Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2)

by Tameri Etherton

  She hesitated where to go—she was hungry and needed food, but she had bandages in her bags upstairs in her office and the cut on her back felt sticky. Beneath everything, one question played on constant loop—where would Malcolm hide the amulets? Her stomach grumbled and she decided Donyatella could patch her up, at least until she returned to the safety of her office. She shuffled down the cobblestoned alley toward the pub. With each uneven step, her shirt rubbed against her skin and with each prick of pain, she imagined how she’d repay Jude and Yasheda. If Hunter wanted to test her, she’d show him where her loyalties really lay—with herself.

  On the sidewalk outside the pub, she paused to glance up at the empty flat on the top right of the building. In all the times she’d frequented the place, she’d never seen anyone there. No lights flickering on or off, nor did the curtains ever move, but always, she felt a presence coming from the flat. Nothing hostile or worrisome, just—there.

  Donyatella wasn’t at her usual spot by the door, so Nikala eased to the back table where she always sat. It gave her a view of the room and both entrances. Within moments, the hostess appeared and handed her a menu.

  “Where’s Dony?” Nikala asked the girl as she settled onto the leather seat, doing her best not to rub her back against the booth.

  The girl, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Dunno. In the kitchens, maybe. Want me to find her?”

  “If you could. And I’ll have a Guinness, please, plus a steak pie.”

  A snap of bubblegum served as the girl’s reply. She snatched the menu off the table and skulked away.

  Hadn’t Malcolm said Ireland? A cool shiver snaked down her spine. Because Nikala loved Guinness. She took in her surroundings, taking note of everywhere a bag could be stashed. Would Malcolm be so bold as to hide the shipment here, in a public place? Nikala’s breath caught and her nostrils flared. Yes, the madman would be that bold. And that rash.

  Donyatella emerged from the kitchen with a huge grin on her ancient face.

  “Nikala, it’s good to see you again.” The woman kissed Nikala on each cheek, then pulled back to study her eyes. “You are in pain, no?”

  “Just a scratch. Can you take a look?” Nikala leaned forward to let Dony see the wound.

  “It’s no too bad. You come with me, yes?”

  Nikala obediently followed the woman to a small room off the bar that Dony called her office. It looked more like a charity shop with bits and bobs on every surface.

  “Stand here, and I’ll get you sorted.” The aged woman grabbed a tin box from a shelf and rummaged through it while Nikala leaned forward across a desk scattered with bills and receipts.

  The cooling sting of surgical spirits swiped from left to right, then a moment later, again, from right to left. Dony sucked at her teeth while she worked, making little harrumphs and tsks. Nikala distracted herself by reading the notices on the board in front of her. Shift changes, notes about delivery dates, street works schedules—all the mundane necessities of running a pub. Tucked behind one of the pinned pages, Nikala saw the corner of a childlike drawing. She balanced on one hand and nudged the top page over until she saw the complete image. Two stick figures held hands with a rainbow behind them.

  “A gift from an admirer?” Nikala teased.

  “A young girl who used to live above the pub. She once called me Nona Dony.”

  Something in Dony’s tone unsettled Nikala. “Used to? Did something happen to her?”

  Donyatella smoothed a plaster over Nikala’s skin and pulled her shirt carefully over her jeans. “She moved on, as everyone must.” A wistfulness filled the emptiness of her words. “Be more careful in the future, yes?” Dony clapped her hands and opened the door for Nikala to exit.

  She cast a last glance at the picture. Scribbled beneath the stick figures the artist had written, “Nona Dony,” and another name, but it had been erased. Nikala could make out a y, but not much else. Her gaze drifted lower and there, tucked between two boxes, she saw a leather strap she recognized from Malcolm’s safe. Her mind buzzed and throat went dry.

  “Did Malcolm leave anything for me?”

  Dony’s stony stare unnerved her. The way the woman’s lips pressed into a line made her wrinkles appear like veins in marble.

  “You ask the wrong question. Perhaps you need food first.” Dony prodded her out of the office and closed the door behind them.

