Wild Card (Etudes in C# Book 1)

by Jamie Wyman

  “Did I say that?” he snapped as he whirled to face me. Desperation lapped at the edges of his expression like tiny waves on a sea of rage. A look of equal parts hunger and horror shot from his red-rimmed eyes, and I quivered. “I don’t remember. Don’t put words in my mouth!”

  The man rocked on the balls of his feet, hands nervously touching his temples. Sanity eluded him as if he’d said, “No, thank you,” when the waiter offered it to him. I felt uncomfortable, like standing too close to one of those homeless guys who rants about the end of the world. Something about him, though, tugged at not only my memory, but my sympathy.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “I am,” he said. “I. Am. And isn’t that enough? For you? For me? And what about you, eh? With your trinkets and baubles and painted face. Who are you?”

  I stepped back to lessen the brute force of his question. He moved in closer, and I became dizzy.

  “Who. Are. You?” he asked again, this time enunciating like the damned smoking caterpillar.

  Had I missed the gala and fallen down the rabbit hole?

  “C-C-Catherine,” I stammered.

  “Catherine? Lovely name. Once knew a woman called Catherine.” He spoke quickly, the words bleeding out of him like water through a sieve. “Spectacular singing voice. Good with kids. And then she died. That’s it.” He tossed another bite of sushi into his mouth. Before he could swallow he said, “But do you see what I mean?”

  I dodged flecks of fish and rice.

  After he’d gulped down the food, he continued, “Do you see how easy it is for you, you little fleshbag? You and your puny, insipid mind? I ask you a profound question like your name and you give it. Freely. Quickly. As if it were written in the stars and solid as a mountain. Easy peasy.”

  This guy—or whatever he was—had taken the A train from Psychoville. I looked around for Marius but couldn’t find him in the cluster around the bar. The rest of the guests avoided this part of the room, so I couldn’t attach myself to another conversation and politely leave. I began the calculations: How close are his hands? How loudly can I scream if I need to? Can I duck away? If he follows me, where do I go?

  “Simple, stupid mortals,” he sighed.

  I rankled a bit for my race. Turning my own annoyance on him I said, “Dude, what is your problem?” I’d been fully prepared to defend humanity and give this nut job a piece of my simple, stupid mind, but another glimpse of that haunted face, and I was silenced.

  “Stupid,” he spat. “Don’t know what’s best for them. Can’t even agree on black or white.” His words were a blur of agitation and pain. When I looked at him I no longer saw a man but a series of fractures. Pity welled in me at the sight of such a splintered soul.

  “Whore!” he shouted. His finger jabbed at the air between my eyes. “I see you. I see what you are, and I know by whose bidding you come. I see it all, like a kaleidoscope in the dark, twisting its shapes around. Shadows and mirrors. Trying to deceive. But I know.” He tapped his temple. “I know you, C-C-Catherine, with your simple life and simple ways.”

  I turned to go. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” I said around a lump of sadness.

  He took me by the arm and pulled me in close. Scalding heat flared over my brand, over my flesh where his fingers gripped me.

  “What the hell?” I struggled against him, but his fingers were solid as stone.

  His trembling breath blew softly on my cheek. “I know why you’re here,” he whispered. “I know what you’ve been sent to do. They won’t let you, you know?”

  I stopped squirming, curiosity getting the better of me. “What?”

  “There are too many people who like things the way they are. You’ll die before they let you finish the job.”

  The heat from his touch sizzled over my flesh. Twisting to get away only made the pain that much more intense. I tried to breathe, to speak with a strong voice, but all I had in me was a child’s whimper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not. It hasn’t happened yet.”

  He licked at his pink-and-purple lips. Every muscle in my body shook like a leaf in the wind. Looking into his face with its confused skin and angry eyes, I quailed. My stomach in knots and my arm on fire…and yet I hurt for him. Inexplicably, I felt shame so viscerally that I wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and beg for mercy.

  “I’m sorry,” I croaked.

  “Alfie? Alfie, dear, are you all right?”

