She kept her eyes locked to his, ignoring the other passengers and his hand on her face. New emotions crossed his features. Curiosity mingled with questions. She could almost hear his brain working hard to make sense of something, but what? Then, without warning, a wall came over his features, shutting out everything. It was like an eclipse, where the sun is blocked by the moon and for a moment the world is dark. But the sun didn’t return to his face. There was no light in his eyes.
“Are you quite finished fondling me?”
Cian removed his hand and looked above her head to the train’s route. “What stop are we?”
“Seriously, are you this familiar with every woman you meet? I’m starting to feel like you intentionally like to make people uncomfortable and unbalanced.”
His eyes softened when he looked back to her. “Darling, that’s exactly what I aim to do. And by the blush on your cheeks, I’d say I exceeded even my own expectations.”
“You’re insufferable.” She fidgeted with the dagger up her sleeve. In this crowd, it would be difficult for anyone to know exactly where the blow came from, but she’d been seen with him on CCTV entering the station and the Tube, so there would be questions. Too many for her comfort level.
She cocked her head and glanced at the station lines. “A few more stops. I’ll let you know when we’re close.”
He shifted his stance, widening his legs for balance as they took a curve. She gripped the bar tighter, willing herself not to fling into him lest he think she enjoyed the touch of his body. Pompous jerk.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“Yes, but not here.”
She started to press for a real answer, but decided to trust his word.
They remained silent as people entered and departed at the next station. A young couple squeezed between them and Nikala was grateful for the break in Cian’s constant presence. He really was like a puma—always alert, ready to pounce. It was exhausting just being around him. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to actually be him.
The trip lasted just over fifteen minutes, but felt as long as the journey down the eastern coast. The entire Tube ride, Cian kept watch over her, but she also sensed he mentally prowled the rest of the car, scrutinizing every passenger, sizing them up based on threat level or snackiness. She couldn’t be sure.
“This is us.”
Cian waited until she breezed past him and stepped down from the train, minding the gap like the constant droning speakers reminded her to do. He alighted from the carriage and maneuvered to her side, his gaze scanning, always scanning. For magic hunters, probably. Poor deluded soul. By his scowl, he believed in fairy tales.
She pivoted to her right, bumping him a little, and continued on without an apology. He stayed within one step of her the entire way. If she’d wished, she could’ve lost him several times, but a part of her wanted to take him to Malcolm’s, to see the look on his face when she presented him with the assassin who had failed. It would be a cruel reminder to him that if he wanted her dead, he’d have to do the job himself. She’d told him so on numerous occasions, but today would be special. She had actual proof he’d hired not one, but two men to take her out and she’d survived them both.
And by her reckoning, only one had survived her. Point to Nikala.
By the time they reached the pavement and fresh air of London, she was ready to be done with tubes, trains, and traveling. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet.
“This way.” She angled away from the river and Cian kept pace with her, head bowed, hands in his pocket.
They strode in silence to the massive glass building where Malcolm Dagniss waited. Nikala hated everything about the place—the design, the colored tiles, the shape. All of it screamed “Look at me!” It was everything about Malcolm she detested rolled up into an architectural nightmare. The building belonged to a faceless corporation, but Malcolm had loved it so much he rented two entire floors. One for his suite of offices near the top floor, and another for Hunter’s lab. For most of her life, Malcolm had based his business out of Edinburgh, but being a global entity, necessity dictated he be available anywhere in the world, hence the move to London. Still, she hated it.
Not necessarily London, but the hugeness of the city. The gaudy glass skyscrapers and tourists. At least in Edinburgh, she could escape the noise and people. In London, that was nigh impossible. The worst thing about the move to London was Hunter leaving Scotland and setting up in Malcolm’s building. She’d spent two years putting as much distance as she could between her and the madman. Now they’d be practically neighbors. Unless she could convince Malcolm to let her stay in Edinburgh. Then all her problems would be solved. Or, she could quit. As if. As much as she’d love to, she wasn’t there yet. Soon, maybe, but not today.