  Nikala glanced over her shoulder to the small room. As long as the bag was safe in Dony’s office, she could take a few minutes to eat.

  At her table, the much-needed Guinness waited for her and Nikala sat with a satisfied sigh. The wound stung, but not nearly as much as it had a few minutes earlier. Whatever Dony put on it was working. She could practically feel her skin knitting back together.

  After a quiet, but mentally distracted meal, Nikala paid her bill. Donyatella had disappeared from her seat and Nikala wavered whether she should take the bag from Dony’s office without asking. Deciding that was rude, she hovered near the kitchen, hoping the woman would show.

  Curiosity burned in Nikala’s gut. When certain no one looked, she darted into the kitchen, where she knew back stairs led to the flats. A few workers frowned at her being in their space, but she ignored them. Three steps in, she turned to the stairs and left them behind.

  Sounds of cooking and conversations from the pub drifted through the walls, but no one halted her progression to the third floor. With each boot placed on the old wooden planks, her heart raced a second faster. By the time she reached the top floor, a sheen of sweat covered her forehead and her lungs swelled beneath her ribs. Every nerve ending was lit like a Christmas tree, ready to pop from too much voltage.

  No sound came from the flats she passed. At the end of the hall, she paused in front of the door. If she did this, she’d be betraying Donyatella and whoever lived here. For some reason, the latter bothered her more than upsetting her longtime friend.

  Nikala reached for the door handle and before she made contact with it, the door swung open with a soft groan. Her head swiveled from side to side, but the hallway was empty.

  “Hello?” she whispered into the room. Silence answered.

  She pushed the door farther open and stepped a boot inside. When nothing happened, she took another step, and another. Rivulets of sweat ran down her back, over the plasters Dony applied, and pooled in the divots above her ass.

  The flat was comfortable and homey, yet sparse. No pictures lined the walls; no personal items were left lying around. It was a serviceable flat, and yet Nikala felt at once loved and protected as she stood in the middle of the lounge. A fireplace—long gone cold—dominated one wall and a comfortable rocker nestled in front of it. She sat in the chair and smelled cigar smoke and cologne. The kind older gentlemen wore.

  She closed her eyes and heard someone, a female, whisper, “It is time.”

  Nikala sat up, eyes wide, pulse racing like a Formula One car. The empty room sat motionless and, oddly enough, lonely.

  “They are archaeologists. At least, that is what they wish the world to believe,” Donyatella said from the doorway. “They travel often and use this flat as their base when they are in London.” Wistfulness lingered in her words.

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m trespassing, but I couldn’t stay away, not any longer.” Nikala stood, guilt sliding over her like a scratchy sweater.

  “It wasn’t time for you to know about them, but now maybe it is.” Donyatella entered the room and ran her fingertips across the overflowing bookshelf. “I do not know when they will return, but I keep their home ready, just in case.”

  “I don’t understand.” Pounding began in her head and the Guinness she drank sloshed in her belly.

  Donyatella studied Nikala for a moment, her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “He’s kept you in the dark for so long, I don’t know what trouble the light will cause.”

  “Who? Malcolm?” Nikala’s head spun and bile splashed against the roo
f of her mouth. She braced herself against the chair.

  “When the time comes, on whose side will you fight?” Donyatella stroked a glass lily figurine and for one mad moment, Nikala thought she saw it glimmer and flutter as if it were alive.

  “Fight? For what? What are you talking about?” Nikala stared, transfixed, at the glass lily. “You’re not making any sense, Dony.”

  “War is coming.” Her voice lowered. “It can’t be avoided. Isn’t that right, child of Faerie?”

  Nikala scrunched her face in confusion. “Faerie?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Cian’s body filled the doorframe and Donyatella hissed beneath her breath. Cian extended his empty hands. “You have nothing to fear from me, Guardian.”

  Nikala looked from Cian to Dony and back. “What am I missing?” The landlady’s naturally gruff exterior melted away to reveal her fear. “Dony, what does he mean?”

