Fever 3 - Faefever (8 page)

“You two know each other?” Christian looked baffled.

“We’ve run into each other a time or two,” I replied.

“They’re looking for you back at the office, Chris,” said the dreamy-eyed guy. “Elle wants to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” said Christian impatiently.

He shrugged. “She didn’t seem to think so. Something about misappropriated funds or something. I told her I’m sure it’s just a bookkeeping error, but she’s on one.”

Christian rolled his eyes. “That woman is impossible. Will you tell her I’ll be there in five?”

“Sure, man.” His gaze cut to me. “Is this the boyfriend you meant?”

I shook my head.

“But you have one?”

“Dozens, remember?”

He laughed. “See you around, beautiful girl. Five minutes, Chris. You know how Elle gets about you.” Dragging a finger across his throat, he grinned and left.

Christian hurried to the door and shut it. “Okay, we’ve got to talk fast because I need this job for the time being and lately Elle seems to be looking for any reason to fire me. There’s something you need to see.” He opened his backpack and pulled out a leather notebook, tied with knotted cord. “My uncles sent me to Dublin for a reason, Mac. Well, several, but only one immediately concerns you. I’ve been watching your employer.”

“Barrons? Why?” What had he learned? Something that might help me sort through my own worries about who and what he was?

“My uncles are collectors. Everything they’ve been trying to collect for the past few years your employer has been going after, too. Some of it he’s gotten, some of it my uncles have gotten, and still other items have gone to a third party.” He withdrew a file from his notebook and handed me a magazine folded open to a page. “Is that Jericho Barrons?”

A brief glance was enough. “Yes.” He was nearly lost in the shadows, standing behind a group of men, but the flash had caught his face at just the right angle to bathe it starkly in light. Though the photo was grainy, there was no mistaking him. Barrons is unusual. He says his ancestry is Basque and Pict.

Criminals and barbarians, I’d mocked when he’d told me. He certainly looks the part.

“How old would you say he is?”

“In this picture?”

“No, now.”

“He’s thirty. I saw it on his driver’s license.” His birthday was coming up; on Halloween he’d be thirty-one.

“Look at the date on the magazine.”

I flipped to the cover. The photo had been taken seventeen years ago, which meant he’d been thirteen at the time of the photograph, if the date on his driver’s license was to be believed. Obviously, it wasn’t. No thirteen-year old boy in the world looked that mature.

Christian handed me another magazine, this one featuring a gathering of wealthy socialites at a gala at a British museum. Again, Barrons was unmistakable in it, even half turned as he was from the camera. Same hair and faultlessly tailored clothing, same expression on the haughty old-world face: a mixture of boredom and predatory amusement.

I flipped to the cover. This photo had been taken
forty-one
years ago. I flipped back to the photo and studied it carefully, looking for anomalies. There were none. It was either Barrons, or he had a grandfather who’d been his identical twin, and if this was Barrons in the photo, he was currently seventy-one years old.

Next, Christian passed me a photocopy of a newspaper article with a faded black-and-white photo of a group of uniformed men. Barrons was the only one not wearing a uniform. As was the case in the last two photos, he was angled slightly away, as if trying to slip off before the shot could be snapped. And, as was the case in the last two photos, he didn’t look a day older or younger than he did today.

“Do you know who that is?” Christian pointed to the big, rawboned, thirtyish man in the center of the photograph.

I shook my head.

“Michael Collins. He was a famous Irish revolutionary leader.”

“So?”

“He was killed in 1922. This picture was taken two months before he died.”

I did some rapid math. That would mean Barrons wasn’t seventy-one, he was an extremely well preserved one hundred and fifteen. “Maybe he had a relative,” I offered, “with a strong genetic resemblance.”

“You don’t believe that,” he said flatly. “Why do people do that? Say things out loud they don’t even remotely believe?”

He was right. I didn’t believe it. The pictures were too identical. I’d spent enough time with Jericho Barrons that I knew the way his limbs moved, the way he stood, the expressions he wore. It was him, in all those pictures. Inside, a part of me went very still.

