Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2)

by Tameri Etherton

  A movement at the peripheral of his vision halted his steps.

  His heart rate increased; sounds became more acute. Cian turned his head to take in the guard who now stood facing him. He reached for a gun that wasn’t there and spat a curse. This wasn’t his usual entry point where he had weapons, ID, and money stashed. He’d have to make do with what he’d had in Faerie. He patted his inner pocket, relieved to feel the hard case of his mobile. As a rule, he didn’t bring human possessions into Faerie, but his mobile, a passport, and a few quid were the exceptions. Unlike Rori, Cian never brought guns or knives into Faerie. Definitely not swords.

  Cian stared harder at the man. Who the hell had a sword in the modern age?

  It was then he noticed half the man’s face was missing. A moment later, the ghostly image of complete facial features flickered into place, before disappearing once more.

  Cian blinked like a fool, unsure what he’d just witnessed. The specter pointed to the stairs on his left, a stern glare in his dark, soulless eyes. Cian flicked a glance around him, at the shadows moving up the cobblestones, at the lights now visible in the guard’s quarters. He dipped his head and touched his brow with two fingers in a thanks-filled salute to the ghost. The kilted guard did the same, a smile crooking up the damaged lips.

  The eerie sight wormed its way into Cian’s psyche with a nagging familiarity and he shook to rid himself of the image, yet it stayed. He sped down the road and turned left, away from Foogs Gate toward a set of stairs tucked into the hillside. Three steps before reaching them, a flash pulled his attention toward the spot where his father had been slain. Cian didn’t want to look, tried to keep moving, but he couldn’t not look.

  The area was empty. Even the spirit of the guard had disappeared. Sounds softened into non-threatening morning noise. His body relaxed. His mind went fluid, with thoughts coming and going with no purpose. His heart rate lowered.

  An image of a man rose from the cobblestones where his father had fallen.

  Cian took a step forward. But the image was not of his dad. Instead, he faced the shadow man who had murdered Hagan MacNair.

  A sword appeared in Cian’s hand, its blade glowing orange, like the flames the shadow man had used fifteen years earlier. When he tried to release his grip on the sword, his fingers curled tighter around the hilt—someone was using magic to adhere the weapon to his hand and it wasn’t Cian. Unable to lose the sword, he advanced on the man, ready to impale him with the fiery blade.

  Cian’s own heart had grown cold. In its icy depths, he knew he’d longed for this moment since that day his father had been slain. His thoughts echoed his heart, urging him to destroy the shadow man. Yet his training cautioned him from killing the man outright. He alone had answers to the questions Cian most wanted to ask. A battle raged within his mind whether he needed to know why or whether he would be better off ending the man’s life.

  With each step he took, the battle raged harder.

  With each step he took, the shadow man faded.

  The flames upon his sword licked his palm, singeing his skin. Pain was nothing new to Cian, but this was a curious stinging, as if he’d run his hand over nettles. He glanced at the blade, then to where the ghost guard had been standing. Emptiness surrounded him. There was no kilted guard, no shadow man, nothing. Just cobblestones and sky.

  A slew of angry voices rose above the sound of his heart pumping.

  “There he is! You there, drop the weapon.” Footsteps followed the command.

  Cian kept his back to the soldiers. The sword vanished, but the burns did not. Shouted orders came from behind and to his left. He was surrounded by a low wall, one of the castle’s many fortifications. Beyond the wall was a road that semi-circled the whole of the area. Another wall, higher than this, was past the road. And beyond that were steep cliffs made of volcanic rock.

  He was well and truly fucked. Unless he could get to the chapel and through the doorway. Cian chanced a quick glance at the small building, his heart dipping at the sight of ten soldiers, all with automatic weapons drawn, blocking the path.

  Drawing a deep breath, Cian held his hands above his head in surrender and turned to his right. Several more soldiers held their guns targeted at his chest. Before he was fully facing them, he bolted over the low battlement.

