These are the same offices we moved into five years ago when, on graduation night, we packed up and all but fled Peel Academy, our boarding school, for something better. Our office space still holds that same excited, desperate feel it did then, back when the two of us were running—me from my past, and Temper, her destiny—and eager to make something new for ourselves.
I smile when I see the check from my last assignment on my desk. Dropping my stuff, I slide into my chair and grab the check, stuffing it into my purse. I hope Mickey, the shitty son, is treating his mother right. It’s a privilege to have one at all.
Kicking my heels up on my desk, I turn on my computer. While I wait for it to come to life, I flip through messages on my office phone.
One is from a former target, a stalker by the name of Sean who’d been following one of my clients home. Both Temper and I had to get involved in the case, and we clearly left a lasting impression, judging by all his colorful language. I delete the message and move onto the next.
The following three messages are from potential clients. I slide a legal pad over to me and grab a pen, jotting down the names and contact information they leave behind.
And then there’s the final message.
My muscles seize up when I hear the warm, gravelly voice. “Baby girl, I’m not breaking up with you. Not over this. When I get back, we’ll talk about it.”
My back goes ramrod straight.
No, no, no.
“Until then,” the message continues, “I’ve pulled some strings and moved the Bargainer up on the Wanted List to Top Priority.” A.k.a., top ten.
Shit.
This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Eli taking my mess and making it his own.
As soon as my computer loads, I open up the Politia’s website, moving to their Most Wanted List.
The list goes all the way down to a hundred, but the top ten most wanted criminals are front and center, their photo right next to their name.
Coming in at number three on the list: The Bargainer (real name unknown).
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, kicking the file cabinet next to me.
I don’t know why I’m so bothered. The Bargainer can handle his own shit, and I can handle my own shit. Or I could, until I got involved with an alpha-fucking-werewolf.
My eyes move to the sketch of Des’s face. The Politia doesn’t even have a photo of him, and the picture itself … he could be anyone. The only thing they got right are his silver eyes and white hair. Which, to be fair, is enough.
I click on the link, wondering just how many female officers Eli had to butter up for the Bargainer to make the top ten. Des has always been on the Wanted List, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him make it this high.
The page that opens is full of his stats and a more detailed description. And unlike the drawing of Des, these seem to be accurate, down to his sleeve of tattoos. They didn’t, however, mention his pointed ears or his wings.
Don’t know he’s a fairy.
But still, what they do have is damning.
I open the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the bottle of Johnnie Walker.
Today is one of those days.
Temper comes in five minutes later. When she sees me drinking, she motions for the bottle. Reluctantly, I slide it across the desk.
“What’s going on, chick?” she asks, taking a drink. She knows that when Johnnie comes out, something bad has happened.
I suck on my teeth and shake my head.
She cringes at the burn of whiskey, waiting for me to say more.
I glance down at my bracelet. “My past caught up with me.”
She slides the bottle back my way. “Need me to hurt someone?” she asks, dead serious.
She and I are as close as friends come, and we have been since senior year of high school. And at the core of our friendship is a pact of sorts: nothing’s going to drag her towards the future she doesn’t want, and nothing’s going drag me back into the past I’ve worked to forget.
Nothing.
I huff out a laugh. “Eli’s already beaten you to it.”
“Eli?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Girl, I’m hurt. Hoes before bros, remember?”
“I didn’t ask him to get involved. I broke up with him, and then he got involve—”
“What!” She grabs the table. “You broke up with him? When were you going to tell me?”
“Today. I was going to tell you today.”
She’s shaking her head. “Bitch, you should’ve called me.”
“I was busy ending a relationship.”
She falls back into her seat. “Shit girl, Eli’s going to stop giving us a discount.”
“That’s what your most upset by?” I say, taking another swig of whiskey.
“No,” she says. “I’m happy you grew a vagina and broke up with him. He deserves better.”
“I’m going to throw this bottle of whiskey at you.”
She holds her hands up to placate me. “I’m kidding. But seriously, are you okay?”
I barely stop myself from looking at my computer screen again.
I exhale. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue.”
I’m taking a healthy swig of wine when my back door opens and the Bargainer walks in.
“Trying to drink your feelings away again, cherub?”
My heart gallops at the sight of him in his black fitted shirt and faded jeans.
I set down my wine glass and the book I was reading. “Again?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “How would you know how I cope?”
“Rumors,” he says blandly.
I narrow my eyes. “Have you been keeping tabs on—?”
My voice cuts off as the Bargainer crosses the room, grabs my glass of wine, and makes his way to the kitchen sink. He dumps its contents down the drain.
“Hey!” I say, “That’s expensive Burgundy.”
“I’m sure your pocketbook is suffering,” he says. There’s not an ounce of remorse in his voice.
