Chapter 3
I stopped, my heart hammering and my hand automatically reaching for one of my sheathed knives. I might not be formally trained in hand-to-hand knife combat, but I’d been getting plenty of practice in recent times, and I definitely felt safer with the weight of them in my hand. Still, in this case, it might be a tad overkill because, despite sensing the presence of others, there was no immediate suggestion of danger.
I pressed a hand against the door between this rear area and the main room instead, mentally slipping past its song and sliding deeper into the building’s interconnected network of power. To someone like me, it was a roadmap of golden arteries that gave me a deeper understanding—and ultimately control—of not only the building’s fabric but also, more importantly, the location of my two intruders.
The first was upstairs, in my bed, which meant it had to be Eljin. The only other person—aside from Lugh, Sgott, and Darby, of course—who had the code for the electronic lock on the door leading up to the accommodation section was Cynwrig, and the wood song would have told me if he were here. The old building did seem to like him. A lot. Of course, it also appeared to like Mathi, so it obviously wasn’t too discerning.
Why Eljin would be here, I had no idea. He knew Mathi and I were going to the cemetery this evening to talk to the ghul, and he certainly hadn’t called or sent a text saying he was on his way. Of course, it was also totally possible that the still-unread message sitting on my phone was from him.
The second person was seated at the table sitting next to the largest of the three oak beams supporting the upper floor in the bar beyond the door. The wood song couldn’t “show” me that person; it could only speak of the weight resting on its fibers.
Whoever it was sat very lightly, and it wasn’t someone the wood recognized.
So how did they get inside? Aside from the fact I’d bolted the medieval front door before I’d left tonight and the rear door was keypad controlled, this entire building was ringed by protection spells. Anyone intending mischief could not have gotten in. Well, a gifted enough witch could—and in the past, certainly had—but the spells remained intact, suggesting whoever it was out there, they weren’t a mage. Unless, of course, he or she had taken the time to repair the damage they’d caused after breaking in, and why in the hell would they bother doing that?
I drew in a deeper breath and released it slowly. It didn’t help ease the rising tension. Still, the knives weren’t reacting, so that at least confirmed there was no immediate magical threat within that room.
A physical threat remained a possibility, however.
I warily opened the door. The room lay in semi-darkness, lit only by a couple of softly golden lights—one near the bar, the other near the steps leading up to the old door. The stranger didn’t move, and wasn’t immediately visible, thanks to the big old beam they sat behind.
“Whoever you are, I know you’re here. What do you want?”
“I would be disappointed if a pixie of your caliber did not know I was here.” Her voice was warm and sultry, with intonations that reminded me a little of Cynwrig’s. “As to why I’m here, I believe it is beyond time we finally met.”
Realization leapt, and something within me stilled. This had to be Treasa, Cynwrig’s twin sister. There could be no other explanation for the similarity of her voice to his or the fact that she’d gotten in here without setting off alarms, physical or magical. Either he’d given her the rear door code, or the magic protecting this place had registered her “feel” as his and hadn’t reacted when she’d used the Lùtair ability to manipulate metal and slid open the front door’s medieval iron locks.
I walked past the bar, my gaze on the table slowly becoming visible, wariness front and center despite the fact I doubted she meant me any immediate harm.
“And why would an heir to the Myrkálfar throne want to meet one of her brother’s lovers, especially when that lover is not, and never could be, anything more than a temporary liaison?”
“When you live as long as we elves—or indeed, even as long as the Aodhán and Tàileach pixies—temporary can take on very different connotations.”
I stopped a few feet away from the table. She was—not unexpectedly, given the magnificence of her brother and dark elves in general—a stunningly beautiful woman with sultry silver eyes several shades lighter than Cynwrig’s and long dark hair that glimmered with bluish highlights. It had been casually swept up into a ponytail, revealing more of her lovely features while emphasizing her chiseled cheekbones and full lips. She was sitting sideways on the chair, her back against the beam, her long legs crossed casually at the ankle. Her knee-high boots, I couldn’t help but notice, were the most glorious shade of cobalt blue and looked absolutely divine.
“Did he send you here?”
“No. In fact, he’ll undoubtedly be quite cross to discover I came.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I wish to meet the person rules were broken for.”
Well, fuck. The stupid part of me that had clung to hope beyond all good reason might well be dancing in joy at this news, but the saner sections were wondering why he’d risk something like that before the official coronation had even happened.
Or was it as Mathi theorized—he simply wasn’t ready to let me go just yet?
And yet, if that were the case, why wouldn’t he have come here himself? Or hell, simply picked up the phone and called me?
It made no sense.