Nikala swung open the door, ignoring the security guard who rushed to hold it for her. “Good afternoon, Miss St. James. I didn’t realize Mr. Dagniss is expecting you.”
He bloody well should’ve known. “This is Mr. McCabe. Malcolm knows he’s coming.” The lie slid over her tongue with ease.
“Certainly, miss. If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. McCabe needs to sign in.”
Cian strolled to the desk and scrawled his name across a line. A second security guard handed Cian a visitor’s pass to clip to his jacket. Nikala thanked both men and led Cian to the private lift tucked into the back corner. She held her hand to the screen and waited while a computer somewhere verified it was her.
“High tech. Very posh.”
“Or paranoid.” She hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but whatever. Malcolm was totally paranoid. And for good reason.
Soft music played as they rode to the top of the building. The entire trip lasted maybe thirty seconds, but it felt like a decade to Nikala. Blistering pricks irritated the back of her neck and her palms were moist by the time they exited the lift. Cian, insufferable jerk that he was, looked as calm as a man on holiday sitting beside a pool, drink in hand.
She ignored the receptionist and stashed her luggage in a small office to the right of Malcolm’s then walked straight into his more opulent space. The woman scurried around her to announce Malcolm had visitors. Poor lamb. Nikala hadn’t made her day any easier by sidestepping protocol. It was ridiculous—Malcolm already knew she was in the building. Not only had she texted him while Cian signed in, she was certain the guards had let him know. And more than likely, they’d told him she had someone with her.
She gazed around the room, at the treasures Malcolm had collected over the years. Her cameras were hidden among the memorabilia. He probably had his own cameras and microphones all over the place. For all she knew, he had surveillance screens in the toilets.
“Nikala, a pleasure to see you.” Malcolm rose from his oversized chair and came toward her, arms outstretched.
She prepared herself for the greeting by keeping her body pliant, by not letting the urge to dick punch him overpower her. His lips grazed her cheek, his goatee scratching against her skin. His arms enfolded her in an embrace, squeezing a little too tight, but not enough she could protest. He knew exactly how much affection to show, how far to push her limits.
“Good to see you, too.” Another lie, easily spoken.
He stood back, his gaze going from her to Cian. There was no sign of recognition in his dark, almost black eyes. “And who is your friend?”
She almost laughed at that. “We’re not friends. He came to the Edinburgh office to see you. He said he had an appointment. Introduced himself as Viggo McCabe and said he needed to speak to you about something having to do with”—she turned to Cian—“what was it you said? Ace-a-line?”
Cian held himself back, surveying the situation as surely as Malcolm was sizing him up.
“Acelyne.”
“Right. Ace-lynn, not line.” Nikala watched Malcolm, noting the tightening of his jaw, the flexing of his fists. Whatever Acelyne was, Malcolm wanted no part of it.
“Nikala, wait for u
s outside, please.”
Now it was her jaw that tightened, her fists that clenched. “Are you sure? You don’t know this man.”
“No, but he traveled down here with you, and you appear unscathed. I think I’ll be safe. If I need you, I’ll call.”
Summarily excused, she exited through the same door she and Cian had used a few minutes before. Instead of planting herself on one of the decorative yet uncomfortable chairs in the reception area, she hurried to the much less opulent office.
Without bothering to remove her coat, she slid into the leather chair and opened her laptop. She entered her password and tapped several keys. The screen lit up, showing four scenes from the cameras in Malcolm’s office.
Malcolm was speaking, but his voice was too low, or the sound muffled on her computer. She clicked several more keys, but the sound cut out completely. Frustration singed her veins and she snatched a pair of headphones from her bag. Just as she was pushing them into her ears, Malcolm looked straight into one of the cameras. A moment later, it blinked off. Then the others followed. Whatever Malcolm had to say to Cian MacNair, he didn’t want her to know.