  5

  The sound of gunfire rang out, followed closely by a sharp command to cease fire. Cian took the wall in an easy leap, hoping he hadn’t misjudged what was on the other side. Fortunately, his memory hadn’t failed him. Soft grass broke his fall and he scrambled down the sharp hill. More shouts, more commands, more footfalls came at him from all directions. He didn’t like his choices, but being dragged into a cell wasn’t on the agenda.

  The next battlement was taller, but not unassailable. He used one of the many decorative cannons as a step and bounded to the top of the stone wall. Below him was a shallow road and another wall. Two more leaps and he’d be out of the castle grounds.

  Cian felt the bullet before he heard the shot. A searing pain gripped his calf and he wobbled into a half tumble. He flailed mid-air, managing to land on his feet and tuck into a roll. He came to a sharp stop, his head hitting the cobblestones with a crack. Firecrackers and whizz sticks went off behind his closed eyes. Beyond the throbbing of his leg and objections of his body, the guards were still in pursuit. He thrust himself up from the ground and sprinted to the last wall, hoping there wasn’t a fence on the other side.

  Sharp crags that looked as though they’d make decent flesh shredders were a dozen feet below where he stood. The sound of soldiers clambering down the stairs and several car motors starting spurred him onward. He didn’t have the luxury of time to sort out the best escape route. It would have to be the crags.

  Sending a silent prayer of forgiveness to his queen, Cian surrounded himself with magic and sprang up to the top of the ancient stones. His injured leg thumped against the hard rock and, with a savage curse, Cian jerked his body over the wall. His magic kept him from slamming onto the crags, instead making the descent more of a slide than an outright plummet.

  Gunfire sounded and a shot sizzled past his shoulder. He darted to his left and jumped an iron railing to scramble down a grassy slope covered with bright-yellow daffodils. The moment his feet hit the ground, he sprinted along a paved path to another slope. Losing his footing, he rolled through the blooms to the bottom of the hill. Chancing a quick glance above him, he saw several soldiers along the wall, waving others in Cian’s direction.

  The gunshot wound burned, but he had to keep moving. To his left, the pavement ended at the base of the castle rock. He knew that path, knew there was a secret passage halfway around, but also knew it would be difficult to reach with the guards chasing him. To his right stretched a long walkway through the gardens, but that was most likely where he’d get caught by the guards in vehicles.

  With valuable seconds ticking by, he took off at a dead run straight ahead across the bridge and toward the West End, where a cemetery and church would provide him much-needed cover until the soldiers thought him gone. The gardens remained shadowed by the hulking castle, giving him even more camouflage. He ran as fast as his injured leg would allow, staying as close to the edge of the path as he could. The few people he came across paid him little attention. They were too absorbed in their own lives to care about a businessman jogging through the park.

  At the church entrance, Cian slowed to a walk. He scanned the area for approaching policemen or soldiers and saw neither. The vault he needed was tucked into the corner just to his left, in an unkempt, ancient part of the churchyard often overlooked. He limped across several broken headstones to the structure he sought. A wooden door with scrolled iron workings popped open at his touch. Above the door, barely legible after so many centuries, was the family name of MacNair.

  Cian closed the door behind him and took a deep breath of the musty air. The crypt hadn’t been used in at least two hundred years, nor did Cian suppose anyone had ent
ered the space in all that time. A thick layer of dust covered a marble sepulcher that held the bones of the human ancestors who shared more than their name with his family. He placed a hand upon the cool stone and said a fae prayer for their souls.

  Outside the structure, voices rose and lowered as they searched the premises. Static sounds came across their radios, all easily heard by Cian where he hid. The search on Princes Street turned up nothing. Nor did the area next to the train tracks, where Cian had considered running. Blood was found on the pavement, but it was inconclusive whether the blood in question was his.

  Cian glanced at his leg, where a rip in his trousers showed a glistening dark circle. Fae blood couldn’t be traced through their sophisticated computers and labs. Because he’d only been in the human realm a short time, any drops he left behind would turn to nothing more than a shimmering of dust within minutes, but that didn’t mean he could be careless. If he stayed too long with the humans, his blood would lose its evaporative quality.

