Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Page 10

  His magic wove through the wooden boards to the iron lock on the other side of the door and secured it closed. When his watchdog entered the room, she wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, nor would she know he’d escaped through a passageway built over a thousand years earlier by a paranoid monarch. A trait he shared with the dead queen. Even if the lass following him had magic herself, which he doubted, she couldn’t sense the small amount he’d used. Years of practice had taught him how much magic could be used without notice. Getting snared in someone else’s spell wasn’t pleasant and was to be avoided at all costs.

  Stairs led to a foul-smelling cellar, where the door to the secret passageway was hidden behind a pile of rubbish. He used the flashlight app on his phone to light his way. Cobwebs, some older than himself, dangled from corners, their frayed ends catching his hair and tickling his face. At the center of the cellar, Cian stood for a moment and listened.

  Footsteps shuffled against the old pine boards above him. Muffled voices came between the cracks, but no one had followed him down here, to this forsaken area. After the sounds quieted, he removed the rubbish and slipped through the ancient door to a series of tunnels he doubted anyone in the current century knew existed.

  A perk to being fae meant his memories went further back than any human’s. Actual time, as in the number of hours in a day or week or year were the same, but the experience of years lived in Faerie were equivalent to a moment for those in the human realm. And today, he used that information to escape the thugs following him. Having sussed out their commitment, which was admirable, he could do without an entourage following him any further.

  A globe of drossfire lit his way as he traversed the myriad pathways beneath London’s streets. He made a mental list of what he’d need to do once at his flat. First item on the agenda was to find out all he could about Malcolm Dagniss and Nikala St. James.

  Malcolm was obviously lying about Acelyne, but did Nikala know anything? He hadn’t gotten a sense that she did but she might be lying, like her boss. And the pendant she wore was definitely similar enough to the pendant Rori had given to Midna to cause concern. It might be possible Nikala didn’t know what was in the amulet, and it was the source of magic the scyver hunted. Or Nikala was in on the kidnappings. Either way, she was part of his mission, nothing more.

  The way his veins warmed and heart thundered just thinking about the woman proved otherwise. Cian didn’t have time for infatuations. His focus was finding the missing fae, not getting tangled up in a romance that would end badly. He shoved aside images of her smile and the way her nose scrunched when he said something she disagreed with. Dammit, but she intrigued him.

  Eirlys had given explicit instructions to kill anyone associated with the kidnappings. That included Nikala. He’d do well to remember she was the enemy until proved otherwise. Sometimes his job sucked. It would bring him no pleasure to end her life, but if necessary, he would. A momentary flicker of grief wedged in his heart, then flitted away like it always had. He was an assassin. Emotions were messy and best avoided, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.

  Cian paused to get his bearings and turned down a short tunnel to a set of steps. He emerged from the side door of a utility room on a quiet lane. Cars rumbled past farther down toward the main road, but where he stood was empty of people. He strolled toward Monument, aware that Malcolm’s building hovered over his right shoulder. His flat was a thirty-minute walk west, near Temple Church. Taking the Tube would be quicker, but Cian had no doubt the Underground was being watched. He’d take his chances with walking and hope the thugs wouldn’t think to look two blocks from their own building.

  In this part of the city, most of the structures were modern, but a few older pubs and tenements interrupted the glass and steel landscape. As he hustled down the busy walk, a strange nagging sense settled in his thoughts. As if he were forgetting something important, but couldn’t grasp what. He paused to regard an old pub. The plaque stated it had been established in 1873, but many of these freehouses had been there since Roman times. Names changed with new owners, and buildings were updated, but the foundations could be thousands of years old.

  Nothing about the exterior of the pub caught his attention. His gaze roved over the bay windows to the flats above. On the top floor, a pair of darkened windows drew his attention. The other windows were brightly lit from the inside. It was the vacant flat that tugged at him. He sensed magic and something more, something ephemeral he couldn’t explain.

