Chapter Twenty-Four Taissa #2
“Don’t be,” James snaps. She blinks. “Later, I would realize that one caused the other. The man with the black dust caused my father’s ‘miracle,’ and his ‘miracle’ demanded a price.
Do you know what sort of creature, Taissa, deals in dangerous bargains?
” He cocks his head, like a professor demanding an answer from a particularly dull student. (Rude.)
Yet in her own mind, bits and pieces of a puzzle are slowly clicking together, missing parts flying into place with alarming speed. Yes. Yes, she believes she does know.
There’s one creature within the UKHC that deals exclusively in bargains, and they are not, simply put, very pleasant people.
Oh, no. They’re a literal syndicate, operating under the guise of various agencies and enterprises that claim to be LLCs.
The shape-shifting, golden-eyed creatures deal in bargains, exchanging favors—for a price.
She’s begun to form a rather good idea of who this might be.
Even as she sways with the realization of who she’s dealing with, Taissa sniffs as haughtily as she can muster, fixing James with a swotty look of her own.
“It would make sense,” she says, in a pointed tone meaning, Yes, I know precisely what you’re referring to, you pretentious twat.
“Maybe the dust is some sort of calling card—they do seem to love advertising. And transformation into a horse suits them.” In Ye Olden Days—and before the ingenious idea of forming organized, corporate crime—a dark-pelted horse with a wild mane and flaming eyes was their preferred form.
They would entice a poor fool onto their back before taking them for a wildly terrifying ride, letting them off only after making a bargain: their soul for safety.
“But don’t you think that the DMC would recognize the substance for what it is at first glance? They specialize in this sort of thing.”
“Who says they don’t know who they’re dealing with?
” asks James, smugly arching a brow. Yes, fine, he’s been a great help, but must he make such a deal out of it?
Morgana. “Perhaps they’re frightened. They have no combat training, which would be quite necessary when dealing with these creatures.
I’m surprised you didn’t think of this yourself, Taissa. ”
She scowls. “Pardon me for not knowing my dust, James.”
Cronus cackles.
James ignores both of them. “The DMC is right to be cautious, though. Especially considering—”
“—the fact that these creatures have access to dark magic,” she finishes, enjoying how he frowns, clearly disliking being interrupted.
“Well, obviously,” James sniffs.
“It could make quite a bit of sense,” she continues. “I haven’t heard of any of them being hunted down by dullahans. The Unseelie must allow them to scrape from the Well, so long as they’re repaid in favors. In bargains.”
“Some sort of tithe, perhaps,” James suggests coolly. Kion is looking back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match, irritated confusion shadowing his eyes.
“That’s what I just said.” Taissa rolls her eyes. “But the bargains made are dangerous in price. Fairness—”
“—isn’t the language of a crime syndicate, especially not them—”
“—but every syndicate has a front—”
“—and theirs is—”
“—all over the papers—”
“—and the magazines, and the aethernet—”
“Bloody hells,” Kion explodes, throwing up his hands. “I’m drowning in waves of swot. Would one of you tell me what the fuck you’re on about?”
Taissa and James glare at each other for one moment more before both hastily turn to face Kion.
“We’re dealing with—”
“—the púcas,” Taissa finishes, her mouth dry. James sneers at her, folding his arms. She ignores him. “We’re dealing with the Withers.”
For a moment, their captain is utterly silent. Anger flashes across his face, contorting his features. No, more than that. Anger is Kion shouting at a referee. Anger is Kion kneeling in front of her on her kitchen floor, glaring up at her. Anger is the way he snarls at the paparazzi.
This…This is fury.
Pure, undiluted fury.
“So somebody hired a púca to curse the Wingeds,” he rasps out after a long, long moment. “Why?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Taissa replies grimly.
“If we’re right, and the DMC and the CCB are too scared to make a move…
we’re alone. If we can find the púca who did this, we can get them to reverse the Sleeping Death.
I say we try to find Orla Banes.” Everybody’s heard of Orla Banes, the Withers’ leader, at least in some capacity.
(There had been a movie loosely based on her a few years ago, aptly titled She Who Kills. Charming.)
James’s lips thin. “I’m not so foolish as to think that a mere handful of witches and warlocks are strong enough to sway the will of even one stubborn, and dangerous, púca.
” He looks at Kion, perhaps for reinforcement, but the captain is silent, watching something with a pained look on his face.
She follows his gaze toward Cronus and Cato, who seem to be comparing wingspans with delighted cackles.
Toward the pitch, the siege towers stand tall beneath the sky.
When Kion speaks again, it is quiet enough that it is nearly drowned underneath the calls of the birds and the songs of the crickets. But somehow, each word cuts Taissa to the bone.
“Carriwitchet is all I have,” he says hoarsely. “All I’ve ever had. And nobody is going to take it from me.”