Rori snorted. “That’s such bullshit. I mean, falling in love after just one look? What if he was a creeper? Or had the pox?”
Therron ignored her questions. He knew it was possible to fall in love after seeing a person for only a moment.
“To continue, this lad, Heracul, he did not return Ishnara’s affections. Even when she insisted he come to the palace with her, he denied her. Ishnara left the man in his town and traveled to the elf king, where she told him of her trouble with the man, Heracul. The king, being wise and just, told her he couldn’t make a man love her, but that he would see about bringing the cobbler to the palace.”
Rori’s fingertips scratched along his chest and Therron adjusted himself lest she feel his burgeoning erection.
“Are you intentionally trying to distract me?” he asked, more than happy to end the story and make love to her again.
“Not at all. Please, continue.”
Therron adjusted himself with reluctance. He would much rather make love to her again than recite the story. With a sigh, he continued.
“Heracul came to the palace as commanded by his king, but no amount of begging from the princess could make him love her. She tried many times to seduce him, each ending with Ishnara in tears. Heracul would not return her affection. He wasn’t promised to another, nor did he think she was unworthy. He simply didn’t love her.
“Humiliated, Ishnara returned to her kingdom and summoned her most powerful dark mages. She ordered them to place a curse on the elven kingdom. Once every century, a prince would be born who would fall in love with a faerie. Not a princess or queen, but a faerie with no title, no wealth, and no heart to return his love.”
Rori snickered. “She was irritated with Heracul and cursed the future generations out of spite. Kind of a bitch thing to do. I mean, you can’t force someone to love you. Can the spell be broken?”
Therron’s heart quickened and his breathing became shallow. “It can.”
“Are you going to tell me how?” She plucked at a hair on his chest.
“Ouch. Yes, I’ll tell you as long as you don’t pull any more hairs.” He kissed her forehead and let his lips linger against her skin a moment before he said, “The cursed prince will know his mate the moment he sees her. If she returns his affections, the spell is broken. If not, he’ll perish within three moonturns of their meeting and the curse will continue.”
What he didn’t tell her—couldn’t tell her without giving himself away—was that each prince born to the curse was marked. Every marking was different—it could be an irregular birthmark, an extra toe, perhaps a missing finger, or a scar upon one’s cheek. Therron’s hand went instinctively to his face. Rori reached his scar first and his hand covered hers.
“That’s a sad tale indeed. But surely, it’s been long enough elves and fae could forgive and forget?”
Therron hitched her leg over his hip and nudged his cock against her womanly folds. A flash of surprise lit across her face.
“Again?”
“What can I say? You excite me, Aurora MacNair.” Like no woman ever had, and no woman ever would again.
The countdown to his three moonturns had begun.
13
Nikala scraped at a cuticle and waited for Malcolm to finish a phone call. She’d been in his office for half an hour without him saying a word about Cian MacNair/Viggo McCabe. Fortunately, she was used to his moody silences and could wait him out. The receptionist had been in twice to refresh their tea and bring more biscuits. Nikala turned her attention from the errant cuticle to the cup sitting on the tray in front of her—untouched. If Malcolm wasn’t going to drink it, she needed the caffeine. In one gulp, she emptied the cup and set it down with a smack to her lips.
From where he sat across the desk from her, Malcolm scowled and shook his head in warning. She’d already eaten his biscuits. Nikala grinned and gave a sheepish shrug. She was hungry. The least he could do was take her to dinner after the horrible past few days. First waiting in Edinburgh for a contact who didn’t show, then traveling with that madman who thought he saw—what did he call them? Magic hunters, but something else—scyvers. Yes, scyvers. What kind of fool did Cian MacNair think she was?
Malcolm swore into the phone and slammed it down.
Nikala glanced at the handset and then to Malcolm. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Your friend slipped past the detail sent to follow him.”
