High Voltage

  Kat had been heavy with child at the time. You think I’ve been unfaithful, she’d said. She had. Not willingly, but she had.

  Have you? he countered. We were taking precautions.

  Indeed, they were, unready to bring a child into an uncertain world.

  Do you love me? she asked quietly.

  Och, and you know I do. Whatever, wherever, I am, it’s you, always and only.

  Then how could it matter, if I pledge my fidelity to you for the rest of our lives?

  Are you willing to, Kat?

  Aye.

  He’d been an Unseelie prince by then, wings forming on that dark, beautiful back she so adored running her hands down.

  He’d been half mad at times, from pain, tortured by fear that the twisted magic of the Unseelie had selected him because he, like all the Black Irish O’Bannions, was deeply, irrevocably flawed.

  Still, she’d have chosen him. Her childhood confidant, her lover, her soul mate.

  Jealousy, a twisted emotion she’d never felt in her sweet Sean, had thundered so violently in his heart, it terrified her. This wasn’t her best friend, the man she knew nearly as well as she knew herself.

  He’d said, I can’t accept that. I need to know.

  What difference could it make? she’d said wearily. Would you be asking me to give up the child if it’s not yours? Do you think we can just send it back? Is that what you want of me? It’s my child, too. Either he could love them both or he couldn’t. By then a mother’s love had awakened, fierce and protective. She could feel the life within her, tiny and lovely. She’d already resolved her struggle. If the child were Cruce’s there were two options: kill it—which was no option at all; or give it away—which was no option at all. It was half of her, and if the worst were true, the child could have no mother better than Kat. Another woman would have no idea what she was raising. Her only choice was to trust in the power of love.

  A love Sean clearly didn’t feel. She hadn’t seen him for over two years. She ached to see him. She struggled to not think about him, to not think about many things.

  “Evening, Kat,” Enyo said, dropping down in a tufted chair next to her. Kicking her legs over the side, the tawny-skinned soldier nudged the butt of her gun, tucked in a hip holster, to keep it from digging into her ribs, and slid her automatic, suspended by a band across her chest, over the arm of the chair. Dagger hilts gleamed, tucked into her boots. Enyo was a crack shot, sniper or close-range, responsible for training all the women at the abbey that wanted to learn. None were pressured. Still, all eventually came.

  “Good evening, Enyo,” Kat replied with a smile that wasn’t returned, but Enyo rarely smiled. Energy thrummed beneath her skin, intelligence flashed in her dark eyes. Though Kat would never voice them—it wasn’t her place—she knew some of the woman’s secrets. They were painful and had made her the hardened warrior she was. Born inside a military tank under heavy fire, war was where Enyo Luna thrived.

  As the rest of the Shedon filed in, Kat focused outward, lowering her guards, assessing the room. Her gift gave her many unfair advantages. She used them.

  There were eight members of the Shedon: herself; the fierce French-Lebanese Enyo; the ethereal Rhiannon from Wales whose specialty was shattering wards and neutralizing spells; quiet Aurina from Derrynane, County Kerry, who could commune with animals of every kind; sharp-edged Ciara from Ulster-east, with her wild fire-magic; Colleen MacKeltar from Scotland, who over the past two years had become, under one of her uncles’ tutelage, an expert in the druid arts; the lovely, aloof, chocolate-skinned Duff from their powerful Boston sister-house, who possessed a terrible gift; and the cynical, jaded Decla, who’d traveled the world with a military father and who possessed far darker sidhe-seer talents than she owned up to.

  These women were the new rule. Duff and Decla took a bit more time to assess than the others but Kat ruthlessly scanned each of them in turn, assessing, seeking rotten spots in the shiniest of their apples.

  She found none.

  Tonight.

  But maintained eternal awareness that one day, her elegant, brutal invasion might fail to yield such happy results.

  Perhaps even with her own daughter.

