A Strange Hymn (The Bargainer Book 2)

  “You should really remember that, cherub,” Des says, “especially when you meet some of the elites from other realms. They’ll find you just as attractive as all of these fairies do—perhaps more so because you’re mine—but they will try to mask whatever they feel with disgust or some other emotion made to make you feel small.”

  These fae sound like charming people …

  Wait.

  I glance at Des. “When I meet other elites?”

  Chapter 11

  No, I’m not about to meet other elites.

  Yes, I likely will at some point in time.

  No, not tonight.

  Yes, Des cares about my feelings.

  No, caring about my feelings won’t get me out of meeting said elites when the time comes.

  Apparently meeting important fae is part of this whole soulmate package thingy I signed on for.

  Bleh.

  If I could live my life without meeting another high-powered fae, I’d consider it a win. Des is more than enough.

  Des stops me in front of a tavern, and I give it a good once-over. It looks just like the others. Same carved wood façade, same bright lights strung up over its awning, same gummy look that suggests the place has endured decades of beer spills.

  Honestly, this is my kind of bar. Fun, no frills, good alcohol. The only drawbacks to this situation are that one, we’re in the Otherworld, not earth, and two, I can’t drink, thanks to a repayment Des took from me weeks ago—oh, and three, I’m walking into a bar still wearing my training leathers. At this point, the outfit is more leather cutouts than actual leather.

  The Bargainer opens the door for me, and the two of us step inside the pub.

  One by one the rowdy patrons notice us. Within seconds, the place goes deathly silent.

  “Um, was that supposed to happen?” I whisper to Des. He doesn’t bother responding.

  At the far end of the room, a chair scrapes back, and a huge, hulking fairy steps forward—though it’s a bit of a stretch to call him a fairy, at least by my own definition of the word.

  The man’s scarred face, torn leathers, and wild red hair make me think he’s less a fairy and more a pirate.

  His golden-brown eyes are harsh as he stalks towards me and Des. No one else in the establishment moves, all eyes riveted to us.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bastard?” he asks, his voice gravelly.

  My eyebrows shoot up. I don’t think that, aside from me, I’ve heard anyone insult the Bargainer to his face.

  A different sort of unsettling silence now cloaks the room, like someone lit a match over a pile of gunpowder, and everyone is preparing themselves for the explosion to come.

  And then, like something from a movie, both men laugh and embrace each other in a bone-crushing hug.

  Whaaa?

  I stare at them incredulously.

  For the life of me, I’ll never understand men, no matter what world they come from.

  The roguish fairy pulls away to look my mate over. “How the hell are you, Desmond?”

  Desmond. No wonder the whole room went still. These people recognize their king. He must’ve lifted whatever enchantment he placed on himself right before we stepped inside the bar.

  Des nods, a sly smile spreading across his face. “Real good, my brother. Real good.”

  “Ha! I know that smile,” the redheaded fairy says, clapping him on the back. “Whose fortune have you swindled this time? Or,” his eyes swivel to me, “is it a wife you’ve stolen? It’s been awhile since you last brought a girl here, you scoundrel.”

  Oooh, cringy-cringe. I could’ve lived without knowing that.

  To me, the redheaded man says, “Beware of this one,” he shakes Des’s shoulder. “He likes to ruin his women before he cuts them loose.”

  Ruin his women?

  A hot wave of jealousy rises in me.

  Des’s expression sobers up. “It’s not like that. At all.” His eyes land heavily on mine, and I think he’s trying to beam me an apology.

  I suppose this situation is only fair. After all, Des had to quietly endure seven years of me hooking up with other men while he waited for me to unknowingly repay my final wish back. I can grit my teeth through a little of Des’s own dating history.

  The redheaded fairy reassess me. This time, he must notice something he hadn’t before because he says, “She’s not just any girl, is she?”

  “No.” Des is still flashing me an intense, heated look.

  He stares at the Bargainer for a moment longer, and then his eyebrows rise. “Oh—oh,” he says, “this is the girl you’ve been searching for?”

  Des nods.

  The fairy turns to me again, and he sweeps me up into a hug that practically chokes the breath out of me. “Welcome to the family then,” he says, his voice rumbly. “My sincerest apologies go out to you for getting stuck with the Bastard for a mate.”

  He finally lets me go, looking from me to Des like a proud father.

  This is so weird.

  “Ah, me,” he says, sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils. “This changes things for the better.” He claps Des on the side of his arm. Then, seeming to remember that the two of us are just standing there in the threshold of the bar, he says, “Well, c’mon, let me get the Bastard and his bride a drink. It’s the least I can do.”

  I’m no one’s bride, but I don’t bother correcting Redhead. I’m living with Des, making love to Des, and I’m bonded to Des. A ring and a piece of paper seem like superfluous details at this point.

  “Why does he keep calling you ‘Bastard’?” I ask Des when his roguish friend leads us toward one of the grimy tables.

  The noise of the tavern escalates once more.

  “Because I am one,” Des says.

  “I thought you knew your father,” I say. In the book I’d read, hadn’t it stated that the King of the Night was born into the royal harem? Wouldn’t he have known his father if this were the case?

