Kiss of Vengeance (The Fairchild Chronicles Book 1)

by E. A. Copen

  After a long moment of silence passed between them, Mickey said, “You know, when you were a young lad, we used to fish here. Right down there.”

  A smile crossed Dal’s face as he remembered going with the other boys, pole and tackle box in hand. They almost never caught anything, because they got too busy roughhousing and carousing. “I remember.”

  Mickey turned his head to smile at Dal, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “You remember how I used to yell?”

  “Wait until you get home to beat each other up!” Dal mimicked Mickey’s gruff voice. “Oh yes, I recall.”

  “Things were so much simpler then,” Mickey sighed, turning back to the channel. “Before the Revelation. Since then, everything’s felt like a sinking ship. We’re all going down. The lifeboats are on fire, but everybody’s still grabbing for them. It’s false hope. The illusion of power. Makes us do the damnedest things.”

  Dal swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “Did you know it was happening with Lena?”

  “I had my suspicions. Everyone knew Teddy and some of the others he ran with were sick fucks. But little girls… Jesus Christ.” He removed his cap and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “It was just the whore’s young ones at first. Nobody cared then. But Teddy got himself a distaste for that quick enough, and he took a liking to Lena.”

  “And Lachlan let that go on? With his daughter?”

  “You have to understand. Everybody was lost. We thought it was over. Thought we’d be hauled off to camps. We thought we were living in the last days, boy. Every man with a vice found a way to indulge. Lachlan reasoned the only way we had a chance of surviving was to make alliances, no matter what the cost. It was that or die. Our darker selves prevailed in that madness. Find me a man who was proud of what he did during the Revelation Riots, and I’ll find you a liar.”

  Mickey paused. Their meeting place lit up with headlights passing by. Aside from the sound of tires rolling, there was nothing.

  “He tried to put a stop to it once the rioting stopped,” Mickey continued. “But Teddy had his taste, and the girl was already broken. It was easier for him to look away and pretend it wasn’t happening than to acknowledge it. It was easier for all of us.”

  “And with Grania?” Dal turned to glare at Mickey. “Was that easy?”

  “That poor girl was never a person to Lachlan. Nobody ever was after what he did with Lena. We became spaces on a ledger. Currency.”

  “And yet you stood by and let it happen.” Dal’s fingers tightened around his pike until pain returned to his knuckles. “You sent me out that night, knowing what he would do.”

  “I’m a broken old man, Dallon. All I know is how to follow orders. If I’d done anything else, he would have just killed me, maybe you, too. I thought I was saving you. I see now that I did the wrong thing. For what it’s worth, boy, I’m sorry.”

  Dal closed his eyes and tried to make everything match up. Mickey was never a good man. None of them were. But the man had raised him, brought Dal up to be a survivor in a world that hated him. Everything Dal knew about the world, about life, about pain and death, he’d learned it from Mickey Fairchild. And while he’d been learning, Mickey had turned the other way while Lena was abused. Dal had thought him a better man.

  Acknowledging that his mentor was just as broken and baseless as the rest of them sent Dal’s mind tumbling through memories. Where had things changed? Where had everything gone wrong? How could it be that they were the same man? Mickey took him to church and tended to his injuries. He was the same man who had introduced him to Lena in the first place. Mickey was Grania’s godfather, the first one to hold her after Lena and Dal, even before Lachlan. How could he have called Dal away, knowing what Teddy would do to Grania?

  Yes, Mickey beat him. Mickey cursed at him and could be a miserable drunk. But when it came down to it, Dal had always believed Mickey was in his corner. There was still some part of him that wanted it to be true.

  Dal’s hand tightened around his weapon. Mickey knew. He knew and he did nothing to stop it. He’s used his position of power over Dal to orchestrate continuing abuse with Grania. If nothing else, that alone made him guilty.

  “You still have to die, Mickey.”

  Mickey closed his eyes tight. “I know. I just wanted you to know why first.” They turned to face each other, and Mickey adjusted his coat. “How do I look? Pretty good for an old fart, huh?”