“I have no desire to have rules broken on my behalf,” I said. “I’ll not attend?—”
“That is not what I came here for, or indeed, what I want.” She motioned to the chair opposite. “Please, sit. My neck grows tired of looking up at you.”
I pulled out the chair and sat. For several seconds, she didn’t speak. She just studied me in an intense manner, her eyes luminescent in the semi-darkness. It almost felt as if she were digging inside my very being, gaining a deep sense of the inner me even though that was not a talent the Myrkálfar had. Not as far as I was aware, anyway.
But then, Cynwrig had commented several times that his sister was far better at dealing with the day-to-day running of their kingdom than he ever could be. Perhaps this ability—whatever the hell it truly was—had something to do with that.
“Isn’t your coming here to see me also breaking the rules? It’s not like it could be considered business, given who I am.”
Her smile held so many echoes of Cynwrig’s that my stomach twisted. “Oh, this is most certainly a business meeting, even if I’m using it as an excuse to finally meet you.”
“Why now, though? What is so urgent that it could not wait until after your father’s commemoration?”
“That is something neither my brother, nor indeed I, are heavily involved in—other than his insistence on making that exception?—”
“Technically,” I cut in, “he didn’t. The only reason I’m going is because Sgott was given a plus-one. I’m not even mentioned.”
“Yes, but anyone who knows Sgott is aware of his attachment to you. It was my brother’s way of inviting without doing so directly.” She eyed me for a second. “As you have no doubt guessed, so please, let’s do move on to the matter at hand.”
“And that is?”
“A curious note I found when I was going through my father’s files.”
I frowned. “About me?”
“No. About your mother.”
“Your father knew my mother?”
“She was the preeminent finder of relics in all of England, so it does make sense that he’d have used her services on certain occasions.”
A comment that was just another reminder of how much I didn’t know about Mom. Sure, I’d known she was a hunter, I’d known she’d occasionally worked for the fae council, but the preeminent finder in all of England, even above Lugh?
Certainly not. But I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad, because even my brother hadn’t known just how deeply involved in relic hunting Mom had been.
“I’m not aware of any specific time she worked with the Myrkálfar,” I said. “Though she certainly undertook hunts for the fae council quite a few times.”
“If my father hired her services, he would not have done it through the council. It would have been more personal in nature.”
An interesting comment, given just how deeply Myrkálfar fingers were in the black-market pie. They certainly had more hope than the average human or even Ljósálfar elf of finding missing goods. “Was the note you found about one of those tasks?”
“It is more a task in waiting, and simply said, ‘Contact Meabh Aodhán and ask her to find Geitha. You will need it for the coronation to keep the Dorcha Dearg throne safe from challengers .’ ”
Dorcha Dearg, the main Myrkálfar encampment in this area, and situated on—and under—the Peckfort Ridges to the west of Deva. I’d never been there, of course, but I’d seen plenty of photos of the weighty but wondrously exotic buildings that ran the length of the ridge. Over the centuries it had become something of a tourist attraction, forcing the Myrkálfar to not only patrol the area, but construct viewing platforms at a “safe” distance. Of course, ninety percent of the main encampment remained underground; the visible buildings housed those dealing with day-to-day administration tasks and meeting rooms for interactions with outside officialdom, including Deva’s fae council.
“Who or what is Geitha, and why would it be needed to keep the throne safe from challengers? Both you and your brother are uncontested heirs, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we are, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t those who would challenge given the opportunity. As to Geitha, there is a Myrkálfar goddess of destiny who bears that name, but it is unlikely my father wanted your mother to seek her. Not even a seeress with her capabilities could successfully undertake such a quest.”
Maybe, maybe not. It would depend on what Beira—the goddess of winter and storms who’d been condemned to spend her time here on Earth in hag form, and who’d assigned Mom multiple relic hunts to undertake for the gods themselves—knew about Geitha, and whether in fact she remained one of the few gods who still interacted with their worshippers.
“There is no further mention of it in his personal files,” she continued, “and there is also nothing to be found in the greater records. I have, of course, requested a review of all the old scrolls, but that will take some time.” She paused. “However, my mother did have a necklace she called Geitha’s Tears, and that is perhaps what he was referring to. It did go missing on my mother’s death some two hundred years ago.”
“It never resurfaced on the black market?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “You could be sure that if it had, we would have taken swift action to reclaim it.”
And no doubt would have buried—quite literally, given the main talent of the Myrkálfar was the control of earth and stone—anyone involved in the theft.
“Your mother never spoke about it?”
“She once said it was gifted by the goddess to her at my father’s coronation, and that one day, if we were blessed, the goddess’s eye would turn to me and Cynwrig.”