  The Song of Making had changed everything. War was coming, there was no doubt of it. Sides would be taken. None of them black and white; there were acres and acres of gray as far as she could see, evidenced by changes even on their estate. Six months ago a caste of tiny Spyrssidhe had taken up residence in the abbey’s gardens and labyrinth. They were as simple and kind as could be, lovingly nurturing the foliage, openly seeking the sidhe-seers, pledging their loyalty, eschewing their own race, outcast by them. Begging sanctuary to live among humans. Initially Kat had feared they were spies, but she’d turned her gift on the tiny sprites and found them as pure and simple as the dawn. Earth elementals, a type of Fae she’d never imagined existed. Good ones.

  Though she’d been horrified to discover them capable of reproduction.

  There was one Fae name she never permitted herself to think.

  A name Rae would never know. He was dead. There was no reason to know. And no need for a paternity test.

  Time would tell.

  “Any luck?” she asked the room, as the women settled in armchairs and sprawled on divans. A dozen of their sidhe-seers, Adepts, had gone missing.

  Duff said grimly, “Not yet. We combed Temple Bar from end to end and we plan to fan out into the outskirts tonight. Decla and I went into Elyreum, tried to ask around, but if you’re not willing to fuck Fae,” she spat with a dark scowl, “you get nothing but suspicion in that club. I don’t know how they survived their shifts there.”

  “They knew it was necessary,” Kat said, with no small measure of regret. “We sent only volunteers.” The twelve were spies, mature women, Adepts, sent into Elyreum because the Shedon had finally unanimously agreed they could no longer go on without gathering intelligence on the state of the Fae court. For two long years they’d waited and prepared, giving the Fae wide berth. Never going near them, as Mac had demanded.

  But rumors had been growing that the Fae had changed, and how could they hope to prepare for a war if they didn’t know their enemy? The team had gone in with full awareness of what they were getting into. What was being asked of them. They’d been working the shift for a week. And each morning, when they returned from having sex with the Fae, Kat had used her gift on each in turn, painfully aware of how ruthlessly, overwhelmingly seductive the Fae could be. To a woman, their dozen sidhe-seer spies at Elyreum had remained true. Night after night they’d let their bodies be used, while protecting their minds, mining for tidbits of information. Had sunk to the depths necessary to infiltrate the club, while holding onto their essential selves. And for so little gain. All they’d been able to tell the Shedon thus far was that the Fae were definitely more powerful, to degrees unknown, definitely changed by the Song, but there was an inner circle of High Fae cloistered deep within their own private club, to which a highly select few were ever granted access. None of the twelve had yet gained an invitation.

  Now they were gone. All of them. Vanished without a trace. They’d left for the club, as usual, Saturday evening and failed to return Sunday at dawn. They’d been missing for two days now, and she feared the worst.

  “What did Dani say?” Colleen asked. “Has she had any luck searching for them?”

  “I didn’t tell her they were missing for the same reason we agreed not to tell her we were sending spies in. Had she known, she’d have insisted on accompanying them. If she knew they were missing, she’d storm into Elyreum, demanding answers at the tip of a sword. We all know what outcome that would have.”

  Enyo said, “Our oath to the Fae queen would be broken. That sword is part of Dani’s soul. She can’t not kill Fae. The only way she’s managed it this long, and kept her word to Mac, is because sh
e won’t allow herself to go anywhere near them.”

  “Precisely. That’s why we can tell her nothing. Continue your search. Continue your silence.”

  Nodding, the Shedon rose and prepared to head back into the city to find their missing sisters.

  * * *

  π

  “Mommy, why are the Fae bad?” Rae said later as Kat tugged off her shoes and began to run her bath.

  “Not all of them are,” she replied absently, mulling the day’s events with half her mind.

  She realized what she was doing and forced herself to put away the abbey’s business for a time. Her daughter deserved her full attention, a thing she’d never known from her own mother. She’d been deemed a worthless implement by both her parents; handicapped with such extreme empathy, she’d seemed broken, even insane, as a child.

  Rae was her world. An unexpected gift. A treasure she would forever cherish, protect, and love, and do all in her power to raise well. The love of a child from her own flesh was the purest an empath could know.

