Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Read online

  “Don’t let anyone in there. No one. Do you understand?” Not that she thought the clueless lass could stop anyone, but what the hell, she might as well try.

  The receptionist nodded and glanced furtively around the lobby. “Will Mr. Dagniss be in today?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll find out.” Nikala calmed her voice and said, “Cancel his appointments, just in case.”

  The girl nodded again and scampered to her chair. Nikala strode into Malcolm’s office and opened the cupboard where he kept his safe. An error code displayed on the readout, meaning someone had tried to open it and failed after three attempts. She punched in the code and breathed a sigh of relief when the door sprang open. Malcolm’s laptop and important papers were still there.

  Nikala chewed on a cuticle while she debated what to do with the laptop. Ultimately, keeping it in the safe would be best. She re-entered the code, then changed it, using a six-digit numerical and alphabetical sequence she doubted Malcolm would ever guess. Until she knew who had broken into the offices last night, she trusted no one.

  She stared out the window and rifled through everything she’d learned in the past two days. Had his three fingers on the desk been a clue? Her gaze went to the safe. Did he mean three amulets were missing? What was going on with him? She arched her back and stared at the ceiling. Why would Malcolm hide the pendants from Hunter? If he’d had a change of heart and no longer wished to help with Hunter’s experiments, that might explain his actions, but Hunter would never allow Malcolm to walk away. Where the fuck was he? Malcolm rarely missed work and even rarer did he get to the office past nine.

  Anxiety pooled in her gut, churning her tea to a sour mess. Hunter. He had both Malcolm and the amulets. She had to get to them before Hunter did something crazy. There was only one thing to do—confront him.

  Out on the street, she flagged a cab and gave him Hunter’s address. They drove to a nice neighborhood in Chelsea where all the homes were white and sparkling. Her senses went on overdrive as they approached a lovely detached five-story with a tidy front garden and inviting green door. The Victorian glass overhang above the door balanced the property nicely. This was outrageous, even for Malcolm, but Hunter? Totally not in character. When had he bought the place?

  “Drop me off up a little. I want to surprise them.” The cab parked alongside the curb a half block away and she paid cash for the fare. As he pulled away, she scanned the neighboring houses. All of them were understated elegance worthy of a prince or high-powered CEO. Prices in this area were in the millions of pounds. They must’ve bought it as an investment. Had to be. No other explanation made sense as to why he’d buy a home on a quaint, upper-class English street.

  She strolled along the sidewalk as if she belonged there. A white workman’s lorry sat in the small drive, hiding a side gate that led to the back garden. Nikala glanced inside the lorry as she passed, noting the toolbox, heavy blankets, and rope. To an unsuspecting passerby, they looked like basic equipment for a painter, perhaps, or a joiner. Nikala saw them for what they could be—items necessary for kidnapping and possibly torture. She quickened her pace and quietly unlatched the gate. The street was silent as she crept across rough slate pavers. Despite the chilly air, perspiration covered the back of her neck and forehead.

  Voices drifted to her from somewhere in the house and she crouched beneath a windowsill. She continued on to the garden, where green cast-iron furniture sat pleasantly beneath a closed umbrella. It all looked too conventional. Too normal.

  A glass door with the blinds drawn were to her right, and steps leading to a small balcony were in front of her. She skirted the patio doors and took the steps one at a time, easing her boot down on each stair. Two doors off the balcony stood ajar, giving her access to a dining room on one side, a drawing room on the other. She slipped into the drawing room and plastered herself against the wall.

  The voices carried up the stairs to reach where she crept along the wall, doing her best to stay hidden. A mansion like this would certainly have security cameras, but why make herself known when she could be stealthy? The challenge made it more exciting. Weaving between the many chairs and sofas hampered her quest, but eventually she broke through the scads of floral fabrics and furnishings.

  She reached the landing and looked down to a well-appointed foyer with tile and parquet flooring. This was a far cry from Hunter’s manor in Aberdeenshire. There, wood paneling covered all the walls, with thick rugs thrown over ancient stones. The décor was decidedly masculine and definitely unkempt. Here, everything shouted old money and wealth, but with understated opulence.