“That would suggest it has some sort of ceremonial place within the coronation.”
“Yes, indeed. We have, of course, already started arrangements for the coronation, but the only time Geitha is mentioned during the formalities is after the crowns are placed; the goddess is called upon to give her blessing and her guidance to the new ruler. There is no mention as to how this should happen, which is damnably annoying.” She studied me for a heartbeat. “I take it you have found nothing in your mother’s files mentioning such a meeting with my father or indeed the commitment to undertake such a task?”
“No, but I haven’t actually gone through my mother’s files.”
Or indeed, anything of hers. I might have moved into her bedroom in the months after her disappearance, but I certainly hadn’t emptied her wardrobe or her drawers in the bathroom, or hell, gone through any of the boxes of old records she kept in the office. To do any of that would have meant accepting the fact she really wasn’t coming back, and I hadn’t wanted to take that final step.
There was a part of me that still didn’t, even though we’d now found her body.
Grief surged with that thought and I pushed to my feet. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, but thank you.”
I strode over to the bar and dragged out the old kettle we kept underneath it for emergencies—such as the coffee machine breaking down and staff needing to make coffee the old-fashioned way—then filled it up and flicked it on. By which time, I had my emotions back under control and could face her again. “If Geitha’s Tears do play a part in the coronation, however minor, why wouldn’t your father have undertaken its finding earlier?”
Her hesitation was brief but nevertheless there. “You are aware my father was ill for some time?”
I nodded. There’d been various rumors about his illness, of course, but nothing had ever been confirmed. Even the official press statement released when he’d stepped back from physical duties had simply said the move was designed to ease the eventual succession of his heirs.
The intensity of her gaze increased, and that translucent glow appeared once more. Just for an instant, the knives flickered—a warning that something unusual rather than threatening was happening, and that basically clinched my suspicions that she was psychically “reading” me.
I obviously passed, because she continued softly, “For the few elves who live beyond a millennium, there is always a price to be paid. For my father, it was his mental faculties. By the time we realized it was happening, it was already too late, and it progressed rapidly once my mother died. Fae healers can work miracles, but diseases of the brain are beyond their ken.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been hard to watch.”
“Indeed.” Her eyes gleamed briefly again, but this time, its cause was the sheen of tears. “The difficulty is, of course, that we believe the note was written in a moment of lucidity and then forgotten.”
“There must be some sort of record explaining its importance, though, surely.”
“Of course there should be, but remember, there hasn’t been a coronation for a thousand years, and, for whatever reason, the scrolls detailing the minutiae were not fully transcribed when the digital age came. Then add the fact that many records and scrolls were lost in the fires that swept Dorcha Dearg back in the late 1400s, and you can see the problem.”
I frowned. “I take it, then, with my mom no longer around, you want me to undertake the search for this item?”
“That would be ideal, yes.”
“I can certainly try, but I am not my mother, and I generally need something more than a mere name to search out an item.”
Which wasn’t exactly true given I’d certainly searched the codex—which was basically a godly library I now had access to—with nothing more than a simple name before now.
“All I ask is that you try. Usual terms?”
I smiled. “I have no idea what the usual terms might be.”
She laughed. “An admission that would have a less scrupulous person taking full advantage.”
“Cynwrig wouldn’t.”
“Oh, my brother would, if it suited his purposes. He is no angel.”
The kettle boiled, so I made my mug of tea and then walked back over and sat down. “How long have I got to find Geitha?”
“The coronation will be held at the end of the three-month mourning period.”
“Which at least gives me a decent amount of time.” I took a sip of tea. “I take it you’ll pass on any information you might find in the scroll search?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Which I suspect is a roundabout way of asking if my brother will be in contact with you on this matter, and the answer is no. The rules of mourning forbid physical interaction with lovers who are not of Myrkálfar origins.”
Meaning they didn’t forbid “interaction” with their own kind. The lovely Orlah—the tall, dark-skinned elf with long, curly black hair and to-die-for figure who’d briefly interrupted our dinner at an upmarket and very expensive restaurant recently—would no doubt take full advantage of that situation. She’d certainly made it abundantly clear that she had her sights set on marriage and him.
“Unless on a matter of business,” I added, somewhat uselessly, given I already knew what her reply would be.
“Yes, but this is not a matter he can deal with, because of your position in his life.”
I half smiled. “I have no position, remember?”
Her cheeks dimpled. “Oh, I heard you and he had plenty of positions.”
I just about choked on my tea. Talk about getting some of my own medicine back. Darby—my best friend since forever and the light elf who was now dating my brother—and I always shared sexual gossip, but I just hadn’t expected Cynwrig to be doing the same with his sister.