  Cian stepped into the room and inhaled deeply. “Tell me, who lived here?”

  Donyatella shuffled from foot to foot, eyes downcast. “Please, don’t make me. I am sworn to their protection and cannot break my vow.”

  “Someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on.” An implied threat hung on Nikala’s words. It had been a long day and she was done playing games.

  When Donyatella remained silent, Cian’s jaw tightened and his lips pursed. “She needs to know. Just as I need to know who lived here and what they have to do with Faerie.”

  Again, that Faerie. They said it as if it were a place, not a thing. Nikala fisted her hands to keep from yanking on her hair. With each passing second, she sensed both of her companions were inching closer to losing their shit.

  “I made a vow,” Dony repeated. “I cannot break it, no matter how much I want to help. We are neutral in these affairs.”

  What affairs? Nikala wanted to scream at them to make sense. Instead, she jammed a thumb between her teeth and gnawed on an invisible hangnail. Something was happening here and she was caught up in it. The more she listened, the more she’d learn, and hopefully, the better chance she had to stay alive.

  Cian took Donyatella’s hands in his and the landlady stiffened. “The honor of Stone Guardians is legendary. I’ve seen firsthand what happens to gargoyles when they break an oath. Forgive me.”

  Nikala’s attention snapped to Cian. Gargoyles? Faerie? What the hell parallel dimension did she fall into? And how the fuck could she get out?

  20

  Cian had no intention of breaking the guardian’s vow, but he had to know who had lived there. It drove his every need, his utmost desire. He released Donyatella’s cold grip and strode to the fireplace. The ashes were long since burned, but he hoped to find something to help him identify the tenants. A presence in the flat—calm, serene—drove his curiosity. He knelt and swiped two fingers over the ashes. For a long minute, he knelt in silence, rubbing his fingers together, then finally tasted the ash.

  What the soot told him was far more than he’d hoped to discover, and also set his heart beating at triple speed.

  “Her protector was called Brandt, and she went by Taryn.” A hollowness rang with each syllable, as if he were speaking in a trance. Cian blinked and swiveled his head to Donyatella. “I know this name, Taryn. She came to my sister in a vision.”

  “Aurora MacNair is known to us,” the guardian said. “But I do not have providence over her protection.”

  Fury flashed through his veins. “Why is she known to you? What does she have to do with what is happening?”

  The guardian swayed and gripped the bookcase to steady herself. Nikala went to her side and helped her to sit in the chair. Once settled, Nikala knelt in front of the woman.

  “I don’t understand any of this. What’s going on, Dony? We’re old friends. Please.”

  Tears filled the old woman’s eyes and she shook her head. “Don’t ask this of me. I can’t.”

  “Nikala,” Cian put a hand on her shoulder, “we should go.”

  Scraping came from the roof and Nikala looked first to him, then to the guardian. The others were vexed with them for upsetting Donyatella.

  “I’ll answer any questions you have. But we have to go. Now.” Cian placed his other hand on Donyatella and knelt so she could see his face. “Is my sister in danger?”

  The guardian shook her head. “Not yet. Go now. They’re here.”

  Scraping sounds came from the windows and Cian grabbed Nikala by the hand. He tugged her up as he bolted for the door. They stumbled down the hallway to the back stairs and raced down, down, down until they reached the kitchen. Not much unnerved Cian MacNair, but hostile gargoyles were definitely on the list.

  By the time they skidded to a stop, breathless and flushed, the scritching had stopped. He stood still a moment and listened, noting the soft shuffling of Donyatella as she made her way down the hallway to the front stairs. She muttered to the others as she moved along, thanking them for their assistance, and reassuring them Cian and Nikala meant no harm.

  “Have you ever heard this name, Taryn?” Cian asked Nikala and she jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “No, never. Who is she?”

  “I’m not sure.” Instead of exiting through the kitchen, Cian led Nikala to the cellar where he’d found the doorway earlier that day.