  He loosened his tie from around his neck and propped his leg upon the marble. The bullet had only grazed his flesh, leaving an inch-long divot mid-calf. Cian wound the tie around his leg, securing it with a tight knot. The binding eased some of the pain, making it more comfortable to stand. He tucked the tie into itself and pulled his pant leg over the temporary bandage.

  He returned to the door and pressed his ear against the wood. His hearing went beyond the churchyard to the busy streets, where buses and cars mixed with the sounds of businesses opening and people going about their morning. The day had yet to wipe away the sleepiness of night and slowly came to life.

  Of police or radios, he heard nothing.

  For the moment he was safe, but he hadn’t garnered the position of Queen Eirlys’s number-one spy by being hasty. Cian slid down the wall and settled against the cold stone, his chin resting against his chest. The cramped space didn’t allow for much movement, nor could he stretch out his injured leg. At some point he’d need to get proper supplies—but first he had to get past the guards looking for him.

  A male voice caught his attention and he straightened, his ear against the oak.

  “Mornin’, Officer. Seems a lot of activity around here today. Are we expectin’ a visit from the queen?”

  “Thankfully, no. Just a spot of trouble up at the castle.”

  “Anyone in particular I should keep watch for?”

  The hairs on Cian’s arm rose and his senses went on full alert.

  “Be aware of who you pass and if you see anything suspicious, let us know.”

  “Will do, sir. You have a good day now.”

  The sound of footsteps faded in the direction of the castle. After several moments, Cian heard the shuffle of someone walking across the uneven churchyard. They approached the crypt where he hid, paused for a long moment—during which Cian didn’t breathe—then moved off in the opposite direction. His chest lowered with the exhale of air.

  A scyver. He’d hoped the magic he had to use to escape from the castle would’ve slipped under the radar, but he’d bet all of Queen Eirlys’s treasure room the man was one of the humans who hunted magical creatures. If so, it also meant he’d probably alerted those in Faerie who kept track of such things. Bollocks.

  His morning was off to a brilliant start.

  He’d have to be more careful going forward. If one scyver was looking for him, there would be others.

  For the next ten minutes, he stayed in the cold box, listening, waiting. When the only sounds he heard were of hurried footsteps and joggers, he slowly opened the crypt door and peered through the shadows to the corners of the cemetery. Seeing nothing to alarm him, he sidled between the wood and stone, using the structure as much as he could to conceal himself. From where he stood, he had two exits from the churchyard, both leading to busy streets.

  The left provided slightly more cover with trees on either side of the path. Instead of ducking behind headstones and using the wall to hide him, he stepped out into full view and strolled toward the walkway, keeping his gaze roving to either side. Several people passed him, most dressed as if on their way to work. A few were tourists. What Cian needed now was to find a crowded area where he could lose the traces of magic clinging to him.

  At the top of the pathway, he pivoted right to cross a busy intersection. Buses and cars sped past, oblivious of the wounded fae. More people were on the sidewalks here, but not enough for his purposes. Across the road, he spotted a coffee shop with several people crammed inside. Perfect.

  Constantly checking his surroundings, he strolled across the street and casually entered the shop, where immediately he was hit with smells of coffee beans, sweat, and perfume. Fae weren’t as keen as elves at sight or hearing, but their olfactory senses matched, if not topped, the elves’ ability. It was a blessing and a curse. This morning, Cian put the gift squarely in the curse category.

  A young woman, wrapped up as though she were in the Antarctic, bounced on the balls of her feet, gum snapping in her mouth. Every few seconds, she would glance at the man behind the counter, then to the door. A tall gentleman, wrapped up much the same as the woman, wandered in and joined her. Cian eavesdropped on their conversation to pass the time. He removed his coat and surreptitiously rubbed it against the young couple’s jackets. Like a lion marking his territory, he tried to put as much of his scent on the pair as he could.

  Another man entered the shop behind Cian, and he resisted the urge to turn around and get a look at him. Without hearing his voice, Cian had no idea whether this was the scyver from the graveyard. He shifted the coat to his left arm and checked his inner pocket for cash. Twenty pounds. It wasn’t much, but it would do for now. He scanned the other customers waiting in line. Two businessmen chatted about a deal they needed to make that morning. A teenager tapped on her phone, white earbuds poking out of her ears.

