My gaze swivels toward the small package lying unopened on the hallway table. “Yes.”
“It contains a mobile phone, plus a charger. Do you know what a SIM card is?”
“I think so.” I’m only vaguely familiar with the old technology. When the Druids came to power, they banned the internet and twenty-first-century tech. It is the one point on which they and the Fianna agree.
“Open the package,” Adrian says.
Using my chin to maintain my grip on the phone, I rip the seal and remove the slim device.
“You’ll find an envelope containing a SIM card in Ashling’s bedroom, underneath her pillow. Put it into the back of the device and press the button on the front to start it.”
“What number do I use to call you?”
“You don’t call me. I’ll contact you with further instructions.” He’s speaking quickly now, his voice crackling over the poor line. “Contact MacNeil and enlist his help in finding Ashling. You have two days to bring him to me. You come alone—none of his soldiers are to accompany you. If you disobey, the girl dies.”
“Wait, I—” The dull buzz of the dial tone is the only response.
I drop the phone and sprint toward Ash’s bedroom. The envelope containing the SIM card is exactly where Adrian described. I pocket it and grab an empty backpack from the hall closet.
In the kitchen, the smell of the much-anticipated Chinese food turns my stomach. I dump it down the garbage disposal. Then I root through the cupboards and locate a bottle of water and a couple of energy bars. I shove them into the backpack, along with the contents of my handbag, and grab my wet coat from the stand.
Pulse pounding, I run down the stairs of my apartment building and shove open the front door. And stop short. Mister Cuddles. Damn. I can’t leave him in the apartment without access to food and water, and I can hardly bring him with me. Fuck. Ash will be devastated if anything happens to him.
I race back upstairs, taking the creaky steps two at a time. For once, the lock proves cooperative. I rush into the kitchen, grab the snarling feline, and shove him into his carrier cage. After throwing the last tins of cat food into a plastic bag, I shut the apartment door behind us.
On the other side of the landing, I pound on my neighbor’s door. Come on, Kenny. Answer the bloody door.
Kenny Lenihan is a stoner with no strong political allegiances on either side of the river. He’s lived in our building for twenty-plus years. In that time, he’s seen residents come and go, wars won and lost, and regimes rise and fall. Through it all, Kenny chills in his apartment, supporting himself by dealing low-grade dope and other minor contraband that is of little interest to the authorities. He’s a genial if disinterested neighbor. We’ve shared the sixth floor of the building for over five years without displaying the slightest inclination to deepen our acquaintance.
“Something’s come up,” I say the instant he opens his door. “Family emergency. I need you to look after my daughter’s cat.”
I shove the cage at him. Mister Cuddles hisses and snarls.
Kenny takes a step back, bushy gray eyebrows arching to his receding hairline. “Lia, I can’t—”
“Here’s cat food.” I toss the bag to him. “And cash.” I hand him a few notes. “If you and your pals eat him, I’ll eat you. Understand?”
Kenny nods, slack-jawed.
“See you in a few days.”
I leg it before he can say another word.
CHAPTER TWO
LIA
Failure is not an option. The bells of the cathedral chime again. Eight o’clock. One hour since the phone call. Which gives me exactly forty-seven hours and fourteen minutes to rescue my daughter. I’ve fucked up a lot of things in my thirty-two years, but I won’t fail Ash.
Lightning splits the night sky in jagged zigzags. In honor of the worst crisis to befall me since my parents died, the weather gods have gone all out. I wipe rain from my face and swallow fear sharper than razor blades. I’m standing on the threshold of the Fifty, one worn boot still on the relative safety of the Ha’penny Bridge, the other in enemy territory. To my left, the old border control tower stands empty, but anyone who thinks the Fianna don’t patrol the bridges spanning the river between the newly annexed North Side and the fifty districts of the Fianna is delusional.
I scan the terrain, searching for Shadow Warriors and scum of the humanoid variety. My gaze settles on a campaign poster pinned to a high redbrick wall. Torin MacNeil, leader of the Fianna and self-proclaimed Purifier of the Provinces. Hard to tell which repels me more: the sight of MacNeil’s arrogant sneer, or the prospect of facing his nephew.