Nikala couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “You mean those idiots Yasheda and Jude you hired when I advised against it?” In truth, she liked the pair, had even trained them herself and considered them friends, but she knew Malcolm, knew he got nervous if she showed any kind of sentiment toward his employees.
Malcolm ran a hand over his face and sighed. “They’re ex-special forces. They’re good.” He swiveled his chair to look out over the London skyline. “Do you have any idea where Viggo McCabe might go next?”
“None. All he said was he wanted to meet with you. Did he have anything interesting to say?”
Malcolm waved a hand, as if what they discussed was unimportant. “I really have no idea what he was rambling on about. I want you to find him, Nikki. Find him and trail him for a few days. I want to know what his motivation is. Why seek me out?”
Nikala studied Malcolm as he spoke. A light flutter at his throat showed his pulse raced and a sheen to his forehead indicated raised anxiety levels. She rose and Malcolm followed suit. He stepped around the huge desk to stand in front of her.
“I know you will not fail me, my love.” His breath singed against her skin.
“I never have.”
He reached forward and unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse. With each opening, she had to force herself to remain calm, to give nothing away. She kept her heart rate low, her breathing even.
Malcolm pushed the collar of her blouse to the side and frowned. There was nothing sexual in his actions—he’d been searching for something and was disappointed not to find it. Immediately, she thought of the pendant and just as quickly shuttled the thought from her mind. Malcolm had the uncanny ability to know what she was thinking.
“See anything you like?” Bitterness edged her tone.
His eyes narrowed and lips thinned. “It’s a shame, really. Such a pretty girl like you should adorn yourself with jewels.” He held her right hand up to his lips and kissed her fingertips. “Yet all I ever see you wear is this ring. And you’ve yet to tell me who gave it to you.”
Nikala’s shrug hid a sigh. “I told you, I bought it for myself. I’m never getting married, so why not?” She forced a laugh and cupped her hand over his cheek. “As much as you’d like otherwise, it won’t happen. No grandchildren for you, I’m afraid. As for jewelry, I have no need unless a mission calls for it. You know the life I live. Do you really think I should be weighed down by baubles and nonsense?”
His dark eyes flickered with merriment for a brief moment and Nikala snatched the memory before it was gone. Malcolm wasn’t a man who laughed often. She savored those moments when he wasn’t foreboding and fierce. When he was almost paternal.
“I suppose not. Go now, my precious, and find our lost friend.”
Nikala was at the door before Malcolm stopped her. “By the way, I seem to be missing an amulet from my safe. Either that, or I miscounted the number of pendants from our last shipment. Do you happen to know what happened to it?”
The urge to cover her pocket burned through her veins. Instead, she gave a look of pure innocence mixed with shock. “Your safe is impenetrable. Even I don’t know how to get inside. The only thing I trust more than the security of your vault is the proficiency of your mind.” Nikala scrunched her face in thought. “It’s a conundrum, to be sure. But you are getting older,” she added playfully, “and they say forgetfulness is inevitable.”
She knew the jab at his age would rattle him and he took the bait. “I’m not so old yet. You can stop planning my funeral.” A smile lit up his face and he wave
d her to the door. “Just one more thing before you go.”
Nikala’s heart beat in her throat. She hated it when Malcolm did this. A fake smile plastered to her face, she replied, “Just one.” It was a tired game they played. She started to take a step toward him for the requisite kiss to his cheek.
“Entertain our new friend—do whatever it takes to find out what he really wants—then let him go. Permanently.” The smile Malcolm wore was as fake as her own.
Relief trickled in cool pinpricks over her skin. She didn’t have to give the perfunctory kiss. Then a pit dropped in her gut. What Malcolm meant was—fuck Cian to get answers, then kill him. Shit. The former would be no problem; he was easy enough on the eyes she wouldn’t mind the interrogation. The latter? Well, that might be more difficult. But it would be fun nonetheless and Nikala loved a challenge.