  Without giving himself time to debate his choices, he went inside the pub. Tourists crowded the tables, and in the back, a raucous group of men cheered for their footie team. Cian avoided them and headed toward the kitchens, hoping to find a stairway leading to the upper flats. Instead, he found a door that led down to the basement. The nagging increased and he slowly made his way down the creaky steps into a cellar. Wooden barrels and broken chairs littered the cramped hallway. Lamps from the First World War flickered and gave enough light by which to see, but not much more. He couldn’t risk using drossfire here, so he squinted into the dimness and counted three closed doors—two on the left and one on the right.

  It was the door to his right that made his heart rate ratchet up and his fingers twitch in anticipation. The closer he stepped to the innocent-looking wood, the deeper a thrumming sounded in his ears. This was no ordinary door.

  He reached out and touched his fingertips to the smooth surface. Despite the steadiness of his hand, his nerves pinched tight. Beneath his light touch, he sensed ancient power. A hiccup of excitement caught in his throat.

  This door was a portal.

  Not one he knew about, which made him wonder whether the queens of Faerie knew it existed. The magic ingrained in the wood wasn’t any kind he was familiar with.

  Several thoughts ricocheted through his mind, only one standing apart from the others—if there were portals and doorways unknown to Faerie, then who used them?

  “Can I help you?”

  Cian turned around and smiled to the young woman who stood halfway up the stairs, a basket of linens in her arms. “I was looking for the toilets and it appears I got rather lost.”

  Her chuckle was soft and welcoming. “They’re upstairs. Ground floor, toward the back and to the left.”

  “Thank you.” He waited for her to descend the stairs, then asked, “Do you happen to know if any of the flats above are available?”

  Her shrug was noncommittal. “No idea. But you can ask Donyatella. She’s at the bar and knows all about that sort of stuff.”

  Cian thanked her again and shuffled up the stairs. At the bar, he asked for Donyatella and was directed to an older woman who looked as if she’d been working there for as long as the pub had been established. She sat at a table, reading the paper while her fingers tapped a glass of water. When he approached, her piercing gaze roved his entire body, missing nothing. When he inquired about a vacant flat, her lips tightened to a single white line. Cian had the distinct impression she knew what he was and didn’t approve.

  “No flats for let. Try a service. They can help.” Donyatella’s gravelly voice managed to invoke dismissiveness and distaste wrapped in indifference.

  “I will, thanks.” As much as he longed to know who lived in the top floor flat, and where the doorway in the cellar led, he’d already wasted too much time. He’d come back another day when he wasn’t being pursued.

  Cian strolled at a casual, yet brisk pace in the direction of Temple Church while keeping a watch for Malcolm’s thugs. He made sudden turns and ducked in and out of shops several times until he was certain no one followed him. The closeness of the pub and Malcolm’s building wasn’t lost on Cian. He added Donyatella to his list of names to research when he reached his flat.

  Something about the woman, and that pub, set off alarms in his mind. He needed answers. And he knew who he wanted to interrogate first.

  Tickling the back of his mind was the notion that Nikala was the key to everythin
g, but getting her to talk wouldn’t be easy. Cian smiled to himself. Easy wasn’t his style. He’d get his answers, hopefully with Nikala’s help. Sex it out of her, as Rori would say. That was his preferred form of interrogation—and much more enjoyable than the alternatives. But if Nikala proved uncooperative, well, he’d hate to have to kill her. If she got in his way, that’s exactly what he’d do.

  12

  Therron watched Rori as she slept, his focus on the rapid movement behind her closed lids. When she’d passed out as he was lighting the fire, he’d put her in the enormous bed. That had been five hours ago. Now, he sat in one of the comfortable chairs, waiting for a sign, anything to signal she would be well.

  He sat with his hands pressed together, his forefingers against his lips. The past few days had been harrowing for Rori. Meg had told him the injury to her leg should’ve killed her, yet she walked with barely a limp. Only when they entered this room had he witnessed any sign of weakness from her. He was surprised she let him help her up the stairs. To be sure, Rori MacNair was a fighter.