Although maybe he hadn’t; if she was a reader, she could have easily skimmed that bit of information.
“Well,” I managed, when I could speak again, “he is a dark elf and you lot are very imaginative.”
“Indeed, we are.” She reached into her pocket, drew out three pieces of paper, and handed the first to me. It was a simple black business card. “That is my private number and not to be shared elsewhere. Call me when you find anything, and we can arrange a meeting. It is best not to talk over the phone—the palace has ears, and not all of them are friendly.”
I raised my eyebrows but dragged out my phone, added her name and number to my contacts list, then gave the card back. She nodded and slid the other two pieces of paper across the table to me. The first was an intricately drawn picture of a gorgeous-looking silver pendant that contained two tear-drop-shaped deep red stones—Geitha’s Tears, obviously. I tapped the image. “Are they rubies?”
“No, painite, which is far rarer. It’s a pleochroic stone that emits different hues depending on the angle you’re viewing them from, and has a strong green fluorescence under certain lights.”
Maybe their rarity was why the necklace had gone missing. If the palace had ears then it undoubtedly also had light-fingered thieves—though it’d be a risky business at the best of times stealing from a Myrkálfar, let alone from the Lùtairs.
She motioned to the larger, folded piece of paper. “I debated whether to give that one to you, but given the search for the hoard and the rise of certain darker elements, it’s better that you have it. Make of it what you will.”
She rose, gave me a nod, and left, unlocking the front door with a flick of her hand, then relocking it once she was through.
I picked up the larger piece of paper and unfolded it. It appeared to be an old newspaper article on what looked to be some sort of archeology dig. Before I could read it, wood song whispered of movement. Eljin was awake and up.
I quickly downed the rest of my tea, then rose and tucked the two pieces of paper into the front pocket of my jeans. Instinct was suggesting I keep them to myself for the time being, and I wasn’t about to gainsay her. Not when she’d saved my life multiple times over the last few weeks.
I ran lightly up the stairs to the second floor, punched in the code for the lock, then headed up to my living quarters. The smell of bacon teased my nostrils and my stomach rumbled.
“I heard you moving around downstairs,” he said, the faintest hint of French accenting his warm tones, “and figured you might like a bite to eat.”
“You figured right.” I stepped onto the landing and immediately tugged off my sweater. The room was warm, the fire still bright, suggesting he hadn’t arrived all that long ago. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, though? I thought you were meeting some friends this evening for a boys’ night out.”
He glanced around, the burnished gold flecks in his buttery brown eyes gleaming brightly in the fire’s light. He was a typical Talien pixie in looks, with wide shoulders, slim hips, and thick mahogany hair. Though his face was probably a little too sharp to be called handsome, his lips were full and definitely made to give pleasure, be it as a kiss or in more intimate explorations. I knew that from experience.
Right now, he was wearing my ratty old green dressing gown, which should have made him look ridiculous, but somehow succeeded in doing the exact opposite.
“I was, but it ended far too early. I thought I might as well come here and surprise you with breakfast.” He paused briefly. “Who was with you? It sounded like a woman rather than Mathi.”
“It was just someone wanting me to find something.”
“At this hour?”
“Most night folk don’t keep the same hours as the rest of us.” I slid my hands around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. “So, breakfast. Why? Or is the answer to that one obvious?”
He chuckled softly. “It’s been two days since I had you in my bed, and I ache. Badly.”
I laughed. “Then you shouldn’t have started cooking the bacon. Now we are fated to eat it before we can do anything else.”
“The pan is barely even hot. It can certainly be taken off the heat for the necessary amount of time.”
“If the necessary amount of time is anything less than an hour, I’ll be severely disappointed.”
He chuckled again. “I am certainly not one to disappoint a lady.”
He definitely hadn’t so far. I undid the dressing gown’s sash, then slid my hands down the chiseled length of his body and lightly ran my fingers across his erection. He made a low sound deep in his throat, then flicked off the gas and spun around, sweeping me up and off my feet in one smooth movement. I laughed and snuggled against his chest, even though the bedroom wasn’t all that far away.
Nothing really was up here—the word bijou had definitely been developed with this place in mind, even if we had far more space on this floor than many of our neighbors, thanks to Gran illegally raising the roof line and creating a usable loft.
Once we reached my bedroom, he placed me on my feet and began to undress me, taking his time to explore the flesh revealed with teeth and tongue before removing the next layer. By the time I was naked, I was aching with desire and needing him so badly I could barely think.
I slid my hands up his taut body and slipped the gown from his shoulders, then pushed him backward, onto the bed. I climbed up after him, straddling but not immediately sheathing him.