Fatal Assassin (Fatal Fae Book 2) Page 8

  He opened the door and waited while she limped into the room. All the walking had taken its toll and she felt every movement, every scrape of fabric over the stitches. She stopped in the center of the huge space and blinked at the opulence of the furnishings. Satins and silks adorned every surface. Draperies hung from the tall ceilings to the floor, and a four-poster bed big enough for an entire family of eight sat prominently against a wall. Overstuffed chairs begged for long hours of tea and conversation. To her right, a wardrobe overflowed with garments in soft pastels.

  Despite the lushness of the room, her attention was drawn back to the bed. She could sleep for a month.

  “I’ll get a fire going for you.”

  Therron set about making a fire while she stood still, her hands empty but her thoughts full. What had Midna meant when she said a weapon cut both ways? Did she mean Rori would find heartbreak in the palace?

  Her gaze went first to the wardrobe, then to Therron. He knelt in front of the blossoming flames, his face intent on the task. The scar on his left cheek flickered in the wavering light like a dragon’s wing and Rori swallowed a gasp.

  The room spun with terrifying speed and Rori leaned into it—leaned into the maelstrom of her emotions. Clear as a medieval church bell ringing across an English countryside, she understood what Midna had been asking when she challenged Rori’s reasons for coming to the Unseelie Court.

  It had very little to do with the álainn obedience and everything to do with the fear and desire swirling around her heart. To let go, to submit to another without regard to what you received in return—that was what truly terrified her. Her body wasn’t a weapon, far from it. Yet what she saw in that split second was more deadly than any poison she might ingest, more terrifying than any illusion Acelyne might conjure.

  She knew exactly why she’d come to Midna’s palace and it had everything to do with Therron.

  9

  The man, Cian or Viggo, or whatever his name was, didn’t answer Nikala’s simple question. Had he come to kill her? Instead, he slouched into his seat, shifting until he was comfortable, his steady gaze never leaving her face.

  If he had been sent to take her out, she wished he’d do it already. The tension, the unknowing, was the worst part. Although, if she wasn’t mistaken, the question had startled him. He probably thought her a paranoid lunatic after admitting the man who attacked the train worker had been following her. Why had she told him? Then, to just simply ask whether he’d been sent to kill her—yeah, the man with two names most likely thought her bonkers. That suited her just fine. Let him think her a bit mad. That might keep him off-balance. If he’d been hired by Malcolm, then he’d understand being tailed. But to be asked straight up? No one she knew would expect that.

  She kept her hands in her lap, despite wanting to clasp her blouse firmly closed. He knew the pendant wasn’t hers, which would suggest Malcolm had sent him. Then why the ruse of pretending to have a meeting with him? Another thought buzzed through her mind—Cian worked for Hunter.

  It would make sense if he truly came from Aberdeenshire, where Hunter’s mansion was. But then, how would he know about the pendant? As far as she knew, Hunter wasn’t aware of what, exactly, Malcolm bought and sold. The questions kept pinging through her brain. Was Cian a spy for another company? If so, which one? SIRE had many competitors. Any one of them might’ve sent him to seduce her into telling SIRE’s secrets.

  “You intrigue me,” Cian drawled in a lazy way that she was certain meant to ease her nerves. “Why would I want to kill you? For a trinket? Surely you’re worth more than that.”

  The tone of his words, the implication of their meaning, sat awkwardly in her gut. “And how would you know my worth, Mr. …?”

  “MacNair.” His grin wound its way to her unease and loosened her anxiety. “Cian MacNair is the real me.”

  She chuckled and took a sip of her coffee. “I have a feeling no one knows the real you, Mr. MacNair. Not even yourself.” The words were more solemn than she meant and his smile dipped to a frown.

  “I have a feeling you might be correct.” He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. She returned the intensity of his stare without blinking. “But wouldn’t it be fun finding out?”

  She narrowed her eyes with a smirk and sat back. “I think I’d rather have that drug addict stalking me.” His offended look was comical. “Seriously, if I had a snaggletooth and spots with frizzy hair out to here,” she put her hands a foot to either side of her head, “you wouldn’t give me a second glance. You know nothing about me. Please don’t pretend you do.”

