Undeniable (The Druids Book 1)

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Undeniable

Chapter One

If you screw up in life enough, your past won’t just catch up to you. It’ll hunt you down, tooth and claws bared and going for the jugular.

Peyton Price glanced into the rearview mirror, watching his past come speeding up on him in a revved-up pickup truck with stupid monster tires, and a grill that grinned like the devil between those high beams that illuminated the dark interior of the Civic he’d hotwired not forty minutes earlier.

His first mistake had been thinking he could hide. Well, it was far from his first mistake, but the first mistake to smack him in the face this evening. Slipping back into mainstream society, in some tiny Irish country town hardly big enough to show up on a map, had seemed like a good idea. Mistake number two had been banking on outrunning mistake number one, when Deacon and his mates came knocking.

Those two mistakes very likely were about to be the last of a long string of bad life choices.

The country road was paved and boarded on one side with a low stone fence and on the other by a wall of foliage cut back like a hedge row just enough to give clearance to box trucks. A typical Irish back road with only room enough for two cars to pass each other, if both parties edged off the pavement and into paint-removing distance to the barriers on either side. Even keeping towards the middle didn’t stop the pickup from revving its engines and forcing its way past. The limbs of the hedgerow beat and screeched off the truck, flicking a spray of leaves like sparks into the beams of their headlights and flying into Peyton’s windshield.

With a bang into the side of the Civic, the pickup forced Peyton into the stone wall, stealing paint and sending real sparks into the mix. As the pickup forced its way past, the two Changelings riding in the bed, hanging onto the roll bar, turned their wicked faces toward Peyton, catching enough of the light to reveal their current gruesome manifestations, which looked like two-and-a-half-meter-tall werewolves with a monstrous case of the mange.

Even as Peyton slammed on the brakes, the massive jaws of one of the Changelings went from a glimpse of a nightmare to filling his entire field of vision. It had sprung from the back of the truck to slam down on the hood with denting force. Spinning out didn’t dislodge the Changeling, that reared back a fist. Less concerned about where the spin was taking him then the massive fist bursting through the glass, Peyton grabbed the handgun from his lap. Just as the steering wheel was snatched out of the window and cast into the swirling darkness, Peyton jammed the muzzle into the creature’s face and snapped off a .45 caliber silver round.

The Changeling was no werewolf, but silver had its own devastating effects on the fey. As its head exploded into a red mist and flying carnage the creature turned back into its more humanoid, default form for the half second Peyton saw it before it tumbled out of view.

With no steering wheel, Peyton braced himself against the dash as he slammed on the brakes. Not that it mattered, the stone wall crumpled in the front quarter panel as he slammed to a halt with enough force to jar him into the door. That impact was less than he expected, but the one coming with the fast approach of taillights and squealing tires sure wouldn’t be. Peyton flicked off the seatbelt even as he shot out the passenger window. He was halfway crawled through when the impact of the truck sent him flying the rest of the way out, over the waist-high stone wall, and tumbling into some sheep farmer’s pasture.

Not even trying to scramble up to run, Peyton rolled to his back in the mud and the grass. Two-handing the only weapon he had, he fired it as the next Changeling launched itself over the top of the Civic. He’d aimed for the face, but caught it in the throat. Rolling, he managed to avoid the impact of the body that had gone from pouncing monster with patches of matted fur and mangy skin, to a falling dead man with smooth, pale flesh.

In the time it had taken him to dispatch one of them, the other two were on him. The next shot went wide as a punch impacted the inside of Peyton’s forearm. The gun was lost and the scrambling hand-to-hand combat was on. Peyton gave himself credit. He lasted longer than he would have bet. His kick to a knee slowed one of the beasts for a couple of seconds. Keeping his arms up, curling into himself like a boxer protecting from body blows bought him another whole minute.

All useless in the end, though. Pretty soon he was just taking hits and not delivering any of his own. Rocking back and forth, and using his legs to try and win some distance didn’t stop the rain of blows. Then came the deep swipe of claws that ripped gashes in his clothes and flesh. Hot, sticky blood soaked him, and the ground around him, siphoning away his strength, but he still struggled to protect his vulnerable gut and head.

“You’re finished, Peyton!” Deacon yelled at him. “Dead!” He punctuated the word with a kick to the side.

Peyton rolled into it, getting the worst of the impact to his elbow. He didn’t say anything, not backing down and not giving up. They might take him down, but he wasn’t going without a fight. And always, always, he watched for his opportunity to exploit.

