand leaving her breast, but only to go to the front of her shirt and the buttons there.
A moaned protest and then the wrenching of her mouth from his stopped him, bringing grungy walls into focus along with the smell of hardship and despair, sweat and meals prepared in bulk, as well as the sound of a building crammed with humans.
“I won’t spend this night away from you.” The quick cooling of her eyes was a reminder that he needed to be cautious in his choice of words and tone.
“Careful, that sounds a lot like Lord Eamon talking.”
He hadn’t thought courtship would be such a tricky undertaking, but he was nothing if not a quick learner. He smiled, brushing his lips over hers, the slight turn of her head in denial only making it easier for him to nuzzle her ear, to caress the lobe and murmur, “If I’m not mistaken, Etaín, there have been times when you enjoyed going to your knees in my presence. Do you deny it?”
She laughed, his misstep forgotten, the husky, amused sound of her voice lightening his heart in a way only she was capable of. “I don’t deny it,” she said, rubbing subtly against his erection, fingertips brushing over the additional earrings he now wore and sending a spike of hunger through his shaft.
He rewarded the truth with the fuck of his tongue into her ear canal, with a quick suck to the lobe, and then another, at the tip still rounded, but an erogenous zone for her as it was for the majority of their kind. “Maybe Cathal would enjoy witnessing it.” A small sexual taunt as he stepped back and away from her.
It took less than a second for his curiosity about Cathal’s reaction to be satisfied. And Etaín the same amount of time before another man’s lips captured hers in a possessive, raw demonstration of a more primal magic, one every bit as potent as that defining what the Elven were.
Eamon, for his part, enjoyed the show, en
joyed knowing he wasn’t the only one who could be accused of a lack of control around her. His desire heightened in a wash of Elven pheromone and carnal heat, a dare forming, a challenge he might put to Cathal—which one of them could last the longest while pleasuring her.
The images accompanying the idea hardened him further, as did her husky, “Let’s shelve the competition until we get back to your place and the clothes can come off.”
Eamon caught the flash of Cathal’s teeth, a quick baring that had his own lips curving upward as he followed her down the steps, content that when she took neither his hand nor Cathal’s, it was simply to improve mobility.
He had not truly seen the humans he’d passed upon entering the shelter to find her. Now she forced him to as she stopped to chat with the workers, with the homeless she knew by name, asking questions about others who weren’t there and lingering in rooms that shouldn’t contain even one child, much less seem crowded by them.
If he had a weakness at all when it came to humans, it was the very young. But while there was no escape from this lesson Etaín seemed determined to teach him, and he understood it was a lesson, he wouldn’t undo his earlier successful efforts at courtship by telling her this would change nothing.
She could hold him hostage here during this grace period of freedom. His focus on her, and those she spoke to, would remain unwavering because she was changeling, seidic, and he intended to keep her safe from magic and gift. But at the end of the week, he would set the terms.
If she’s still alive.
He rejected the possibility she’d be otherwise though he couldn’t prevent himself from sliding his hand beneath the thick fall of her hair so his palm rested on the smooth, warm skin of her neck.
“Where next?” he asked, given that they were now at the end of their tour of rooms. “Cathal’s?”
The subtle tensing he felt beneath his hand was warning enough he probably wouldn’t like her answer.
“No. We’re going to visit a friend of his. We could hook up afterward though, at Cathal’s place.”
He elected to be amused rather than aggravated—or far more uncomfortable, hurt, giving her an easy smile and avoiding a reminder that her promise to spend a week with Cathal entitled him to be present too. “I think not, Etaín. So far I’m enjoying this outing among humans. It is proving enlightening, as you no doubt intended. Would you have me cut it short?”
“No.”
He leaned forward, his lips claiming hers in an acknowledgement of just how thoroughly she enthralled him. It was a kiss interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps.
Irritation flared when he lifted his mouth from hers and saw the muscled Cur he’d found Etaín dancing with days earlier, and that hostility was returned. “You still with this motherfucker, Etaín? That the reason you’re not taking calls from your friends?”
Ten
It took effort for Eamon not to lash out with magic. No human who called him Lord would dare insult him in this manner or speak to Etaín in such a tone, nor would any Elf. A glance at Cathal and he saw that this man, Anton, had the same effect on him, though apparently the disrespect rolled off Etaín with ease.
“My phone went missing at the fund-raiser yesterday. Tyrone told you I was here?”
“Him and a shitload of other people after I put the word out I was looking for my friend Etaín.”
“Happens I wanted to visit with you too.”
Anton laughed, a quick burst of sound followed by the flat eyes of a man who could kill someone he called a friend. “I can guess what about. You already involved me in police business once in the past week. I’m giving you a pass on it ’cause it didn’t blow back on me. Not going to happen a second time, not with something that involves the Curs.”
Etaín had a bad feeling about why Anton had tracked her down. He confirmed it by saying, “You owe me a tattoo.”
Eamon’s sudden, complete stillness shouted no. A chill swept through her as it occurred to her that he might order Anton killed rather than let her honor the promise or become foresworn if she didn’t.
