Fire Kissed (15 page)
The Houses had to know this. Others would follow. Or act to stop it.
“I can’t,” Kaye said. She’d regained her balance and taken a step back from the pair, up against Bastian’s chest. Her scent, especially here, ensnared his mind. Why fight it?
“We’re yours,” Sigmund said.
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want you. The weak are meant to die.”
Her voice was so cutting that not so long ago Jack would have bought it. But this was the same woman who had dared to offend Ferro Grey to protect Jack, her angel employer, an angel she loathed. She was lying, hardening her heart with a show of cruelty. And now Jack understood where that came from as well. And that it was a lie.
Because she’d never be so weak as to feed these men false promises, not even in return for information. If Bastian were to suggest she use the Lakatoses to glean what they knew about happenings within magekind, he knew she would tell him to go to Hell. She would not endanger them if she could help it. But she couldn’t take them in either.
“Let’s go,” said Kaye over her shoulder. To Sigmund, on his knees, “Don’t approach me again.”
Jessica Becker saw the red-haired woman turn her back on the kneeling old man, a young man bowed beside him. Manners urged her to hurry forward and help them up—her mom would expect her to—but she’d promised her dad that she wouldn’t go out alone anymore. Not even in the middle of the day. Not even for a class project, even though her grade depended on it. She hesitated, clutching her charcoal pencil, as the younger man helped the old one stand.
The whole thing was weird in the first place. Did people actually kneel before other people in this day and age? Would she ever have to kneel to someone? The thought made her tight inside.
She watched as they followed the walkway back to the stairs. Waited for them to go, the sculpture garden growing colder by the moment, then whipped her sketch pad shut, her drawing of the Maillol nude forgotten, and hurried away herself.
Chapter 7
A white gift box was delivered to the house first thing in the morning. Jack signed for it and turned to find Kaye descending the stairs, curious. She wore a deep blue silk robe, belted around the waist. No cosmetics. Her thick hair was sleep wild, the whites of her eyes red; he hoped not from drink. She hadn’t wanted to talk or eat after her encounter with Sigmund Lakatos and his son.
Now she looked vulnerable and soft, the woman who saw visions in fire. He had his own vision of himself drawing her close, parting that robe to look upon, to stroke, to feel the weight of her breasts. His face would go into that hair and he would go mad for a little while. He was half mad already from his long service. And in a wilding part of his mind, he was beginning to think that maybe the advent of Shadow on the world wouldn’t be so bad. Because Kaye was of Shadow, and if her blood pumped that dark stuff, then maybe a reckless world would have its own glories.
She held out her hand. “I’m guessing that’s for me?”
A tag on the lid was addressed to the Little Match Girl.
“Let me check it first.” Jack brought the box inside and set it on the kitchen counter. It was shaped like a pie box and had a sturdy lid, which slid off easily. Inside was a photo album covered in cartoons of fairies with wands making magic.
Jack opened the cover. Yes, the album was for Kaye. The very first picture showed the death of Mr. Hobbs, her last client in Las Vegas. He appeared to have fallen from a great height, crushing the windshield and hood of a car. The mess of his head and face made him near unrecognizable, but his name was scrawled in the memory lines to the side of the photo.
Jack turned the page and discovered how Max Hampstead, the Wake Hotel’s owner, had met his end too.
The rest of the pages were empty ... no ... they were waiting to be filled. Another threat.
How many clients had she seen since then?
Eight. He needed to find out who’d hired the delivery service and if possible discover where the album had been purchased and, even more unlikely, by whom.
“Well?” she mocked from her position leaning in the kitchen doorway. “Is it deadly?”
Jack closed the book, not trusting himself to speak without revealing the depth of his rage.
“Yes,” he answered with forced calm. “It’s poison.”
Kaye sat at a spindly antique desk in the living room, her head bent over a paper, but her eyes not focused on it. It had been a couple of hours since the package had arrived. She’d dressed and set herself up to work but still felt as if she had a hot coal burning in her belly. A couple weeks ago she’d seen Hobbs’s death in her fire. The thought that she had inadvertently been the cause made her feel red inside.
The Little Match Girl. Yeah, the story applied to her, though she hadn’t heard it since she was a child. It was an old-fashioned tale: The Match Girl had been sent out by her father into the winter chill to sell matches and feared returning home without any money to show for the day. She’d lost her shoes and had finally huddled in an alley using her matches’ fire to keep her warm. And in the tiny flames she’d had visions—though the girl in the story had seen only good things—while she’d slowly frozen to death.