  He just hoped whatever it was she fought in her dream didn’t follow her into Faerie.

  She kicked out and cried against an unseen foe. Therron’s heart pounded in his chest and his fists clenched. He half stood, sat down, then stood fully to pace along the bed. Another whimper and he was undone.

  Rori might resent him come morning, but he couldn’t listen to her wails any longer. He slid beneath the covers and cradled her body next to his. She stiffened at his touch, but he shushed her and draped a protective arm over her hip.

  “I’m here, Rori. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His whispered words were a promise, an oath, but she couldn’t know they were spoken out of fear.

  “Therron?” Her sleepy drawl tugged at his heartstrings.

  “You had a nightmare.”

  “Someone killed you. Not someone. Some thing.” She rolled over and put a hand to his cheek. He instinctively flinched, but she kept her fingertips lightly upon his scar. “Tell me how you got this.”

  He resisted the urge to brush her hand away and cover the deformity. It was his curse. His reason for living.

  As she looked up at him, eyes wide with questioning, blue hair fanned around her face, his breath caught. Every nerve ending felt alive with fire. Without thinking, he bent his head and brushed her lips with his. The moment their skin touched, the scar turned to ice, then molten. His body vibrated with suppressed desire.

  Rori’s soft mouth opened to him, inviting him deeper. A moan came from deep in her throat and he swiped his tongue against hers. Her scent teased him and he breathed in through his nose to imprint her smell on his memory. Tomorrow—well, today, actually, considering it was nearly dawn—she’d begin her education with Midna. Until then, he’d hold her as long as she let him.

  Rori pulled away to gaze into his eyes. A wildness had entered her blue orbs and a cheeky grin lifted the corners of her lips. Her pelvis shifted against him and his erection pushed painfully against his trousers. He dipped his head and ran the tip of his nose from her collarbone up her neck to behind her ear. Her scent intoxicated him.

  Without a word, she tugged at the court jacket he wore, not even flinching when she ripped the expensive velvet. It was one of Midna’s many gifts to him and truth be told, he preferred his traveling clothes to the fancy attire he wore at the palace. Yet Midna insisted those in the palace wear appropriate court apparel. With a few quick jerks of his shoulders, he was rid of the thing and wasted no time adding the cotton shirt he wore to the pile.

  Rori’s hands were on him, exploring, tripping over his scars, scraping through the hairs on his chest. A look of wonder replaced the wildness of her eyes and she rolled her lower lip between her teeth. A growl came from his solar plexus and Therron took her lip between his own teeth. Her yelp excited him further and he sucked hard until her mouth was once more claimed by his.

  Slowly, he removed her clothing. When she tried to help, he batted her hands away. With each layer removed, he delighted in the feel of her skin. His gaze skirted past the scars that told of a life lived with danger. She was his equal in all things. As it was meant to be.

  Her breasts teased him with their pert nipples and he spent several minutes purling his tongue over them. She arched and moaned, but she did not tell him to stop. Her words to Midna echoed in his mind and he doubted their sincerity. This was not a woman who used making love as a weapon. At least, he chose not to believe her. Chose to think he might mean more to her than a mission.

  His heart rammed against his ribs. It was too much to think it was him alone who brought her pleasure. Therron jerked his mind from that line of thinking. It would only end in disaster if he convinced himself she had feelings for him that didn’t exist. The gods knew he was lost to her. Curse or no, he could love this woman for all his years.

  The way Rori’s Glamour shone beneath her skin and the delirious smile she wore would suggest she might return his affections. He couldn’t let himself get carried away with hope, though. She’d come to Midna’s court to be an álainn obedience, not his lover. Whatever transpired between them now, he cautioned himself to not hope for more.

  Therron removed his lips from her breasts to a mournful whine. He kissed his way to her hips and unfastened the unusual trousers she wore. He dragged the fabric over her buttocks and thighs, being careful not to catch the stitches Meg laboriously applied. Pink edged the wound, but not from infection. He paused to place kisses along her thigh, then continued to remove the rest of her garments.

