Undeniable (The Druids Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter Seven

After the incident at the wizards’ headquarters, which the BBC would no doubt talk about for months to come, Peyton dumped his old phone. The SD card, however, he’d kept. He rummaged for it now, from the bottom of the cup that usually just held a bunch of mostly dead ink pens that he meant to throw away, but instead always tossed back into the collection. A thousand pens, not a single drop of ink. Blowing the debris off the card, he inserted it into his new phone. The numbers and a few other files transferred quickly, and then he tossed the SD card back into the cup until the next time he needed to replace a phone. It happened far more often than one would have imagined.

Running his fingers through his still wet hair, and walking across his flat in nothing but the bath towel, Peyton thumbed through the contacts list until he found ‘Tower’, his personal codename for London. Given how she seemed to haunt him and spell trouble at every turn, he thought the ‘Tower of London’ was a good association for the druidess.

With the phone pressed to his head, he willed her to answer. Moving aside the curtains just a finger’s width, he glanced down from the second story flat over the pub to the pizzeria across the street. Deacon was just walking out with the takeout he’d gone for when discovering that Peyton’s fridge hadn’t been freshly stocked in months. Besides from an empty carton of OJ, some now fossilized take-out, and some packets of ketchup of dubious age, he’d not bothered to stick around the flat long enough to go shopping, much less cooking.

“Who is this?” London’s voice edged with exasperation and suspicion.

“Who were you expecting?” He almost smiled at the taunt. Almost.

There was a pause, before she answered, “Not you, anyway.”

She recognized his voice, Peyton could tell, but that wasn’t quite the attitude he was anticipating. Initial instinct suspected that she wasn’t free to talk. And he didn’t have time to mince words. “Just touching base,” his own reluctance telegraphing the need to talk with her soon.

“Right.” London’s response held the right nuance. Message received.

Which was good, since the sound of Deacon’s boots on the exterior wooden staircase drew closer. “Catch up with you later, then.” He hung up and tossed the phone through his open bedroom door into the pile of blankets, and walked back into the bathroom, where the shower water was still running, just as the door to the flat open.

“Get your butt out here or you’ll get nothing but crust. I’m starved.” The Changeling shouted.

“Be right there.” Peyton stepped into the shower, claimed a liberal sprinkle of water over his person, and then shut off the water before he stepped back out. With a fresh towel around his hips, and another one scrubbing through his hair, he emerged with a lazy stroll. The open pizza box adorned the coffee table, along with a couple of bottles of Guinness. Peyton snagged a slice of pizza on the way to his bedroom. With his mouth full, he called back to the Changeling. “No mushrooms next time.”

“Then next time you get it yourself.” Deacon propped his foot on the coffee table, not too close to the food, and switched the station to a rugby game.

Surely, Deacon didn’t intend to hound his every step for eternity. Peyton hoped this as he dressed, the door to the bedroom a quarter of the way open to keep an ear on Deacon as much as to keep him from getting suspicious. Not that the Changeling needed much of an excuse for that. It wasn’t like Peyton gave him a lot of reason to trust him. Their history spanned a lot of deception and backstabbing, as well as reluctantly working together, and it looked like that wasn’t going to change any time soon. It’d been that way when they’d worked for the wizards, and it was that way again under Credne, only the roles between him and the Changeling had reversed.

Karma, Deacon had called it. And he wasn’t kidding.

Frenemies wasn’t a good way to describe their dysfunctional association, but nothing else seemed to fit better. Screwing each other over and periodically trying to kill each other aside, he’d known Deacon longer even than London, and most of his history with the wizards tangled with Deacon’s time with them. And to be fair, Deacon was probably right. Getting Peyton cursed by a Sidhe was almost poetic in its justice.

But cursed or not, he wasn’t out of this game, yet. Even if it was a game not so much about winning as surviving.

Dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a gray pullover with the sleeves pushed up, Peyton returned to the main room of his flat. Only half-listening to the game, he set himself up with another slice of the pizza, a Guinness, and his laptop. Time to hit the research. “Was that image of the bowl accurate?”

“It’s a cauldron, mate. Get it right.” Deacon slumped in the sofa when the other team scored. “Oh, come on! They should have got that!”

Accessing the hidden partition on the hard drive, Peyton checked the files from the last time he hacked the wizards’ corporate server and backed up everything he could get his sticky fingers into. Escaping the wizards had always been his hope, and his plan. When London put the opportunity in front of him, he’d barely hesitated long enough to be certain she had the skills to pull it off. Even figuring that she fell a little short, Peyton knew he could tip the balance either way, and he’d opted to end his conscription to them.