  A woman in a blue gown appeared at his side, radiating compassion and the kind of patience you expect from hospice nurses. She said his name again and placed calm hands on his shoulders. At the sound of her voice, Alfie released me and stepped away. Instantly, my skin stopped boiling, but now I shivered with fear and at the sudden absence of his heat.

  “Oh, hello, Mother,” he said. Gone were the wild eyes and seething anger. With a child’s proud smile and a sweeping gesture toward me, he sang, “Have you met Catherine?”

  “What a beautiful name,” she said with a smile. The woman’s brown eyes twinkled with fond memories. Her voice—sweet, dark, and thick as molasses—melted over me and soothed a bit of the ache in my soul. “I do hope he hasn’t troubled you.”

  I started to lie then realized how ridiculous it would sound. “More than a little,” I confessed.

  Looking very much like a bored child, Alfie nibbled at his fingers. “Lovely. Lovely whore.”

  The woman in blue looked upon her son with love and sadness. “I am sorry, dear. He doesn’t mean it.” She looped her arm through Alfie’s and began to steer him away. “Come on, Alfie, it’s time to go.”

  “Yes, Mother, it is.”

  He took two steps then, in a blink, he was pressed against me. Again, his touch lit me on fire. Quaking, my legs buckled. I started to fall, but his strong hands held me fast.

  “You are a pawn and a tool,” he said. “But you’re the right one for the job. For that, I am sorry.” He took my face into both of his hands and brought his lips down. I thought he would kiss me, but instead he brushed his mouth over my forehead. “I love you.”

  Just when I thought I would collapse from the pain of his touch, from the terror in my belly, his hands dropped to his sides. Alfie breezed away, his mother following in his wake. A path cleared before them as other guests continued their calculated avoidance. Not to be ignored, the madman cackled as passed by, even stopping to snap his jaws and bark at one unlucky woman.

  I stumbled, knees knocking together, and braced myself against the table. Cooling the burns from his fingers, tears streaked down my cheeks. I tried to collect myself, to control my breathing, but all I could do was shiver.

  Marius’s voice behind me, familiar and low, was comforting somehow. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  Nodding, I brought up a finger to dab at my eyes, careful not to smear my makeup. “He’s so broken.”

  The satyr’s face wrinkled in confusion or disgust. “I’m not talking about that nutter, I’m talking about this!” Spreading his hands he indicated the table. “It’s disgraceful!”

  Thanks to Alfie’s conversational and emotional whiplash, I’d been spun a little too much to really grok what Marius was getting at. “What?”

  “You would think that with all the water-into-wine types at this party someone would be able to put out a decent spread. Me? I once put together beef bourguignon for 150 people with little more than a jar of vinegar and a half-starved cow.”

  “Beef burgundy? For 150?”

  “Of course. And then, they tried to flay me alive, the ungrateful bastards. Haven’t been back to India since. Fuckers,” he muttered into a glass of champagne.

  In his other hand was a tumbler of whiskey. I snatched it and knocked it back. Blinking at the burn in my chest, I shook my head. “Marius, what are you talking about?”

  “Bugger all, you are a lousy date!”

  “This isn’t a date,” I contested. “This is a job. Nothing more.”
>
  “You could do worse than a date with me, Catherine.”

  I snorted. “Not by much.”

  “Do you honestly find me so repellent?” His face drawn in a mockery of disappointment, Marius stretched out his arms in a move that was equal parts pining for attention and putting himself on display. Once more, I humored the idea that for all of his personality flaws and inhuman traits, he sparked something in the deeper reaches of my interest. Maybe it was the sleek line of his shoulders in that suit. Or the silky thickness of his hair. I skimmed over our past, wondering if I’d ever seen it down rather than in a ponytail.

  I shook my head and stopped pondering. This was Marius. I’d never seen beneath the glamour, but I knew it was there. I wouldn’t deny that he was attractive, but I couldn’t accept that what I saw was reality. Still…

  “You’re all right,” I conceded, looking away and letting my eyes drift over the crowd.