I follow him into my kitchen. “You shouldn’t waste good wine on principle.”
He moves away from the sink, and I gasp when I see my bottle of wine levitate off my coffee table and cross the living room and into the kitchen, landing in the Bargainer’s waiting hand.
He turns the bottle on its head, and I hear the sound of precious wine chugging out of it and into the porcelain basin of my sink.
“What are you doing?” I’m too shocked at his audacity to do more than gape as the last of the wine swirls down the drain.
“This is not how you solve your problems,” the Bargainer says, shaking the now-empty wine bottle at me.
The first flare of righteous indignation replaces my shock. “I was drinking a glass of wine, you psycho, not the whole damn bottle.”
He drops the bottle into the sink, and I jump when I hear glass shatter. “You’re in denial.” Des’s eyes are angry. He grabs my wrist roughly, never taking his eyes off of me.
He fingers a bead.
“What are you doing?” The first stirrings of trepidation speed up my heart rate.
“Taking care of you,” he says, staring at me with the same intensity.
I can’t help it, I glance down at his hands because his expression is making me squirm. Beneath his fingers a bead disappears.
I raise my eyebrows. Whatever repayment he just asked for, I know I’m not going to like it.
“Are you going to tell me what that bead just cost me?”
“You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Chapter 7
November, eight years ago
Ever since the Bargainer took me out last week—for coffee and pastries of all things—we’ve spent half of our evenings in my dorm, and
the other half inside a bakery on the other side of the Isle of Man.
He’s been careful to keep things platonic, despite the fact that he’s been paying for the coffee and French macaroons I order every time we visit Douglas Café, the Isle of Man’s best bakery. Or that he’s spent most nights over the last month hanging with me.
This situation isn’t right.
I don’t want it to change.
“So, what’s your real name?” I pester him for the hundredth time.
Tonight we’re hanging in my room. I’m lying in my bed, the credits of the movie we watched rolling down my laptop screen, which is situated next to me on the bed.
A part of me dreads turning and seeing the Bargainer’s face. He has to be bored, sitting in my uncomfortable foldout chair and watching Back to the Future on a tiny screen between us.
But when I turn, I don’t see a bored man. I see a confused one. His brows are pinched, and his lips form a thin line.
“Bargainer?”
“Why did you kill your stepfather?” he asks, his gaze moving to mine.
I sit straight up, my reaction immediate. Old fear pounds through me, accompanied by unwanted memories. My stepfather’s sour breath, the smell of his expensive cologne.
“Why would you ask me that?” I don’t quite manage to keep the emotion out of my voice.
He leans back in my chair, threading his hands behind his head. One of his feet rests on his other thigh. The man doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon.
“I think I’m entitled to some sort of explanation,” he says, “seeing as how I’m your accomplice.”
I swallow. I never should’ve bargained for this man’s presence.
I’m a stupid, stupid girl.
“You’re not going to get one,” I say. It’s not that I don’t trust him—because I do, even though I shouldn’t.
But the idea of sharing that part of my past with the Bargainer … I feel queasy at the mere thought.
He watches me for a long moment, then his lips curl into a smile. “Tell me, little siren, are you getting a taste for secrets?” He looks almost proud.
But then it evaporates, and he turns serious again.
He leans those scary, ripped arms of his on his thighs. “Whatever he did to you, it’s—”
“Stop it. Stop talking.” I stand, my laptop nearly falling off my bed in my mad dash to get off the mattress.
The Bargainer knows. Not that it would take a genius to figure out why a seemingly innocent teen would attack her stepfather.
I silently beg him not to push any further. I know I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve, that my broken, battered soul is staring out through my eyes.
The Bargainer’s form blurs. At some point I must’ve started crying, but I only notice it now, when I can no longer clearly see him.
He curses under his breath, shakes his head. “I need to go.”
I blink away the moisture in my eyes.
He’s leaving? Why do I feel so desolate at that thought when a moment ago I was wishing just the opposite?
As he gets up, the Bargainer’s gaze follows the tears that slip down my cheeks, and I can see his regret. That eases my pain. Somewhat.
Just when I think he’s going to apologize, he doesn’t.
He says something better.
“Desmond Flynn.”
“What?” I say.
The air is already moving, shifting as his magic takes hold. “My name.”
It’s only after he leaves that I realize he never added a bead for the information.
Present
Des doesn’t tell me where he’s taking me, nor what task he has in mind for tonight. As the two of us soar over the ocean, all I know is that he’s heading down the coast, rather than inland.
Now that I’ve gotten somewhat used to flying in the Bargainer’s arms, I stare out at the glittering sea and the twinkling stars. Dark though it is, the view is something to behold. I can smell the salt in the air, and the wind weaving through my hair. It makes me yearn for something I’ve forgotten—or lost.