Barrons was old. Impossibly old. Being kept alive by Gripper possession? Was that possible? “Are there more of these?” I wondered how far back Christian’s uncles had traced him. I wanted to take these photographs with me, slap them against Barrons’ chest and demand answers, even though I knew I’d never get any.

He glanced at his watch. “Yes, but I have to go.”

“Let me hold on to these a few days.”

“No way. My uncles would kill me if Barrons got his hands on them.”

I relinquished them reluctantly. I could begin research of my own, now that I knew what to look for. I wasn’t sure I needed to. What difference if Barrons were a hundred, a thousand, or
several
thousand? The point was: He was inhuman. The question was: How bad was whatever he really was?

“I’m leaving for Inverness tomorrow and won’t be back for a week. There are . . . things at home I need to take care of. Come and see me next Thursday. I believe you and I can help each other.” He paused then said, “I believe we may
need
to help each other, Mac. I think our purposes may be tied together.”

I nodded as we walked out, although I had my doubts. I’d been turning into a real bottom-liner lately and, regardless of how much Christian might know, or his involvement in maintaining the walls between realms, or how much I might enjoy his company, the bottom line was he was a man who couldn’t see the Fae, and that meant, in a fight, he’d be a liability, one more person I’d have to worry about keeping alive, and lately, I was having a hard enough time keeping
myself
alive.

I shouldered past tourists, wound my way between Rhino-boys and assorted Unseelie, and was a few blocks from the bookstore, passing one of the countless pubs that characterize Temple Bar, when I glanced in the window, and there she was.

Alina.

Sitting with a group of friends in a low-backed corner snug, tipping back a bottle of beer. Lowering it and laughing at something the guy next to her had just said.

I closed my eyes. I knew what this was, and he needed to get some new tricks. I opened them and glanced down at myself. At least I wasn’t naked. “V’lane,” I said. Did I ever have a bone to pick with him!

“MacKayla.”

Ignoring the reflection of the tall, erotic golden creature behind my shoulder, I focused that ancient, alien,
sidhe
-seer place inside my brain on the illusion:
Show me what is true,
I demanded. The vision of Alina ruptured with the suddenness of a bubble bursting, revealing a group of boisterous rugby players toasting their latest victory.

I turned and was slammed upside the head with death-by-sex Fae.

My knees got soft, my nipples got hard, and I wanted sex on the sidewalk, sex bent over that nearby car, sex up against the wall of the pub, and who cared if my naked petunia got smashed up against the window for all to see in the process?

V’lane is a prince from one of the four Seelie Royal Houses, and it’s difficult to look at him directly when he’s in high glamour. He’s gold and bronze, velvet and steel, and his eyes blaze with the stellar grandeur of a wintry night sky. He is so unearthly beautiful that it makes a part of my soul weep. When I look at him, I hunger for things I don’t understand. I ache to be touched by him. I’m terrified of his touch. I think sex with him might undo my essential cellular cohesion, and shatter me into fragments of a woman that could never be pieced back together again.

If V’lane were a signpost, it would read Abandon All Personal Will, Ye Who Tread Here, and while I never thought much about will back home in Ashford, here I’ve begun to think it’s all I really have to call my own.

I tried regarding him with slightly peripheral vision. It didn’t help. My clothing was painfully constricting, and I battled the overwhelming urge to remove it.

Fae princes drip such raw eroticism that it provokes a woman’s senses beyond anything she was meant to experience, turning her into an aroused animal, willing to do anything for sex. While that might sound like it promises the kinkiest escapades and most incredible orgasms of your life, Fae don’t grasp basic human concepts like death. Time has no meaning to them, they don’t need to eat or sleep, and their sexual appetite for human women is enormous, all of which leads to one inevitable outcome: A woman caught in a Fae prince’s spell usually gets fucked to death. If she survives it, she’s
Pri-ya:
an addict, a void of insatiable sexual need that exists for one purpose, to serve her Master—and that’s determined by whoever is currently giving her sex.

The first few times I encountered V’lane I’d begun stripping where I stood. I was getting better at resisting, because I was catching my hand every time it moved to the hem of my sweater,
before
I began pulling it off over my head. Still, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up.

“Mute it,” I demanded.

A slow smile curved his lips. “I
am
muted. Whatever you feel is not coming from me.”

