Page 34

Thirty-Three

Bricriu

I wish I wasn’t so horribly familiar with stalking my father through the streets of this city—any city, really. This time, it’s different. The nostalgia is thick with anticipation.

Instead of dragging him home to sober up before a performance or a meeting with a patron, I’m dragging him to the gates of the Otherworld. I’m setting myself free.

With a silent prayer that this will be the last time, I weave through the streets of the Pleasure District. Bright colours assault my eyes. Whores in windows cast sultry glances my way and then dismiss me as soon as they spot the mating mark splattered across my chest.

Thank the Goddess. I do not want to have to peel them off me.

Mab is silent beside me, her face resolute. I glamoured her to prevent the extra attention she’d bring, but I suspect I should’ve done the same for myself. I’m unused to the stares I’m getting.

Stupidly, I forgot that it’s impossible to be anonymous as a member of the Guard. Rose’s fathers were as famous as Diana, if not more so. I’d hoped, with our Nicnevin being so new, it wouldn’t be an issue.

Unfortunately, the destruction of the Toxic Orchid will probably remain the subject of gossip here for some time, and dozens of fae from across the Pleasure District undoubtedly witnessed Rose rescue me from the brothel.

With a sigh, I admit it’s probably too late to correct my mistake. My time is better spent keeping an active block on my mind against my father’s charm. Unlike Rose’s magic, his is limited by his own strength. I can shield against it—and I have before—but I need to be focused. The slightest panic or distraction will give him an in.

Surprise was how he managed it last time.

We turn a corner and arrive at one of the more exclusive brothels in the city.

The Blooming Rose is bustling, even at this hour. Expensive whores smile invitingly down from the balcony, throwing namesake rose petals down into the crowd like invitations. I narrowly dodge them as I flash the Nicnevin’s mark on my palm to the trolls standing guard at the door, then head up the stairs.

Inside is lavish, perfect for my father’s tastes, and my shoulders stiffen as Mab leads me down a hallway decorated with life-size erotic paintings and huge vases of flowers.

“Hey, handsome.” A dryad sashays out of the room in front of me, reaching for my chest. “Are you looking for me?”

Seduction drips from her tone, and the moss she wears like underwear is slipping artfully from across her assets in invitation.

“No.” My clipped tone has no effect on her smile.

“This room,” Mab says, hovering at the end of the hall, about three doors down from where the dryad still won’t let me pass.

“Move.”

The female edges closer. “We could have some fun.”

The branches of her oaken hair are spreading, obscuring my view, and that’s when I realise what this is.

My father never would do his own dirty work.

“I don’t wish to harm you,” I begin slowly. “But if you don’t let me pass, there will be consequences.”

There’s a subtle widening of her eyes, the kind of panic you only see in the unwilling, and I grimace as she presses forward.

My wings burst out, slamming her sideways in the next breath. It works, but she’s not alone. A high fae strides toward me on bare feet, his toenails painted all different colours and his cock swaying openly. From behind me, I catch the creak of a floorboard.

Pursing my lips, I whistle low and long, winding the sound around me in a blast that knocks them all to their asses.

I know all of his tricks. I was on the other side of them once, when it was just the two of us running from whoever he’d conned. He charmed these whores, and now he’s using them as a distraction to slow me down so he can escape.

Not this time. I sprint across the soft carpet to the last door, where Mab waits pensively. I shoulder it open with my full weight, and it slams against the opposite wall. I burst through, keeping my magic close, ready to silence my father the second I see him.

Nothing.

The sheets are rumpled, and the open bottle of sloe gin on the dresser is a dead giveaway that he was here. But the balcony doors hang open, and the heavy scent of roses on the breeze masks the subtler notes of rosin in his scent.

Shit.

I cross the room in three swift strides and press my abdomen into the balcony as I search the back street below for any sign of him; then, remembering his favourite trick, I look up. The edge of a bright cerulean cape flutters over the lip of the roof.

His rat always gave him an advantage while climbing, but I have wings, and I flare them wide, executing a hasty vertical take-off as I scry the rooftops.

Nothing.

He must have glamoured himself.

Damn him.

“What’s your plan?” Mab asks, hovering beside me using her own wings. I quickly glamour the two of us again. My magic muffles her voice, stopping it from carrying. “We could fetch Rose and her redcap?—”

“No. By the time we do that, he’ll be gone.”

He’s here… somewhere. I know he is. I can find him.

My ears twitch, straining for any hint of sound. My father’s rat gives him better hearing than most cat-sìth, but my magic amplifies my own, so we’re evenly matched.

In other words, we’re now caught in a game of cat-sìth and rat until one of us slips up.

He feels safest in a crowd of people, which probably means he’s headed for Temple Square.

The large plaza is a few streets away, and I train my ears in that direction, hoping for a scuffle, a hint, anything that might prove me right.

There . A clatter of tile makes my head snap up and my gut clench. My wings draw in, I pull a blade from the skin of my leg, and dive.