  As Nikala stood at the balcony looking down on a crystal chandelier and thousands of pounds’ worth of indulgence, she was jealous. A place like this would’ve been a more acceptable place to raise a child. On a proper street where she could’ve made friends. Far more suitable than the wild Highland estate where Hunter had abandoned her more often than not. Except, she knew why Hunter had kept her in the Highlands—to isolate her from the world. As much as she might wish she’d grown up on a nice street like this one, that would’ve been counter to everything Hunter meant to accomplish.

  Cian’s raised voice came from her left and she froze. What the bloody hell was he doing there? She hurried down the carpeted staircase to the ground floor. Malcolm’s shout reached her as she slid behind a pillar.

  Shit. When Cian had said he needed to confront Malcolm about the amulets, she didn’t think he meant right away. Cheeky bastard. That’s why he was so keen to let her leave his flat. He was planning to sneak over to Hunter’s before she got there. A dash of rage twisted with sorrow pierced her heart. If he’d trusted her, he would’ve asked her to come along. Or, her mind offered hopefully, he cared about her and wanted to protect her from unforeseen danger. Of the two options, she preferred the latter, but had to accept it might be the former. Both made her suppress a snort. If only he knew how much she loathed Hunter and would’ve gladly helped. That was on her. They’d spent too much time discussing fairy tales; she hadn’t had a chance to tell him of her past.

  The men’s voices dropped and she strained to hear what they said.

  “Deny it if you want, but I know you’re behind the rise in scyver activity. Whatever you’re planning, Dagniss, we’ll uncover it and you’ll account for your treachery.” The threat in Cian’s voice slid over her.

  Who was the “we” in his statement? Those in Faerie? Or were others coming?

  “You’re becoming tedious, McCabe. I don’t know anything about scyvers, or lycans, or these amulets you keep blathering on about.”

  “They don’t belong to you, Dagniss. Whatever you’re doing with them is wrong. Those are innocent lives you’re taking. At least Acelyne can’t supply you anymore and whoever was her courier, we’ll find them as well. You’re not as shielded as you believe.”

  Nikala imagined Cian leaning over Malcolm’s desk, glaring at the man.

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know Acelyne, and I have no idea what you’re talking about with these amulets. Now, please leave my home or I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m not leaving without those amulets.”

  Malcolm gave a dramatic sigh. “Yash, Jude, please see this man to the door.”

  Nikala’s heart seized. Of course Yasheda and Jude were there. That would explain the white lorry. Something was going on here, and the fact that Malcolm kept it from her burned. She’d lost his trust. She’d known better than to push him and he finally had had enough. It was her own damn fault. Or, that same stupid hopeful voice whispered, he was trying to protect her.

  Men and their ridiculous code of honor. How bloody chivalric.

  From inside the other room, she heard Yash and Jude struggle with Cian. They’d be coming through the door soon and find her.

  She darted up the stairs two at a time and pinned herself against the far wall of the landing. Her heart tripled its beating and her mind swam with her next steps.

  Sounds of
fighting drifted through the door below her. She wavered a moment with indecision. Help Cian, or find the amulets? She had no doubt Cian could fend for himself, but a need—foreign in its intensity—tugged her toward the room downstairs. To see him again, to let him know she wasn’t the enemy, to protect him. Yet he’d made it clear the amulets were more important. If she retrieved the amulets for Cian, she’d be betraying Malcolm. Cian or Malcolm: where did her loyalty lie?

  A movement on the floor above gave her a moment’s warning before Hunter emerged from a room, dressed in a black turtleneck and blue jeans. She slipped into the drawing room before he saw her, but not before she noted the scars on his chin glowed red and his dark eyes were like granite. He strode past the open drawing room door without stopping and bounded down the stairs toward where Cian was.

  Nikala counted to ten before she rushed up the stairs and closed the door behind her. She’d let the men fight it out while she searched for the amulets. It’s what Cian would want. She hoped.