  “Well, you’ve always been an ugly son of a bitch.” Mickey started to say something else, but Dal shook his head. “No more apologies, Mickey. That’s not you, and it’s not in me to forgive.”

  Mickey nodded slowly. “You’re right. You mind if I have a smoke?”

  Dal said that he didn’t. Mickey pulled his cigarettes out of his coat pocket and placed the last one in the package in his mouth with shaky hands. It took him three times to strike the light, but he managed and turned back to watch the moon shimmer over the channel.

  They didn’t speak again. Dal stepped behind him, gripping the silver staff. He thought of Lena’s smile. Grania’s laughter. The kisses he’d never give them. A charge of magick went down his arm and into the staff, forming the end into the sharpest, smoothest ax blade he could manage. With a shout, he swung it once. The weapon found its mark and cut through.

  Later, the papers reported that, despite the violent nature of his death, Mickey Fairchild died instantly and painlessly, which was more than anyone could say for the rest.

  Chapter Eight

  Dal took Mickey’s car, a beat up old Cutlass Ciera, and made a few stops before heading to Lachlan’s. He stopped by The Clover and handed Jacob a twenty to pay for the flag. The normally jovial bartender grew quiet when Dal bid him goodbye and gave him a knowing nod.

  After that, he drove by the house where they were preparing Lena and Grania for transport. They’d been moved into their glass coffins, all decked out in baby’s breath and roses. Dal made them take the roses out and bind them into a bouquet that he took with him when he left. Before he went out the door, he gathered the staff Lachlan had working in the early hours of the morning, divided his cash savings between them, and told them to leave town. Some of them thought he was crazy. Most took the money and left.

  Alone in his house, Dal sat between the two coffins and worked at carving sigils into his silver pike. Silver was a conductor metal, useful for amplifying magickal energies. Everything Dal poured into it multiplied tenfold. Primarily, he favored using it as a weapon, one that others might have suggested he replace with a baseball bat, a nightstick or some other nonsense. Those people didn’t know how magick worked. The silver was harder, unbreakable when he kept it regularly charged. It was transportable and benign looking so he’d never get stopped at a checkpoint or by security. Its versatility was second to none whether he was fighting one or many.

  The one thing the silver pike wasn’t good for was fighting someone like Lachlan. Lachlan could best him in both skill and speed. There were legends among fae about Lachlan’s prowess with magick. No one had given him cause to use it since the Revelation. That rustiness, Lachlan’s overwhelming ego, and his belief that he was totally and completely protected from all sides were the three things Dal was counting on to give him a fighting chance. A quick and dirty pike upgrade wouldn’t hurt either. If he played his cards right, he could take out both Lachlan and Teddy in one move.

  And if he failed, he wouldn’t live long enough to know about it.

  Just before dawn, Dal finished working on the pike, tucked it into his pocket, donned his gloves and went out the door. He drove Mickey’s car to Boston Common and parked close enough that he could walk to Lachlan’s. He didn’t go right away. Dal sat in the car and watched the orange and bloody red sun come up. He took his bouquet of roses and went out for a walk. The morning birds chirped as he made his way across the park. Blades of frosted grass crunched beneath his feet.

  A memory flickered through his brain, the time that he and Lena had stayed up
all night when they were teenagers. It was early spring, only that March had come in like a lamb. Flowers bloomed, but the morning air was still cool enough they could see their breath. They walked hand in hand. Lena wore her white knit sweater, a white cap, and cherry red mittens. He’d foolishly gone out without a hat and would pay for it later with a spring cold. When they reached the frog pond, Dal wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her into a kiss. She didn’t kiss him back but smiled against his lips.

  “You make me happy,” she whispered to him and tucked her nose against his neck.

  Dal wondered if she would be happy with what he was doing now and then cursed himself. I can’t be that man now. I have to be the other Dal, the monster that breaks skulls and carries bodies to the harbor. I have to be the redcap Lachlan thinks I am.