  “All right?” Dropping his arms, he chuffed indignantly. “Darling, I do believe I must fetch you a dictionary as your vocabulary is sorely lacking. I am better than all right. I am spectacular. I am an Adonis. Tantric sex in a suit, is what I am. And it wouldn’t kill you to pay me a compliment. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

  Marius gently parted me with my glass and put down with his drink. Then, he took my hands in both of his. Slowly, he spread my arms out so that his eyes could dance over me. My cheeks burned and my heart sped up as he looked. His gaze slid from my painted toes, up my bare legs, and lingered over the slight curve of my hips. When his tour reached my collarbones, his mouth formed the slightest of appreciative smiles. I could almost feel his eyes—like fingers—tracing up my hair and around, down my cheek. His stare settled on my eyes, and I held my breath.

  “You are stunning, Catherine. You sparkle with the delicate fire of a star. A vision of grace and beauty that would make Aphrodite herself fume with envy.”

  Abashed and red-faced, I looked away. With a hooked finger he picked up my chin and drew my attention back to his too-sincere face.

  “I am truly the luckiest of men to have the honor of escorting you tonight.” He placed the faintest of kisses—little more than a breath and the brush of his mustache—on the back of my hand. “May I have the pleasure of sharing a dance with you?”

  My stomach fluttered. I wasn’t snowed by his pretty words, but the intensity of his stare gave me pause. Could he mean it? Could I actually be entertaining the idea that Marius was anything other than a bother?

  I blew out a breath I hadn’t realize I’d been holding. “Sure. Why not? Nothing better to do.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Marius said as he offered me his arm, a mercurial smile on his face.

  As we made our way to the dance floor, the band started up a soft and airy tune. I put my hand in his, and we began to move with the music. Marius slid his hand up my bare back, his touch light and tantalizing. Doing my damnedest to ignore the electric chill brought on by his closeness, I peered around the room. While other guests mingled, some danced. With smiles vibrant and arms twining about one another, the creatures of myth enjoyed themselves.

  I used to do that, I thought. Seems like forever since then.

  I ached inside, jealous of anyone having a good time.

  “Incredible,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve seduced queens with that move, and here you are plodding along in bored resignation.”

  “Putting your arm around me is considered a move? I must be out of practice.”

  He closed the distance between us, pressing the warmth of his whole body against mine. Once more, he traced a soft, delicate line up my spine. He cupped the base of my skull and twined his fingers in my hair. Marius’s eyes held mine with a look full of silky intentions and dark promises. As more chills coursed through some of my naughtier regions, I drew in a sharp breath.

  “Well,” he purred, “perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

  I put some distance between us but kept dancing. “You’re not my type.”

  “Keep on lying to yourself. I know your kind, Catherine, and by the end of the night I could have your knickers hanging from my rearview mirror if I wanted them.”

  I grunted in distaste, but I didn’t grant him the honor of a response.

  “All right then,” Marius said, “what precisely is your type? Wait,” he interjected before I could answer, “let me see if I can guess.”

  As we continued to dance, Marius passed a glance over the room, eyes flitting from person to person like a bee seeking the perfect flower.

  “Ah. Probably something like him.” Marius swung me around and with a tip of his chin indicated a man near the bar. “Tall blonde. Red suit.”

  The guy was slender to the point of being skeletal with a withered mop of dishwater hair. I wrinkled my nose. “No, thanks. Looks like a meth-head.”

  “Strike one,” Marius muttered. “I’ll take another swing, shall I?”

  After twirling a circuit around the room, he swung me with the flourish of the music. With my back to his chest, he put his lips to my ear and said, “Third table from the left. Dreadlocks.”

  I had to give it to Marius—this one was more on the mark. Broad-shouldered with an eggshell-tan complexion, the man had dreads down to his ass. He was certainly pretty. But his suit… Gold lamé? I shivered.

  “Eh. He’s okay. His date’s nice on the eyes, though.”

  Marius whipped his head to look at the woman on Dreadlocks’s arm. All curves in her purple sheath gown, she was a vision of languorous delight.

  The satyr passed me a sidelong, somewhat surprised glance. “Really?”

  I shrugged. “I went to college.”

