Shimmer

by Sharon Ashwood

  Ronan cursed himself. That was exactly why he’d helped her before, so she’d associate his powers with something good. It was a useful sales trick, but now he wished he’d left her alone. Better crippled than cursed.

  “You have to say it out loud.” His voice sounded like claws on gravel.

  He couldn’t bear to raise his head and meet her gaze, just in case that made her trust him more. Ronan held his breath, hyperaware of every nuance of her being—every shift in posture, every strand of her fair hair lifting in the breeze. Alana was at a tipping point. She could go on as she was, or she could start walking the path of Ronan’s curse.

  A long silence followed, so long he almost believed she’d avoided the snare. But then she spoke.

  “I wish I would get a job tomorrow as Tyrell Martigen’s personal bodyguard.”

  8

  A week later, Alana intercepted a female with a clipboard by stepping into her path.

  The woman’s surprise quickly darkened to annoyance. “Excuse me?”

  “Identification, please,” Alana said, keeping her voice polite. She’d memorized the pictures of all the Martigen staff, and this person wasn’t in the file. Late forties, human, professional dress but she’s recently stopped wearing her wedding band.

  The woman bridled, but Alana didn’t care. The only way to Tyrell Martigen and his entourage was through her, and bodyguards weren’t paid to be people-pleasers.

  “It’s all right, Alana,” Tyrell said. “Sheila’s here from the Waterfront Foundation.”

  He referred to the charity group raising money for a new children’s hospital. Alana stepped aside, earning a scathing glance from Sheila. They were opposites, Alana with fair hair and a dark pantsuit, and Sheila with salon-corrected dark hair and an ensemble in winter white. The woman all but vanished against the pale marble lining the lobby.

  Alana memorized Sheila’s face just as she had all the others, pinning it on her mental suspect board. Until she’d figured out who was involved with the Corby-Barleycorn-Martigen fight-fixing, murder, and lamp-theft plot—not to mention figuring out what exactly that plot entailed—no one escaped consideration.

  Sheila handed Tyrell an envelope. “The mayor requested I deliver this personally, so you can include the names of the major donors in your remarks. They are, of course, to be kept confidential until the gala.”

  “Consider me a vault.” Tyrell signed for the envelope, then gave the woman a charming smile. She colored slightly as she retrieved her pen and hurried off.

  In the time Alana had been working for Martigen, she’d noted his skill handling the swarms of people seeking his attention. The fact he remembered all their names—and remained unfailingly polite—was a feat in itself.

  As soon as Sheila left, the entourage resumed walking and Tyrell’s assistant started yammering. “The car will pick you up at seven to reach the art gallery at seven-thirty. Meet and greet, cocktails, speeches at eight-thirty, your presentation to the donors at nine, then dinner and dancing after that.”

  “I’ll be gone by nine-thirty, off to the soiree at the Unseelie Club. Have the car ready.”

  The assistant nodded, making notes. Meanwhile, the assistant’s assistant pushed forward. “Mr. Martigen, sir, I have Henry Blackwell on the line for you.”

  Alana’s ears perked up at the mention of her coach’s name. “Tell him I’ll call him back,” Tyrell replied. Then he turned to Alana. “Maybe I should send you to find out what the old bear wants.”

  “I’m happy to do whatever is required,” she replied with a bow of her head.

  “Of course you are,” he said cheerfully. “You’re settling in very well. I’d hardly know you were ever injured in the circle.”

  Alana kept her expression bland. “I’m fit for duty.”

  He laughed. “Otherwise, you’d still be at the bookstore instead of here. But seriously, I’m glad things are working out. Anything you need, just ask.”

  Oddly, she thought he meant it. Tyrell Martigen wanted to be liked. When they reached the entrance of the huge office building, he greeted the doorman by name and asked after his daughter’s graduation plans.

  They’d barely made it to the courtyard when the mood of the entourage turned quiet. A knot of five men descended on them, Tyrell’s father in the lead. She’d seen father and son meet before, and it was always strained but carefully polite.

