Kiss of Vengeance (The Fairchild Chronicles Book 1)

by E. A. Copen

  “Easier, yes,” Dal said and folded his shirt before undoing the buckle on his belt. “But I owe her for the shot to the jewels earlier. Pass me the marker, will you, Lucky?”

  “And we don’t want to get shot at,” Kink added.

  “But it is a bit cold out for it, don’t you think?”

  “What’s the matter, Bill? Never taken the polar plunge?” Dal chuckled.

  “This is nothing,” Kink added. “You should try December in Northern Ireland. The missus once locked me out of the flat in nothing but my slippers. ‘Course I was so pissed, I mistook her for a sheep and tried to shear her arse.”

  Bill twisted around in his seat and stared. “Must have been some drink.”

  “You haven’t seen my wife. Why do you think I spend so much time stateside?” Kink handed the marker to Dal. “Get my back, would you? Is the black showing up?”

  “Not really,” Dal said with a frown.

  “Try this.” Lucky handed back a white out pen.

  Dal took it, shook it, and outlined the letters. It took all of a few seconds. “Better.”

  Kink turned around and grinned at Dal. “Well, the black will show up just fine on you. I’ve seen Irishmen paler than you, Dal. You need some sun.”

  “You shut your whore mouth and write what I told you.”

  The white out and permanent marker inside a small, closed space made them light headed. The fact that they’d done a few shots before coming out didn’t improve things. To an outsider, it was meant to look like a harmless drunken prank. They needed to be just drunk enough, just enough of a pain in the ass to get arrested. Not a problem for men of their disposition.

  “Are you ready?” Kink asked, hooking his fingers in the handle of the sliding door.

  Dal put a few finishing touches on his temporary ink and grabbed the flag they’d taken from in front of the pub. William hadn’t made a protest, because they were Mickey’s boys, but Dal had promised to buy him a new one just the same.

  “Let’s go.”

  Kink threw open the door, and the two of them hopped out, naked except for what they’d drawn on. Even though it was approaching midday, the air was brisk. Dal’s skin prickled and tightened in protest to the cold, but once they got running, it was only bad when he stepped barefoot in the snow. They weaved back through the sidewalk at top speed, which had more than a few people on it. Most pedestrians gave them a wide berth, as they saw them running down the street from a long way off, waving the Irish flag between them. When they reached the spot where the Marquis was parked, they stopped to piss against the front tire.

  Dal had never seen agents on a stakeout throw their doors open so fast. The pigs scrambled out, slipping and sliding on the ice, while Kink took off one way and Dal the other. Dal didn’t run so fast as to avoid being caught, but he made sure to give the fat cop chasing him plenty of exercise. When the pig caught him, it was only because Dal slowed to offer a salute to a female officer coming around the corner on foot. She stopped, looked him up and down, and smirked. Half a second later, the fat agent barreled into the back of Dal’s legs and knocked him face-first into a snowdrift.

  “God… dammit…” the pig wheezed as he pulled Dal’s hands behind his back. Once he was cuffed, the agent stood, doubled over and took a minute to recover. “What… the hell?”

  Dal turned his head so that his left cheek was pressed against the snow. “Can’t you read? Kiss my fine fae ass, BSI pig.”

  The cop collected him with no help from the female officer. When he was deposited in the back of the Marquis, Kink was already there, wriggling his painted ass against the glass.

  “You boys picked the wrong day to go drunk streaking,” the skinny, long-faced agent in the front seat said adjusting his sunglasses. “I just got word they flew another agent in from Washington, a real hard ass. And he wants to talk to you.”

  “Good,” Dal spat, adjusting so his ass wasn’t right on the leather seat. That was just uncomfortable. “Tell him I want to talk to him, too.”

  “And call the local cunt, too,” Kink added. “Dal’s got a bone to pick with that bitch for how she did us earlier.”

  The agents in the front scowled. The car lurched forward, and Dal smiled and nodded to Bill and Cat who were standing outside, watching the car speed by. By now, someone had heard the police call it in their streaking over the scanner, and they were on their way to Lachlan to deliver the news. Dal and Kink had an hour, two at most to deal with the pigs, break into evidence, and steal Nessa Blake’s cell phone. Easy.