  As he knelt at her feet, he gazed at the loveliness laying before him. A lump caught in his throat and traitorous tears stung the backs of his eyes. There was no turning back for him. As for Rori, he couldn’t make that decision for her. He would love her. Would make love to her. But couldn’t force her to love him. He would give her everything and ask for nothing in return. Whatever time the gods had given them, he’d be grateful for. If she was the instrument of his death, he welcomed his demise.

  He stripped off his trousers and leaned forward to kiss his way up her legs. At the apex of her thighs, he nudged her bud with his nose and breathed in while flicking his tongue to lick her most intimate parts.

  Rori’s gasp went straight to his cock. She opened her legs and he made one long, sensuous stroke with his tongue up her outer folds. As tempted as he was to remain there the rest of the night, he eased his body up until his face was level with hers. A shiver of fear raced down his back, followed by brutal desire.

  Apprehension flickered in Rori’s eyes. Therron lowered his lips to hers as he entered her. She sucked in a breath, bringing cool to the warmth of their mouths. His tongue sought hers and he rocked slowly, wanting their lovemaking to last. Her hips lifted to meet his rhythm again and again. The heat of her channel, the slick embrace, almost undid him. He groaned against her mouth, his need building.

  Her gentle lifts turned to thrusts and they became a manic movement. Hands grasped hair; fingers pinched skin. Their tongues danced to a tribal beat that matched his heart.

  They came undone together. Sparks lit behind his eyes, narrowing his vision to Rori’s face. The sheer power of emotion he felt in that moment could shift stars in the sky. His mind swelled with possibility and every fiber of his body thrummed with joy. It was a feeling he’d never had. For a moment, he feared it would consume him. Then he feared he’d never experience this sort of pure bliss ever again.

  Tears streamed from Rori’s eyes to disappear in her hair. Therron cocked his head, concern spiking through his happiness.

  “Did I hurt you?” He stroked her hair and started to move off her body, but she put her hands on his hips to stop him.

  A little chuckle came from her throat and she hiccupped. “You didn’t hurt me. I just, I mean, I never—” She looked away. A sweet blush stained her cheeks. “I didn’t know it could be this good.”

  Therron turned her face to him and kissed her lips. They trembled beneath his. “Maybe
you just had the wrong partners.”

  He as well. He’d known other women, certainly, but none had ever brought his emotions from the depth of his being like Rori had.

  “I’m a spy, Therron. This can’t happen.” She motioned from him to herself. “No personal entanglements.” But her words lacked conviction.

  “Your father was a spy and loved your mother, yes?”

  “Yes.” Sorrow shadowed her features and he immediately regretted asking the question. “But my father disappeared and in a cruel way, I lost my mum, too. She mourns him to this day.”

  “I’m sorry. It was unkind of me to remind you.” He stroked her hair and kissed her temple. “Being a spy doesn’t mean you can’t love.”

  He nuzzled his way down her body and distracted her with his tongue. She didn’t complain or argue or tell him it shouldn’t happen. She did, however, make the most wonderful cries of delight as he brought her to the brink of release time and again, then finally took her bud between his lips and sent her over the edge with thrashing and shrieks that could wake the dead.

  Later, as they lay curled in each other’s arms, Rori said quietly, “If you won’t tell me about the scar, will you at least tell me why fae and elves hate each other? I know what I learned at the Academy, but suspect you have an alternate history.”

  Little did she know the reasons were one and the same. Therron took a deep breath, kissed her shoulder and began a tale he’d heard his entire life.

  “Long ago, there was a beautiful faerie princess named Ishnara. She wanted to see the elven kingdom and traveled there with her maids and several guards. On the way to the palace, she stopped in a town for refreshments. There, Ishnara saw the most handsome man. He was a cobbler, and poor, with nothing to offer a princess, but Ishnara fell instantly in love with him.”