Undeniable (The Druids Book 1) (7 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Usually, Peyton’s hair was a honey brown, almost blond in the right lighting or when he’d been out in the sun a fair bit. Now, the shower-damp hair in his reflection was nearly black. Leaning closer to the mirror, he checked his shave job in the foggy glass. Scruffy worked when the cover was as a construction worker, but not so much while trying to pass for a spook. The government types liked the anonymity in blending in with the business crowd. If you could be mistaken for a banker, then you had one of the qualifications to be a government agent. The tattoo of enchantment scrawled across his upper torso wouldn’t sell the part at all, but at least his shirt should cover it up. Peyton’s eyes roamed down the blurry glass to see just how close the markings would reach his shirt collar. Only, he didn’t see the dark marks in the reflection.

He squinted as a frown tugged at his mouth. In a moment, he’d grabbed up a towel and wiped the mirror to get a better look, only to see his own pristine flesh reflected back at him. But when he glanced downward, there it was, big as life.”

The mystery nagged him, as he finished dressing. A white button-down shirt, gray slacks with matching suit jacket, and a conservative tie in a complimentary shade of hunter green and he was indistinguishable from ninety percent of the suits that had been going in and out of the Interpol special station office he’d tracked the homing device to.

“I think I should go with you.” Deacon said, as he sorted the equipment on the breakfast bar off of the rented flat’s kitchen nook and glanced over Peyton’s changed appearance.

“You’re not going in with me,” Peyton repeated, pushing past the Changeling to grab another slice of the bacon that he’d fried up for breakfast.

“Why not? I can look like an agent.”

“Because you always start killing things the second they look at you sideways. You’re not the plan; you’re what I need if the plan fails.” Peyton double-checked the forged documents that Deacon had procured, making certain that they met the specifications. He’d be playing the role of a junior MI-6 agent returning from extended assignment. The employment history and dossier was already embedded into the MI-6 servers. The transfer papers appeared in order. The Human Resources department would be providing him with the genuine badge and passcards he would need when he checked in.

Why break into a place when you can get them to hand over the keys?

“You are absolutely no fun, do you know that?” Deacon pushed away from the counter and grabbed a Guinness from the stocked fridge. The Changeling had seen to that.

“So what exactly are these marks on my chest? They don’t show up in the mirror.” Peyton kept the tone light, the conversation casual.

“It won’t do Credne any good if you can’t pass for just another human slug. Only a fey, or someone enchanted by fey magic, can see your brand, and they will all know who owns you.” Deacon grinned that wide-evil Changeling grin that could chill the blood of even the bravest of men.

Peyton let the insult slide, pouring a couple of fingers of orange juice to chase the bacon. “Good to know.” And it was. It meant he didn’t have to come up with a cover story for it.

“Since you won’t let me join the party, that’s your backup plan.” He nodded to a ring on the counter.

Peyton picked it up and examined it. There didn’t seem to be any markings or designs, just a man’s ring with a plain gold setting framing a polished cabochon of onyx. Even still, he wasn’t eager to go blithely jamming it onto his hand without knowing more about it. “What’s it do, exactly.”

Deacon lifted his hand, showing a matching ring on his right hand. “If you blow your cover, give that stone a tap and I’ll come in claws blazing and get that cauldron.”

“And save me?” Peyton glanced up.

Deacon grinned that wicked, Changeling grin. “If there’s time.”

“Good to know.” Peyton pocketed the papers, and then slipped the ring onto his right hand. “Time to get paid.”

Chuckling at that, Deacon watched Peyton go. From here on in, he’d be on his own, unless he went banging on that jewel.

The plain black rental waited for him on the street, and Peyton pulled smoothly out into the early morning commute before he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial for ‘Tower’.

“’Hello,” London responded quickly, sounding bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “You’re chipper today.”

“Just hit the ground running this morning,” she dismissed. He could almost hear the shrug in her voice, but somehow it didn’t come off completely genuine. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“Life’s taken a turn, so I’m reaching for a touchstone.” The traffic paused at a light, so he double-checked his skin just inside his collar in the vanity mirror, making sure Deacon hadn’t been jerking him about the markings not showing. He didn’t need to be sending up any red flags.

“Life does that,” London agreed. “Spooks tapping at your door with uncomfortable questions?”

“No, can’t say I’ve had that.” The light changed and Peyton maneuvered with the traffic, looking for his chance to merge right and prepare for a turn. “They been peeking up your skirt, have they?”

“Among other unpleasant places,” she dismissed. “So, touchstones and such.”

“Right,” he murmured, as she was trying to move him to the point. With Deacon practically attached at his hip lately, contacting London was risky, and arranging a meet closer to impossible. Still, he pressed, “Any chance I could impose on our friendship and set up a face-to-face with your special friend?” There was a long pause, during which he felt her withdrawing. “Look, London, I’m in a bit of a spot. None of us can afford to be burning bridges now.”

“I’ll get back with you.”

The phone clicked off and Peyton pocketed it. The plan felt like a longshot, but London was a longshot kind of lassie. And given his illustrious career so far, Peyton was a longshot kind of chap.