She leaned back in the chair and worried a nail. Two could play that game. She inserted a memory card into the laptop and typed in several long strings of code. A moment later, the screen blinked with a display of several camera angles. A few more lines of code, and she was done. She shut the laptop and locked the office on her way out.
If Malcolm didn’t want her to know what he and Cian discussed, he’d have to do a lot better than finding the cameras she’d hidden in plain sight. She hadn’t spent more than two-thirds of her life with Hunter and not learned to always have backups of your backups. That included plans and cameras. She’d come back later and retrieve the disk, which at that moment was happily recording everything in his office.
She strolled to one of the chairs and sat facing the receptionist, with Malcolm’s office to her left. The girl kept glancing from Nikala to her boss’s door. After a few seconds, she shrugged and began typing on her computer. Nikala grinned and opened a game on her phone. While the video streamed to a small window on the screen, she appeared to be playing a silly game of matching candies.
Malcolm’s voice crackled in the headphones and Nikala tensed at the tone of his blatant lies. Whatever Acelyne was, she would have to tread carefully to uncover the truth.
11
It would’ve been impossible to miss the tension between Malcolm and Nikala. There was history there, and not all of it good. It might be a thread worth pulling. Although, Cian owed her one for introducing him as Viggo to her boss. He didn’t turn to see her leave. Instead, he kept his attention squarely on the man standing two feet in front of him. Not imposing in a large stature kind of way, Malcolm Dagniss held a quiet kind of lethalness that intrigued the spy. This was a man Cian didn’t want as an enemy.
And yet here he was, about to make himself the least welcome man in the building.
“As Ms. St. James pointed out, I’m here about a mutual sodality of ours. I believe you’ve had dealings with Acelyne in the past.”
Malcolm smiled breezily, his manner one of welcoming, friends chatting over coffee. He did a funny thing then—he looked just beyond Cian’s left shoulder and scratched his nose. If Cian wasn’t mistaken, Malcolm Dagniss used a spark of magic and disguised it as a simple itch. He did it three more times, each with a tiny glow coming from his fingertip. A human wouldn’t have noticed, but Cian wasn’t human. A fact Malcolm didn’t know.
Cian adjusted mentally. Until that moment, he’d suspected Malcolm of being fae, but couldn’t corroborate his findings with fact. The use of magic, discreet as it was, confirmed his worst fears. A fae kidnapping fae. Rage simmered through his veins and he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching forward and strangling the man. Caution was needed until he verified Malcolm was responsible for the kidnappings. At the moment, all he knew was that Malcolm had magical abilities.
Malcolm’s smile turned smug, less friendly. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. ah, McCabe, is it?”
“Call me Viggo.”
“Of course. Mr. McCabe, I’ve never heard of this Acelyne. Is it a company or product I might’ve sold in the past? You know, the import business can be quite taxing. But I do my best.”
He was good at playing the part of overwhelmed executive who tried to stay in touch with the millions of dealings his company had, but just couldn’t keep up. He actually wiped his brow before indicating a chair for them to sit.
“Shall I have tea brought in? I’m sure you’re tired from your journey. I just wish I had better news for you about this, erm, Acelyne.” He rubbed his chin, his eyes cast far off into some fabricated memory or hard thought. “Sounds Malaysian, or perhaps Turkish?” He shook his head for dramatic effect. “No, I can’t place it.” Then, he leaned forward, hands on his knees, his dark eyes soft, innocent. “What could be so important you had to travel all the way from Edinburgh to London? Especially when I haven’t a clue what it is?”
Cian mimicked his movement, meeting Malcolm’s approachable look with one of his own. Innocent, malleable. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Dagniss. I had it on good authority you were the man to speak to about Acelyne, but now I see I’ve been misled.” He sighed and let his head fall forward, defeated. “I’ve been working on this for months. I was so sure I had it right this time.”
“It’s understandable to be disappointed, but don’t let it dissuade you from working even harder. If this Acelyne is meant to be, you’ll find a way to make it happen.” Malcolm leaned back, his forefinger stroking his upper lip like a mad megalomaniac cliché. His gaze traveled the length of Cian, who also reclined into the chair, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the armrests. “You seem to have torn your trousers.”