The attack stopped, apparently taking him for defeated. Wounded and beaten like he was, they might not be far wrong. Peyton risked a glance past his raised, defensive fists, which had been protecting his face.

Both Changelings were back in humanoid form, and dressed in dark clothing. Whether the clothing was just a part of their body, shape-changed to that appearance, or some other enchantment, Peyton never bothered to ask. The one that stayed by Peyton’s feet didn’t present a face that he recognized, but that didn’t mean anything when it came to Changelings. Deacon, though, gave him that wicked, overly-wide Changeling grin as he strolled with the leisurely pace of a predator over half-dead prey.

Again, for what it was worth, Peyton scooted back as much as he could with his feet losing traction in the bloody mud.

“Death is too good for you, mate.” Deacon easily strolled up beside Peyton’s head. “Too easy.”

Peyton didn’t get the chance to wonder what the Changeling meant. The kick to the head was lights out for him.

Chapter Two

“Does she look like a terrorist to you?”

The question penetrated Matthew Granger’s consciousness, even if he gave no outward appearance. When the tall Starbuck’s coffee was passed off to him, his hand closed around it, as automatic as gripping the handle of his pistol. All of his attention fixed on the woman on the other side of the one-way mirror. Her shoulder-length, dark hair was different from the short haircut on the profile picture. Softer, but somehow striking Granger as misdirection. Same for the white blouse with embroidered flowers on either side of the button front, the peasant skirt with lace trim and low-heel sandals. Her legs were crossed, the top one casually swinging, with her hands quietly folded in her lap, like she was listening attentively to a sermon in church. All of it had nothing to do with the woman that the file called a competent private investigator. Even knowing the appearance was just misdirection, seeing past it to the reality beneath wasn’t as easy as undressing her with his eyes. And that part was dead easy, even with the good-girl outfit. “She’s hiding something, that’s for sure.”

Granger sipped at the coffee, and only then glanced away from their ‘person of interest’ down to the disposable cup in his hand, like it might clue him on what kind of froufrou experiment Patterson foisted onto him. Not seeing anything other than the standard, disposable, white cup with the familiar logo, he abandoned the attempt to decipher the tastes into their individual components. As long as caffeine was among them, it was drinkable. If only barely so.

Pointedly ignoring Patterson’s amused little smirk that he caught from the corner of his eye, Granger pushed through the door into the interrogation room. He placed the cup on the table, and then removed the manila folder from under his arm and let it flop down with a soft slap. As he sat on the folding chair opposite from her, he began, “Miss Eyer—”

She interrupted, correcting him, “London, please.”

He shifted through the papers in the folder, not looking up yet. “Your parents didn’t like you?”

“I guess not,” came her quick, good-natured response.

He flicked a glance at her, not even bothering to raise his head, and her disarming smile was waiting to do its job. He gave no outward reaction to it. “Where were you on the sixteenth of this month?”

“In Liverpool,” her answer came quickly, anticipating the question.

Picking up the stack of photos so they faced his chest, he tapped them on the tabletop, straightening them. “Care to be more specific?”

A smile flashed his way that was too bright to be genuine. “How specific would you like?”

“Were you in the Brightner Building before it fell?” His green eyes fixed on her features, watching for the slightest nuance of facial expression.

“I was.” No change.

“And during?”

Another smile, a little too easy. “I left it.” One eyebrow edged up more than the other. There was so much unsaid there, in that unconscious facial expression.

Granger leaned back, as if relaxing, though he wasn’t. His gaze lowered to the image on the eight by ten crime scene photo before him. “Were you employed by the Brightner Corporation?”

“Extremely briefly.”

At least she didn’t deny that. They had enough documentation to see that London had been given clearance and was listed as a security consultant.

“What kind of business was the Brightner Corporation conducting in that building?”

“Pharmaceutical research.”

His gaze lifted to hers again. “Any reason we should have found non-human body parts in the wreckage?”

London embraced herself, as if the thought of body parts turned her stomach. Granger wasn’t sure that was just for show. That was a start, anyway, to unraveling her. “Primate lab animals?” She asked, with a raised pitch to her voice like she was hopeful, and yet not comforted with the idea of the answer she gave.

“No.” He let the word drop like a weight. Then he flopped the first image face up. A finger, crooked and clawed, in a glass preserving jar. “Clearly organic in origin, but with DNA unlike anything known in the animal kingdom. Nothing else even comes close.”

The face she gave him was utterly incredulous. “What are you telling me? They were aliens?” She stared at him for a long moment, challenging him to say anything that wouldn’t sound completely nuts. Shoving herself up from the table, she grabbed her purse strap from where it was slung over the back of the chair. “Does your supervisor know you are playing X-files on his time?” London stomped towards the door.