  Her daughter had been slow to start talking but, given her own childhood, that hadn’t concerned her. Then suddenly, a month ago, Rae had begun blurting words she’d no idea her daughter even understood, stringing them together into impressive sentences.

  “The Spur-shee like me,” Rae announced happily. “They say I smell good to them.”

  Kat froze, her hand tightening on the edge of the antique, enameled, claw-foot tub in their suite. “Did they say what you smell like?”

  Rae shook her head, black curls bouncing, eyes dancing merrily. “Just that I’m yummy. They smell yummy to me, too.”

  “Like what?” Kat asked.

  Rae nibbled her lower lip and thought. Then scrubbed at her nose and laughed. “It tickles my nose. Just good.”

  Pollen, Kat thought. Many of the tiny Fae, banished from their own court, lived tucked inside human blossoms, made homes in fragrant, herb-drenched thickets and nests in piney glades. Lately, some of the sidhe-seers had taken to building diminutive wooden houses for them, painted bright colors. She’d half expected the earthy Spyrssidhe to protest the humanlike structures, but the other day she’d watched a couple—they mated for life—battle a surprised, hostile sparrow at their door, protecting their new abode.

  “Come, love, your bath is ready.”

  “Bubbles?”

  “Not tonight. Only on hair-washing nights.” Rae’s hair was so thick and curly, it was a chore to wash. They only did it every third night, and then bubbles in her bath were her reward for the time she had to sit while Kat detangled her hair.

  “Mommy,” Rae said, “my back itches. I can’t reach it.”

  Smiling, Kat held out her arms, and when Rae stepped into them, snuggling to her chest, she tugged her daughter’s shirt off over her head.

  “It itches bad.”

  “Turn around and let me see it, pumpkin,” Kat said.

  “I’m not a pumpkin. Today I’m a dragonfly.”

  “Well, then, little miss dragonfly, turn—”

  But Rae had already turned and bent forward. “Mommy,” she huffed, “itch!”

  “Did you lay on something today?”

  “I always lay on things.”

  “Like what? Rocks? Something sharp?”

  “Just things. Grass and stuff.”

  “But there might have been rocks in the grass.”

  “Don’t ’member any. Itch.”

  Kat raised a hand that trembled only slightly and scratched her daughter’s beautiful, smooth skin that was so much like Sean’s, fair yet with the slightest sun it turned golden.

  There were two identically sized, round, pink blemishes.

  One on each shoulder.

  Raise a little hell, raise a little hell, raise a little hell

  I WAKE UP GRUMPY AND discombobulated most of the time, unless I’m under attack. Then I wake up sleek, cool, and lethal. Lack of pressure turns me into a high velocity Ping-Pong ball that bounces off anything it encounters. Adversity molds my finest shape.

  Today was a disturbing anomaly. I woke feeling bright, focused, alert. More well-rested than I could recall being in years.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  I snatched my sword, vaulted from bed, and spun in a tight circle, seeking intruders. There were none. I was alone in my bedroom and the beast was gone.

  I forfeited a split second of situational awareness to seething about that, then resumed analyzing my inexplicably fine mood. There was no other explanation for it; there had to be a threat somewhere in my flat.

  I set to clearing every room, closet, and cubby.

  Nothing.

  I headed back to my room to search it a second time, and as I crossed the threshold, I felt it. I would have noticed it the first time but high alert focuses me like a laser on potential intruders, not innocuous doorways.

  I glanced down, squinting, peering in a sideways I’m-not-really-looking fashion. Wards can be tricky to see. Especially good ones, and this was exquisite: A slate so dark it was nearly indistinguishable from the black marble threshold into which it was carved, the ward had seven distinct layers of design, painstakingly embedded atop each other, plus the softly shimmering hint of two more layers I couldn’t make out. The more intently I studied them, the more elusive they became, shifting into indistinct designs.

  Oh, yes, damn fine wards. Protected by a spell of obscurity to prevent them from being duplicated; the mark of a true artisan. It took blood, sweat, and time to work such a spell into cold marble, plus skill I don’t possess.