“You’re lying.” I briefly visited Christian’s charge that I was thinking of having sex with someone. V’lane was not a someone. He was a some
thing
.

“I am not. You have made it clear you will not abide my . . . sexing you up. Perhaps you are . . . how do you humans say it . . . in heat?”

“We say that about animals, not people.”

“Animals, people, what difference?”

“Seelie, Unseelie, what difference?”

Silvery flakes crystallized in the air between us, icing the night with royal displeasure. “The difference is too vast for your puny mind to comprehend.”

“Ditto.”

“You are not naked, on your hands and knees, offering me your pretty little ass, MacKayla, which is what you do when I use the
Sidhba-jai
on you. Would you like a reminder?”

“Try it and I’ll kill you.”

“With what?”

I yanked my hand from the button at the back of my skirt and went for the spear holstered beneath my arm, but it was gone. He’d taken it the last time we’d met, too. I wanted to know how he was doing it. I had to find a way to stop him.

He paced a circle around me. By the time he’d completed it, his gaze was as chill as the night air. “What have you been up to,
sidhe
-seer? You smell different.”

“I’ve been using a new moisturizer.” Could he smell my recent cannibalization of his race? Though I no longer suffered the dramatic effects of it, did a residue stain my skin, as it had tarnished another, less tangible part of me? I’d eaten Unseelie, not Seelie; would that make a difference to him? I doubted it. The bottom line was I’d eaten Fae to steal the power of the Fae. And I’d just fed it to another human. And I would never admit either of those facts to
any
Fae. “Like it?” I said brightly.

“You are powerless to defy me, yet stand before me dripping defiance. Why?”

“Maybe I’m not as powerless as you think.” What would a bite of Seelie royalty do to me? I’d find out if I had to. Surely I could Null him long enough to sink my teeth in somewhere. The thought was a little too tempting. All that power . . . mine in one tiny bite. Or ten. I wasn’t certain exactly how much I had to eat to get superstrength, when I wasn’t mortally wounded to begin with.

He considered me a moment, then laughed, and the sound made me feel suddenly ebullient, drunk with euphoria.

“Stop it,” I hissed. “Quit amping up my feelings!”

“I am what I am. Even when I ‘mute myself,’ as you say, my presence overwhelms mere humans—”

“Bull,” I cut him off. “When you were kneeling on the beach in Faery, and touched me, you felt like a man and only a man.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it had been better than this. He could tone himself
way
down if he chose. “I know you can do it. If you want my help finding the
Sin
—er, the Book, turn it off, and turn it
all
off. Now. And keep it off in the future.” I’d picked up a superstition from Dani, the young
sidhe
seer I’d met recently who’d warned me about casting certain words on the wind I didn’t want traced back to me, so now, whenever I spoke of the
Sinsar Dubh
aloud, out in the streets, especially at night, I tried to remember to call it simply “the Book.”

V’lane shimmered, flashed brilliant white, then faded and resolidified. I tried not to gawk. Gone were the iridescent robes, the eyes that burned with a thousand stars, the body that radiated the fire of Eros. A man stood before me in faded jeans, a biker jacket, and boots; the sexiest man I’d ever seen. A golden, horny angel stripped of wings.
This
V’lane I could deal with. This Fae prince I could keep my clothes on around.

“Walk with me.” He offered his hand.

Sidhe
-seer walk with Fae? My every instinct screamed no. “I’ll Null you if I touch you.”

He considered me a moment, as if debating whether to speak. Then he shrugged, but not well. The human gesture only made him look more alien. “Only if you wish, MacKayla. The desire to Null or the instinct to defend yourself must be present. If you do not desire it, you may touch me.” He paused. “I know of no other Fae who would permit such intimacy and risk. You speak to me of trust. I am giving it to you. Once you touch me, you could alter your intent and I would be at your mercy.”

I liked that: him at my mercy. I took his hand. It was a man’s hand, warm, strong, nothing more. He laced his fingers with mine. I hadn’t held hands with anyone in a long time. It felt good.

“You spent time in my world,” he said, “now I will spend time in yours. Show me what it is you care for so deeply that you would die for it. Teach me of human ways, MacKayla. Show me why I should care, too.”