He called at her back, “What brought that building down, Miss Eyer?”

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. “I guess I’ll find out when I see it on BBC News. I wasn’t there long enough to know anything. I was still in orientation.”

“Something brought that building down.” Granger closed the distance between them. His hand braced against the wall beside the door, leaning closer. “And I will find out what.”

She leveled a direct look right at him that proved that beneath the costume was the heart of someone seriously capable. “Well, it wasn’t me and I am sure it wasn’t any alien.”

And with that, she walked out. The door closed quietly on the automatic hinges. When it clicked closed, Patterson appeared leaning in the doorway to the observation room with his arms crossed. “As much as I don’t want to be Scully, you would have to be Moulder.”

“I want everything you got on her; financials, travel, hack her computer, get a clairvoyant on her. I don’t care.” Granger shook a finger after the woman who was long gone. “She knows more than she’s telling. A hell of a lot more.”

Chapter Three

The sensation of being dragged crept inside his brain. Not a continuous sensation, either, but rather the inconsistency of the creature that gripped his ankle taking a step, and then pulling on Peyton’s leg, taking another step, then dragging him along after. The disorientation hit him before the pain. Laying on his back, arms extended over his head, one leg crossed over the other, he became aware of the meaty hand that gripped his ankle. It enclosed the entire joint and a portion of his calf. Dragged along, his torn-up flesh and clothing bumped and scraped over the uneven soil.

The adrenaline that had masked the pain during the attack had long ago worn off, leaving the throbbing, bone-deep ache that threatened to choke his consciousness, sending him back into the cool oblivion. If he surrendered to that urge, he very likely wouldn’t get a second chance. But holding to consciousness, holding to the pain, was about all he had the strength for.

Peyton’s head lolled with the knocks against the random clumps of clover and tree roots. The night sky, with its blanket of stars and tatters of clouds, disappeared behind a broken and smudged stone ceiling. The earth carried in through the entrance, where it had encroached, until it finally tapered into a cracked stone flooring. The vision of the ruins coming into focus around him even reflected the flickering of torchlight, like the past had not completely abandoned the place for dead. But it would be tomb enough, if Deacon planned to finish the job he’d started. The Changeling had always been a vicious wanker who would enjoy a long, torturous death. Maybe if Peyton hadn’t already lost so much blood, he’d have the strength to try and stop him.

But half-dead didn’t mean he was out of the game yet.

Not yet.

“What have you dragged into my temple? Carrion?” A deep voice, accented with that fluid, almost musical quality of a Mounds-born fey murmured. The lilt of the elvish tongue caressing English words was unmistakable. Peyton almost moaned, but he kept silent, playing dead for now.

When his leg was finally cast away, Peyton rolled a little more than the momentum truly caused, flopping half to his side, facing the direction of the conversation.

“I like a little irony in my revenge.” Deacon’s voice emanated from the troll that had dragged Peyton. As the lumbering creature, wearing nothing but a tattered rag for a loincloth, drew closer to the other man, his shape shrank back down to the proportions of a man, now dressed in black trousers and a form-fitting pullover. Changelings could take any shape and Peyton knew that Deacon’s natural appearance was not so toned, nor was his hair usually that well-groomed, as if he expected a photoshoot to break out at any moment. Only one creature intimidated Changelings enough to make such an effort. That, or insight them into a jealous rage.

Which meant the man with the long black hair falling in a sleek river down his back must be a Sidhe. Even turned away, everything about the man screamed a certain elegance; from the stance of his tall frame, to the quality of the tailored cloak, and elaborate buckles on his boots.

Through half-opened eyes, Peyton watched the Sidhe twist just enough to glance with a certain cool disdain for the bloodied prisoner sprawled on the ground, like his cat had gifted him with a dead mouse. Although his hair was Unseelie black, his flesh glowed pale in the weak light and his eyes were a chilled, gunmetal gray. Any pretense of unconsciousness Peyton might have hoped for was lost immediately, as the Sidhe’s gaze locked with his and he seemed to see directly into Peyton’s unworthy soul. Peyton didn’t need to be fey to understand what it was the lesser fey felt when they gazed upon one of the Sidhe, one of the Noble Elves, saturated with centuries of history and magic. But instead of disgust, as Peyton expected, something else flickered on the Sidhe’s expression. “Bring Selandra.”

Deacon only hesitated a moment before ducking out a side passage. Peyton caught the movement from the corner of his awareness, not breaking the riveted eye contact with the Sidhe. This wasn’t the first time that he’d looked into the face of a Sidhe, but never before had one of them ensnared him with such a continuous stare before.

