by C. T. Adams
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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For Dad. I miss you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The worlds depicted in this book are the product of my fertile imagination. To my knowledge, the land of Faerie with its courts and cultures as described in this book does not exist anywhere, nor do its magical creatures walk among us. I have not used Spenser, nor any other work detailing the mythos of the Sidhe, Seelie, and/or Unseelie courts. I have, however, used the familiar names of the Sidhe, trolls, brownies, pixies, doxies, goblins, and other creatures.
In this book there is only one Sidhe Court. Various other species, such as the trolls, pixies, doxies, and the goblins, have their own courts and kings who report to the High King, who is the Sidhe ruler. There are other species who either have alliances with the High King or are separate nations altogether. All magical creatures are dangerous to the mortals in their own way, but their malice or lack thereof is completely individual. I considered calling them by different names, but that would have created more confusion and problems than it solved. My apologies if in this work I have depicted any creature in a way that has proven offensive to the beliefs of a reader.
With regard to magic: To my knowledge, the use of magic in this book is not based on any religion or philosophy. If it reflects the elements of any religious belief, or runs counter to those beliefs, it was not purposefully done, and I would state again that this is a work of fiction and thus the rules of the “normal” world are not meant to apply.
Finally, I would like to give special thanks to my agent, Lucienne Diver, for her invaluable assistance. To my editor, Melissa Ann Singer, because it is always a pleasure working with you. You make my work so much better. Gru and Anna, I am so grateful for your help in making this the best book possible. To Cathy Clamp, my frequent coauthor, I wish you all the best, always.
FATE—ATROPOS
(FAERIE)
PROLOGUE
Atropos shivered, despite the weight of her heavy wool cloak. Her bones ached and her joints stiffened in wet weather. It made her move more slowly, which meant she would be out in the rain longer. That soured her mood. She did not want to do this, and cursed the necessity. Normally she’d let one of her other two aspects handle it. With her youth, Clotho could ignore foul weather, and while Lachesis loathed the damp, it didn’t incapacitate her. But both of them had history with the king of the Sidhe. Atropos did not trust the younger ones not to be affected by sentiment. So with faltering footsteps, supported by a cane carved of ash, she made her way through the darkened rose garden, following a path strewn with shifting shadows, until she reached a little-known servant’s door, tucked discreetly in a corner behind a trellis that bore a thick covering of ivy.
The door was unlocked, as arranged, and she stepped through into a wide, marble-floored hallway dimly lit by a few glowing crystals.
Depending on one’s perspective, it was either very late or quite early, barely three hours past midnight. Even the hardiest courtiers had gone to their beds, as had most of the servants. But Atropos knew the king was still awake and at work, and his guards with him.
The man on the door was no fool and no coward. The moment he saw Atropos he knew who, and what, she was. But he stood his ground, a mountain of ebony muscle barring the heavy oak doors with his body, weapons ready, though not actively threatening her.
“I will see the king.”
The guard did not meet her milky gaze. Instead he stared over her left shoulder, into the middle distance, as he answered her in a voice that was completely steady, despite the muscle that twitched nervously above his right eye. “The king is not to be disturbed.”
“He will see me.” Her voice was harsh as the caw of a carrion bird, but the soldier neither flinched nor moved. He was accustomed to death, this one, having dealt it out, and seen it, more often than most. His name, she recalled, was Petros. It was certainly apt. He was solid as a rock—and just about as bright.
Petros opened his mouth to again refuse her, but was saved by the king’s command from behind the closed doors.
“Let the crone in.”
The guard turned and opened the door for her without further comment.
After the chill dimness of the hall, the warmth and light of King Leu’s library was most welcome. Atropos moved gratefully toward the fireplace in the corner nearest the door. Though Leu was seated near the fire, he was not looking into the flames. Instead, he stared at a painting that hung on the wall nearby. To the uninformed, the painting was just that, a perfect rendering of the entry hall of a modern human apartment. Atropos knew, however, that the frame contained something more than a painting. She also knew just how much the image meant to her host.
Leu made her wait before turning to greet her. It was a deliberate slight, and it rankled, though Atropos knew better than to let that show. She had sought this meeting. She was in his castle, his place of power. And while all men must bow to the will of Fate, this was not the time or place to remind him of it. Leu was a king, and a proud man.
“Why are you here?” He spoke calmly, his eyes gleaming silver in the firelight.
“I need a boon,” she answered sourly.
His elegant, dark brows rose so high they disappeared beneath a shock of his dark hair, in the front braided tight against his skull and pulled back in a tail, the back hanging nearly to his knees. She felt a pang of memory—Clotho’s—of the silken feel of that hair beneath her fingers and sliding over her naked body.… The crone found herself fighting her younger aspect for control of their shared body. Closing her eyes, she clamped down tight with her will until Clotho sullenly relented.