  Teddy’s Mercedes was pulled into Lachlan’s drive along with a black Escalade belonging to his guards, no doubt. Dal jogged up the stairs. The extra work he’d done on the silver cylinder he now held in his pocket did its job and absorbed most of the shock of crossing the protective barrier. The rest, Dal swallowed and ignored. He knocked on the door, and Perry answered, ushering him in. Dal paused outside and wiped mud from his boots, putting a hand up against the side of the house and returning Perry’s frown with a smile. When Dal took his hand away from the wall, he left a tiny pinprick of blood behind. The butler sighed.

  “Sorry. Must’ve gotten myself on the thorns,” Dal explained.

  The butler eyed the roses and made a sour face before waving him in more impatiently.

  Lachlan’s office was too small to host a proper sit-down, so they used the dining room. Lachlan sat at the head of the table in the high-backed chair with carved, wooden wings. None of the rest of the chairs were so gaudy, or painted in gold leaf, but looked comfortable enough. The chairs on either side of Lachlan were empty, designated for him and Mickey. Behind Lachlan stood Otto, the only one of Mickey’s boys Dal hadn’t enlisted to help, and the only muscle the Fairchilds had left not loyal to Dal.

  Scattered around the room in various poses of impatience were Teddy and his crew. One leaned against the far wall while two more paced at the end of the table. Teddy himself sat opposite Lachlan, the long, reflective surface of the polished wooden table the only thing that broke their stares. They’d been arguing loudly—he wasn’t sure what about—but they paused when he entered, and all heads turned to him.

  “For fuck’s sake, Dal,” Lachlan growled. “Don’t just stand there. Get in here.”

  Dal remained in the doorway, leaning to one side and pressing the flat of his palm against the wood. Protective wards buzzed under his hand, reacting to his touch.

  Otto blinked and then narrowed his eyes. “What are the roses for, Dal?”

  For the first time, Teddy turned in his seat to look at Dal. He was an old man, decrepit and disgusting to look at. The skin on his hands was so thin and tight that every vein and capillary was visible. The mustache that had once been a coal gray was now thin and white. Every tooth in his rotten head was yellow.

  “These are special,” Dal said. “Just for you, Teddy.” Dal held the old fae’s eyes and saw the slow change as he realized what was about to happen.

  One of the pacing goons was the first to react, fumbling with his gun. Otto’s hand clamped down on Lachlan’s shoulder, the faint buzz of magic crawled up around them. Dal withdrew his hand from the wall, initiating the chain reaction he’d set up as soon as he first touched the wards outside.

  Alone, the wards worked wonderfully to protect each individual section of the house from outside assault. But, with the modifications Dal had made to his pike, and the blood he’d left at the entry to the house, Dal had taken control of the runes. He could now twist their purpose to his will. The one at the front door had been designed to set off a charge when activated. A small but effective spell that knocked any would-be invaders on their ass. The one outside of the dining room was part of an amplifying spell that wound all the way through the house, helping to control the temperature. The two had wisely remained disconnected and protected from each other, both by the build of the house and magick inlaid to prevent them from working in congress.

  But that was the problem with working multiple spells in the same place. It increased the chances that someone might come along and screw it up. Dal had changed all of that with the tiniest speck of blood at the door, by standing in just the right place, in the right way at the right time.

  The runes lit up red, first the ones directly under where his hand had been and then the whole doorway. The red light traveled at a dizzying pace through the wood and ancient plaster until the light was blinding and the whole house lit up like the sun.

  Something struck Dal in the arm hard enough to force him back a step, a bullet from Teddy’s guard’s gun. But it came too late. The reaction had begun, and only Dal could stop it now. More bullets tore through the doorway from blind guns. One grazed his cheek, and the rest slammed into the surrounding wood.

  There was a cracking sound followed by a pop-bang, and then a whistling boom as an explosion sucked the sound away. Hot wind from the blast flew at Dal from all directions. He lifted an arm and tried on instinct to throw up a protective barrier. But protective magick had never been his forte. The blast ripped the barrier apart.

  The house came down in waves, pressing against the pathetic scraps of protective magick until, finally, a beam broke through and slammed into his head. The smell of hot metal and the screech of the spell accelerating out of control were the last things he sensed before oblivion took the world away.