  Sounds rumbled above them as they descended into the near darkness, but down here was empty of people. He covered the five feet of space between the stairs and doorway in two steps, then rested his hands on his hips as he studied the oak planks.

  “It’s a door.” Nikala managed to sound bored and mocking at the same time.

  “Not just any door.” Cian spun around and grabbed her by the collar of her leather jacket. The scent of hibiscus wafted to his nose and he fought the urge to kiss her. Why did this woman have to be such a pain in his ass? One second, he was ready to throttle her; the next, he wanted to bed her.

  “I suggest you unhand me, unless you fancy a knife in your throat.” Her steady gaze showed no fear, just chilling calculation.

  “I saw your handiwork earlier. You’re good with a blade. What else should I know about you?”

  A grin lifted her lips and laughter entered her eyes. “I could ask the same of you. What’s Faerie? Why did you call Dony a Stone Guardian? And why are you obsessed with Malcolm?”

  The feel of cold steel against his throat had the reverse effect he suspected Nikala was going for—instead of instilling angst, it made his heart lurch and cock pulsate. Damn her for being irresistible.

  His lips covered hers, hungry for more of her sweetness. She’d left him wanting when she disappeared from his flat. That want surged into his kiss as he ground his hips against hers and thrust his tongue into the warmth of her mouth.

  Nikala’s gasp turned to a moan. Her tongue greeted his like a welcoming lover. His grip lessened on her jacket and his hands tangled in her hair, luxuriating in the silkiness. The knife disappeared from his throat and she pressed her body against his. The distinct shape of a gun pushed against his abdomen.

  Blood pumped through his brain, killing all rational thought. Her hands wandered beneath his jacket and across his chest, feeling their way to his pants. A few inches more and she’d feel more than his aching cock. She’d find the memory stick he’d stolen from Malcolm’s office.

  Cian released his grip with a groan and stepped back, breaking physical contact with her. The emptiness that engulfed him was suffocating.

  “Not here. Not like this.” Cian raked a hand through his hair and looked at the ground, then the door, and finally to Nikala. “I want you, but proper. Not hard and fast in some dingy cellar.”

  “So, you’re a gentleman now,” Nikala teased. She tossed her hair and he was mesmerized by the golden glints that sparked in the light.

  He hovered over her, protective, consuming. Her scent intoxicated him. Cian traced his fingertips across her forehead and down her temple, over her cheekbones to her jaw. His thumb scraped along her lips and a low growl
came from deep in his throat.

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and he moved his fingers lower to skim her neck and collarbones. A flicker of apprehension crossed her eyes as he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric of her T-shirt. The pads of his fingers lingered on a scar, memorizing the feel of twisted skin.

  “What you do to me should be illegal.” His eyes bore into hers and for a moment he was lost in the sea of lust he saw reflected back to him. “I have no doubt you would kill me if necessary, but what terrifies me more is I’m afraid you’ll break my heart.”

  Regret, raw and intense, flashed over her features. “I’m incapable of loving, Cian. If that’s the sort of relationship you’re looking for, I suggest you wander elsewhere.” Her eyes narrowed and a cheeky grin lifted her lips. “Although, something tells me you aren’t all you’ve made me believe you are. There’s a darkness in you that I quite like, but I, too, feel you’d kill me in an instant if it came to that.”

  Cian lowered his lips to brush against hers. She sighed into the kiss and he lingered there, barely touching, but connected.

  Blood rushed against his hearing, drowning out the sounds above them until he was certain she could hear each rapid beat of his heart. This wasn’t part of the assignment. He was breaking his own vow by remaining here, but he didn’t care. No one had ever made him feel like this and he feared once their kiss ended, he’d never reclaim the joy of this moment.

  “You’re not making this easy, you know.” Nikala eased him away from her with a sad smile. “Mad shags are my thing. Love ’em and leave ’em, as you know.” The joking of her tone didn’t reach her eyes. They remained clouded with remorse.

  “Put your hand on that door.” Cian cocked his head to indicate the door behind him. It was a hunch he had to see through.

  “What?”

  “Just humor me, please.”