“You seek a boon? From me?” Leu gave a slow, feral smile, his pleasure evident in the anticipatory flash of sharp, white teeth. “Have a seat,” he suggested with belated courtesy, gesturing toward the beautifully carved wooden chair across from him. “Would you like a drink?”
Atropos nodded her consent. Resting her cane against the nearby table she lowered herself onto the straight-backed chair. It was not a comfortable seat. The carvings dug painfully into her back, and whatever padding the seat had once held had been worn down to nothing. She smiled grimly, knowing that the only better seat in the room was the king’s; the others were all intended to subtly discourage everyone else from lingering.
Everything about Leu was subtle, complex, layered. He was a very physical being, Clotho and Lachesis could both attest to that, but ultimately his mind was what made him most dangerous—and the kind of High King Faerie needed. Atropos might not like the man, but she respected him, and her respect was not earned easily.
She took a glass of wine from his hand, the liquid so dark a red it was
nearly purple. She didn’t worry about poison. He wasn’t the type, and she was immune to most of them anyway. Still, there was always the possibility of an accident. The man had so very many enemies.
Leu pushed aside a stack of maps and leaned back against the edge of the table, quite close to her. Taking a sip from his glass, he looked down at her and, smiling that dangerous smile, said, “Let the dickering begin.”
1
BRIANNA HAI
Brianna woke before the alarm to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of her roommate puttering in the kitchen. She couldn’t see what Pug was up to, but from the sound of it he was getting food ready for Camille and her kittens. He doted on those cats. Then again, having been a house pet at one point in his life he had very strong opinions as to how pets should be treated.
The clock on the nightstand read 5:30 A.M. It was still dark outside, without so much as a hint of dawn on the horizon. Brianna knew she should throw off the covers and start the day, but the bed was warm, soft, and inviting and the past few mornings had been, not cold precisely, but chilly enough to make her old injuries ache. She scratched absentmindedly at the scar above her left breast.
Five more minutes … five more minutes wouldn’t hurt. But that was a lie and she knew it. Five minutes would become ten, then half an hour, and before she knew it she’d be skipping her workout because she was running late. Missing one workout was no problem. But once could easily become twice, and soon enough the habit that kept her fighting fit would go out the window. If she even thought about letting that happen, Mei would kick her ass.
You do not want to piss off a dragon, even if she is one of your better friends. Still, with Mei out of town she didn’t feel the least bit guilty about exercising at home rather than going to the gym.
So Brianna threw off the covers with a groan and rolled out of bed. Padding down the hall to the bathroom, she tended to her immediate needs before pulling her hair up into a ponytail and dressing in a sports bra and black leggings.
Ready to start her daily routine, Brianna took her place in the clearest part of the living room. She began with stretches and yoga, breathing carefully and steadily, then moved into her favorite martial arts kata. After that, she stepped onto the treadmill and punched in the preprogrammed setting: first, a gentle slope, then increased speed and incline, and finally a gentler cool-down.
As she jogged, she reviewed her plans for the day. Work, of course. But there was nothing special about that. When her mother had opened Helena’s, it had been a very small, very exclusive shop. It was still exclusive, but the store had grown considerably under Brianna’s management; it was a popular venue for local magical practitioners and did a good amount of online business. There was always plenty of work to keep Brianna busy.
Busy, but bored.
And frustrated.
The thoughts were unbidden and unwelcome, but also unavoidable.
There was no challenge to her life. Everything was moving along smoothly. She told herself that this was a good thing. She wasn’t having to watch over her shoulder every moment, be suspect of everything and everyone because relaxing would put her life at risk. This was positively excellent. But she wasn’t happy.
A new man would be a nice distraction and she could think of several who’d be happy to oblige. She was, after all, an attractive woman. Oh, in Faerie she was pretty but fairly ordinary, but on this side of the veil, her looks were exceptional. She had luckily inherited her Sidhe father’s tall frame and exotic features, but they had been softened by her human mother’s lush curves.
Yes, there were always men. But while Brianna had a perfectly normal libido, lately she’d found herself finding fault and nitpicking when she considered possible suitors. That meant that the men weren’t the problem … and a new lover wouldn’t be the solution.
What the hell is the matter with me?
Surely she wasn’t … homesick?
She shook her head. She did not want to go back to Faerie. She shuddered as memories best left buried tried to force themselves to the forefront of her thoughts. There was no good reason for her to go back. Yes, she missed her father. But she did not miss the endless jockeying for power and position or the very real threats on her life.