  With nothing more than a knowing smirk, he nodded as if storing that information for later. He lifted my hand and spun me once more. Face-to-face again, he said, “Strike two. I had better make this one count.”

  While Marius took one more survey, I let my eyes sweep over the milling crowd. I recognized more of the guests now. A few multi-billionaires pranced past with models on their arms. A few iconic musicians basked in the glow of admiration.

  And then I saw a familiar soul. Her raven hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The swath of midnight silk draped over her dancer’s body complimented the soft ebony of her skin. Surrounded by other preternaturally beautiful members of the Fae hierarchy stood the one person in the world I hated more than Marius.

  Dahlia.

  Chapter Five

  “Shallow Be Thy Game”

  Her name blazed through my head in hot whispers and memories of anger and pain. As if I’d shouted for her, she looked up, her honey-colored eyes latching onto me immediately.

  Using the satyr’s height to hide, I cursed, “Oh, fuck me.”

  “Aha! I told you,” he sang. “Very well. Shall we find a coat-check closet? Those are always fun.”

  I gripped his shoulder and tried to force him around, his back to the faeries. “Will you just shut up?” I hissed. “If we’re lucky she’ll stay over there.”

  “Who?”

  The satyr peeled away from me to rubberneck. I saw Dahlia coming toward us in long, graceful strides.

  “Oh, dammit,” I moaned. “Just when I thought tonight might not suck.”

  “Well, hello,” Marius said. “Who is this?”

  With the click of a stiletto heel, Dahlia popped a hip out and crossed her arms over her chest. She looked exactly as she did when I’d met her most of a decade ago: haughty and mind-numbingly gorgeous. The only difference between that night and this one was the oak-leaf tattoo etched onto her neck: the mark branding her as a servant of Mab and Titania, the faery queens of the Winter and Summer courts.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen, I thought with a surge of glee.

  “Cat,” she said, “what a surprise.”

  I swallowed a lump of pride and bile. “Dahlia.”

  “Dahlia,” Marius repeated. “A lovely name that wilts in comparison to its own
er.”

  The faery rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored the satyr’s advance. Marius made small talk with another guest on the dance floor, but I didn’t take my eyes off of Dahlia.

  “It’s been a while,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d left the city.”

  “No such luck,” I said, stepping away from Marius. “Slave to the queens, I see.”

  She arched a perfect brow. “I serve willingly.”

  “As willingly as I do, I’m sure.”

  At this, her expression darkened. I grinned. Take that, bitch.

  Eyes narrowing, mouth pulling into a stern frown, she inched forward with preternatural grace. “I came over here to help you,” she snarled.

  I hugged myself to ward off furious shivers, but I hoped I looked like a confident, stone-faced badass. I laughed mirthlessly. “Why would I possibly need—or want—your help, faery?”

  She glanced back over her shoulder to the Fae contingent, eyes lingering over a man with hair the color of spring grass. Her jaw flexed. Without looking to me, she said, “He has plans for you.”

  I couldn’t fathom why at the time, but a familiar, cold dread flooded me. Hadn’t we done this before?

  The man with green hair let out a raucous laugh. His smile was broad to the point of caricature, a seam stretching across his rubbery, ageless face. Dimples stood out on his cheeks. He looked Fae: impossibly handsome, vibrant, and joyful. Something about him, however, set my teeth on edge.

  “Who is he?”

  “A servant,” Dahlia said quietly, “but a god in his own right. Trickster and messenger.”

  “Puck?” I said. “That is Puck?”

  Dahlia nodded. “But don’t think he’s all jokes and pranks. When the Bard was writing plays it may have been so but even the gods evolve.”

  I gasped and brought a hand to my mouth in feigned shock. “Really? A faery being two-faced?”

  She slithered forward, her face rigid, and placed her cheek next to mine. Her lips barely moved against my ear. I shivered and swallowed hard to shove away memories.

  She is a viper, I warned myself. Never forget how many times she has betrayed you. I began counting backward over her sins. That fiasco at the Bellagio. The Midsummer job. Chicago.