Faerie Blood: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Changeling Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

“Come in,” said Larsen.

I walked in through the grimy glass doors. A gorgeous woman waited in the lobby—the unnatural kind of gorgeous that practically advertised her Summer Faerie heritage with a neon sign. Golden curls flowed to her waist, and her ears were slightly rounded. She couldn’t pass as human, as far as half-bloods went.

“You found my charm?”

I pulled out the sparkling object. “No problem. This is a beautifying spell, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I need that.” She snatched it from my hands.
Please.
She thought she needed a beautification spell? Her smile might have caused a traffic accident, if she wore one. As it was, her full lips were curled down in a melancholy manner. Nobody pulled off melodrama quite like faeries.

It’s a common trait in half-faeries whose parentage is from Summer or Winter, one I’d seen a lot. Those who didn’t accept the human side of themselves often went out of their way to seem ‘pure faerie’ in any way possible. She was stunning. Model-worthy gorgeous. But she couldn’t see past her own blood, which would never be good enough for Summer.

She might have sent me crawling into a troll’s nest and showed zero gratitude for it, but I knew too well how easily the words of the Sidhe could worm their way into your head. I held her gaze. “Take it from me, though—you really don’t need it.”

My good deed for the day done, I left the building before Larsen could jump on me again. I needed a stiff drink.

Stopping at my flat to change into something nice—finding a clean, bloodstain-free outfit was unsurprisingly difficult—I headed out to the local pub.

The Singing Banshee
was a dingy place that catered to supernaturals and humans alike, so I wouldn’t get too many stares walking in armed to the teeth. Two knives concealed up my sleeves, two at my ankles. Boots rather than strappy shoes, jeans rather than a short skirt. Long brown hair tied back, just in case. Simple, practical. The bartender, Steve, knew who I was, so I perched on a stool in the bar’s corner, safely hidden amongst the artificial smoke the pub used to hide supernaturals’ auras so they wouldn’t pounce on one another. My own magical aura was only visible to people with the Sight and most faeries would have more sense than to wander into an establishment like this, but I appreciated the anonymity.

Two shots later and my annoyance faded to a pleasant buzz. Nobody approached me at the bar. I’d acquired a reputation since a sleazy necromancer tried to grope me a couple of years ago and triggered the stinging spell I kept hidden on me. The story ended up being exaggerated. He’d regained the use of his hands again… eventually.

Being a weekend, the pub was more crowded than usual—scruffy shifters hanging out near the pool table, witches sipping cocktails in groups, and even the odd vampire sulking in a corner. I didn’t expect to see the mages until a flock of them walked in, all long coats and posh, cultured accents. This wasn’t your typical mage hangout, so it came as no surprise when they started whining loudly about the terrible lighting. I liked this old, dingy place precisely
because
mages didn’t come inside. Their territory was way over the other side of town, so what the hell they were doing here was anyone’s guess.

A couple of them shot cursory glances my way, but I ignored them, concentrating on my drink and glad of the low light level. The word ‘necromancer’ floated my way and I tuned into their conversation long enough to gather they’d had a disagreement with the leader of the local Guild of Necromancy again. Luckily, the necromancers never came in here either. Nothing ruins a night out quite like an oncoming undead horde.

After I’d finished my vodka and coke and was about to quit, the mages traipsed off, still complaining that the place was a shithole.

The bartender, Steve, rolled his eyes after them. “Those mages think they’re too good for everywhere.”

“About right,” I said.

“I heard Larsen was being a dick again," said Steve, pouring me another shot. “This one’s on the house.”

“Cheers,” I said. Steve had been on my side ever since I’d helped him kick out a piskie infestation a few years ago. “I needed that. Ended up neck-deep in a troll’s nest earlier.”

“You ought to ask for hazard pay,” he said. “It’s exploitation, what Larsen does.”