Sure, it had benefited the fey, but that hadn’t been his reason.

Benefiting the fey wasn’t his reason now, either.

Peyton tipped the bottle back as he considered the files before him, then pulled up the search function. Credne thought the wizards made off with the cauldron. If they had, there would be a record of it, including photos.

Finding the image didn’t take long. Credne had gotten it right, down to the filigree of the design. Even with mundane photography and bad lighting, the beauty of the fey treasure stunned the eye. It was the details of the chain of possession log, which the wizards had been as meticulous in keeping as they were distrustful of each other, that had him slumping back in his seat with a thoughtful frown.

The wizards had possessed the cauldron alright. And it had been in the safe in the Brightner Building when it came crashing to the ground.

Just bloody perfect.

Chapter Eight

London thumbed off the phone, dropped it into the pocket of her leather jacket, and then leaned back with her elbows braced against the bar. The place smelled of meadows, wild flowers, and frost; the scents she’d come to associate with the various races of fey. On the far side of the long club the band called the Fey Bangers played covers of popular songs. The club gave out fake fey ears of various lengths and styles for the audience to wear. Those who didn’t already have pointed ears, that is. It was one of the few places where the fey and non-fey mingled so openly. Even the band was really fey, not that most of the humans had any clue. London being one of the few exceptions.

But, then again, she hadn’t been ‘just human’ in a long time.

Across the crowded club, London watched the band’s drummer. The Unseelie boy just turned eighteen, and it was hard to imagine the deadly Sidhe was really so young. At the end of the day, she served her patron, but Malcolm had managed to claw his way into her heart. Hard to believe, given their past, but somehow it managed to happen. Knowing that agent Granger was picking through the magical evidence around the destruction of the wizard’s headquarters meant that probably, sooner or later, he’d clue in on Malcolm.

They’d saved each other that day, London and Malcolm. Neither of them could have seen that coming. If at all possible, she was hoping to avoid the need to have to save him again. Not when the train wreck of a kid was finally getting his life on track. He had his band, with its modicum of popularity, and his girl, the band’s lead singer. He deserved a break.

Tilting back her beer, more to fit in than to actually drink it, London scanned the crowd. No one that looked like an Interpol agent trying to act casual. But there were more dangers than just government spooks to worry about.

Like the vampire chatting up the fairy girl in the corner. Having worked with vampires and werewolves long before she got involved with the fey, London figured she had a good eye for the type. That insight wasn’t necessary this time. She recognized the bloke from Selena’s vampire club in Dublin, even if she couldn’t immediately put a name to that face. Apparently, the awareness was mutual, as the creep even had the gall to make eye contact with her and grin with an undisguised flash of fang. Word was getting out among the predators; fey was on the menu. And this wanker thought Selena’s best friend wouldn’t rat him out.

Not on her watch.

The fairy either hadn’t noticed the fangs, or thought they were fake, since so many of the humans were role-playing as supernaturals in this club. With a word of caution ready on her tongue, London started through the crowd towards them. The guy caught her intention, or he’d just timed it right, but he helped the fairy girl to her feet just then, her three-inch heels only bringing her to a dainty five feet in height. The iridescent wings, that looked far more real than the fake ones mounted to the back of the young ladies just playing the part for the party, shivered as the vampire whispered something that she no doubt found charming enough to invest trust in this stranger. The pair of them started towards the side exit into the alley, the vampire’s hand against the girl’s low back, escorting her to her doom. Fey blood could cause a wicked addiction, and not all vampires knew how to pull back before taking too much. And many of them didn’t care.

The door closed on quiet hydraulic hinges before London reached it. Any scream from the alley before the door blocked the sound probably still couldn’t have been heard. Not over the solo Malcolm pounded across the drum set before him. It was another several seconds before London shoved herself through the last of the crowd and out the door into the cool, dark alley beyond. More than long enough for a vampire to use his speed to carry off a victim to her death. With her heart pounding in her chest, London hoped that she reached them in time.

The one thing she hadn’t been expecting, as she burst out the door, was the trap.

After the darkness inside the club the beam of a high-powered flashlight in her face momentarily blinded London. The shout of protest that tried to escape her muffled against the hand smashing to her mouth. An arm, like a straitjacket, crushed her swings to her torso before she could make them. Lifted from her feet, she kicked out. It didn’t matter. She struck nothing but air as she was rushed away from the exit and deeper into the alley.

Flashlight gone, the blackness of the alley blinded her just as effectively. Knocked to her knees, wrists gripped and forced to cross behind her neck, so all she could do was blink to clear her vision.

