Beguiled (29 page)

“There are always impediments to goals. That’s what makes them worth striving for.” She threaded her fingers together atop her knees, more to stop her hands from shaking than anything else. Tipping her head to one side, she allowed her fall of golden hair to slide off her shoulders in a silken move designed to seduce.

Corran remained unmoved.

“The only goal my people have is to walk among the humans again,” he said, and for the first time displayed an emotion. Longing. “It has been far too long since we feasted and we grow tired of the constant hunger.”

Their need for souls, the essence of innocence, was what would drive them, Mab knew. But it was only humanity they endangered and she cared little for that miserable species. Let the Sluagh feast and when they were finished, Mab would rule
both
dimensions, Fae and human; then she would move on, eventually laying claim to all the worlds.

But she kept her thoughts to herself and said only, “I know.”

He walked toward her, his steps as silent as before. “You may be the path to freedom. It is the only reason we did not kill you the moment you entered this place.”

She swallowed hard and made a silent promise to herself that all who had had a part in her downfall, forcing her to deal with such as this, would pay with their immortal lives. “I know that, too.”

“Yet you trust me?”

Mab smiled up at him. “No, I’m not so foolish as that, Corran.”

“A wise queen.” He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and ice crystals formed inside her.

He waited, watching her, and she knew that he was aware of what his touch was doing to her. The aching cold. The bitter frost settling over her bones.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Very wise. See that you remain so.”

He left her then and Mab closed her eyes with a sigh of relief. The cold within her was hideous and only slowly began to ebb.

She knew that if he had touched her for much longer, she would have frozen completely.

An ice statue of a former queen.

She wrapped her arms around her shivering body and stared out the window as sleet tapped at the glass with eager fingers. Those responsible for this humiliation would pay.

“Your mother is going to
kill
you,” Maggie said for what had to be the twentieth time in the last five minutes.

“You don’t have to tell her,” Eileen pleaded, her gaze sliding from her aunt to the blond boy standing tall and straight beside her.

“Oh, yes I do.” Maggie’s gaze slid from the two guilt-stricken teenagers in front of her to their surroundings. Bezel had said lakes.

What he hadn’t told her was, the lake waters were aquamarine, so clear and beautiful a color, Maggie was sure she would never be able to capture it in a painting. The shoreline was pristine white sand, dotted with what must have been the Faery equivalent of palm trees, long pale green fronds rustling in the warm, tropical breeze. White clouds fluffed their way across a cobalt sky and some really big birds wheeled in the air high above them.

Inia was a place Maggie would like to visit—sometime when she wasn’t, you know, fighting for her life or wearing a crown or chasing down a runaway teenager.

“It is my responsibility,” the boy said, his voice a deep rumble of sound that had Eileen looking up at him with stars in her eyes. “I will confess to your sister, my Queen. And make all things right again.”

“Devon, is it?” Maggie asked.

He nodded.

“Trust me when I tell you that confession is not going to make all things right.”

He frowned and shifted position, his booted feet sliding on the sand. “We did nothing wrong.”

Oh God, Maggie really hoped he was telling the truth about that. When she’d seen Eileen disappear with a gorgeous Faery, all she’d been able to think was
History repeating itself.
Years ago, Gran had slipped away with Jasic and come home pregnant. Nora was now pregnant by Quinn. And Maggie had her own Fae lover to deal with.

Eileen was just
way
too young to be doing . . .
anything
with a Faery. Even if he was completely cute.

Eileen was watching Devon and Devon was watching Maggie.

He stood about five foot eight, had shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes that were almost the color of the lake stretching out behind them. He was wearing brown leather pants, a cream-colored, long-sleeved shirt and knee-high black boots. He was pretty much the stuff young girls’ dreams were made of.

He held himself tall and proud, with just a touch of arrogance that most teenage boys didn’t acquire until at least eighteen and there was a look in his eye that Maggie had become accustomed to seeing in Culhane’s.

With that thought firmly in mind, she asked, “Just how old are you, Devon?”

“Aunt Maggie!”

She ignored the outraged hiss from her niece and waited for an answer. Devon looked about sixteen, which was way too old to be hanging around a twelve-year-old. But Maggie had the sinking sensation that he was much older than she thought.

“It is all right, Eileen,” he said, with a reassuring nod. “The Queen has the right to demand any information she desires from her warriors.”

“You’re a
warrior
?”

“Isn’t that cool?” Eileen sighed.

He bowed at the waist, his blond hair falling forward. “A warrior in training, my Queen.”

“Okay, stop with the queen stuff for right now.” Maggie waited until he straightened up and looked her in the eye. “You’re in training. At the Conclave.”

“Aye,” he said, and damn if he didn’t sound like Culhane. Same arrogant, proud tone.

Were they born like that? Or was that attitude drilled into them during training? And did they start training as teenagers? Maggie didn’t think so.

“Let’s hear it, Devon,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “How old?”

“I will be four hundred in six months,” he told her.

Eileen sighed.

Maggie groaned. And she’d thought sixteen was too old for her niece. Good God. This was . . . well, it just wasn’t going to happen. Four hundred sounded old, but she knew Culhane had been around for thousands of years. So probably in the Fae world, Devon actually
was
a teenager. Good God. And human mothers thought
they
had it bad. Fae children had as long an adolescence as a golden retriever!