Seth will go nuclear when I tell him he’s Ash’s biological father. It sickens me to think that all my efforts to shield her from Seth’s family were for nothing. I’ve lied, hacked, and cheated my way through the past fifteen years. I’ve done everything in my power to keep my daughter safe from harm. Everything, it seems, except choosing the right people to trust. My nails dig into the palms of my hands. When I track Adrian Langley down, I’m going to wring the motherfucker’s neck for putting Ash in danger.
I straighten my posture and step off the bridge into the rain-soaked territory of the Fianna. Keeping my senses alert for predators, I hurry through the maze of high-walled cobbled streets that compose District Forty-Nine, searching for the lane that leads to Seth’s nightclub.
Last century, this area was called Temple Bar. During the Wiccan’s brief reign, it was renamed Hope Market. Despite several decades and several regime changes, the name stuck…until the Fianna came to power and changed everything. The last time I visited D49, the patchouli-scented cobbled streets overflowed with fortunetellers, crystal singers, and purveyors of all kinds of trinkets and arcane wisdom. Food stalls and cafés sold vegetables free of growth hormones, and cakes so luscious my stomach growls at the memory. The people danced and sang and their laughter was as melodious as their songs. As a non-believer, I found their warmth and enthusiasm cloying, but I preferred the hippy-trippy esoteric crap to D49’s new incarnation. All trace of the district’s former charm has been eradicated. It’s dark, deserted, and deeply unsettling. I guess the fortunetellers didn’t foresee their own forced exile and extermination, courtesy of the Fianna. I shiver, pull my threadbare raincoat close, and quicken my step.
I’ve never partied at Voltage, but I know the club is where Madame Maud’s old place used to stand. I plunge down the familiar lane. No sign of Madame Maud’s wooden door any more. I struggle to adjust my vision to the dim light. Where the hell is the club’s entrance? I pat the walls, searching.
A prickling at the nape of my neck makes me halt. My breath comes hard and fast. In slow motion, I turn around.
Two hooded shapes float before me, insidious and radiating malevolence. Right now, the full force of that malevolence is directed toward me. My stomach performs a routine worthy of an acrobat. Shadow Warriors.
A swish of metal slices through the silence. The larger one has drawn his blade.
Motionless, I assess my situation. Even by my low standards, it’s dire. The lone pair of electrosconces does little to illuminate the lane and gives my adversaries the advantage. (I, alas, lack extrasensory perception. Damned human DNA.)
A glance to my right reveals the main street—a twenty-meter sprint over cobblestones slick with rain. Too far. Plus, if my luck runs true to form, I’ll fall flat on my face.
I look up. The tops of the high redbrick walls are studded with volters and lethal to the touch. The Fianna are anything but lax about security.
The Shadow Warriors loom closer and their hoods rustle in the breeze. My pulse accelerates into a sprint. Fewer than ten meters separate me from them.
I shift my weight from right to left. My blade is where it’s least convenient to reach—in my left boot. If I bend to retrieve it, they’ll pounce. Cursing my younger self for skipping so much school, I wrack my brain for information on Shadow Warriors. What little I recall affords me no comfort. Sh
adow Warriors like baiting their prey with slow movements, like they’re doing with me now, but their attack, when it comes, will be swift and brutal. Trust the Fianna to use sentries who kill first and ask questions later.
Five meters.
“Wait.” My voice sounds hoarse. “I’m here to see Seth MacNeil.”
They ignore me and continue their advance.
Two meters.
Sweating, shaking, I stand my ground. “I need to see Seth. It’s urgent.”
The first Shadow Warrior charges, blade poised. I sidestep him with more speed than finesse, only to find myself face to non-face with the second Shadow Warrior.
I sidestep him as well, easily. Too easily. He’s fucking with me and we both know it. Why didn’t I think to bring a stunner? The shock of the phone call? Or has my cushy existence over the last five years made me soft and blunted my instincts? The dance of death continues until, inevitably, I stumble.
Sweat slithers down my spine and I brace myself for a knife between the ribs. The punch catches me unawares. The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. My legs buckle, and I struggle to stay upright.