Slashing out blindly isn’t the most accurate choice, but it’s successful this time. The blade catches on something—possibly his arm—and blood splatters onto the terracotta tiles.

I land in a crouch, making more noise than I mean to. I grimace as I swipe back in the same general direction as before and overbalance when I find only empty air.

Releasing a sharp whistle, I force my magic to magnify it into a sonic wave that sends tiles around me flying in a whirlwind.

I wait for one to bounce against him or be knocked aside. Neither happens.

Espen’s tongue flicks out, tasting the air, and I grimace at the scent of sex and gin that’s fading fast.

No. I’m not going to lose him. I can’t.

Taking off on silent wings, I follow the trail with Mab hot on my heels. When I start to slow, convinced I’m drawing closer again, the First Nicnevin swoops down and lets out an arc of lightning that runs along the rooftops.

A clatter to my left pricks my ears, and I dive in that direction, only for something to hammer sharply into my lower back, a few inches from my spine.

It’s a throwing knife. I reach back and drag it free with a hiss of pain. It’s a gaudy, gem-encrusted weapon, rather than the sleek blades of ink any other púca would use. Unsurprising. Torrance has never been a fighter. His body is littered with stacked decks, double-sided coins, and weighted dice. It was probably a gift from one of his patrons. His piss poor-aim is the only reason it didn’t land somewhere serious.

Rose’s magic is there, eager to heal the wound, and for once, I let it. I can’t afford to be slowed down.

A roof tile slips, crashing down to the street, and a muffled thud follows it. I follow instinctively, but stop short of the ledge, staring down into the crowd.

Damn it. Their scents will muddy his, giving him even more of an advantage.

This is not how I wanted this to go, but it’s typical Torrance. His next step will be to blend with other people, then either seek sanctuary in a Temple or leave the city—usually in a delivery wagon or by stealing someone’s horse.

He won’t risk the Temple now that he’s being pursued by a Guard, and a horse is too flashy, which means I need to check nearby carts, and fast.

Goddess, our odds of catching him just nosedived.

Chest tight with anxiety, I whisper the plan to Mab, who takes the west side of the square without argument.

Landing beside a row of mostly empty market wagons along a narrow side-street, I start the painstaking process of flipping back the sheets covering the contents from view, then breathing in sharply, searching for a hint of his scent.

In between each search, my own doubts start to creep in.

Should I have waited and asked the rest of the Guard for help? I breathe in the scents of apples and cider before striding away. Was I wrong to think I knew his tricks and could outsmart him? The following wagon is empty, smelling faintly of freshly tilled earth and vegetables.

Is my own stupid pride about to let him get away, again ?

The last cart reeks so strongly of perfume that it’s impossible to distinguish anything, a good option for someone who knows how strong my sense of smell is. I flip back the curtain, magic at the ready.

Nothing.

My breath rushes out of me, and I turn on my heel, determined to try the next street over. He’s always been a slippery asshole. Maybe the Temple was the correct call, after all. My mind is already on new locations to try, and that slip of focus is my undoing.

Green eyes flash in my vision as he says, “Please stay right there.”

My gut drops like a stone as my body obeys before I realise my mistake.

It’s him. Here. Now. Suddenly I can’t breathe, and that’s nothing to do with his charm.

“You just couldn’t let it go, could you?” my father asks, dropping his glamour entirely. “Couldn’t leave me be.”

He said I couldn’t move, not that I couldn’t use my magic. Unfortunately, the moment of hesitation is all he needs to open his mouth again. I frantically shove a sound blast in his direction, knocking him off his feet. Then another. My mental shield is back up, but being physically helpless is wrecking my self-control, dredging up old panic that refuses to settle.

It takes a lot of power to force sound into a physical form, and I drag it from my bond to Rose, guilt flooding me when she offers it so freely. Each attack rattles the carts in the alley.

“Stop being dramatic,” Torrance snarls, staggering towards me. “You’re lucky I can’t kill you.”

This kind of confrontation isn’t him, and I groan inwardly as I realise we’re back to his favourite trick. Distract and flee. He wants me to believe he’s still there, but it’s a glamour. The real Torrance is probably slipping away.

“You tried to kill my Nicnevin!” I snarl, pretending to fall for it as I consider my options. “Why would I ever let that stand?”

When escaping, he always chooses the easiest route. That means the real him is likely creeping towards the mouth of the alley. Torrance made a miscalculation coming here. There’s only one exit.

“We’re bards, son. Our loyalty is to the hand that feeds. You know that Eero has always paid best.”

And there it is, the sickening reality that’s always underlined everything. The difference between us laid bare.

Every performance I played was about the music, the art, but for him, it was the money. Always the fucking money.

“Well, I wouldn’t count on any more gold flowing your way from Eero,” I gloat, smirking, not because the summer king is likely dead, but because I’ve finally calmed enough to find a loophole in his command.