“Isn’t he something . . . ,” Eileen said wistfully.

“Yeah,” Maggie agreed. “He is
something
.” Eileen was about to turn into a puddle of goo, so Maggie reached out, grabbed the girl’s forearm and dragged her away from Devon’s side to stand next to her. She didn’t miss the fact that the two kids were still staring at each other with big, wide, googly eyes.

Stifling another groan, Maggie spoke up and waited until Devon was looking directly at her again to give him a good glare. “Okay, Devon, here’s the deal. No more sneaking around with Eileen. No more dropping by my house uninvited. No more drawing portals and whisking her off for minivacations.”

He looked mutinous.

Eileen sounded horrified when she moaned, “Aunt Maggie,
please
. . .”

“And here’s what happens if you don’t listen up,” Maggie said, wanting to make her threat very, very clear. “I catch you hanging around Eileen again, you’re out of the Conclave. Understand? You’ll be expelled. Or fired. Or . . . whatever the hell it is I’d have to do.”

His face actually paled.

Good. Her threat had hit home.

“So,” she asked, obviously unnecessarily, “we’re clear?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“I am
never
speaking to you again,” Eileen hissed.

“You said that already this morning,” Maggie told her, then glanced at Devon. “Draw a portal to my backyard, kiddo. And make it fast.”

He gave Eileen one last, soulful look before he did as he was told and an instant later, Maggie and Eileen were back at the Donovan house. Her niece took off in a mad huff for the back door. Maggie watched her go and spoke to Bezel. “So, how old’s your youngest?”

“Still just a kid. Six hundred next spring.”

Shaking her head, Maggie sighed. “Does he make you crazy?”

“Hey,” Bezel said, “teenagers’ll kill you.”

The trouble with rain was, Maggie thought early the next morning, if it came too soon after painting a window
...
if the decorations hadn’t had time to age and dry in the sun . . . your beautifully crafted holiday paintings tended to wash away.

And when one of Maggie’s best customers called at the crack of dawn to wail about losing half of her snow scene, Maggie had to gather up her paints and go in for a fix-it job.

Betty’s Beauties was a small hair salon on the edge of town, and Betty Bartosh, owner and head stylist, loved to decorate her windows for every holiday ever known. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, hell, Maggie had even once painted an oak on her glass for Arbor Day. So it was just good business to drive over to Betty’s place and touch up the paint washed away by last night’s storm.

The fact that Maggie was practically sleep-painting really didn’t figure into things. She’d been doing this for so long, she actually could have painted in her sleep. Which was a good thing, since she really wasn’t getting much sleep these days.

Two nights before, she’d been busy with Culhane. Last night, she’d spent most of her time refereeing the battle between Nora and her daughter. Nora hadn’t been happy to hear about Devon, boy warrior. And Eileen hadn’t been any happier to have her crush, crushed, so to speak. So the argument had raged for hours, with Quinn beating a hasty retreat and even Bezel and Claire hiding out.

Nobody could battle like a Donovan woman when she was pissed.

Still, the upshot was, Eileen was grounded, Nora was torn by guilt because she was breaking her daughter’s heart to protect her and Maggie . . . Maggie only wanted at least six straight hours of sleep.

But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

Betty was busy, what with every woman in town wanting her hair done before Christmas, so there was no one out front talking to Maggie as she did her work. Just the way she liked it. She replaced the snowy hill and the solitary sledder. She redid the snowman’s face, painting in a new carrot nose since the old one had shrunk to the size of one of those mutant baby carrots—and even snowmen knew it was all about size.

It felt good, she thought, to be doing something normal. Something from her everyday routine. Here, she wasn’t some fated queen or the scourge of demons everywhere. She was simply Maggie Donovan, glass painter.

The red ribbons on the door wreath were done and Maggie was finally finishing up refreshing the holly berries when she heard the voice behind her.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Damn it,” Maggie muttered. Her stomach turned into a sinking pit and her chin hit her chest. “I knew I was jinxing myself even as I thought about how nice it was to do normal things.”

“Who are you calling abnormal?”

Maggie focused on the reflection in the glass of the rogue Fae standing behind her. His human glamour made him appear to be about forty and balding. He was wearing a suit and tie and looked every inch the corporate-ladder type. If not for the silver flickering in his eyes, Maggie would have guessed he was a lawyer. Or maybe even an accountant.

Red eyes would have meant demon.

Silvery eyes meant Fae. Clearly a rogue Fae, though. One who was all too eager to kill Maggie.

She didn’t turn around to face him, since once she did that, game on. As tired as she was, Maggie knew she’d be at a disadvantage in a fight. But it wasn’t as if she had much of a choice here, either.

“Do we really have to do this? Couldn’t we just call each other names and leave it at that?”

The Fae in a lawyer suit checked his wristwatch, then shook his head. “Nope. Got an appointment in half an hour. Best to just do it now so I can make my meeting.”

Maggie dropped her paintbrush into the jar of tempera she was holding and looked through the window into Betty’s salon. Thankfully, no one was watching her.

“They can’t see us,” he told her impatiently. “Do you think I want witnesses? I live here, too, you know. I erected a glamour. It’s just you and me.”