A second blow catches me in the kidneys. Oh, the pain…The ground rushes toward me. I break the fall with my arms, biting my tongue in an effort to not scream. Blood fills my mouth. I’m going to die. And if I die, so will Ash. My heart rate kicks into overdrive. I try to stand but I can’t get further than my knees.
“Enough,” growls a low voice from behind me. A low, masculine, human voice.
The Shadow Warriors freeze, suspended in midair. They hover for a moment, as if weighing their options. Then they retreat, dissolving into the inky darkness.
Strong arms haul me to my feet. The familiar spicy smell of his skin tips me off, even before he spins me round to face him.
Seth. Fifteen years later, I still recall his scent. I don’t care to analyze why.
Bile surges up my throat and I throw up at his feet. What a way to greet my ex.
“A punch to the kidneys has that effect.” His deep voice is steady. Disinterested. It retains the whiskey-soaked timbre I once loved.
“I’m…sorry.” A wave of nausea hits like a tidal wave. Crouching over a drain, I throw up several times, vomit mingling with rain. With a bit of luck, he won’t recognize me, thus buying me time to pull myself together before I rip our lives to shreds.
When I can retch no more, I grasp a drainpipe and stagger to my feet.
Seth’s face is devoid of emotion. I have no idea what mine is projecting. Probably panic.
I give him a quick once over. Gone are the vintage rock T-shirts and ripped jeans of his youth, replaced by the silver-buckled uniform I despise. The arms of his black shirt are decorated with the dragon triskelion of the Fianna. Blech.
“Lia,” he says, breaking the silence. “Been a while.”
So much for buying myself a breather. My luck is on hiatus. Permanently. No point in hoping Seth no longer bears me a grudge. “How did you know I was in the lane? Surveillance cameras?”
“Walls have ears.” He folds muscular arms across his broad chest and stares me down. “What do you want? To catch up on old times?”
Yeah, he still hates me.
“In case it’s escaped your notice, I’ve just had the crap beaten out of me by floating bathrobes with anger management issues. And it’s pissing rain.” I indicate the ground, which is fast turning into a river. “Can’t we have this conversation elsewhere? Preferably somewhere with enough light for me to check my wounds?”
“We’ll talk in my office.”
“Your strip club has an office? I guess you need somewhere to tally your ill-gotten gains.” The words slip out before my brain engages.
His smile wanes. Way to go, Lia. Antagonize the one person who can help you find Ash. Pushing past me, he snatches a sports bag from the ground and strides to a metal door.
“Where did that door come from? I stumbled all over the lane looking for one.”
He flashes me an enigmatic smile. I flash him what I hope is an intimidating glare. His grin grows wider. Blast the man. The invisible door must be one of the Fianna’s magic tricks.
The door opens onto a dim passage. At the end, a crude lamp exposes a second metal door. Seth keys in a code, and the sliding frame shifts to the left. Thanks to years of repairing vehicles made of all kinds of material, I can’t help staring at the wafer-thin substance: Maegar metal—supple, soundproof, and deceptively strong. Kind of like its owner.
I sneak a look at Seth. His intense gaze burns into me and sends electric heat searing over my skin.
“Ouch.” I wrench my eyes away from his and cradle my arm.
“Apologies.” He doesn’t sound in the least contrite.
“Bastard,” I mutter under my breath. I know from experience that this sort of injury heals in seconds but it’s painful while it lasts. Seth is toying with me, making damn sure I know he hasn’t lost his pyrokinetic abilities. As if I could ever forget.
He bows and gestures to the open door. “After you, Lia.”
I take a deep breath and step through the entrance.
CHAPTER THREE
LIA
Inside the nightclub, my eyes adjust to the bright lights. The dance floor pulses with people. Punk rock blares from the speakers, an assault on the eardrums. Despite the early hour, the revelers are well lubricated—or worse.
Seth navigates the crowd with ease, dragging me through the throng. When we reach the bar, he turns to me. “I need to check in with the staff. Then we’ll go downstairs.”
“But—” Any objection I have to this plan is lost in the noise.