  The room she found herself in was vast, a master suite with attached bath. Fucking hell, it could fit an entire village. She scanned the room with a quick glance. Her gaze settled and a slow burn moved up her sternum. The final betrayal in a lifetime of deception.

  The leather bag with all the wooden boxes inside sat on a chair beside an unmade bed. Hunter’s suitcase was next to it.

  Her heart rammed in her throat and blood rushed through her ears, pulsing against her skull. He was leaving. Hunter was leaving again. How many times had she seen that stupid suitcase and worried whether she’d ever see him again?

  How many times did she fear his return?

  Nikala grabbed the messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder. She clambered out a window and shimmied down a drainpipe to the ground. She darted across the patio to the little side yard and bolted to the lorry. With no time to think, or make a plan, she stashed the bag behind the passenger’s seat beneath a blanket. She was just closing the car door when she heard the gunshot.

  Her world spiraled in a tempest of faces and words and images. Cian. No, please not Cian. Shouts came from inside the mansion and she raced to the front steps. Nikala paused and remembered her training. Calm washed over her.

  This was no time to panic. She should run, she knew. Grab the amulets and get as far from the house as possible before the authorities arrived, but she had to know. Had to know Cian wasn’t dead.

  With a steady hand, she turned the huge knob and entered the house proper. Silence descended through the rooms. Only the tick, tick, tick of a clock broke the quiet.

  At the door to her right, where the men had argued, she heard shuffling. Nikala yanked open the door and saw Malcolm splayed on the floor, a dark-red stain spreading across his chest. No. Nooooooo. She shuttled her emotions to the dark place where they couldn’t hurt her. To the place of detached indifference she’d mastered in Hunter’s lab. If she allowed herself to process what she saw on the floor, she might lose control for good. Her hands fisted and she pressed her nails into her palms, embracing the soft sting of skin tearing.

  Her gaze slid to the left, where Cian swayed. Bloodied and bruised, his jaw hitched at an odd angle. His right hand hung limp at his side. In his left hand was a revolver.

  25

  The ringing in his ears blurred all other sound in the house. His lip bled where Jude had punched him, and he was certain his right wrist was broken. They’d worked him over good. He should’ve been stronger than both of them, but their speed and might was equal to his. It wasn’t possible. Humans were slower and weaker than the fae.

  Cian shook his head and a spittle of blood dropped to the floor. Blood. Not dust or glitter, but blood the color of crimson. He hadn’t been in the human realm long enough to bleed. This didn’t make sense. He wiped his lips with his mangled right hand and held up the gun in his left. Where had the gun come from?

  “How could you?” Nikala’s voice came from far away. A snarl of words edged with betrayal. “Why? Why kill him?”

  Kill him? Cian looked at the gun, then to where Malcolm’s body sprawled across the carpet. His lifeless eyes stared at Cian with bitter judgment.

  “I didn’t.” Cian started to protest, but the pain in his jaw prevented him from saying more.

  Nikala knelt over the dead man, her face a mixture of remorse and fury. The pair who had beaten him lingered in the shadows, their faces masks of indifference. Their inaction confused him. Why didn’t they kill him? His gaze slid to the door to where the man had lurched into the room and shot Malcolm. He was nowhere to be seen.

  The other man. Something about him tugged on Cian’s memory. Of a time or place out of time and place.

  He tapped his temple with the barrel of the gun. Shit. He’d have to get rid of it or the police might think he’d actually killed Malcolm.

  Did he kill him? Or was it the other man? Pain disoriented his memories. He fought through the confusion, laying out his actions since entering the house. He’d come for the amulets. Even now, he sensed their presence, but he hadn’t gotten far in his search. Malcolm Dagniss had interrupted him, here, in this room.

  They’d been arguing, Cian and Dagniss. Cian’s vision wavered and he swayed where he stood. Nikala eyed him suspiciously, then he saw a spark of something—acknowledgment, perhaps; an understanding that he hadn’t killed Dagniss, he hoped—dawn in her eyes.

  When had she arrived? He’d hoped she would go to the office and not come here. He needed her to stay away while he confronted Dagniss. It had been important that she stay away. Why?