  “I found out who he was when I was a teenager,” he says. “Before that,” Des continues, “I was referred to as ‘the Bastard’.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “I’ve called you that,” I say, mortified. I had never considered the term as an actual label.

  Des’s friend stops at a table, and Des and I slide in.

  “Cherub,” he says, his voice low, “I assure you, it’s fine.”

  I don’t feel fine about it …

  The Bargainer’s redheaded friend sits down across from us, thumping the table. “Three meads,” he calls out to the bartender at the back of the room.

  When his attention returns to us, his eyes twinkle. “Desmond, my old friend, you’ve not officially introduced me to your mate.”

  Des leans an arm on the gummy wooden surface. He looks over at me. “Callie,” he gestures to Redhead, “this no good son of a bitch is Phaedron. Phaedron, this is my mate, Callypso.”

  Phaedron takes my hand. “It truly is a pleasure,” he says, his voice turning serious.

  Not knowing what else to do, I nod, giving his hand a squeeze. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Phaedron is clearly another one of Des’s old friends, which is baffling to me. I’m still getting used to the fact that someone like the Bargainer has friends. And technically, more of them than me.

  That’s somehow really depressing.

  A new group of fairies enter the bar. Most are women, though there’s two men amongst them. They walk through the room, their outfits low cut and largely transparent. All of them move from table to table, their hands gliding over the shoulders and arms of many of the patrons.

  Phaedron sees me staring. “Prostitutes,” he says.

  I give him a look. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  I swear I have a filter, I just don’t always use it.

  Phaedron breaks out into a smile, eyeing me up and down. “And the Bastard found his match.” He leans forward. “Tell me, Desmond, are all human women this feisty on earth?”
>
  Des flashes him a rakish smile. “Only the best ones.”

  “Aye!” Phaedron laughs. “And they’re firebrands in bed!”

  I raise my eyebrows at that.

  The conversation is interrupted by the bartender, who drops off our drinks.

  I make a moue of disappointment as I stare at the glass of amber liquid set in front of me.

  Still can’t drink.

  On the other side of the room, one of the patrons whistles. “My king!” he calls out, leaning back in his seat. “When are you going to come over and greet an old friend?”

  A slow, lazy grin snakes across Des’s face. “I was hoping to avoid that fate,” he shouts back.

  I watch all of this in wonder. I’m seeing yet another side of Des, one that’s crude and raw and rough around the edges. I don’t say it, but right now he reminds me of all the Politia officers and bounty hunters I worked with as a private investigator. I’m not surprised to find I like this side of him a great deal despite his crassness.

  The fairy lets out a cackling laugh. “Aye, you still might. My arse is too ancient to leave this seat.”

  “But not too ancient to get you here,” Des notes.

  The fairy cackles again, his friends joining in.

  I can tell Des wants to go talk to what appears to be yet another friend.

  I bump him with my shoulder. “Go.” I nod to his friend.

  Des hesitates, and then, making a decision, he stands, grabbing his drink. “I’ll just be a minute,” he promises.

  I watch him as he saunters away, kicking out a spare chair next to the fairy and straddling it backwards.

  “What have you done to my friend?” Phaedron asks.

  I give him a quizzical look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Phaedron shakes his head. “He waited until you gave him permission before he got up to talk. And since you two entered, there have been at least two different opportunities Desmond could’ve—would’ve—bargained something away from you if he wanted to.”

  I furrow my brows. “He makes bargains here? In the Otherworld?”

  “Oh, aye. All the ferking time. Less now of course—because he’s king. But back when he still lived here, he could rob the green from grass, he was that good.”

  I know just how good Des can be.

  “I think he already had plenty of leverage over me.” I hold up my wrist, showing Phaedron the rows and rows of my black beads. “Each one of these represents a favor I owe Des.”

  He squints at the bracelet. “So that’s how he caught you. Sly devil.”

  I lean forward, laying my hands flat on the table. “That’s how I caught him,” I correct.

  Phaedron barks out a laugh. “Desmond is more of a scoundrel than I give him credit for if he let you believe that. No way in hell he’d let so many favors go unpaid unless he planned on keeping you—either with your consent or against your will.”

  Against my will?

  My thoughts must be written on my face because Phaedron explains. “You must not know much about fairies,” he says. “No fairy would let his mate get away just because she put up a little protest.”

  That’s more than a little horrifying.

  “Des isn’t like that.”

  Phaedron snorts. “The King of the Night?” Our eyes move to where Des sits, laughing and slapping the back of some fae with several tattoos on his face. “He’s the worst of them.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I say. There have been a few times where Des’s fae side got the better of him, but he always snapped out of it, and always for my sake.

  Phaedron eyes me up and down. “Maybe you just haven’t resisted him enough to push him to the edge.”

  That shuts me up. I never was one for playing hard to get when it came to the Bargainer. It had always been Des for me, and he and I both knew that.

  “Trust me,” Phaedron continues, “the man is desperate for you. He might not say it, but …” His eyes return to Des, whose own gaze has inadvertently found mine. The Bargainer gives me a wink when he notices me staring. “Put up some true resistance,” Phaedron says, “and you’ll see. He won’t let you go.”