Not all fairy tales ended happily ever after.
Kaye was afraid.
“Are you in the mood for a visitor?” Bastian asked, coming into the room. He was using his efficient voice, so she knew the package still bothered him as well. He’d reminded her that the Match Girl had been defenseless and friendless, both of which Kaye was not. And then he’d even tried to make a joke about her being far, far from penniless, which wasn’t the case for the Match Girl.
But all Bastian had accomplished was to make Kaye want to rest her head on his chest, just for a little while. People had died because of her. And she was caught up in a story of ruin. She knew it would end in fire.
She’d been trying to concentrate on a list of House names. Most were familiar, but she could remember little about which ones Brand might have been doing business with when she was young. Her father had told her next to nothing.
She set the paper aside. “Who is it?” Pretty please someone she could fight. She had to have a clear head for her date with Ferro Grey tonight and she was nowhere near it now.
“It’s Layla Mathews.” Another strange note in his voice.
“Who—?” Then Kaye remembered.
Layla
. Had to be Khan’s woman, the one Bastian and his fellow angels had tried to kill once upon a time. The human who’d inspired Death to love.
Layla
. Had to be Khan’s woman, the one Bastian and his fellow angels had tried to kill once upon a time. The human who’d inspired Death to love.
Yes, Kaye wanted to meet
her.
her.
Bastian must’ve seen her interest because he scowled. “Her car’s coming up the street.”
Had to be the angels’ telepathic network again, which she imagined was like birds hanging out on telephone wires watching the world below them.
Kaye stood and smoothed her slacks, grateful for the distraction. She needed distance from the knowledge that two people she’d known, however horrible they had been, had died because of their association with her. Were more to follow? The thought strangled her. Did she dare strike any more matches?
A black sedan pulled up outside. A woman got out of the driver’s side, light brown hair whipping over her face in the wind.
“No security,” Kaye observed to Bastian.
“Oh, she’s secure,” he said. “I have no doubts about Khan.”
The bell rang as Kaye was already opening the door.
Gray eyes, like a cold breaking ocean. Sweet narrow face, hair settling in a mess of layers. Trim black coat, gray fitted skirt, black skinny boots with a nice heel. But nothing so outrageously remarkable to be paired with
him
. Khan’s Layla was ... human.
him
. Khan’s Layla was ... human.
Layla’s eyes sparkled with a return appraisal. She grinned, which transformed her plain features into unrestrained humor and vitality, and the force of it smacked the breath out of Kaye. She was transfixed, as if gravity were stronger immediately around Layla’s person.
“Well, you look fae, that’s for sure,” Layla said. “Which is to say, gorgeous.”
“You’ve seen the fae?”
“I have,” Layla said. “And you’re a mage?”
“Yes,” Kaye answered. She finally remembered to close the front door and then led Layla into the living room. “I’m sorry. None of the furniture is comfortable.” She looked over at Bastian, who was still so angry. “It’s his taste, I’m afraid.”
The tension tugging at his forehead eased a fraction. She didn’t want to think about how she knew the increments of his moods. And how she’d like to smooth her thumb over that last forehead wrinkle.
Layla settled onto the hard sofa. Rocked her hips back and forth slightly, as if seeking a soft spot and finding none. Then she too looked over at Bastian. “Cozy.”
His tension cleared entirely for a moment, almost a laugh, and then he was back to his stony self.
The smile Layla got from Bastian made Kaye like her immediately. “How can I help you?”
“I want to learn about the Houses, specifically how to get an audience with the Council.”
Kaye went very still inside. “I understood Khan wasn’t interested in magekind.”
Her heart thumped as she considered the ramifications: He who used to be Death leading a magekind army. The angels raising their swords to defeat them, only
this time
to be struck down themselves. Magic would win. Heaven would fall. The world would go dark and the mages would rule forevermore. It was the mage fantasy.
this time
to be struck down themselves. Magic would win. Heaven would fall. The world would go dark and the mages would rule forevermore. It was the mage fantasy.
“Khan isn’t involved,” Layla said, sighing. “He remains firm about that. He will not cooperate in any way with The Order. Nevertheless, Segue’s primary research focus is Shadow, its denizens, and their relatives. We’d like to begin a dialogue with the mages.”
Kaye shook her head. This was crazy too. “Um ... I’m not on the Council, and my relationship with the other Houses is nonexistent.”
“Can you tell me whom to contact?”
“No, I can’t.” Layla asked the impossible. “Naming a mage is punishable by death. Not to mention, it would endanger the work I’m doing, even if you kept your source a secret.”