Chapter Seventeen

Given their past, you wouldn’t think that London and Malcolm would be sitting across from each other without the flash of metal or explosion of magic. The past was complicated, and messy, and most of it London’s fault. The rest of the blame didn’t fall to Malcolm, either, but to the Changeling that ‘introduced’ them. As unlikely as this bond was, she couldn’t help but be fond of the kid. Malcolm sat on the wide windowsill in the Green Room at the back of the club. His scruffy tennis shoes dangled above the linoleum floor. The swinging of his foot lazily back and forth dragged an untied shoelace across an upturned young cat that played with it. Somewhere along the way the cat had attached itself to Malcolm, London understood, and it added a hint of charm to the otherwise wild youth.

His dark eyes were just a sharp as they’d always been; only there wasn’t hatred burning in them now. They’d gotten past that, and this initial friendship was something that seemed to surprise them both. His scruffy jeans and untucked T-shirt where more a part of his uniform now than just lazy teenage fashion, since his T-shirt sported the name of his band. Even though his dark hair had started to grow out again, the point of his elven ears were still prominently visible. The kid was a Sidhe. Because of that, more than any of the other fey, Lugh had wanted London to protect him that day in the Brightner Building. Since Malcolm had not been able to protect himself from her, when they first met months earlier, her guilt just doubly loaded the responsibility onto London’s shoulders.

Joe stood beside them, with his arms crossed. He gave a nod to Riley, his partner, where he sat across the room. “The best we’ve been able to figure so far, is that this vampire picked up the bounty job from a website that Riley has been monitoring. It looks as if London is his primary target, and so far, besides the fey girl used to lure London out into a dark alley and into a trap, he’s not appeared to have been focused on the fey.”

“But we can’t rule out that he might make an attempt on one of the band,” Riley said, giving a nod to Malcolm, and then a glance over to Kaitlin and the other band members that sat nearby listening. Kaitlin was a Sidhe, too, but the others were merely dark elves. Any one of them, though, would possess the fey blood that might attract a vampire’s hunger. “So, Tiernan wants us to start running security at the club during your shows, as a precaution.”

London asked, “Have you noticed vampires in the crowd, Malcolm?” It was a reasonable question to ask, given his magical abilities. He could detect magic and energy like no other. It was what made him a bloodhound, but that wasn’t the only reason most of the fey feared him.

Malcolm’s foot swung, dragging his raggedy shoelace back and forth across the furry belly of the cat. It scrambled each time to catch it, and add more fray to the already worn lace. His hands were folded in his lap as his eyes slid to the side, accessing memory. “Usually during one of our sets I’m really into the music,” Malcolm explained. “Kaitlin throws off a lot of magic, and it’s quite a display to try and see past. I have caught the sense of a vampire now and then, while we’re playing, but they’re always gone when the music stops. So far I don’t think any of us have had any trouble.” He glanced at the guys in the band, getting head shakes and shrugs. Malcolm looked back. “I can start keeping more of an eye out, if you want me to.”

Joe was the one taking charge of this mission. He’d already worked some of the tactical angles of setting up surveillance. “I don’t want you trying to engage these vampires, Malcolm. We’re going to start maintaining a regular security at your shows. If you see a vampire, give me a signal and I’ll take care of it.” He gave a nod to the teenager. Joe’s military background was starting to show and he tended to want to take charge when that happened.

London was content to let him. “If you need me, just give me a call,” she said to Joe. “As long as I’m still getting tailed by that government agent, I think it’s best if I steer clear from Malcolm and the band right now. We don’t need him getting interested in them.”

“I agree,” Joe said, with a nod. “Riley and some of Tiernan’s men will be more than enough backup to handle this vampire, and whatever crew he’s working with. We’ll find them and we’ll take them out. If they don’t show back up at the club, then we’ll set up a trap to lure them out, assuming that he’s still got it out for you, London.” Joe had that protective expression on his face that he had when he was doing his job for the fey. They were all serious about what they did, but Joe’s ‘serious’ was several notches above the average human’s.

“Okay, so we’ve got a plan,” London agreed. “And then maybe we can find out who it is that hired him to come after me.” The list of possibilities was considerably long. London had had her share of enemies even before she’d been enchanted by the fey. But that list seemed to explode exponentially when they’d cursed her. As bad as she disliked having a target on her forehead, better her than Malcolm. Too many people had been hurt on her account already, and London wanted to balance the ledger.

Chapter Eighteen

The shiny new badge dangled from the breast pocket of Peyton’s suit jacket. He carried the freshly refilled Styrofoam cup of coffee that Gina in the security office gave to him. Chatting her up, and flashing that smile of his, put her right at ease. She’d barely even gave his credentials a once over before issuing him the badge with its magnetically sealed and encoded access to every room in the facility. Lovely girl she was, too. Peyton might take her up on the offer to show him the town after work this evening. So much depended on how things played out.

He really did live for this.