  With a twinge of surprise, she saw one of the newcomers was Randall, the demi-fae who’d tried to bully her in Barleycorn’s office. So he’d gotten the job he’d interviewed for. That said a lot about his new boss.

  Unlike his son, Hugo Martigen was square, dark, and as lovable as a rabid wolverine. All Tyrell’s hangers-on scattered like sparrows, leaving only Alana and her fellow guard on either side of their employer.

  Instinctively, she touched the knife sheath beneath her jacket, where multiple blades were strapped for easy access. All the guards carried them, but only for use if things got nasty. Knives were quiet, discreet, and easy to enchant if something happened that humans shouldn’t see. Fae rarely used firearms except for sport—they had plenty of better options when it came to serious long-range violence. Plus, many refused to touch cold iron if they could help it.

  “Father,” Tyrell said evenly. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Hugo waved a hand, and his men stepped away, giving him privacy. The older man glared at Alana, expecting her to do the same, but she eyed Tyrell pointedly until he gave her the nod. She backed away, but not so far that she couldn’t catch at least some of the conversation.

  “Did you call the meeting?” Hugo asked his son.

  “Yes. I called on each member personally,” Tyrell replied.

  Members of what? Alana wondered. Ronan had seen Tyrell going from door to door after the scene at Comfy Chair Books and Collectibles. Was that what he’d been doing?

  “Do we have news to tell them?” Hugo demanded.

  “Not yet.”

  From the corner of her eye, Alana saw Hugo draw himself up until he loomed over his son. Tyrell paled, but didn’t move. When Hugo spoke, she barely caught the words. “There will be consequences if we don’t deliver.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do know, or you would be weeping with fear. The investor wants his pound of flesh, and if the cabal can’t meet his demands, he’ll take his due in gold instead.”

  “We don’t have the cash flow for that. We’d be dead in the water.”

  “Ah, so you are paying attention.” Hugo leaned in so he was nose to nose with Tyrell. “Then maybe you’ll do the one thing I asked and take care of business.”

  “I can only do what’s possible,” Tyrell replied stiffly.

  “If it were easy, I would have done it myself.”

  “Then maybe you should, Dad.”

  Hugo snorted his disgust and wheeled away from Tyrell, shouldering past him toward the entrance of the office building. His henchmen followed with clockwork efficiency. As he passed, Randall cast Alana a sour look.

  Alana and the other guard, Bruce, came up to Tyrell. “Where to, boss?” Bruce asked, as if nothing had happened.

  Tyrell gave a soft laugh. “I love you guys. Let’s go to my rooms. It’s getting late, and I need to dress for tonight.”

  They started toward the building across the way. Martigen Towers sat on the southern edge of the downtown, and it was made up of three skyscrapers arranged around a park-like courtyard. The place they’d just left was the business headquarters. The other two towers were residential, with the top floors reserved for the Martigen family, friends, and key employees. Alana wondered if bodyguards ever get one of the fancy apartments.

  They made it most of the way across the courtyard, past the busier pathways and into the sheltered corner leading to the first of the residential buildings. Alana began to daydream about grabbing dinner and telling Ronan about her day, but not so much that her guard was completely down.

  That was
lucky, because the attack came too fast to see. Figures sprang from the evening shadows, cutting off their retreat and any hope of advancing toward the door. Alana got an impression of short, dark figures no taller than a child, but they were squat and strong. Kobolds? But those fae were miners, and didn’t move like dark lightning. These creatures were new to her, and they weren’t friendly.

  She punched the alarm on her wristband, summoning backup. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce do the same. Tyrell, however, stood wide-eyed and frozen. That was the difference training made.

  The attacker in front of her flicked his hand, and a blade spun through the air. Alana pushed Tyrell to the ground, using her body as cover. The knife bounced as it hit the pavement, and she had a glimpse of a carved antler handle. There was no time to grab for it. The one who’d thrown the weapon was closing in.