“You do not accept defeat, even when all hope is lost. I see it in your eyes.” The dark Sidhe’s voice almost purred. His booted feet made no sound as he approached, a strange thing, except for the fey.

“I’m not dead yet.” The blood in his mouth thickened his voice. Peyton struggled, and only managed to shift onto his torn back. “Game’s not over.”

“Isn’t it?” The man used the toe of his boot to turn Peyton’s head. “Broken at the foot of your enemy doesn’t qualify?”

Peyton didn’t blink, just fixed his gaze right on that too-handsome Sidhe lording over him. “You’re not my enemy.”

Major gamble. And from the rumble of laughter, a wasted one. “I know who you are, Mr. Price.”

That wasn’t going to help matters, that was for sure.

“The wizards are gone,” Peyton’s voice remained weak and he meant for it to. “We are both free of them.”

That quirked the dark Sidhe’s eyebrow. “Are we? You are fey now, are you?” Circling, the man watched Peyton with a dark amusement tugging at his lips.

“It’s kind of like the mob; they don’t let you walk away.” Peyton worked himself up onto an elbow, forcing his body to obey no matter the pain. An agonized wince caught him as a broken rib moved. Reflexively, he hooked his arm against his side, as if that might stabilize it. Debris was all around him, mostly in the form of jagged rocks and nothing decent within easy reach to use for a weapon.

“And you were there entirely against your will.” The Sidhe’s cold laughter mocked Peyton’s attempts to talk his way out of trouble.

Edging back, he inched for whatever space he could claim to maneuver. “Once I understood what was truly going on, it was too late.”

“And no amount of drugs could assuage your conscience?” The Sidhe paced, so slow and deadly in his elegance.

Peyton nudged back with his legs even more. Clearly, Deacon had given this bloke the full scoop. Not even the wizards had known about his drug use, or if they had, they hadn’t called him out on it by the time the whole organization came crumbling down, in the most literal sense. “I couldn’t stomach what they’d turned me into.”

Lazy steps forward stole the gap Peyton tried to wedge between them. “Kidnapper… assassin… thug…”

“I’m not proud,” Peyton assured him. “I wouldn’t do that again.” He could feel the sharpness of some broken bit of stone at his back and he shifted to ease around it. His hand reached back and rested on it, but it was too bulky to even grip. Peyton edged around it.

“Wouldn’t you?” The Sidhe closed the distance, and crouched down to face him. “But you were so very good at it.” The next time Peyton scooted back the Sidhe snagged the waist of his jeans and dragged him back. “I could use someone of your skills.”

Peyton paused, still back on an elbow, brows furrowed. “You… want to hire me?”

“You seemed between jobs at the moment.” A sarcastic twist to that handsome smirk.

Peyton’s eyes narrowed, incredulous, and mind reached for something he’d missed. “Who are you?”

“Credne.” He gave a name Peyton only barely recognized. A gloved hand extended in the offer of a handshake.

If it hadn’t been gloved, Peyton wouldn’t have trusted it. He fit his hand into the other’s grasp, reaching for any slim hope of getting out of this with his life somewhat intact. It was only when their hands clasped, and he felt flesh instead of leather, that he realized his mistake.

Glamour. The glove was nothing but an illusion.

The jolt of magic caught him like electricity. It fried through the very fibers of his body, burning pathways with the sadistic bite of acid. Teeth clenching, breath stolen, Peyton fought to throw himself away from him, but there was no place to go when the ground already pushed at his back. Struggling to even gasp, his head slammed to the stone floor. His own screams flooded his ears as agony tore, clawed, gnashed… destroying him from the inside out like a thousand knives ricocheting through his essence. A flood of power gushed in behind it, drowning him in the metallic taste of a magic too dark and terrible to comprehend. Worse than a consuming terror. So much worse than death.

When the grip finally released his hand, Peyton coiled into himself. With eyes clenched closed, he screamed with a horror that consumed him as relentlessly as the torment of enchantment. This was game over, in the most terrible way imaginable. Cursed to the very core, with no escape possible.

Shivering, sick, doomed, Peyton fought to open his eyes, even if facing the truth was beyond his endurance.

It wasn’t game over. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let it.

He’d find a way.

Deacon, behind the Sidhe, sneered down at him. “Karma’s a vicious little twat, mate. Welcome to Hell.”

Even seeing him haul back the fist didn’t give Peyton the chance to avoid the punch that snapped his head to the side and knocked him back out.