Strolling into the operations hub, Peyton took it in at a glance. Six ‘partners desks’ were arranged in a horseshoe around a bank of mobile white boards that blocked off almost one wall of windows. He would have thought that the information on the servers would have been destroyed by the security protocols when the building’s integrity had been breached, as they had been programmed to do. Or, at the very least, crushed under the weight of the rubble. As he crossed into the room, there, upon the board, were the security profile pictures for every employee of the wizards’ operation. It was quite a sobering sight, seeing his former colleagues spread across the field of white, his own picture counted amongst them. From the sorting, it seemed clear that they weren’t classifying them on any hierarchy within the organization.

“Quite a mess, isn’t it?” The fellow that spoke came to stand beside Peyton, glancing at the vista of photos.

“Isn’t it always?” He turned to the agent-in-charge, and offered his hand to shake. “Peyton Price.”

“Agent Price,” the lead agent repeated, and then returned, “I’m Fletcher. Glad to have you on the team. Your file says you’ve done some undercover work while investigating the wizards. To be honest, before now, I hadn’t realized they’d become this organized.” Fletcher looked like he could have been teaching Humanities at university, with his mixture of geek and businessman look, which probably worked perfectly to disarm the unwary into underestimating him. He wouldn’t be Interpol’s lead agent on such a case if he wasn’t sharper than a machete.

“They have always maintained ties, even if loosely, because of their apprentice system. Only in the last few years have they begun to collaborate on any great scale.” Any hotshot agent that was deep into an investigation would know as much, or probably less, than Peyton knew from having worked for the wizards as long as he had. Peyton couldn’t claim to know everything, but he knew a hell of a lot more than his former employers would have guessed. He nodded to the board of security face shots. “That’s the head of the snake, Reginald Brightner. You didn’t find his body in the wreckage, I gather.”

That wasn’t a stretch. Peyton knew Reginald had remained on the Isle of Man with a few of his elite cohorts. That day had been designed for maximum casualties, not among the wizards, but their prey; the fey. The second tier of wizards, who were meant to go in on the first wave of the attack planned on the Isle of Fey, met at the Brightner Building. The top enchanters, those sniffing around for Manannan’s approval, had remained at the mansion with their benefactor to sweep in like tanks after the apprentices, AKA cannon fodder, did what damage they could. Not one of the wizards made it to the battleground that day, from all accounts. Peyton and London shut down the first wave before they could even launch their attack. What happened to the others was something of a guess. Manannan was dead though, that much reached even his ears on the first day after the Brightner Building’s collapse.

“Reginald Brightner is dead,” Fletcher stated, not a hint of doubt or deception.

Peyton blinked. Nothing else. His gaze, his expression, his focus remained upon the image of Reginald.

Dead? If he was an agent, he’d know that much.

Unless Fletcher was playing him.

Peyton glanced over at the agent-in-charge, stoic and unreadable, only to be handed a file.

Fletcher continued. “We found the ‘head of the snake’ bobbing in the surf around the pier in Douglas with his throat sliced. We’re keeping that quiet for now. No need to feed the media circus.”

“Smart move,” Peyton agreed, and didn’t bother to glance at the file just yet. “He had a mansion in Douglas. I heard he was there when the building went down.”

“Appears he went down at the same time. Assassinated, probably by the same ones responsible for the explosion.” Fletcher edged towards a smile. “That’s still our working theory, at any rate.” Turning towards Peyton, he leaned his bum back against a desk, his hands curling around the edge on either side of him. “What can you tell us about their organization? Who were their enemies?”

Peyton’s eyebrow lifted. Mimicking Fletcher’s stance, Peyton leaned back against the opposite desk, setting the file down so that he might even position his hands in the same manner, signaling himself as a subordinate to the agent before him. “Besides the fey, you mean? They victimized them almost exclusively.”

“What about their allies? Their competitors? Should those be our lead suspects?”

“There were no wizard competitors, unless you count the in-fighting among the wizards for positions of power. Other predators of the fey, like werewolves and vampires, tended not to have the scale or ambition to match them either. As for allies, given the nature of their business, stripping magic from others to bestow it upon themselves, no other magical types seemed inclined to want to chum around with them.” No doubt, Fletcher and his team had already reached similar conclusions.

“So, we’re probably looking for a fey, that’s what you are saying?”

There was nothing to read past Fletcher’s casual expression, and off-hand conclusion.

But the implications of such a question could have far-reaching effects on Peyton’s future wellbeing, should the government decide to pick up on the wizards’ legacy and go into a full scale expunging of the fey, like they had been doing with demons for the last few decades.

Shifting physically, as if to get more comfortable or to consider the question more fully, Peyton’s only option, with this man looking him dead in the face, was to divert. “I’m not comfortable jumping to any conclusions. There is too much evidence yet to be shifted through.” Shaking his head, he continued, “Having said that, I don’t see the fey doing something like this.” Nodding to the image of the building’s rubble stuck to the board. “It’s not really their style.”

“Well,” Fletcher looked him dead in the eye, “it’s somebody’s style.”

For a split second panic flared like a sickness in Peyton’s gut, whispering the dreaded thought,
he knows…

But then the smile broke easily across the agent’s face as he tilted his head towards the evidence boards, before adding, “Apparently.”

“Apparently,” Peyton echoed, not quite as loud.

Fletcher stood up and gestured for Peyton to follow him. “Come on. I want you to meet the team you are joining.”