  How is it that one sentence can fill you both with such satisfaction and such dread? More than anything I love the idea that Des wants to be mine every bit as much as I want to be his. But to think that he’d force me to stay at his side—that there’s a part of him that would cast aside my own wants and needs—that’s frightening.

  That’s not Des. It’s not. But I decide I don’t want to argue Phaedron on this point all evening.

  “How do you and Des know each other?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Phaedron takes a swig of his mead before responding. “He joined the Angels of Small Death when I was its leader.”

  My eyebrows hike up. It’s not like I’m surprised Phaedron was the leader of a gang, or that Des became close with him. I think I’m most surprised about the fact that Des, a fae king, and I are here in this bar on Barbos, hanging out with Phaedron, who is probably a career criminal.

  Hell, I’m probably sitting in a room full of criminals. And the King of the Night isn’t punishing them, he’s catching up with them.

  Phaedron leans forward. “Now tell me: do you have a sister—?”

  Someone screams, thankfully interrupting us. The table in the corner topples over, mead splashes everywhere, and the previously seated fairies now lunge at each other.

  Everyone who’s not in the fight swivels their gaze to Des.

  In response to the growing eyes on him, Des raises his glass in a silent toast to the room.

  A triumphant shout goes up, and suddenly, it’s not just the corner table of fairies who are fighting. Fae from nearby tables get involved. Glass shatters, tables break, and fists fly.

  Those involved in Barbos’s skin trade scream, slipping off of laps to move to the outside edges of the room.

  “It’s not a truly successful night until at least one fight breaks out,” Phaedron notes, grabbing his drink as he stands.

  Des comes over. “Time to go, cherub.”

  “You both are welcome to come over to my place. I’ll be heading over there in another hour or so,” Phaedron says.

  “We’ve got plans, but thanks, my brother.”

  “You take care of your little mate,” Phaedron says to Des, winking my way. “Don’t give me a reason to come after you. I can still kick your ass. And for Gods’ sakes man, next time stay for a bit longer. I barely had enough time to start corrupting your girl.”

  “Fair enough,” Des says, clasping his hand. “Take care of yourself.”

  We part ways with the redheaded fairy to the sounds of breaking glass and shouting.

  The streets of Barbos are just as rowdy. More fairies in the flesh trade are out, flirting with disreputable men and women. There are a few more fights on the street, a group of fairies catcalling to a woman that blows them a kiss, and another who’s standing on a rooftop, breathing fire from his lips, the inferno taking the shape of a dragon. And then there’s everyone else—fairies dancing on balconies, flying drunkenly from building to building, or passed out on the city streets.

  We pass by tiki torches—the closest thing this city has to gaslights—and the flickering firelight dances along Des’s face, making me feel like I’m in another time as well as another place.

  Des takes a deep breath of air. “There’s nothing quite like Barbos,” he says, sounding invigorated.

  What had Phaedron said earlier? That Des used to live here? I could easily imagine the Bargainer haunting these streets, making deals with drunks, thriving in the night. If Des were a city, he’d be Barbos. The lights, the chaos, the criminality, the sexuality, the excitement. It’s all a part of who he is.

  Most of the stores we pass are bars, brothels or gambling halls. On the sidewalks in front of them are street vendors selling their wares. Des stops us in front of one.

  I glance down at the items laid out. br />
  “Knives?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

  “Daggers, swords, maces, axes,” he corrects, pointing to each different weapon. Like there’s some sort of difference to them. “I figure now that I’m teaching you how to fight, you should carry your own weapon.”

  My eyes slide from him back to the blades. I’ve never exactly been a weapons kind of lady—that’s more Temper’s thing—and looking at all those sharp objects now, I find I’m still not really one.

  The woman selling the weapons begins explaining the pros and cons of different grips and blade lengths. It all turns into background noise. When I look at them, I see blood and violence and memories I’ve been running from.

  Des leans in close. “You are no victim, cherub,” he reminds me. “Not even here in the Otherworld. Pick a weapon. Make the next person that crosses you regret it.”

  Those are the devil’s words, wicked words, but the siren in me rallies at them. Hell, the broken girl in me rallies at them.

  I am no one’s victim.

  I begin studying the weapons in earnest, comparing the leather handles to the metal ones, the curving blades to those with jagged edges.

  “Move your hand over them,” the fairy behind the table suggests. “The right one will call out to you.”

  I shake my head, ready to tell her I’m not a fairy and that their magic will be useless on me, but Des takes my hand and steadies it over the table, my palm facing down towards the weapons.

  His meaning is clear: give it a try.

  When he releases my wrist, I take a deep breath.

  This is not going to work.

  I begin to move my arm anyway, sweeping it over the table of wares.

  “Slower,” the seller instructs.

  Setting my skepticism aside, I slow my movements.

  At first, nothing happens.

  Surprise, surprise.

  Just as I’m about to turn to Des to tell him so, I feel it. It’s just a little tug, but it draws my attention back to the table.

  Alright, so this particular brand of fae magic might work on me after all.

  Like a magnet my hand moves to the right side of the table. It slows, then stops.

  I move my hand away to see what weapon I unwittingly picked out.