  Chapter Four

  The station was on South Broadway, not a far drive from The Clover. The building itself was two stories of brick and glass. It wasn’t much to look at and barely registered in size compared to the other stations in Boston. Dal had been in and out of the station more times than he could count, most of the time in cuffs. But he’d never been marched in naked.

  The agents argued back and forth whether they could do that and, in the end, called into the station and had jumpsuits brought out for them. Orange was never Dal’s color, but Kink wore it like a second skin. Neither of them protested putting it on. They’d driven across town with the heat off and by the time they arrived, Dal’s teeth were chattering.

  Dressed in their new, bright orange jumpsuits, the agents walked them into the station and streamlined them through booking. It never took as long as it had the first time. Dal remembered that one well. He’d been twelve, and he’d stolen Mickey’s switchblade to slice open some short prick’s face. Lachlan himself orchestrated his release. Lachlan had seemed a towering terror then, tall, broad-shouldered with a chiseled jaw and an imposing presence. Dal remembered sitting on his knees in the dark in front of Lachlan while Mickey belted him with an iron chain. The beating left him laid up and missing school for over a month. Lachlan just stood there, lording over him, lecturing the whole time.

  “It’s not your place to decide who lives and dies,” his voice boomed in Dal’s memory. “Not any more than it’s the finger’s job to think for the hand or the hand’s job to think for the brain. Obedience, Dallon. That’s what you’re learning here today.”

  It hadn’t been all bad. Since he missed so much school, Lachlan let him sit in on Lena’s lessons. It was the best month of his life, despite the two cracked ribs, swollen kidneys and bloody piss. Lena made everything better. She was what he looked forward to every hour he spent locked behind iron, every job, every god damn day. The only reason he stayed sane was because he could come back to her, pick Grania up, kiss her on the forehead, and read to her from the Fae Children’s Devotional every night.

  She’d asked him to read to her the night of his last job. “Daddy’s busy,” he’d said and gave her a gentle shove. He’d been on the phone with Mickey at the time. “Tomorrow.”

  Lena frowned at him but took Grania’s hand, knelt and smiled the way she did when she wanted to make Grania laugh. “Daddy’s working. Come on. I’ll read to you.”

  She was still reading when Dal grabbed his hat and pike and went to the front door. He stopped to listen to the sounds of them upstairs and considered going up to kiss them both, but stupidly decided against it.

  There was always tomorrow…until there wasn’t.

  “Mr. O’Connor.”

  A set of thin fingers snapped in front of his face and jerked him from the memory. The man in front of him was a stranger. Tall and dark with a crooked nose, chin length, wavy, dark hair, strong cheekbones, and striking gray eyes. When he spoke, it was with a strong Slavic accent that made Dal’s skin crawl.

  He didn’t much care for any breed of Slavs. Most of his dealings had been with a group out of New York. They were Ukrainian and mean, fang-toothed assholes who would kill you as soon as look at you.

  This one wasn’t full vampire, though, he dressed as if he were. He wore a long coat and a big, floppy hat sat on the table between them. He could tell by the eyes. The thing across from him was another half-blood.

  “My name
is Abraham Helsinki.”

  “You’re with BSI,” Dal cut in. “I heard you the first time. What do you want?”

  “I want what you want. To find the person who murdered your wife and child.” The chair creaked as Agent Helsinki leaned forward. “And the elf girl in the morgue.”

  Dal tugged at the brass chains that kept him bound to the table. “You want to arrest him, put him through the system and behind bars where he can continue to work. That’s not good enough.”

  “On the contrary. It is easier for me to let you kill him. I am inclined to do so, provided the bastard in question is a Sullivan. Or at least a Fairchild that deserves it.”

  Dal swallowed and studied Agent Helsinki carefully. Lachlan might have him on the take. The Fairchilds had connections as high up as congress and the presidential cabinet. It wasn’t a far jump to assume there were other agents on his payroll besides Rosie Rose. But this foreign, half-vampire didn’t seem the type Lachlan would approach. It felt wrong.