“Of course.” She bowed her head and stepped away from Malcolm to exit the office. Once in the reception area, she swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. She’d long ago given up the fantasy of having a normal dad, but every now and again, that simple wish—to have her father be proud of her for doing stupid shit like coloring a bad drawing—nagged at her confidence. She was his spy, his tool, his assassin. Some days, she wished she could just be his little girl.
That wish, and those days, were long past. Her focus now was Cian MacNair. Nikala had a feeling the usual methods wouldn’t work with him. He was slick and would see through her attempts at flattery. A twisted grin pulled her cheeks higher. Oh, yes. Interrogating Cian MacNair wouldn’t suck. It just might be the most enjoyable thing she did this week.
With a bounce to her step, she made her way to the lift, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the receptionist. She ran a search for Cian MacNair and Viggo McCabe on her phone, unsurprised when neither name got a hit.
Molly, her friend at MI6, could help, but she didn’t want to involve her if possible. Molly had already put her career on the line too many times for Nikala and she didn’t like owing favors. Although, she always said it was no big deal to help out and never asked for anything in return. Still, Nikala had a nagging feeling that someday Molly would call in her chips.
She worried a cuticle on the ride to the ground floor. Even when her nail started bleeding, she kept gnawing on the loose skin.
Who was Cian MacNair?
Why was he in Edinburgh at the same time she was to meet with Malcolm’s contact?
A ringing started in her ears. The vibrations echoed out to pound against her skull and upset the rhythm of her heart.
Malcolm hadn’t asked about the contact or the product.
Nikala paused in the foyer of the ridiculous glass building and debated her options. She could go back up to Malcolm’s office and ask him about the missing contact, or she could consider it a stroke of luck that he’d not bothered to reprimand her.
She didn’t believe in luck, but she didn’t want to court Malcolm’s ire, either. If he chose not to question her about Edinburgh, then he probably already knew what happened to the contact and would arrange for someone else to pick up the delivery. Which was fine with her. She hated being Malcolm’s errand girl almost as much as she hated having to kiss his cheek.
The fact that he genuinely didn’t seem to know Cian set her mind at ease on one thing—at least she no longer thought Malcolm had sent someone to take her out.
Nikala breathed in the crisp London air and turned her face to the sky. A ray of sunshine warmed her cheeks and she grinned. Cian MacNair would be a tough nut to crack, but she relished the challenge. How long had it been since anyone gave her even the slightest thrill? Forever, really. Yes, she’d enjoy questioning her mysterious assignment. First, she had to find him.
She tapped the screen of her phone and brought up an app she’d created specifically for her own use. When Cian had gone to the toilet on the train, she’d slipped a tiny chip into the collar of his coat that would allow her to track his movements. The situation wasn’t ideal and she’d have to find an opportunity to make the tracker permanent. Until then, she hoped he still wore the coat. The app showed several blinking icons and she tapped the one associated with Cian. The rest she ignored.
A tiny orange dot tormented her and she doubled her focus on Cian’s blue marker.
Hunter Pearson was in London. That stupid orange dot confirmed her suspicions. Why hadn’t he contacted her? He must think she was still in Edinburgh and until Malcolm told him otherwise, Nikala was happy to let Hunter think she was unavailable. A shudder wormed its way down her spine and settled in her gut. The longer she could avoid seeing Hunter, the better. It had been two years since their last meeting and that hadn’t been near long enough.
With a deep, cleansing breath, she set off in the direction of Temple Church and cleared her mind of the man who, for almost twenty years, had used her as a human lab rat. A hand reflexively smoothed over the arm where he’d inserted hundreds of needles during her stay with him. He’d made her what she was—a freak. An enhanced human, he’d called it. A gunshot would heal within hours; she was stronger and faster than anyone she’d encountered, and as far as she knew, couldn’t be killed.
Hell, if the vile liquids and potions he’d made her drink hadn’t knocked her off, nothing could. She swiped a hand over her lips as if to remove the taint of the drinks. A thrumming of her heart reminded her of the gentler moments she’d shared with Hunter. He was as much a father to her as her own dad. He was the one who taught her how to fight. It was Hunter who gave her the skills necessary to become an elite spy. She had him to thank for her life, such as it was.