  I moved to the windows. Located the same wards at each sill.

  The beast had draped his version of a well-worn quilt around me before he’d left.

  I recognized the elaborate symbols and runes. They’re etched at thresholds of Barrons Books & Baubles and there isn’t a Faery in all existence that can cross them. Possibly not even Mac, unless he wove it with an exception for her, which would have required her blood as well.

  Did that mean my cruelly starved visitor was Jericho Barrons? And, if so, where did he go and why? What did he think, my flat was a convenient Stop N Go where he could pop in unannounced, get fed, then go tearing off without a word, thinking to appease me with the gift of a few wards?

  Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful for them. I’m incapable of working such formidable magic myself. Their presence made Sanctuary infinitely more valuable to me. I now had a flat with a room that was safe from the sifting Fae who could simply appear smack in the middle of any of my flats, if they felt so inclined.

  But I didn’t want wards. I’d survived just fine without them for two years. I wanted answers.

  I wanted my beast back.

  I wanted to no longer be the only supercar revving my engine in Dublin. I wanted the entire primal fleet of growling, high-performance Lambos and Ferraris and big, black, badass military Humvees making thunder in the streets of my city.

  Besides, I’d pretty much convinced myself the beast was Ryodan. Not from a wealth of empirical data, but an unshakable gut feeling. I’d thought he’d stay. I’d wake up and find him here. We’d catch up. Get mad at each other. It’d be like old times.

  Not.

  My bright, alert, true-north-pointing mood took a steep nosedive south. Fuming, I stalked into the bathroom, muttering beneath my breath. I’d lived two long years without a single glimpse of the Nine and when I finally got one of them back, he’d snuck off while I was sleeping. After everything I’d done for him.

  I’m rarely—okay, never—a houseguest, but if I was, I’d offer both a hello and a goodbye. Especially if my host had saved my life.

  The Nine drive me batshit crazy.

  Still, the beast might be floating around Dublin somewhere.

  After brushing my teeth and scraping my t
angled hair back into a messy ponytail—not about to brush it, time was of the essence—I tugged on black combat pants and stuffed the many zippered pockets and pouches with weapons, then tucked my Glock in my waistband. I fastened a belt around my waist that became three different weapons and hooked a choker at my neck that became a fourth. Slid on a cuff that concealed razors.

  I pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and boots, gloved up, Duck-Taped my neck, slid my sword over my back, and headed for the kitchen to gulp down protein and fat while scanning my text messages.

  As I hurried for the door I called out to Shazam, telling him to catch up with me ASAP, that I loved and missed him and would enormously appreciate his extraordinarily acute sense of smell that was so vastly superior to mine, and would he please join me on an adventure today? His recent, long absences were really worrying me.

  Then, with thunder in my step that held belligerence I didn’t bother to conceal, I exploded into the fog-kissed Dublin morning, woman on a mission.

  Hunt beast.

  I prowled the streets, scanning my surroundings up, down, and sideways, sniffing the air, listening intently, while tallying my priorities for the day.

  Rainey had texted while I was sleeping, letting me know she’d found a home, not only for Sara Brady and her siblings but two other orphaned families. No children were placed until I inspected their new homes myself. I won’t save innocents only to lose them to another’s corruption.

  In my teens, I’d have also prepped a Dani Daily about recent events, but Dublin had a paper again and, these days, I merely jotted notes, snapped photos, and left the info outside their offices down by the O’Connell Post Office. They’d proven reliable about printing the things I considered important so I stuck to my gracious noncompete. I didn’t get a byline but at least the news got out there.

  Also on my list was book shopping. Since my bookstore of choice, with its kickass motto—You want it, we’ve got it, and if we don’t, we’ll find it—was MIA, I was going to have to patronize Bane’s Bibliotech & Bagels (seriously—copy much? Get your own original thought) with its concrete floors, stark fluorescent lights, dog-eared, smelly, secondhand, over-priced books, and even more overpriced café.