  “Interesting choice of words, coming from someone who only minutes ago seemed to have strong opinions about me.” Cian relaxed his posture and downed the rest of his coffee.

  The male car attendant, the one who couldn’t stop staring at Cian as if he were the second coming of Christ, brought them more coffee, and another breakfast tray for Cian.

  When he left, Cian eyed her steadily. A strudel hovered near his face and she hated how tantalizing the pastry was that close to his lips. His mouth opened and his white teeth sunk into the sugary goodness. Such a simple act, something people did over and over again on a daily basis, but seeing Cian bite into the danish did things to her body she’d sworn never to allow.

  “See something you like?” His words mocked her.

  “Yeah, that pastry. I wonder who I need to save to get another one?”

  He held the strudel out to her, his look playful. “Have mine.”

  Oh gods, she wanted it. Wanted that flaky goodness. But she declined.

  A man dressed in plain clothes, but with the look of a policeman, approached and identified himself as an officer of the British Transport Police. He took Viggo and Virginia’s statements and thanked them for their assistance.

  “In the future,” he said with a thick Midlands accent, “it’s best if you don’t get involved. While we appreciate your concern, your safety is our highest priority.”

  Nikala affected her best conciliatory pout and agreed to let the train staff handle any further incidents. When he left, she met Cian’s eyes and her blood warmed. Lingering in their depths, she didn’t see a murderer or one of Malcolm’s thugs, but a man who was as intrigued with her as she was with him. They were playing a dangerous game. At the moment, she didn’t know who might win.

  At Berwick, uniformed police boarded the train and took the deranged attacker away. Nikala didn’t look in his direction, but could feel his glare burning into her. Cian hadn’t moved or even opened an eye to see the policemen escort the quiet man away. The only words the druggie had spoken were just before he attacked Lucy.

  Soon enough, he wouldn’t be able to speak, or breathe. She absently toyed with the ring she wore, the one she’d had custom-made with an ultra-thin needle hidden in one of the prongs. With just the right touch, it would inject poison into an unsuspecting annoyance. This morning, it was the odd fellow who’d taken a lethal fancy to her.

  Once the train resumed its journey, she slipped into the bathroom and removed the necklace from her décolletage and tucked it into a small pocket in her trousers. Immediately, she missed the feel of glass against her skin. Knowing the amulet was safe was enough for now.

  She returned to her seat and opened her laptop. Work wouldn’t cease just because someone had tried to attack her on the train. She opened her email and began a note to Malcolm, then trashed the message. He didn’t need to know about the attack. Or about Cian MacNair. Not yet. She still wasn’t sure whether he was the contact’s proxy, and until Malcolm confirmed it, she’d let the man sleep.

  The train rocked a steady rhythm as it barreled down the east coast of England. She glanced out the window and took a moment to appreciate the view. Hers was a life of speed. Everything had to be done yesterday and now was a moment too late. For a few minutes, she allowed herself to be at peace.

  When she looked away, Cian was watching her. Instead of being frustrated or angry or nervous,
she felt calm. In fact, he radiated a serenity she found lacking in her life.

  The man was trouble. For so many reasons.

  She returned her attention to the laptop and didn’t look up again until they reached London.

  The conductor announced King’s Cross over the speaker and she rose to gather her belongings. Cian or Viggo—or whatever he called himself—was already dressed and standing in the breezeway by the time she’d jerked her leather bag off the metal rack. She shrugged into her coat and smoothed a few stray wisps of hair off her face. If Malcolm had sent him to kill her, she’d find out soon enough.

  “I suppose you’re going to follow me now?” She beamed up at him, doing her best not to notice the cockiness lurking in his eyes. Ugh. He probably thought she was interested in him sexually. Hell, didn’t all men think a woman who showed the slightest fraction of interest were sexually attracted to them? She supposed this Cian/Viggo wasn’t any different. Although, part of her wanted him to be and she didn’t know why.

  “If you allow me to walk with you, it might be more expedient.”