  “Why does a ruble-head half-blood give two shits about the Sullivans or the Fairchilds?”

  “Mr. O’Connor, I did not fly to Boston to sit in this dingy room and interrogate you for streaking through the street with obscenities written on your person.”

  “And you’re not here to meet with Lachlan, or I would have heard about it.”

  The agent across from him folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “Things are changing. Many things. All over this nation, supernaturals like yourself have formed footholds of power. Whenever that balance of power shifts, my employer is inclined to be informed and to extend a hand to those willing to work with him.”

  Dal frowned. “Your employer? You’re not talking about BSI, are you?”

  A smile spread across the half-blood vampire’s face, showing his fangs. “I am glad we understand each other so far. I am here to report on that transition, to watch and observe. And when the shift happens, it is my sincere hope that you and I will speak again.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Agent Helsinki lifted his hat. Sitting on the table beneath it was a white cellular phone in a protective, pink case. “Your dark skinned comrade indicated that obtaining this was the objective of your streak through the street?”

  Dal bit his lip and turned his head away. “We were just out for a bit of fun. No harm done.”

  The door to the interrogation room jerked open and a middle-aged woman with gray hair and a wicked smart glint in her eye charged in carrying a briefcase. “My client is done answering your questions,” she barked at the agent.

  Agent Helsinki chuckled at her intrusion and stood. “There is no need for that. If Mr. O’Connor can promise to keep his clothing on in public from now on, I will see to it that the pending charges are dropped.”

  The lawyer pulled out the chair next to Dal and sat at the table, smiled menacingly, and said, “Deal, provided Kink gets the same treatment.”

  “Of course,” said the agent, straightening his coat and placing his hat on his head. “Do try to keep your clothes on. It is cold out there.” He went to the door and paused. “Oh, and if you find the owner of that cellular phone, please return it. Sadly, my efforts were fruitless.”

  He left and, shortly after, another cop came in to unlock the cuffs. Dal and Kink were both released without much fanfare or incident. They traded in their lovely orange jumpsuits for sweats and the jackets their lawyer brought.

  She went with them out of the station and waited with them for Lachlan’s driver to pick them up. She lit a cigarette with shaky hands as they stood on the sidewalk.

  “Still smoking,” Kink mumbled. “That stuff will kill you, love.”

  “Hemlock, belladonna, and monkshood haven’t killed me,” she answered, blowing out a puff of smoke. “If cigarettes can do the job, I’m all for it.”

  “I might need something special whipped up, Wendy,” Dal said, digging his hands deeper into the jacket pockets. The weight of the phone pulled it further down on one side, and the jacket was a size too small, but at least he didn’t have to stand naked in the afternoon cold. “Something slow. Painful.”

  “I’m out of that game now,” Wendy Fairchild told him. “I’m just a regular, boring tree nymph with a gardening hobby.”

  “But if I asked you, you’d do it?”

  She turned and studied him, a wrinkle forming over the bridge of her nose, and a sour look on her face. “You know I’d do anything for you, honey. But Lachlan’s not happy about you getting BSI involved. I got a feeling he’s going to call you off and let Mickey handle finding the guy.”

  “What?”

  “That’s bullshit,” Kink interjected. “It was his bloody family! He has a right!”

  “Quiet,” Wendy snapped. “We’re on an open street. And it’s not up to me. I just know what I hear. And I hear Lachlan wasn’t happy to hear of your little stunt, Dal.”

  “Lachlan can bite my ass, too.”

  “Careful there, Dal. Remember who you are.”

  “You mean remember my fucking place!” Dal kicked a snow drift and spun on her. “Fuck you and fuck Lachlan. If he wants me to back down, he can deliver the message himself. I’m done dealing with middlemen, intermediaries, and lawyers.” He turned again and stormed up the street away from her.

  “Where are you going?” Kink called after him.

  Dal didn’t answer.

  It was a long, cold walk back to The Clover, and Dal took the time to go through the phone. Like most phones, it was password protected but, like most whores, Nessa wasn’t particularly smart. He was able to crack it after a few tries.