Well, that wasn’t all she could do, but it was all she did do just yet. The weight of the charm around her neck reminded her that Lugh was one mental call away, but he didn’t keep her around to shout for help every time things turned dicey. Besides, the last time she’d called his name, he’d not come. It had been Malcolm that saved her.

Already, she could make out the shadowy figures. More than one. Four, maybe five. No, definitely five, if she counted the fairy struggling. “Let her go!” London fought to get her feet under her, but the stronger vampire kept her down. Pride meant nothing compared to the life of a fey. “Lugh!”

No answering feeling through the magic of the charm. No radiant Sidhe warrior teleporting to her side.

London cursed. “Let her go!”

“You should be worrying about your own neck, precious.” The deep, male voice almost purred with sensuality; the vampire lure. This wasn’t her first time hearing it, and even though it skated across her flesh like a lover’s caress, she didn’t swoon.

So instead, fingers fisted in her hair and forced her head to the side. She hissed at the rough treatment, but not as much as when the burn of fangs penetrated her vein. “Get off of me!” The weight of her gun, holstered under her jacket at her side, meant nothing right now. And the venom of the vampire bite was quickly doing what the power of the vampire’s voice could not. And with the Sidhe magic in her blood, she couldn’t count on him releasing her before she was drained.

The echo of a gun chambering a bullet ricocheted in the alley. “The lady said, let her go.”

Now, London really did want to curse. She couldn’t see past the vampire’s shoulder to the speaker beyond, but she knew who it was.

The vampires didn’t immediately release her, but the one biting her did give up her vein, even if with a parting lick. “There’s a price on your blood, and I plan on cashing it in.” He backed away with a bloody grin. There were few things more disturbing than getting smiled at with blood-smeared teeth, especially when it was your own blood that had done the smearing.

Derek. His name was Derek. London remembered Selena mentioning him now. He’d come over from the States on some business of his sire, but Selena hadn’t said what.

London would need to find out.

Derek’s thugs retreated when he pulled back, and in a moment the lot of them were gone. At least they left the fairy behind. She embraced herself, pale and shivering as she stared at London, as if in shock. It only took the slightest tilt of London’s head, and her gaze flicking back to the club, to send the young fairy lady scrambling inside. Maybe next time she’d think twice before venturing into a dark alley with a stranger. London could only hope.

“Friend of yours?” Granger asked. His attention still fixed on the direction where Derek and his gang had gone. He holstered his weapon, and then reached a hand down to help her to her feet.

“Not hardly.” London accepted the offer, finding his grip warm and steady. Those vamps hadn’t even been enough to break him out into a sweat. This meant he wasn’t a complete noob when it came to the supernatural.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to give me a bunch of crap about aliens now, are you? Because, I think we both know better.” From his pocket he offered her a folded handkerchief.

Which she accepted, and cupped against the side of her neck. The vamp bite wouldn’t bleed for too long, but it would be enough to stain her collar if she didn’t put pressure on it. “Are you here for a reason? Or just going around in search of damsels in distress?”

“You and I have an unfinished conversation. So let’s find someplace out of the way, so you can start talking.”

“I really don’t have anything more to say to you.” She checked the handkerchief. Still bleeding. London refolded the cloth to a clean section, and pressed it to her neck again.

“See? That kind of response makes me think that you do. It makes me think you have a whole heck of a lot to say, actually. Starting with why a vampire thinks you have a price on your blood.” Granger’s arms crossed, making the suit jacket stretch tight across his shoulders. The agent wasn’t a muscle-bound bruiser, but he wasn’t skipping his gym appointments, that was for sure.

“Why don’t you go and ask him, because that was news to me, too.” London backed up a couple of steps to lean her bum against the brick wall. Her head pounded, which was an odd sensation, since being a pint or so shy of normal she wouldn’t have thought her pulse could muster up the force.

Granger leaned himself back against the wall beside her, arms still crossed as he considered her. “You are just bound and determined to be obstructive, aren’t you?”

“I’m just charming like that.” London glanced back at the building where the Fey Bangers, and specifically Malcolm, were playing. She really didn’t want Granger getting all curious and checking out the club. “Alright, you want to talk vampires, let’s talk vampires. But you’ll need to buy me a tall latte and a scone, because that blood loss is making me lightheaded and I need to eat something before I pass out.”

“Don’t trust me to catch you?” He smirked. “I am a gentleman, like that.”

She whacked him with the back of her hand. “I don’t trust you not to violate my civil liberties with your grubby cop hands.”

“My cop hands are not grubby.”