“It’s work.” I shrugged. “I get the benefits and accept the hazards. If I asked for a raise I’d be out on the streets.” I had no intention of ending up out there again. I’d grabbed the job ten years ago when people were desperate enough to hire anyone to help their supernatural-related problems, even a sixteen-year-old girl. I’d clung to the position ever since, though I wondered why I bothered more than I cared to admit. I grimaced as I knocked back the shot, knowing Isabel would accuse me of running away from my problems again.

I don’t see anything wrong with running away from problems that’d happily eat me alive.

A shout rang across the bar and I snapped my head around, the back of my neck prickling. My eyes traced over the crowd until they landed on a short, dishevelled man in jeans and jacket, too far away for me to make out his features.

“Not Swanson again,” said Steve, resting his elbows on the counter.

I turned back to the bar, watching the man out of the corner of my eye. “Who?”

“Swanson. Guy over there… his kid went missing last night.”

A chill raced down my spine. Hearing those words always sent my mind careening in directions I didn’t want it to, even though children disappearing was hardly uncommon here in the suburbs where supernaturals and humans mingled and the faeries had left irreversible damage.

Swanson stood, moving into the light so I had a better view of the scene. The man he spoke to, who’d been hidden in shadow, wore a suit entirely too well-tailored for an establishment like this. His strong-boned face, well-combed hair and smart attire would have drawn my attention even if he hadn’t pulled out the sword.

It’s not unheard of to see someone carrying a sword on the street. It’s less common to see someone pull a hand-and-a-half-long sword out of
thin air.

My second thought was that the first guy had picked a fight with the worst possible opponent in the room—including me.

I kept stock-still. If I moved now, I’d draw attention to myself. Mage Dude lazily pointed the sword, but from his stance, I could tell he knew how to use it. If the other guy so much as moved, his opponent could lunge in one quick motion and take his head clean off.

Yeah, I shouldn’t have left the flat tonight.

I couldn’t look away. It was like watching the burning aftermath of a car wreckage. The guy who’d yelled sank back in his seat, stark terror flitting across his expression.

“Shit,” he said. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Lord Colton, the head of the mages,” said Steve, behind me. “Oh, boy. He’s in trouble.”

I felt the blood drain from my own face. The guy was the head of the goddamned mages, and he’d just walked right past me. If he’d seen me… if he’d seen the tell-tale glow of faerie magic around me… my cover would be blown.

I looked down, the table cold against my hands as I gripped the edges. Few things in this world scare me, but this particular master mage had acquired a reputation and a half in the last few months he’d been in office. Rumour had it he kept a bunch of troll heads hanging from the corridor walls inside the mages’ headquarters. Yet I didn’t give a rat’s ass whether
he
knew about my unconventional magic—I cared more about word reaching places I didn’t want it to.

I glanced up at the Mage Lord, unable to help myself, but whatever glow magic cast around him was smothered by the dim bar lights. He wasn’t all that old, not like the last Mage Lord I’d had the displeasure of meeting. He didn’t look mad, either, but then again, appearances can be deceptive. Anyone who’s been around faeries knows that.

Lord Colton leaned across the table to watch the man who’d shouted at him, who now looked like he was pretending to be part of the furniture.

“If you’d like to have a more civilised conversation before things get nasty, what did you wish to ask me?”

“My kid,” said the guy. “He went missing a week ago. The police are doing nothing, your people are doing nothing, and we’re out of options.”

“I thought that’s what you shouted at me,” said the Mage Lord. “Missing persons aren’t my area, unless you wish to hire one of my mages. We charge reasonable rates.”

“Do you, now?” The man appeared to recover some of his confidence, leaning forward. “Your doorman slammed the door in my face.”

Oh, man. He’d picked a fight with the wrong guy, that was for sure. Mage Dude didn’t look angry—that I could tell from this distance, anyway—but the sword’s gleam had drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Most people seemed glad of the fake smoke to hide behind. Including me, come to that. I couldn’t help giving the Mage Lord a cursory examination, wondering what his gift was. And also wondering why all their leaders seemed to be Generic Thirty-Something Man in Suit. This man, though… I wouldn’t call him
generic.
The light of his blade was reflected in stormy grey eyes visible even through the smoke, and barely-restrained power crackled above his shoulders like he’d brought a full lightning storm right into the bar. How in the name of the Sidhe had nobody noticed him before?