  Chapter Nine

  He dreamt he was making love to his wife in heaven and immediately thought it was strange. Even as she rocked on top of him, he found himself wondering why the fae bothered to adopt religion at all. It was a form of fitting in, he supposed. Growing up in an Irish Catholic neighborhood meant you were an Irish Catholic. But it was more than that. Mickey made sure the boys he cared for had a good, strong foundation in the faith to balance out the bad shit they had to do later. Everything could be forgiven in confession. After the hell they survived on Earth, it was nice to have something to look forward to. Even if it was false.

  Lena drew a hand back and slapped him. It hurt. Heaven wasn’t supposed to hurt.

  The fog lifted and Dal realized, to his great disappointment, that he had never been in heaven. He lay in the center of an empty ring of debris and ash. More rings of ash splashed out in a pattern of increasing density, marking the places where Teddy, Lachlan, and Otto stood. All three were beaten, battered and bloody but not dead. Dal opened his mouth and tried for a breath, but the air was acrid with unidentifiable odors except for the smell of burning wood. He choked on it.

  Lachlan pushed the remains of his chair off of him and stood. Teddy stayed on the ground, his leg twisted at an awkward angle, his eyes blinking blindly. Dal grunted, grabbed for the cylinder, and used the last of his effort to shift it into a pike. His left arm screamed as he hauled himself up. Teddy, Lachlan, and Otto stared at him in shocked silence.

  “I… know,” Dal growled through clenched teeth.

  Lachlan wiped the back of his arm across his chin, mopping up blood, and sneered. “Kill him.”

  Otto charged, ripping his human form away and letting the troll underneath show through. Six feet tall, green, and three hundred pounds of supernaturally dense muscle, Otto would tear Dal in half if he got ahold of him. Dal swung his pike, shifting it into the same bladed instrument he’d used to decapitate Mickey. Otto didn’t slow in time to avoid it. The blade sliced into Otto’s chest and arms, drawing out a roar of pain. The following swipe took off one leg at the knee, and Otto tumbled over with a crash. The troll swung at him, and Dal drove the bottom point of his pike into the back of his neck. Black ichor spurted out. Otto jerked once when he pulled the weapon free.

  It was a momentary distraction. Long enough for Dal to lose his focus completely and get blindsided by a flying piece of debris. The p
laster smashed against his head. If not for his hold on the pike, he would have fallen over. He righted himself and shook the powdered bits from his hair, turning back to Lachlan. “Why’d you do it?”

  “I was keeping the peace. I was saving lives!”

  “At the expense of your family?”

  “Momentary misery to protect a legacy!”

  With the twitch of his fingers, Lachlan lifted more broken bits of building from the ground. They circled in the air, picking up more and more each second. The debris spun faster and louder.

  Dal threw an arm up over his face, shielding himself from the wind and flying debris. “No legacy is worth that!”

  Sirens cut through the dawn, barely audible. Red and blue lights painted the shadows and a dozen police cruisers screeched to a stop in the street. Agent Rosie Rose was one of the first out of her car. She lifted a megaphone to her mouth and screamed an order into it, but the words were lost in the storm Lachlan had called up.

  The first large item flew at Dal, a board with a twisted piece of pipe attached. He batted it away but only barely. And he wasn’t fast enough to deflect the white porcelain sink that flew into his hip. It struck the pike first, and that was the only reason it didn’t break bone. It did knock him over. Dal scrambled to avoid having a hail of nails and tacks driven towards him. Even as he avoided that, Lachlan smirked and redirected the better part of a piano at him. He barely avoided being struck in the head by throwing himself to the ground.

  The crack of gunshots rang out, followed by more shouts into the megaphone. Lachlan snarled and dropped one hand. Half the debris came tumbling down as he redirected his attention to dealing with the bullets, including the piano Dal had just ducked under. It fell on him but only managed to pin one arm.

  Lachlan threw up a thick, protective wall of air, slowing the bullets as they sailed through the air to a harmless speed. They fell short of both Lachlan and Dal, clinking like metal rain as they struck the remnants of Lachlan’s house.