  Now she could see a broad-featured face with a lot of black beard and a predator’s eyeteeth. He was holding a second knife, this one with a wicked curved blade. She kicked, aiming for Short and Hairy’s head, but he slashed, the knife slicing through pant leg and deep into her shin. Alana yelped, but followed through with a solid hook to the jaw. He staggered, and her next blow sent him sprawling.

  Bruce had a second opponent down, but victory was short-lived. Just as Alana helped Tyrell to his feet, the shadows spewed a flock of squeaking, flapping horrors. Within seconds, they were swarmed. Alana swiped at the air around her head as tiny claws tugged at her hair. The creatures reminded her of bats, but they seemed to have no heads. They were just scraps of darkness with teeth and talons.

  Bruce collapsed under the hungry cloud. Alana took a step toward him, flinching as she put weight on her bleeding leg, but Tyrell’s shout made her turn his way. One of the creatures had fastened itself to his neck. His eyes were wide with terror as he clutched at the thing, unable to tear it away as it gorged on the blood leaking from his throat.

  Frantically drawing her own knife, she slashed at the flying things as they swooped into her face. They aimed for the eyes and throat, disorienting their prey. She grabbed Tyrell’s jacket and dragged him closer, then drove the knife point into the body of the thing sucking his blood. It shrieked, a wail that sent every one of its kin fluttering higher into the air. Then it dropped to the ground with a juicy splat.

  Now that it was still, Alana got a good look. It was shaped like a starfish, with claws along the limbs and a round mouth in the middle of its belly. Blood oozed from it, but not all of it was red. Most was pure black.

  “Alana,” Tyrell barked.

  She spun, barely avoiding the knife blade of her first attacker. She threw her own weapon in one smooth flick. Short and Hairy went down, the knife buried in one eye. This time, he wouldn’t get up.

  Bruce was scrambling to his hands and knees, bites covering his face and hands. Alana grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him up.

  “Get inside,” Tyrell ordered, holding open the door.

  Alana lunged for safety, shoving Bruce and Tyrell into the lobby. She’d barely closed and locked the door before the swarm was back, plastering themselves to the plate glass. There seemed to be more than before—enough to block out the first red banners of the sunset.

  She stared at the overlapping web of clawed limbs. They seemed to be pulsing with the need to dig through the glass and into her body. “What the hell is this about?”

  Pale as milk, Bruce grabbed one of the pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling. With his other hand, he fished out his phone. “Reinforcements are already on their way. I’m telling them to bring flamethrowers.”

  Alana could hear the sirens. “You need medical help.”

  “I’ll tell them that, too. Get the boss upstairs.”

  Although Bruce was right—their charge was their first concern—she hated to leave the other bodyguard alone. “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m going to enjoy the show.”

  More concerned with escape, Tyrell had already pushed the call button for the elevator. He was braced against the wall, one hand to the wound in his neck. Alana limped his way, then helped him into the elevator once the door opened. They both leaned against the mirrored wall of the car, breathing hard.

  “Bruce will be all right,” Tyrell said. “I’ve seen him survive worse.”

  Still slumped against the wall, she rolled her head to meet his eyes. “How often does this happen?”

  “Not very. I’m the quiet one in the family.”

  “Good to hear,” she said. Her leg throbbed.

  Tyrell leaned forward, gently kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  As kisses went, it was innocent enough, but a shiver ran through her just the same. She should have been attracted to Tyrell. He was smart, handsome, and power clung to him like aftershave—yet he just didn’t check her boxes. Maybe she didn’t go for the rich tycoon type.

  Or maybe it was the fact she was really there to unveil his secrets and—oh, look—she was about to gain access to his private rooms.

  The elevator stopped and a panel slid back, revealing a keypad. Rather than press his thumb to the reader right away, he angled his body so she was caught between his hard chest and the wall. He leaned down, his face just inches from hers.

  “What do you think, Alana? We have a connection now, a shared experience of danger. Liaisons have been founded on less.”