He moves down the bar and addresses a pretty blond barmaid. Her uniform consists of a few strategically placed strips of leather. When she puts a manicured hand on Seth’s arm and leans forward, her boobs almost fall out of her top.
I catch a glimpse of the clock behind her halo of curls, and my stomach cramps. Seth needs to hurry the fuck up. I don’t have time for this bullshit.
By the time Seth finishes his conversation with Blondie and has bestowed a lingering kiss on her overly made-up cheek, I’m quivering with ill-concealed impatience.
“How long does it take to check in with your staff?” I demand when he returns to my side. I choke on the words, struggling to fight back tears. Tears of anger. Tears of frustration. Tears of fear.
A frown line appears between his dark brows. “No need to overreact.”
“I am not fucking overacting. I need to talk to you in private, and I need to talk to you now.”
Our eyes lock. He must be about thirty-four now, two years my senior. He’s added muscle in the last fifteen years. The corners of his eyes sport lines, hinting at hard knocks and maturity. The shock of black hair is shorter than I remember, cropped close to his head, military-style. He looks good. More than good. His emerald green eyes are so like Ash’s. Ash…oh, no. My breathing comes fast as a freight train, and I lose my battle against the tears.
“Lia. Damn it, don’t cry.”
He pushes away from the counter. The blond woman is watching us. When her gaze meets mine, her eyes narrow to serpentine slits. I match her hostile stare with my watery glare.
“Come down to my apartment.” Seth says in a gentler tone than he’s used up to this point.
“You live on the premises?” I ask as we weave our way through the crowded club.
“Yeah. It’s handy for work.”
He leads me down a steep flight of stairs and through another set of Maegar metal doors.
“Paranoid much? The Fianna’s obsession with security has rubbed off on you.”
He quirks an eyebrow, a sardonic pull to his lips. “Pays to be prepared.”
The main room of Seth’s apartment is a large, open-plan office-come-living room. An uncluttered desk and chair occupy one corner, next to a filing cabinet and bookshelves. The other side of the room houses a simple sofa and coffee table. The white walls are bare, save for the MacNeil coat of
arms—a blacksmith’s hammer and anvil, flanked by a wolf. The minimalist décor exudes ice and efficiency.
My lips twitch. He’d suffocate in my tiny apartment. He’d recoil from my overstuffed armchairs, wall hangings, photographs on every surface. And as for a family coat of arms, we have our mug shot collection.
Seth slings his sports bag on the sofa. “What do you want from me, Lia?” His gravelly voice acts like an exfoliator on my senses—part torture, part bliss.
“Your help.” I clasp my fingers to stop them from shaking.
A muscle flexes in his jaw. “I’d have thought I’d be the last person you’d turn to in a moment of crisis.”
“I’m here because you’re the only person I can turn to in this particular crisis.”
Seth’s supple lips twist. “How ironic.”
I sigh. “I don’t have time to play games.”
“You have time for a coffee. An espresso? Or would you prefer cappuccino?” Seth nods toward a state-of-the-art coffee machine on a stand beside the sofa. His youthful penchant for instant coffee has clearly evolved.
“No offense, but I don’t have time to sit around playing catch-up.”
“No offense, but I’ve just come from the gym. I’m not doing a damn thing for you before I’ve had a coffee and a shower, so you might as well join me.” He notices my hot cheeks, and his eyes crease with mirth. “For the coffee,” he adds, “but you’re welcome to join me in the shower if you feel so inclined.”
“I’d rather eat glass,” I snarl.
His rich, throaty laugh echoes off the bare walls.
I want to slap him. Precious seconds of my forty-eight-hour time limit are slipping away because of his nonsense. I dig my nails into my palms and swallow a scream. Despite the urgency, I need him on my side. “Fine,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “I’ll have an espresso.”
He gestures for me to sit.
I perch on the edge of the sofa, wincing at the pain in my lower back and torso. My fight with the Shadow Warriors has left me in bad shape. I finger my left side and wince. A bruised rib, I suspect. Possibly even broken. I have no time for doctors and X-rays. Not until Ash is home, safe and sound.
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