  “You assume I can’t lose you.”

  “Oh, I have every expectation that you will try. And a brief understanding that you might succeed.”

  She held his gaze, her smile widening. “Sounds like you’d enjoy that.”

  His head tilted a little, revealing a small scar on the underside of his jaw. She was tempted to kiss it.

  “I would. Immensely.”

  Gods, but this man was bad for her. “If I allow you to walk with me, then I need to know your name. Your real, real name.” In her profession, everyone had a dozen names. It became not just important, but critical that she knew his true identity. She had no idea why she craved knowing who he was behind the façade. Equally upsetting—she wanted him to know the real her, as well.

  His chuckle was rich and deeply layered, like a good Highland whisky. “I like your cynicism. On my honor, Cian MacNair is my given name.”

  “And Nikala St. James is mine.” She held out her hand to shake his. His skin was warm against hers—soothing, and disturbingly comforting. “I hope we can continue to be this civil.”

  Cian leaned in close to whisper in her ear, “Only if you behave.”

  A dark thrill thumped its way from her heart to between her legs and back up to lodge itself in her throat.

  Definitely dangerous with a capital D.

  The brakes squealed as they slowed and arrived into the station. Nikala shifted with the movement, her body brushing against Cian’s. He was like a brick wall, sturdy and solid. Not for the first time that morning, she asked, Who is this man? Bugger it, she had no clue at all. Not even a fragment where to begin. He intrigued the hell out of her, that was for certain. If he had been sent to kill her, she’d give him one hell of a chase.

  “We’re this way.” She stepped down from the carriage to the platform. The tilt of her head indicated they walk out of King’s Cross toward St. Pancras. She could’ve taken a taxi, but the Underground would be much more fun. Seeing this well-dressed man scuttled between people gave her a perverse thrill. She doubted it would make him uncomfortable, but it would be jolly entertaining for her. And, more importantly, it would delay their arriving at Malcolm’s.

  They jogged across the street against the light and headed into the busy, well-lit shopping area. She scanned the shops, not sure what she was looking for, and continued on. What she really wanted was time. Time to sort out what to say to Malcolm. If he knew she’d taken the pendant, how could she defend stealing from him? It was a trifle, but perhaps to him, the amulet meant something more? She didn’t know. The possible assassin striding at her side gave a clue, though. Except, Malcolm wasn’t petty. He didn’t eliminate people without good reason. Why the hell was she so paranoid today? It wasn’t a good look on her.

  She pressed her Oyster card against the gate and shoved herself through the plastic doors, her bag’s strap catching at the last moment. With a grumbled swear word or five, she shook the bag to loosen the strap and clutched it against her body.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught Cian waving his hand over the card reader, but there was nothing in his palm. The doors opened and he glided through. Like a goddamned god across water. Who the bloody fucking spawn was he?

  “Down here.” She spun and jogged down the steps to the Northern line. A rush of hot air blew up from the tunnels fifty feet away. They’d just missed a train. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too long a wait for the next.

  Cian kept pace with her, his face set in that annoying half grin, half sneer that seemed to be its natural state. On the ride south, she’d studied him while he read the paper or dozed. He didn’t once check his phone for messages or scroll through emails. In fact, she couldn’t be certain he had a phone. He’d given a number to the attendant, but it could’ve been fake, just like hers.

  She took a step into the short tunnel that led to their train and was suddenly jerked sideways. “What the—?”

  Cian pulled her into him with a dire warning in his dark eyes. His head dipped low to hers. “Kiss me.”

  “What?” It was more of a hiss than question.

  “It makes people uncomfortable. Kiss me.”

  She tilted her head up to argue, but he captured her lips in his. The cheeky bastard. The walls vibrated with the passing of a train and bells dinged from far off. For a split second, she thought about the knife up her sleeve and how easily it would slide between his ribs. Then his lips widened and all her sensibilities evaporated.