And yet—if given the chance, she’d kill him.
Except, she couldn’t. God knew she’d fantasized about it enough, but something always kept her from going through with it.
A car honked and brought her out of her misty remembrances. Yes, she owed much to Hunter, but she couldn’t forget he was also the man who tortured her. Embarrassment burned against her ribs at the memory of her clumsy attempt to seduce him when she was still a teen and raging with hormones. Whether out of some naïve belief that he might end the torture if they were lovers, or some unconscious form of Stockholm syndrome, she couldn’t be certain.
He’d been kind, but stern in his rejection. He wasn’t interested in her in that way, he’d explained. The denial had stung and she’d buried her hurt deep, along with every other emotion she didn’t know how to deal with.
Even though he’d claimed he wasn’t interested in her sexually, much of what he did to her was far more intimate and invasive than sexual intercourse. He abused her in ways no one should have to suffer and in her messed-up pubescent mind, that equated love. Love that he wouldn’t return.
She supposed he did love her, in his own way, but to Hunter, Nikala wasn’t a woman—she was a weapon that he honed and adjusted. Even after all of his experiments and tests, he was never satisfied with his work. Never satisfied with her. She’d left Hunter, humiliated and confused. He wanted perfection and Nikala would never measure up to his standards.
A flash to her right caught her attention and she tucked the phone in her jacket pocket. She checked her reflection in a shop window and adjusted her ponytail. One of Malcolm’s security operatives trailed her by about fifty feet. She slid her glance across the street and there was Yasheda, trying to look casual, as if she were nipping to the shops. That Malcolm had sent backup to follow Nikala sent fury blazing through her blood. The man was insufferable. He knew she was capable of handling Cian.
Unless he thought she’d been compromised. Or he’d lost trust in her. Shit. She’d miscalculated his response to Cian’s presence. She’d pushed too far this time. It would be an easy thing to regain his trust—it always was. Malcolm needed her for the same reasons she needed him—they were all the family they had.
Whatever Malcolm’s reasons for sending the agents, Nikala would make certain he understood she would handle Cian on her own terms. Alone.
14
Nikala strolled along
the street at a decent pace, keeping an eye on her pursuers, Yasheda and Jude. They were Malcolm’s current favorites and two of his agents she’d had the pleasure of training herself. At one time, she would’ve even called them friends. Seeing them trailing her now, she wasn’t sure they felt the same.
They hung back far enough to not lose her, but close enough to catch her if she bolted. At the corner, Nikala turned sharply and entered a grocery store. Before Jude entered, she hurried to the rear and kicked open the back door. An alarm blared, startling a woman nearby. Nikala ducked into a corner of the store and waited until Jude rushed past and out the door before she went to the front of the store. As expected, Yasheda darted through traffic across the street. She glanced at the entrance of the grocers, then ran to the back alley.
Nikala counted to ten, then left the shop and jogged to the next corner. Sirens sounded and she slowed to a walk. Her racing heart kept pace with the speeding police cars. With any luck, both Yasheda and Jude would be caught in the alley and off her tail. She brushed a few stray hairs that had come loose from her ponytail off her face and grinned. She could just imagine the hulking Jude behind bars. It would be like putting a bear in a dog crate.
“Nice try, princess.” Jude’s velvety voice sounded behind her and Nikala’s grin drooped.
She turned and faced all six feet five inches of him. “It was a fifty-fifty shot and looks like it worked fifty percent.”
A tic at the corner of his eye showed his irritation. “One of these days, your luck will run out.”
“Really? I thought it already had. Or is there another reason you’re following me?” When his eye twitched again, the grin returned to her lips. “Malcolm didn’t send you, did he? You’re just pissed that you lost your target and had to squelch off me. Good plan, but I don’t share.”
Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Page 11