“But I have it on good authority they’re reaching out to high-profile people already,” Layla argued.
“As usual, Segue is never far behind The Order’s intelligence,” Bastian said dryly. “But Kaye is right. For her safety and yours, she can say nothing. Rest assured, however; I’m certain that the Council will turn its interest to Segue. They can’t allow an independent organization to delve into the secrets of Shadow that they’ve carefully protected for so long. My guess is that you can expect them soon. But they won’t come to chat.”
Layla’s gaze went steel sharp. “Then how can we prepare ourselves if we don’t know how they are organized? How they work? How can we avoid a conflict?”
“Conflict is inevitable where the mages are concerned,” Bastian said. “Take your personal history, for example—Khan created a gate to
Hell
to get what he wanted.”
Hell
to get what he wanted.”
Layla leaned forward, expression sharper. “And why did he do that?”
“For you.”
“No.” Layla shook her head. “He did it because there is only one place among the three worlds where he and I can coexist. Earth. Here, now. The mortal world is the only place where anything matters, and every living thing knows it. And yet, the fae and The Order won’t recognize their common interest. I’m guessing the mages won’t either. And humanity is only semi-aware of the crisis. Soon it will be too late. It might be already. Khan has told me this: There is no way to stop the flood of Shadow now. The world is changing, and everyone will change with it. Magic is here to stay.”
Kaye smiled halfway. “In our storybooks we call it the Dark Age.”
Layla cut her gaze to Kaye. “I’m sorry if providing me with a name endangers you, but I need it anyway. There must be some kind of dialogue, even if it’s just between humanity and the mages. The Order can go to Hell.”
“Your judgment is clouded by your past history,” Bastian said coldly.
“No, my judgment is clouded by my pregnancy, the life I carry, the future.” Layla jabbed a pointed finger at Bastian. “
You
are the past, dead, just like the wraiths, but you just don’t stink as bad.”
You
are the past, dead, just like the wraiths, but you just don’t stink as bad.”
Bastian looked aghast, which almost made Kaye laugh out loud. The expression was so foreign to his face.
“On the other hand, Layla,” Kaye said, shrugging, suddenly feeling amiable, “maybe you and the Council
will
get along. Just lead in with that last little bit about the angels being dead.”
will
get along. Just lead in with that last little bit about the angels being dead.”
Bastian stood, his chair cracking to the old wood floor. Where was his sense of humor?
“I’d like to point out,” Kaye said, “that it’s the firemage in this room who has the cool head.”
“I need a contact,” Layla said, apparently not amused.
Kaye sighed. “Khan will protect you?”
“You were hired for a job, Ms. Brand,” Bastian said. She liked when he got that uptight tone in his voice. Made her want to mess up his hair.
“Khan will not let anyone harm me.”
“Unbelievable.” Bastian brought his hands to his head as if to help his brain.
Kaye ignored him, observing to Layla, “You realize you could start a war yourself, and so very easily.”
“How?”
“Well ... let’s say you misspeak; then the mages will strike at you, Khan will strike at them, and magekind in force will then try to take down the baddest motherfucker of them all, lest they be under his absolute rule.”
“But you don’t fear Khan,” Layla said.
“Why should I? He likes me.” She glanced over at her angel; their gazes caught. “He loathes Mr. Bastian, though.”
“Whom do I contact?” Layla pressed.
“He will punish you,” Bastian said to Kaye. His voice was rough with feeling.
“Who will punish her?” Layla asked.
Kaye was stuck on the intensity of Bastian’s forbidding expression. He should learn to give her a little credit—she wasn’t going to actually say a name. It was a farce that the three of them should be in a room together—human, mage, and angel. The Dark Age was coming. Kaye and Bastian had both seen it in her visions, so Layla was right. The only thing Kaye could do was what she advised her clients: change the future by taking a different course. Her photo album required it. Besides, one day she just might want to make Segue her real House. Didn’t hurt to help that along.
“Give me your card,” Kaye said to Layla. “I’ll see that the man in charge gets it.”
“And who is this again?” Ferro asked, his fingertips turning the card over and over, as if it were of no interest to him at all. Just Kaye and the reason she’d handed it to him.
He wore a dark suit with a touch of luster to the cloth, the collar of his white shirt open. He seemed to be going for a young Hollywood look, the flawed, sweet “every guy” so popular in romantic comedies. But he actually skewed more pretty-faced horror. Fine line there. There was a menace beneath his surface; he was too still, too mild about the Segue business card he now held.
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