If she returned to Faerie, even for a visit, everyone, including her father, would think she was putting herself back into the race to become his successor. Ulrich, one of her father’s most powerful nobles, would hound her. He was so certain she’d had something to do with his son Viktor’s disappearance—and she had, though not in the way he’d thought.
Brianna’s siblings, who’d rejoiced when she’d left and mostly ignored her since, would turn on her in a heartbeat. Lucienne would be subtle; Eammon, direct but basically honorable; Rihannon was unstable enough that there would be no predicting what she might do. Rodan … Rodan was subtle, capable, and vicious. Brianna couldn’t prove it, but she’d lay money that the one or two attempts that had been made against her on this side of the veil had been Rodan’s work.
Not for the first time, Brianna wished she knew what was happening back home. Mei, with her trace of human magic, could go back without problems. She would go, and report honestly back if Brianna asked it. But what did it matter to Brianna what was happening there? Her life was here. She’d made her choice. Surely she wasn’t regretting it?
She had used a boon—owed her by her father—to leave Faerie when her mother had returned to the human world. Brianna had grown tired of the politics, the backstabbing, and the bullshit—and was more than a little afraid that eventually one of the innumerable attempts on her mother’s life would succeed. Helena had lived out the remainder of her life unmolested and happy, and Brianna had been happy with her.
Helena had died years ago. Brianna could go back if she wanted. Her father would welcome her.
Not for the first time Brianna wished there were a seer she could consult. Was this unease hers alone—or her other sense giving her a warning? Was something wrong in Faerie? Did her father need her? There was no way of knowing. Because, even if Leu were desperate for her return, he wouldn’t ask her to come. He was too stubborn, too proud.
She was still pondering her best course of action after she finished her workout, cleaned up, and headed downstairs to open the shop and face the ordinary business of the day.
* * *
“Can you kill someone using magic?”
The words made Brianna stop mid-step.
She was on her way through the open front area of the shop. It was pretty, airy, with big windows and brightly lit displays, including glittering crystals and big printed signs saying VIDEO SURVEILLANCE IN USE. A stupid and unlikely place to discuss potential murder—but a surprising number of people had asked that same question over the years. Damn it, not again! She sighed. Amazing really, how many people would love the opportunity to end another’s life. Well, this wasn’t going to be her problem—David was working the counter and he could handle it.
She grabbed the laundry basket of clean towels from the counter in the back room and started up the stairs to her apartment. David was better at dealing with the somewhat murderous than she was: tactful and sympathetic, but firm. Brianna was much too inclined to be harsh and blunt, mainly because she was still angry.
Five years earlier, a young man had come into the shop—an outcast with an air of primal force about him. Within three minutes of his arrival, every customer was gone and Maxine had begged Brianna to take over so she could go on break. Almost as soon as she entered the front room, the man had approached and asked to buy the tools to do the blackest magic available. Cost was not an issue. When she refused to help, he threatened her.
Brianna Hai did not react well to threats. The would-be customer left the shop quickly, with his proverbial tail between his legs. Later, the police investigation revealed that he’d found what he’d been looking for online.
Perhaps because she’d turned him down, the young man’s first—and last—attempt at murder
by magic targeted Brianna. He wasn’t powerful enough to breach the shields and defenses built into the walls and mortar of the shop building, let alone Brianna’s personal defenses. And magic, thwarted, bounces back on the caster—with interest.
It was a particularly gruesome and well-publicized death. Coming as it did after the dead man’s none-too-subtle boasting to confidants, questions were raised. The authorities, not believing in magic, cleared Brianna immediately. But rumors continued to swirl and the Internet kept the story fresh, and all that led to the kind of inquiries that gave her ongoing headaches.
Grumbling under her breath, Brianna shifted the laundry basket to her left hip. With her right hand she made the swift gesture that would allow her to pass through the wards on her door unharmed. Only when she felt the moving energies still did she pull the apartment key from the pocket of her pants and slide it into the lock.
Once through the door she set the basket atop the occasional table, turned to the painting on the wall, and sank to one knee, bowing her head in the traditional obeisance. She had no way of knowing whether or not her father was watching, but it would never do to show the king of the Sidhe less than the proper honor. After the prescribed ten count she raised her head. The painting was still just that—a painting.
Once it had been nothing more than a landscape painted by Bob Ross, a field of wildflowers in the foreground, a mountain in the distance, the sun shining brightly over all. But that was before her mother had turned it into a private portal connecting Brianna’s home and her father’s library. Helena had done more than create a doorway between two worlds; she had altered the painting so that the image reflected the king’s mood. She’d wanted her daughter to have adequate warning of what to expect on the other side of the veil. It had been an unfathomably subtle and difficult piece of magic. But Helena had been the most skilled practitioner Brianna had ever heard of—on either side of the veil.