Cian looked at his pants, a surprised expression covering his irritation. “Well, look at that. Must’ve got caught on something, like a fence post, or a rose bush.” He reached down to fiddle with the hole. “Or perhaps when armed guards were shooting at me this morning. Not really sure.” He stood and reached a hand out to Malcolm. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dagniss.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Malcolm’s eyes before he, too, stood. “Mr. McCabe.”
They shook hands, two warriors calling the battle a draw.
“If I should get any information on this Acelyne, do you have a card with contact details?”
Cian shrugged and sauntered to the door. “Not really. I’ll give Ms. St. James my number.” His sneer was meant to be cocky, but at the thought of Nikala, his rage simmered into lustful desire.
Malcolm watched him like a hunter tracking his prey. “Please do. She can relay any messages you might have. I am curious, however, why this Acelyne is so important to you.”
“I never said Acelyne was important. I just wanted to discuss some matters I thought would be of interest to you.”
Cian didn’t give him a chance to reply. He opened the door and breezed through the reception area, ignoring Nikala and the receptionist tucked behind a huge desk. At the lift, he pressed the ground floor button and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. While he waited, intimately aware of the two women who watched his every move, he hummed a tune and rocked back and forth on his loafers.
The lift binged and he stepped in, catching a reflection of Nikala in the mirrored doors. Like Malcolm, she looked ready to pounce. Yet he didn’t think he was the prey this time, but rather Mr. Dagniss. By her expression and gait, she’d been none too happy when her boss kicked her out of the office. Cian was certain words would be shared. Harsh words. What he’d give to be able to eavesdrop on that conversation.
As the doors closed, Cian met Nikala’s gaze and winked. Her lips quirked into a smile. With a shake of her head, she lifted her hand and waved. Cian raised a brow, a silent invitation in that one movement. If she caught it, he’d see her soon. If not, well, he’d see her soon regardless. He suspected she wasn’t about to let him get too
far out of her sights. He’d been targeted, as was his plan.
No guards tried to stop him on his way out of the massive glass building, nor did anyone give him undue attention. Most likely, Malcolm was letting Cian believe he didn’t care about some random stranger asking after someone or something he was unfamiliar with. It was what Cian would’ve done. As soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk and the brisk spring air caught his coat, he tightened his arms into his pockets and hunched against the wind. A lone figure eased away from where he’d been smoking a cigarette, and another man finished his coffee, folded a paper, and rose from his chair to leave the outdoor café where he’d been, ostensibly, enjoying his afternoon.
All told, Cian counted six people following him. Four men, two women. They cycled in and out, like a perfectly choreographed dance. Cian walked aimlessly, turning in to a store here, an alleyway there. At the Tower of London, he paused long enough to check his phone for any messages, pretending to answer an email or two. It gave him the time he needed to pinpoint each of his retinue.
At the ticket booth, he paid with his stolen cash and thanked the woman behind the glass window. A group of tourists ambled in front of him, their cameras at the ready, headphones stuck to their ears. He wove in between the crowd as they entered the Tower grounds. Once inside, he zigzagged from one group to the next, using the tallest of the men as cover when possible. At the Traitor’s Gate, he swerved left and jogged up the stairs toward the Beauchamp Tower. Cian didn’t want to lose his followers as much as he wanted to see how committed they were to their job.
Only two of them entered the Tower grounds, leaving four to watch the exits. One of the women, a shortish thing with cropped brown hair and wearing military issue boots, turned up the path behind him. He ducked into the first open door, a room that had once housed Elizabeth I before she was queen. Down a corridor and through another dwelling brought him to a set of doors: one locked, one leading to yet another part of the building. Cian checked to make sure the room was empty before he tapped the locked door, using a tiny spark of magic to unlock it, and slipped through the slight opening.
Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Page 9