  Another shiver coursed through her, but it wasn’t the good kind. “I think adrenaline clouds the mind, sir.”

  “Always the professional, my Alana.”

  The doors slid open to reveal the vestibule of his penthouse apartment. She caught a glimpse of dark wallpaper, darker paintings, and an expensive mirror. “Come inside,” he said, taking her hand.

  “I’m supposed to deliver you to safety, that’s all,” she said. “There’s a crisis downstairs.”

  He pulled her after him. “You’re hurt.”

  “My wound stopped bleeding.”

  “I doubt it.” He tugged her hand.

  She stumbled forward, finding him surprisingly strong. The elevator doors slid closed behind her as Tyrell steered her to the window. Far, far below, emergency lights flashed red and blue. Slipping a hand around her waist, he pulled her close, clearly meaning to pick up where that almost-kiss had ended.

  “You see, there’s the cavalry,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re fae. We keep them on speed dial for things the regular police won’t understand.”

  She pulled away. “Like the dead bodies?”

  Clearly disgruntled, he stepped back from the window, touching the wound in his neck. His fingers came away scarlet. “The men use an onsite incinerator. My father had it installed.”

  Her face went numb with shock. It wasn’t the idea itself, but the casual way he’d said it. Of course they had staff who disposed of bodies—it was part of doing business at the Martigen family firm.

  “What’s going on, Tyrell?” It felt odd to use his first name, but he had crossed the line between the professional and personal already. “I can’t help you unless I understand what you’re up against.”

  “What I’m up against? It started out as my father’s idea, and now he’s dragging me down, too.” He heaved an angry sigh. “And getting my employees hurt. You’re bleeding.”

  She looked down at her leg. Sure enough, blood glistened on the black fabric of her slacks. “I’ve had worse.”

  His mouth flattened into a hard line. “Watch where you sit with that. Let me get you a cloth.” With that, he left the room.

  Alana examined her surroundings. The decor was textbook alpha male, as if the designer was trying to convey billionaire pheromones in chrome and black leather. Curious, she surveyed the walls and shelves, searching for clues. There was no sign of the betting records she wanted. Those might be on computer, but she bet Tyrell, like Barleycorn’s goblin, kept his fae-related business dealings in a traditional
leather-bound book. Unfortunately, there were very few books and even less art on display.

  The exception was the oval mirror in the vestibule, which had to be an antique. The wooden frame was ornately carved and coated in gold leaf. The glass itself was oddly dark, as if it had lost the silver that made it a mirror. When she got close, her face was only a ghost.

  Except…behind her wide-eyed image, with the hair straggling from her ponytail, was a forest. At first, she thought it was a painting beneath the glass, but the trees moved in a silent breeze. Repeating the same move she’d made when peering into Corby’s office, she leaned to the left, changing the angle of her sight. Mountains filled the horizon. When she leaned right, ignoring the stabbing agony in her leg, she saw the ragged roofline of what might have been a castle. Foreboding spiraled through her.

  Somewhere in the apartment, water began to run, reminding Alana she wasn’t alone. She retreated from the mirror, oddly reluctant to turn her back to it. Where was that forest? What was she looking at? A familiar crawling sensation reminded her where she’d seen a smaller mirror just like it—Corby’s office. The two men had been arguing about the lamp, and they both had mirrors. There had to be a connection.

  What was going on?

  She’d wished herself into this job to find that out. It might have been easier just to wish for answers instead. It would be safer. They’d all nearly been killed moments ago. She could prevent disaster just by asking directly for what she needed. Alana held that thought a moment, testing it with her mind. It was tempting, but no. She’d find better answers if she put some effort into finding the right questions first.

  The argument with herself might have gone on, but that creeping, watching sensation chased her back to the main room. Ignoring Tyrell’s concerns about getting blood on the furniture, she sat by a low coffee table littered with paper. Beside her was Tyrell’s discarded jacket, smeared with blood.