I turn my head inward, my eyes falling to the column of Des’s throat and the underside of his strong jaw.
A fairy is carrying me off into the night. That sounds like all the stories I’ve ever read of them.
Up my eyes climb, to those beautiful, familiar features of his. He glances down, catching me staring at him. His eyes are sly, but whatever he sees in mine causes them to soften.
My heart lodges in my throat. I tear my gaze away before that look can get under my skin.
We turn away from the coast, heading out towards sea.
What could possibly be out there for us?
I find out a short while later, when out of the coastal mist, Catalina Island comes into view. Sitting off the coast of L.A., Catalina is a place where locals go for weekend vacations. Most of the island is uninhabited. We pass Avalon, the island’s main city, moving along the edge of Catalina’s coastline.
We curve around the bend in the cliffs, and a white stone house comes into view, lit up amidst the darkness. It becomes clear by the way the Bargainer maneuvers us in the air that this is our destination.
I drink in the sight of it. It’s perched near a cliff’s edge, much like mine, the back of the house giving way to a terraced yard that ends right at the edge of the property.
The closer we get, the more magnificent the place appears. It’s made of glass and white stone, and as we circle to the front, I catch a brief glimpse of the elaborate gardens that surround it.
The Bargainer glides over the front lawn, and with one final dip, we touch down.
I step out of his arms and look around. “What is this place?” It looks like something out of a dream. A palatial house set at the edge of the world.
“Welcome to my home,” Des says.
“Your home?” I say, incredulous. “You live here?”
“From time to time.”
I never thought of the Bargainer as having a place of his own, but of course he does. He visits earth often enough.
I take in the climbing bougainvillea and the gurgling fountain set into the front yard. Beyond it, his house stands majestic.
“This place is unbelievable,” I say. Suddenly my little home seems dingy and dilapidated by comparison.
He glances around, and I get the impression he’s trying to see his house through my eyes. “I’m glad you like it. You’re my first guest.”
I balk at this. “Really?”
First he shows me his wings. Now he shows me his hideaway. Both of these revelations are obviously important, but I can’t figure out the Bargainer’s motives.
“Does that make you uncomfortable?” he asks, his voice dropping low. “My bringing you here to my home?”
I get the distinct impression that he wants me to be uncomfortable.
He’s doing good job of it too.
“Curious, not uncomfortable,” I say, challenging him with my eyes. After all, he’d been in my home hundreds of times when I was younger.
The corner of his lip quirks, his eyes darkening with whatever schemes are brewing in that mind of his. He extends a hand forward. “Then come inside, we have much to discuss.”
I move through his entryway slowly, taking in the polished wooden floorboards and gleaming metal wall fixtures. No iron, I notice.
My brows furrow when I see two Venetian masks hanging along the wall. I used to have an identical pair back at Peel Academy. I feel goosebumps break out along my skin.
It means nothing.
A series of panoramic photographs line the entryway and spill into the living room, each one taken from a different corner of the world. The bright bazaars of Morocco, the austere mountains of Tibet, the
red tile roofs of Cuzco. I’ve seen them all in person, thanks to the man at my side.
I can feel Des’s eyes on me, watching my every reaction.
Tentatively, I make my way into the living room, a worn leather couch rests on a shaggy fur rug. His coffee table is a giant wooden chest, the brass buckles dull with age.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Callie.”
I love your place.
I want to bury my bare feet into that shaggy rug and feel the fur tickle my toes. I want to sprawl out on his couch and hang out with the Bargainer like we used to.
“I never realized how close you lived,” I say instead.
His eyes narrow, like he knows I didn’t speak my mind.
I crane my neck and try to peer down a darkened hallway.
“Want a tour of the place?” he asks, leaning against one of his walls. With his low-slung jeans and windswept hair, he looks like he invented the word sexiness, which is really annoying when you’re determined to harden your heart against someone.
I’m nodding before I think better of it.
So much for hardening my heart.
And so the Bargainer shows me his house, from the fancy kitchen to the guestroom I so recently furnished. The only two rooms he doesn’t show me are one, the room that contains a portal to the Otherworld—the land of the fae—and two, his bedroom, a.k.a., the two most interesting rooms in his house.
We end up back in his kitchen, an area of his house that, while much more polished than mine, is nonetheless a place you want to linger.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, idly opening a copper canister he has sitting against the wall. At first I think I’m staring at flour, but when it catches the light, it shimmers.
Fairy dust?
Instead of answering, Des sets the canister I hold aside and grabs my wrist. He runs a hand over my bracelet. “Tonight I want a truth from you,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell me, cherub, what have you been up to in the last seven years?”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I can feel the magic compelling me to talk. It’s not pushy like it was last night, because there is no time limit to this, but it does coat my tongue, beckoning me to speak.