Torrance said to stay here; he never said anything about moving my hands or summoning my animals.

Glamouring myself to hide the motion, I pull Espen from my forearm. It takes a lot of work to hide a giant snake, but he works fast, slinking into the shadows as he makes for the mouth of the alley.

My father shrugs, turning on his heel. “Then Aiyana will pay just as much for information that will protect her from your mate’s wrath. Even she knows her reckoning is coming.”

“Coward!” I blow another wave of sound his way, hoping to hit the real Torrance.

His illusion grunts, staggering convincingly into the side of a wagon, but doesn’t flicker like it might if he was caught in the blast.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Bricriu. You’re better at this job than I am, skulking in the shadows and listening to every whispered word. What do you think you’ll be doing for your Nicnevin in a few decades, huh? You can only warm her bed for so long before you’ll have to make yourself useful.”

He scoffs, righting himself. “Meanwhile, I’ll revive the Lyarthorn name. Maybe I’ll pick up one of your half-siblings on the way to Pavellen and train them up in your place.”

So he can use and discard them the same way he did me?

Oof. A force shoves into me from behind, breaking the charm that held me in place. My feet start moving as soon as I’m free, and I shoot a grateful glance at Mab as we both sprint after him.

Dragging as much magic from my bond to Rose as I can, I release a blast of sound at the same time that Mab’s lightning arcs past me.

It’s more magic than we should use this close to civilians. Combined, the sheer amount of power makes the fur on my ears stand on end. It should be impossible to dodge.

The glamoured version of him waves, winks, and then dissipates before the magic collides at his feet. So smug in his belief that he’s done it again.

All of that destructive energy ricochets against the cobbles with a BOOM that shoves me back three paces.

The walls on either side of the alley shake, then collapse. Brick tumbles down in a deafening cataclysm of rubble and tile. Shit!

Dust fills the air, choking me and making my eyes burn. I flap my wings, desperately seeking the safety of the sky. The distraction is enough that I accidentally drop the glamour on my nathair. The alley is eclipsed by his silhouette, which takes up the entrance.

In my haste to catch my father, I almost buried myself alive.

I pray desperately that my plan worked as the trembles slow, and I lower myself back to the destroyed street.

Espen’s huge serpentine body blocks the way to the main road, and the last pieces of rubble bounce harmlessly off his scales as he protects the crowd beyond. His great head flicks from side to side across the wreckage, tongue tasting the air.

“Did we…?”

My snake bends and noses away a large chunk of plaster, revealing Torrance’s broken, brightly clothed form.

I scramble up the pile of debris towards him, needing to see for myself that it’s done. It’s over.

As I reach his side, he coughs and shoves himself up onto his elbows. No. No way. My throat seizes, like someone is crushing my windpipe. I snatch up one of the fallen hunks of stone, raise it high, and bring it down sharply.

I smash that hunk of rock into his head again, and again, and again. His skull cracks like an egg. Blood and brains spray everywhere.

Yet his fingers still twitch.

I grip my weapon in both hands and bring it down even harder.

“You. Will. Never . Charm. Me. Again.” I punctuate each word with a splattering crack of brick on bone. “Just die . Die and take your stupid Lyarthorn name with you.”

The rock gets heavier and heavier with each lift until I’m barely raising it at all. It’s okay, though. His skull is pretty much flattened.

It’s over , a quiet part of my mind whispers. It’s over. He’s dead.

But is he? Is this just another glamour? Another trick? Even if he is, is there any world in which the shadow of his eyes won’t linger, waiting to charm me, in every crowd?

“Bree.” My mate’s voice filters through the red-hazed fog, and my hands slow to a stop. I look up. Rose stands on the other side of the mess of bright silk and gore that was once my father, the redcap by her side. “Bree, it’s done. He’s gone.”

Without blinking, she steps over his body and takes the rock from my hands, passing it to Lore. He gives it a quick amused once-over, then stuffs it into his hat for safe keeping.

I don’t get a chance to wonder what he’s going to do with it, because Rose kneels beside me, ignoring the crimson that’s seeping into her white clothes as she takes my hands in her smaller ones and brings my fingertips to her lips.

“It’s over,” she says, echoing the tiny voice I didn’t believe before. “You’re safe.”

She presses her hand to my chest, connecting our mating marks. As soon as they meet, the grey numbness starts to lift from my thoughts, leaving behind a tidal wave of shock, relief, and fear.

“He’s dead,” I croak, fingers trembling as they fall into my lap.

Lore is humming happily, dragging his cap through the splattered remains in front of us. He offers it to me, and that’s when I realise I’m so covered in blood and gore that I can’t even make out my tattoos. Not fit for Rose to touch. Too dirty for a Nicnevin. Too damaged?—

Rose’s body slams into me, arms winding around my neck, and I stiffen as some stupid part of my brain tries to work out if she’s a threat, before melting like butter under her touch. All tension seeps from my body as I finally press my face into her neck and sob.