Beta (32 page)

Deirdre had been assuming that the unseelie sidhe had done something awful to the kids, like making them into slaves or eating them or gods only knew what else, but they had only been taken to be playmates for Everton Stark’s children.

“But I found signs of the girls in the system,” Stark said. “I tracked their birth dates, their medical records… I kept finding them, but they vanished any time I got close.”

Surprise flitted through Rhiannon’s eyes. “You were always a good tracker.”

“What have you done with them?” he asked.

“I’ve sent them to a few schools over the years. I wanted them to have a sense of normalcy while everything came together.”

Stark shook his head slowly. “But why?”

The rest of the question didn’t need to be spoken.

Why hide from me?

“You don’t fit my needs, Everton Stark,” Rhiannon said. “I need to lead the Winter Court. That means I need a powerful mate to act as my consort. And you…” Her eyes flitted down his body. “You’re too weak.”

A shape moved on the other side of the portal. Even without being able to distinguish details in the darkness, Deirdre could tell that it was Melchior from his immense build and swagger.

He was coming back for his gun.

Stark’s skin rippled. Claws slid from his fingernails. “I can compel shifters, and my Beta tells me that members of your court used to be werewolves. I could rule with you.”

For the first time, Rhiannon looked at Deirdre.

The unseelie queen didn’t look impressed.

“Yes, what your Beta said is true,” Rhiannon said. “Many of the unseelie used to be werewolves. And that means—”

“You can have an Alpha,” Deirdre said. “This is all about controlling the gaeans. Isn’t it? But Rylie Gresham just announced that she’s going to hold an election to peacefully concede her status as Alpha. You don’t have to kill for it.”

“If you truly think that the gaeans will take a new leader without loss of life, you’re naïve,” Rhiannon said. Her nostrils flared as she scented the air. “You don’t smell like pack. There’s too much magic in you. What are you, fire-blood?”

“Pissed off,” she said. “That’s what I am.”

Deirdre shot.

Rhiannon stepped to the left, twisting her shoulders so that her body wasn’t in the path of Deirdre’s bullet. It vanished through the portal.

Vidya took the gunshot as a cue to attack. She swept forward, wings flaring, sword raised.

“Stop!” Stark roared.

He backhanded Deirdre. She felt it before she even saw the movement. The eruption of pain in her cheekbone and jaw radiated down her spine.

And then she was on the floor, watching Vidya’s attack from upside down as the room spun.

The unseelie queen lifted her hand lazily.

Vidya froze in midair, moments before she could deliver a deathblow with the Ethereal Blade.

It was as though she were instantly encased in steel shackles that gripped her midsection and arms, holding her steady. Her feathers rubbed against each other in a chorus of nauseating screeches.

“Nice company you keep, Ever. Some strange
thing
with fire-blood and a valkyrie,” Rhiannon said. “Even you know that shifters are useless. And your vaunted ability to control them is equally useless.”

Another wave of her hand.

Vidya smashed to the floor and didn’t get up again.

“
You
are useless,” Rhiannon said. She bit out every word, flinging them at Stark in blows far crueler than gunshots.

Melchior emerged from the portal. Snow clung to his ankles. The tips of his hair were frosted with ice. Still, he wore no shirt, and the scales on his biceps steamed with heat.

“Queen,” he said, bowing to her. She smiled and stroked his melting hair.

Deirdre scrambled to her feet, keeping out of Stark’s reach.

“But I’m Alpha,” Stark said. “I’m among the most powerful of shifters.”

Rhiannon laughed dryly. “It’s not possible for shifters to be able to control other shifters. Did you think it’s because you’re an unusual animal? No. You’re not the strongest of shifters. You’re the weakest of the sidhe.” She continued to stroke Melchior as he sank to his knees by her side, resting his cheek against her belly. “All of the sidhe have special talents, and your talent is…not that special.”

Even as he kneeled beside his queen, Melchior was watching Deirdre.

More specifically, he was watching the gun in her hand.