  10

  Cian’s warm breath tickled the soft spot beneath her nose. His arms wrapped around her, all-encompassing and not horrible at all. For one mad moment, Nikala let herself imagine what it would feel like to truly be kissed by this man, to let herself melt into his embrace and return the kiss. The heat of his breath spread to her core and farther, down low. Her thoughts spun with dizzying ferocity as her mouth opened to taste him. Coffee and danish. Bittersweet.

  Fuck. She’d let the fantasy go too far.

  Nikala struggled to escape his grip. Who the hell did he think he was to grab her like that? And in the middle of a Tube station. Gross.

  His commanding lips and the strength of his hold were not lost on her. The need in the far reaches of her psyche wanted her to soften, to return the kiss—to trust. No way was that happening. She slipped the dagger from its sheath hidden in her sleeve and twisted it until the point was against his midsection.

  “I suggest you release me, unless you secretly crave a public disembowelment.” The words came between clenched teeth, her lips still touching his.

  “Scyver.”

  She’d had enough. She jerked out of his embrace, sheathing the dagger as she did. He wasn’t watching her. Instead, his gaze followed a young man in his mid-twenties, longish hair, jeans worn low on his nonexistent ass. His leather jacket swayed with his gait. When he’d reached the escalator and was nearly out of sight, Cian breathed out and his entire body relaxed. Well, it softened. She doubted the man was ever truly at ease. Even on the train, she’d been tempted to rifle through his pockets while he dozed, but had the sense that, like a puma, he only napped enough to rest his body, but his mind stayed alert to danger.

  “Who’s Scyver?”

  “Not a who, a what. That fellow there is a scyver. Magic hunters.”

  Her snort turned into a full-bellied laugh. “You’re having me on, surely.” Deliberately, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, making certain he saw. To think, her lips had been against his—a mad fool. She was losing her touch—had to be. Magic hunter. That was a new one. And would next he see unicorns farting fairy dust?

  Cian tracked her hand as it crossed her lips, his eyes a mystery. What color were they? At times deep brown, but then they lightened to amber, as if they had a flame behind them. She could lose herself in those eyes. If she let herself, which she wouldn’t because he was a lunatic. Like the man on the train. It was her day to collect the crazies.
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  “Ours?” He motioned to the train pulling into the station.

  “Bugger. Come on.” She pivoted and jogged to the first car, jumping inside before the doors closed, Cian right behind her. So close, in fact, he pressed his very hard, very unrelaxed body into hers. She could only imagine the discipline it took to maintain abs like his. Although, she recalled him eating all kinds of crap food on the train down to London. Every chance he had, he’d grab a muffin or bread. When the car attendant offered him lunch, he gladly accepted even though he’d already had at least a pot of coffee, two full breakfasts, several pastries, crisps, and two bottles of water. He was a human garbage bin, yet his muscles were those of a gym rat.

  Such a conundrum, this Cian MacNair or Viggo McCabe or whoever he truly was. Batty as a loon, but damn fine to look at. Just her stupid luck.

  As the Tube jostled and lurched, she kept her thoughts away from his body, and the fact her breasts continually bumped against the front of his suit. She toyed with the dagger up her sleeve, seeking reassurance from the cool metal. What if he hadn’t been taking the mick? But seriously—magic hunters? The fuck? Like, magicians with a cape and pull rabbits out of a hat? The hairs on her arms stood on end and she flexed her shoulders, taking her a half step away from Cian. Magic. Like witches and shit, that’s what he meant. Someone hunted them—to what end?

  She let her gaze rove over the passengers. Was that woman a scyver? Or this one with the holes in his ears the size of a fifty pence piece? What about this one with the baby? Could babies be scyvers?

  Great, now she was letting Cian’s asinine idea seep into her brain.

  She shimmied between the crush of people and faced Cian. “Assuming you’re not batshit crazy, which I’m not totally convinced yet you’re not, what did you mean by ‘magic hunter’?”

  The train pulled into a station and stopped to let passengers on and off. Cian didn’t take his gaze from her. Several emotions flickered in the depths of his eyes, confusion one of them. Instead of answering, he raised his hand and pressed it to her cheek. She forced herself not to flinch, even though his touch was gentle. He’d already taken too many liberties with her. One more and she might have to do more than knife him.