  Nikala bent over the dead man, trying in vain to revive him. Two fingers pressed against his neck and Cian watched helplessly as she performed CPR. It would do no good. The bullet had hit true, straight through Malcolm’s heart.

  “Yash, Jude, help me. Get some towels, anything to stop the bleeding.” Nikala gave the order, but they remained impassive. She stared at the pair, unblinking.

  Cian watched the three of them, his head swerving from the left to the right. Finally, the flunkies exited through a door to his left. When his gaze returned to her, Nikala was watching him. There was meaning in her look, but his brain wasn’t functioning at full capacity. Whatever she meant to convey, it was lost to him.

  He staggered backward and sat on an uncomfortable chair. The gun slid from his grip and he reached to retrieve it. The movement shoved bile up the back of his throat and he sputtered a blood-bile cough on the rug.

  “You’re hurt,” Nikala whispered.

  When had she moved beside him?

  “I’ve been worse.” He did his best to smile, but his jaw refused.

  “Who shot Malcolm?” She tucked the gun in the back of her jeans and held his face in her cold hands, her eyes searching, always searching.

  Would she ever find what she needed to be at peace?

  Cian shook his head. “I didn’t see him.” He reached up to stroke her cheek. “So beautiful.”

  For half a heartbeat, she smiled and tilted her face into his touch. “Why did you come here alone? I could’ve helped.”

  He saw the despair in her eyes, the wariness and need for an answer. “I didn’t want you involved. Didn’t want you to be hurt ever again.” The amount of effort it took to speak those few words was astonishing.

  Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I could’ve protected you.” Her sad little smile softened the hard angles she usually wore. Without another word, she returned to her place at Malcolm’s side and leaned over the body.

  “I’m so sorry I failed you,” she whispered in the dead man’s ear. She spoke low, but Cian heard every word. “I had one job and failed. Can you ever forgive me?” A lone tear dripped on the dead man’s cheek. Nikala swiped her eyes against her sleeve and cleared her throat.

  The sentiment and tenderness in her tone tore at Cian’s equilibrium. Dagniss was the enemy. He didn’t deserve Nikala’s compassion. Fury bit at the broken ends of his nerves and he ground out a curse through his broken jaw. Nikala glared
at him, and in that look he saw anguish and torment that he understood far too well. It was how he’d felt the day his dad was murdered. He looked from Nikala back to Dagniss, a dawning realization taking hold. His body softened and his rage simmered.

  The next thing Cian knew, Nikala screamed obscenities at him and accused him of murdering Dagniss.

  The shouting hurt his ears. His head cocked and he withdrew from the moment, a trick he’d learned long ago. It was to help visualize the scenario without passion. The way she ranted, more to herself than at him, gave the impression she wanted someone else to believe her rage. Or was that just wishful thinking? She cast a finger in his direction and called him a murderer.

  Before the gunshot, Cian had been arguing with Dagniss about the amulets. Then Malcolm had his goons beat the crap out of Cian. But why had the other man shot Malcolm? What had Dagniss said just before the gun went off?

  Cian sucked in a breath and tasted his own blood. Malcolm had hovered close to him and whispered in his ear, “You’ll never see those fae again and everything you hold dear in Faerie will be destroyed.”

  Cian had lunged at the man just as the shot rang out.

  “It was meant for me,” Cian forced out between his broken jaw.

  “What?” Nikala stopped her tirade and stared at Cian.

  “He meant to shoot me, but Dagniss got in the way.”

  A veil of dispassion covered Nikala’s features and she stood. Blood covered her hands and stained her jeans. “I’ll kill the motherfucker.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. What have I told you about cursing?”

  A voice came from Cian’s right and he swiveled his head to see who had spoken. The man kept his face turned away from Cian, his body at an angle. Nikala he saw clearly.

  Behind him, the two thugs stood with their hands clasped in front of their bodies. Nikala took in the man and his henchmen with a nod.

  “You told me a lot of things I’d hoped to forget.” A gleam of rebellion lit her eyes.