“You’re lying,” Stark said.

“You know me,” Rhiannon said. “You know I wouldn’t lie to hurt you. If you were useful, you’d be with me.” She shrugged. “But you’re not.”

“Then what do you want?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“To be honest, I’d been hoping you would remove Rylie Gresham for me. Since that hasn’t happened, I’ll have to kill you. You’re disruptive, Ever. You split the sentiments of gaeans. But once I’ve killed you, Rylie Gresham, and everyone in the Summer Court, all shifters will fall at Melchior’s feet and acknowledge him as Alpha—and they will recognize me as queen. I don’t want you there for that.”

Stark glared at Melchior and Rhiannon. Energy shivered around him, as though he were waiting to shapeshift.

Why was he waiting? They were face to face with the woman responsible for the deaths of so many in their pack. It was time to do what Stark did best and commit a couple of murders. Deirdre wouldn’t even hesitate this time. She’d shoot Melchior and Rhiannon where they stood.

But Stark didn’t look confident that he’d be able to win against them.

He didn’t even look like he wanted to.

Deirdre couldn’t trust Stark to make any kind of decision. Not where things were this fraught.

If she wanted to survive, she was going to have to fix this herself.

She slipped her Sig Sauer out of her belt, still loaded with iron bullets, and kept it behind her back. She kept her motions slow in an attempt to avoid attracting attention. It didn’t seem to matter—Rhiannon and Stark only had eyes for each other.

The queen stepped closer to Stark. “Shapeshift,” she said softly. “Change your form, Ever. Try to kill me. Try to kill Melchior. You know you want to.”

“Rhiannon,” Stark said, as though her name was the only cogent thought remaining.

“I’ll make this easy on you.” She gripped his chin, forcing his head down so that he had to focus on her. Rhiannon’s eyes suddenly seemed enlarged to fill her skull. They were endless glittering pits of sapphire. “Shapeshift. Now.”

Her voice was resonant, just like Stark’s when he compelled another shifter.

He groaned and doubled over. His skin rippled.

Oh hell.
Mrs. Stark shared a power with her husband.

Stark was transforming.

Melchior bared his sharp teeth in an expression that might have been a smile, and then he began to shift, too.

Deirdre didn’t need to see Melchior’s dragon form to know that it was going to be terrifying. Once he was covered with those scales on his arms, they would probably form an impenetrable armor. And how huge would a dragon shapeshifter become?

She didn’t want to find out.

Whipping the Sig high, Deirdre fired directly at Rhiannon Stark again, aiming for her temple.

The queen shifted her weight so that the bullet would pass by her. Magic blurred the space around her body.

An instant later, Deirdre fired Melchior’s revolver.

A fireball erupted from the muzzle of his gun, all three barrels instantly heating until it burned in Deirdre’s hand. The kickback knocked her on her butt.

Melchior was still shifting when she fired. The scales were spreading over his entire body, and his eyes were squeezed shut as he rode out the immense discomfort of his bones rearranging.

He didn’t see her shoot. And Rhiannon was too busy saving herself to be able to stop the fireball.

Fire smashed into Melchior’s chest. It engulfed him.

He shot backward with a roar, blowing through the icy portal. The force of his momentum made the whole room shake.

The fireball melted the ice around the portal. Water sloshed across the floor to drench Rhiannon’s feet. “Melchior!” she cried, throwing a hand toward the portal as though to draw him back.

Deirdre fired her Sig again.

The iron bullet punched through Rhiannon’s shoulder, just a little bit too far to the left to strike her in the heart. The blood that flowed from the wound was red. A human color, without the tint of sidhe magic.

Rhiannon covered the wound with her hand. She uttered a word of power and the wound vanished instantly, taking the blood with it.

But not before Deirdre saw.

The queen’s blood was red. She was human—not unseelie sidhe.

“Wow,” Deirdre said.