  “Nikala, coffee black.”

  Cian glanced at the woman who retrieved a large cup from the counter. Long, pale fingers grasped the paper. A white cuff protruded from the sleeve of her dark coat. His gaze traveled up her arm to a slender neck, elongated by her blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She turned then, and startling blue eyes met his. Not light or deep blue, more cerulean, like an evening sky just past sunset.

  A slight narrowing of those gorgeous orbs was his warning that he should pull his stare from her, but her eyes mesmerized him. He offered a weak smile as a consolation, which was met with lips thinned to a dangerous line. A final swish of her ponytail was the last he saw of the woman. The temptation to turn after her was great, but he refrained and stepped forward with the group waiting to order.

  For several minutes, his heart beat a rapid staccato in his chest. Something about the woman intrigued him, and it was more than her eyes. Perhaps it was the way she walked with authority, or the dare he saw hidden in her features. She was definitely a woman to be reckoned with, and that more than anything excited Cian.

  The woman was a distraction he didn’t need. Difficult as it was, he shuttled her from his thoughts and focused on why he was in the coffee shop. Not for coffee, and not for a hookup, that was damn sure.

  A phone rang and the man behind him answered, his voice low and gruff. Not the same as the scyver. Cian breathed a short sigh of relief, but didn’t let his cautiousness fully relax. As the man spoke, he gesticulated several times, nudging Cian in the back. After the third jab, he turned around and froze at the sight of a policeman’s hat. His bright-yellow hi-vis safety vest was in sharp contrast to the black uniform he wore.

  The man nodded to Cian without any sign of recognition. He smiled and nodded in return before turning his back on the officer. Leaving now would look suspicious, so he remained in line until it was his turn to order. As he’d expected, the coffee and muffin took up almost half of his twenty pounds. He’d need cash sooner rather than later.

  As he waited for his order, he ran through a list of known safe houses in Edinburgh. One he recalled was a few blocks from the c
offee shop; another, several miles to the south. He hadn’t been in the city for years, but if memory served, SIRE’s offices weren’t far from where he was. He mentally blocked the distance from the coffee shop to the flat on Rose Street and back to the West End.

  That would take half an hour, at least. He didn’t have time or the patience to track down the safe house. He’d have to improvise.

  The clerk handed him his coffee and a bag containing his muffin. The policeman ambled over, phone in hand, attention diverted. A businessman about the same height and build as Cian headed toward them, eyes also on his phone. Cian calculated his risk, set the coffee and muffin on an empty table, and made his move.

  He swerved slightly toward the businessman, who overcompensated by veering into the policeman. Looking as though he were reaching to help the first man, Cian reached inside his coat pocket to pluck out his wallet. The pair wobbled, muttering apologies and straightening themselves while Cian pocketed the wallet, grabbed his coffee and muffin, then casually circled around to exit the coffee shop.

  In all, it took less than a few seconds and he was out the door with the men none the wiser.

  On the street, he made a sharp right and strode down Princes Street toward the busy intersection, losing himself in the crowd. He walked quickly for the next several blocks, but not fast enough to draw attention to himself. Crowds of people now filled the sidewalks on either side of the street, a mix of tourists and city dwellers making their way to work. He ate the muffin in two bites, followed by a long swig of coffee before he tossed the remnants in a bin. As much as he appreciated coffee, he didn’t need his nerves frayed now that he was this close to Malcolm Dagniss.

  The headquarters for SIRE Unlimited were in a posh Georgian townhouse located in one of the wealthier areas of Edinburgh. No sign on the door indicated which floor housed the company, nor was there a directory to help him find the exact office. From his research, however, he knew Malcolm was on the top floor, near the northeast corner. An elderly lady was exiting when Cian approached and he held the door open for her. She trundled down the steps, thanking him along the way. When she was safely on the walkway, he pushed open the door and headed for the lift.