  Her contacts were mostly empty aside from people he didn’t know. The last call the phone recorded was from a number marked private. When he tried to redial it, the number was disconnected, so that was useless, too. Her calendar was a colorful mess. Evenings at Elysium. Doctors appointments. Hair and nail appointments. Busy girl, Nessa Blake. The only time she didn’t have some kind of appointment was Thursday nights. Those were blocked off in big, green boxes labeled: B.D.M. That was it. No name, no address, no notes. The box corresponded to a phone number that looked local.

  That’s got to be a John, Dal thought, scrolling. Her B.D.M. appointments had gone from once a month to once a week and then twice a week it looked like, with the last visit being two days before the hit. There were other Johns, other initials listed with no corresponding information, but this was her only regular and the only one that increased in frequency.

  Dal pocketed the phone and picked up his pace. Cat might know who those initials belonged to. After all, she did say they sometimes did a double act or traded out places. That girl was the key to finding who was behind everything. Dal just hoped Bill and Lucky had kept her safe while he was in chains.

  Chapter Five

  Bill, Lucky, and Cat were at The Clover playing cards. When Dal walked in, the three of them looked like they’d become good friends over a few pints. Lucky waved him over and remarked, “Well, if it isn’t the conquering hero back from inside. How was it?”

  Dal ignored him and grabbed Cat by the arm, pulling her up.

  “Ow! Hey, that hurts!”

  He shoved the phone in her face, the calendar open. “Who is B.D.M?”

  “What?” She twisted her face in confusion.

  “B.D.M. It was one of her clients, right? And the only one that picks up in frequency. Who is he?”

  Cat jerked her arm away and turned to eye the small crowd of men who had turned to watch. Dal didn’t care who saw. Lachlan would always be one step too far behind him to stop him.

  “B.D.M.” She repeated the letters and rolled her tongue over her lip in thought. “That’s got to be Big Dick McAlister. His real name’s Richie or something, but he goes by Dick. Fitting.”

  “Is he connected to the Sullivans?”

  “I don’t know.” She sank back into the booth and sat on the edge of the leather seat. “I only saw him once when Nessa was double booked. I wen
t as her. Wore her clothes, her perfume, everything. That bastard still figured it out and damn near killed me. He has a temper.”

  “There’s a Rich McAlister who works over at the Sullivan’s garage,” Bill said and shrugged. “Might be the same one.”

  “We need to know for sure.” Dal shoved the phone at her. “Set up a meeting.”

  Cat frowned and shoved the phone out of her face. “No way. If he knows about Nessa, he’ll refuse. And if he doesn’t, he’ll wise up as soon as he sees me and bolt.”

  “We’ll handle that. You make the call.” When she didn’t take the phone, Dal added, “Do you want to find who killed your sister or not?”

  “Fine,” Cat snapped and ripped the phone out of his fingers. “But not in here. It’s too noisy, and Nessa would never call from a pub.”

  Dal put a hand on her shoulder and led her toward the bathroom, pushing open the door and forcing her inside. He followed and locked the door behind him, crossing his arms and leaning against it. “Call.”

  Cat went into the open stall and dropped the toilet lid before sitting down and crossing one leg over the other. She pressed a few buttons, shifted her hair away from her ear and lifted the phone. After a moment of silence, she purred into the receiver, “Hey, lover.” Pause. Her eyes met Dal’s. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go out of town so I need to reschedule our date tomorrow. No, nothing serious. But can we meet tonight instead? Yeah, honey. My place. No, half price since I’m inconveniencing you. Nine o’clock? Sure. Uh-huh. Okay. See you then.” She hung up and lowered the phone. “If he knew about Nessa, he lied really well.”

  “I got that.”

  “If he finds out—”

  “He won’t. I’ll get you a high-end glamor. That’ll cover everything unless he’s a heavy hitter.”

  Cat crossed her arms. “He’s seen through them before.”

  “He won’t have long enough, not with the one I’ll get you. All you have to worry about is getting him to talk. I need to know if he was passing orders of any kind to Nessa and from who. If things go south, me and the boys will be lying in wait, ready to break it up.”