Stark didn’t notice. He thrashed as his muscles swelled and rearranged. His roar of pain reverberated through the entire medical bay and made icicles fall from the top of the portal. Gage had once told Deirdre that it hurt when someone forced him to transform, and Stark was definitely in the same kind of pain. That was fine with Deirdre. He deserved it. He deserved everything that was coming to him.

Rhiannon advanced on Deirdre, and she scrambled backwards like a crab, pausing only long enough to pop off a couple more shots. The queen dodged them as easily as she had the first one.

The queen flung her hand toward Deirdre.

Invisible magic yanked Deirdre off the ground. The grip was so tight that her ribs didn’t want to expand when she inhaled. She beat against it with her hands, but it did no good. There was no way to push the magic off.

Rhiannon’s eyes focused over Deirdre’s shoulder.

“We have company,” Rhiannon said, releasing the grip of magic with a flick of her fingers.

Deirdre landed on unsteady feet. She turned to see Niamh sneaking through the doorway that had been barricaded.

The sight of the swanmay’s downy white feathers filled Deirdre with a strange mixture of relief and fear. She had worried that Niamh was somewhere among the numerous bodies that Deirdre hadn’t had time to search.

Yet she was alive. She was alive, and as far as Deirdre could tell, uninjured. She wore a vintage
Reading Rainbow
t-shirt with a plaid skirt that barely covered her hips.

And she wasn’t armed.

“Niamh, run!” Deirdre shouted.

But her friend came into the room anyway, ignoring Deirdre’s plea.

Rhiannon’s hand lifted again—ready to cast more magic.

Deirdre leaped to shield Niamh, flinging her arms wide to block her as much as possible. She was wider than Niamh, but shorter. She could only defend her so much.

“Run, stupid!” Deirdre said.

“I’m so sorry, Dee,” Niamh whispered.

Pain punched through Deirdre’s back. She looked down to see a blade jutting from her breastbone.

A silver blade.

She touched it with her fingers. It must have burned, but she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel much of anything beyond the wall of pain that pressed upon her.

“Tombs!” Stark shouted. His voice was distorted by the change.

His voice was distant, echoing.

She dropped to her knees. The blade remained inside of Deirdre’s body as she fell.

Her heart wouldn’t beat around it. Blood dribbled down her chest.

Deirdre landed on her side. She stared up at Niamh—her friend, the swanmay, the woman who had recruited her to work for Stark in the first place, whose hand was now coated with Deirdre’s blood.

Her other hand clutched something feathery and black. Deirdre couldn’t identify it. But it seemed important, somehow, that Niamh would be holding a bundle of black feathers.

Kristian stood beside Niamh. It didn’t seem right, Kristian visiting—he was an artist, not a shapeshifter. He wasn’t part of the rebellion and shouldn’t have known where to find them.

It might have been the blood loss, but Deirdre thought that Kristian’s skin sparkled with a diamond shine.

He was wearing a long black jacket and square sunglasses.

Deirdre had seen those sunglasses before. They had been worn by the would-be assassin who had chased her to the meeting with Brianna.

Kristian was far away now, taking Niamh with him.

The room was receding.

“Tombs!”

Deirdre felt hot all over. The healing fever was racing to repair the damage, even as oblivion sucked her under.

No amount of healing fever would be able to fix a silver knife to the heart.

I’m dead,
she realized.

She would have said it aloud, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

Niamh killed me. She’s with the unseelie sidhe. She betrayed Stark and she betrayed me.

The words swirled through her head. Her vision filled with blazing white light, like she was being consumed by flame. It was nice to be warm again, considering how cold the wind from the Middle Worlds was becoming. Deirdre embraced the fire.

Gage was in the flames with her, his fur curling from the heat. The smell of scorched bear fat stung her nostrils.

Her eyes shut.

She was dead.

Death wasn’t that bad, actually.

Deirdre had done it once before, so dying a second time wasn’t a big deal, all things considered.

When her eyes opened, she found herself standing among blackberry bushes. The brambles came all the way up to her waist. The thorns pressed against her skin without leaving a scratch.