“A memorial tattoo?” she asked, though not in defiance of Eamon. The prospect of adding more of her ink to Anton, especially now, with her gift changing, had ice settling into her core.
Touch him. Look for the answers you seek.
Cold sweat broke out on her skin. She couldn’t be sure if that was her thought, her voice, or something else entirely.
“Yeah, a memorial,” Anton said.
“Faces?” And once again she felt shame at not having learned the names of those who’d been slaughtered.
“My baby sister, she was working the bar, was saving the money to pay for nursing school.”
Etaín shivered at the prospect of being bombarded by Anton’s emotions. “I’ll need pictures.”
“Figured you might. I got a collection of them out front. Funeral for Taneshia is in two days. I want to be wearing the ink by then.”
“My promise doesn’t cover a rush job.” It was an attempt to avert trouble for Anton. To make that more palatable, she added, “Where do you want the tat?”
He touched a place on the right side of his chest. In her mind’s eye she saw his skin as a canvas already crowded with art, the ink she’d put on him as well as what others had done.
“Let’s get the pictures.”
Eamon’s continued silence as they walked toward the shelter’s public entrance concerned her far more than a voiced objection would have. She reached out, touching Cathal’s arm. “You mind taking Anton’s phone number for me?”
Cathal pulled his cell from his pocket. Anton snorted. “You got yourself a personal assistant now? Or he part of the boyfriend troubles you was having?”
“Was. Past tense.” She hoped that didn’t slide perilously close to a lie.
Anton rattled off his number. Cathal punched it into his phone’s memory as they stepped out into bright sunshine.
A car backfired a couple of blocks away. Anton jerked and reached reflexively for a gun she couldn’t see.
Adrenaline spiked through her, her heartbeat ratcheting up with something more than the fear of what might happen with skin-to-skin contact. “You expecting trouble?”
“Habit, that’s all, baby.”
Liam was absent, maybe lurking in back where the Harley was. But the unmet Myk lounged against Eamon’s car, going instantly alert. He took a step toward them but stilled, probably at some signal from Eamon.
Anton’s Harley was parked several spaces away. They stopped next to it. He opened a saddle bag, reaching in, eyes going wet. He blinked and gave her a hard look. “Tell them to back off, Etaín. Motherfuckers don’t need to be all in my business.”
She glanced from Cathal to Eamon, saying only, “Please.”
They moved, giving Anton and her a little distance, not a lot.
Anton came around to stand next to her, spreading a collection of photographs on the bike seat. “Taneshia’s three-year-old little girl,” he said of the child in one of them. “My mama has her now.”
An image started to form, despite all the reasons why honoring this promise was so dangerous—to him. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’m going to leave that to you. You come up with the art, I’ll wear it. Take whatever pictures you want.”
She pocketed a couple of them and was reaching for a third when she heard Myk yell, “Sire.”
Magic rushed across the ink on her skin, a bomb detonation of it rather than a mild wind as she was slammed into Anton. The two of them hit the asphalt along with Cathal and Eamon, like human bowling pins taken down in a single strike by Myk.
Bullets ripped into Anton’s bike, part of a spray from automatic weapons that pelted the ground all around them, deflected by a shield she thought had to be there. Otherwise they’d be bleeding. Dead.
A car sped away leaving a sudden hush. A silence that exploded in a rush, like the pop of a balloon.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. T
hose willing to have their names included in a police report clamored out of their cars, talking excitedly. The pile of masculine bodies on top of her lightened.
Eamon’s eyes held ice. He didn’t ask if she was okay, though Cathal did, hands roaming her body.
“I’m good,” she said, feeling the glassy stare of cellphone cameras pointed in her direction and using him in a vain attempt to shield against having her picture taken.
Justine rushed from the shelter along with a swarm of workers and volunteers, and Etaín felt sickened by the possibility that someone inside might have been hit. “Everyone okay?”
“Yes.”
Relief came with a shiver and the remembered feel of magic blasting over her. It had been no small expenditure of power, as if the shield she knew had to exist covered more than those on the ground behind Anton’s bike.
Yesss. The Earth-bound Elf protects you. He protects what you care about despite the risk.
She could feel the burn of magic from inked wristbands into her forearms like a fiery leash attached directly to the Dragon. This time she confronted the surreal beast and the possibility she was going crazy by asking, What risk?
Such a large use of magic will draw attention where a simple shield would not have. It will be investigated.
By Elves?
By more than that. Peordh. Predestination. Predetermination.
Peordh?
But the ink on her wrists and arms went cool. “Peordh,” she said, looking at Eamon. “Do you know that word?”
Justine heard and answered, “It’s the name of a rune symbolizing fate.” Adding, “I think it would be better if you waited inside, Etaín, out of sight.”
“Good idea.” Her chest tightened with the knowledge that at least one person had managed a picture of her; she’d felt it. She wondered if the early Native Americans had a similar awareness, if that’s why they’d thought the white man’s cameras stole pieces of their soul.
She didn’t want more media attention. She was lucky the lid seemed to still be on when it came to her being taken by the Harlequin Rapist. But sending the Elves looking for whoever had managed the picture didn’t seem wise.