To have so much power and still be able to sneak around unseen made the man possibly the most dangerous
human
magic user I’d ever seen.

His voice, however, betrayed nothing. “If you wish to hire one of my mages, please address all correspondence to my receptionist, Wanda. I don’t take bribes, and unless magic is involved in this case, it’s absolutely none of my business.”

Friendly. What a piece of work. And I’d thought the other mages were bad. Why had they gone while their leader stayed behind, anyway? Weird. Missing kid or not, threatening the head of the mages was a good way to end up with your head on a pike.

I shouldn’t have had the impulse to get involved. Gritting my teeth, I ducked my head as Mage Dude’s gaze swept the bar.
Go away,
I thought at him.

At last he left, his long coat sweeping behind him. Like the sword wasn’t dramatic enough.

I breathed out, the tension in the room easing. Everyone returned to their previous conversations, though considerably muted.
Mages never come in here,
I heard more than once.
Creepy as the necromancers, they are.

“Scary dude,” said Steve. “I didn’t even see him come in.”

“Probably blended into the crowd,” I said. Or used a mage trick. Like with the sword. What the hell kind of magic was that? Most mage magic was flashes and sparks, fire and lightning. Not screwing with the laws of physics. Magic rarely astounded me these days, but that was a hell of a party trick.

“Right, I’m off.” I hopped off my stool. I’d had entirely too much excitement for what was supposed to be a quiet night off. Isabel was off at a coven meeting, so I’d have an early night before anything else happened.

Wishful thinking.

I trailed up to the flat, scanning the shadows out of habit. Our small flat lay in the grey area between witch and shifter territories, the best we could get for as low a price as possible, so occasionally, nasties from work followed me home. Wards blazed from every corner, protecting us from just about every kind of supernatural threat, and an unbroken ring of magic-forged iron also surrounded the place. Just in case. The garden was empty save for some flowerbeds of herbs Isabel used for her spells. The closest I’d come to telling her about Faerie was when I’d explained why I’d prefer not to have plants
inside
the house. The scars all over my body from a bad experience involving a faerie’s magical thorns turning me into a human pincushion spoke for themselves. But even Isabel didn’t know how it had really happened.

Once over the boundary, I relaxed my guard and approached the doorstep. Then I stopped, heart sinking, as a figure stepped from the shadows.

Angry Dude Swanson from the pub waited outside my flat.

CHAPTER TWO

Swanson, whose kid went missing, and who’d managed to piss off the head of the Mage Lords, looked at me with desperation in his eyes. I could put two and two together pretty easily.

“You want to hire me?” I asked.

A nod. If the wards had let him in, he didn’t intend me harm, and he was pure human to boot. He was far from the only client to visit me after working hours, but after what I’d seen at the pub, I’d only trust him if the wards let him through the door.

“I usually close after five, but you can come inside for a chat.”

Sometimes, I want to knock myself for being too nice. But after the way that obnoxious mage had treated him, I just didn’t have it in me to turn him away. Besides, I needed the money.

Or so I told myself.

Thanks to Isabel’s top-notch dirt-repelling wards, no blood or questionable stains remained on the stairs or in the carpeted hallway from when I’d walked in here in my ruined clothes. She’d put the spell over our flat a few years ago when I’d come back from a bad job covered in redcap entrails. Try scrubbing the insides of a faerie out of the carpet with an irate landlord hovering over your shoulder. My bloodstained clothes, meanwhile, were soaking in the bathroom, so the flat smelled strongly of spell-disinfectant. I switched on a couple of lamps before Swanson stumbled over the many obstacles littering our living room. This room also doubled as Isabel’s workshop and had so many warding spells on it that if Swanson had meant me any kind of ill intent, he’d have been bodily thrown outside. As it was, he nervously hovered near the door as I locked it.