December, eight years ago
“SO, WHAT DO you do when you’re not making bargains?” I ask Des, who is sprawled out on my floor, flipping through one of my textbooks.
He has a pen in hand, and I’ve seen him scribbling stuff in the margins. I’m seriously afraid he’s drawn dicks inside my textbook, but when I take a peek, I see myself instead. He’s drawn a sliver of my face, and damn, he’s a really good artist on top of everything else.
“Besides ruining the mind of a little siren?” he says. “Besides that,” I say, smiling softly.
In the hall outside my room, I hear some of my floormates laughing as they run off to dinner. They knock on the door next to mine, inviting Shelly and Trisha to dinner with them. I hear their footsteps coming towards my room, and a small part of me hopes they’ll knock on my door, even though Desmond is here.
Their footsteps pass my door without pause.
“They can’t hear us, you know,” Des says, not looking up from his work.
I didn’t know, but I had wondered why no one on my floor had asked about the male voice coming from my room. The walls here are paper thin.
“That was kind of you, Des,” I say.
“I like my privacy. It had nothing to do with you.”
“Right.” God forbid the Bargainer actually gets a reputation for kindness. “And my name is Desmond—not … Des.” His voice drips with disdain.
So the name bugs him? Goody.
“I’ll stop calling you Des as soon as you stop call me cherub.” He grumbles at that.
I take a seat at my computer chair and watch him work for several seconds.
And as I sit there, staring at him, I feel my stomach flutter.
If I close my eyes, I can pretend that we’re not in my shady dorm room, that I’m not paying the Bargainer off to keep me company, that Des likes me every bit as much as I like him.
But then I remember that I get to hang out with him for no more than four hours of his day. I live for those four hours, but what about him? I’m probably just his equivalent of paid vacation.
What does he do when he’s not stealing secrets or collecting debt? What is this man’s idea of fun?
Probably stealing candy from babies or something awful like that. “What do you do in your free time?” I ask again.
He flips another page of my textbook. “This will cost you,” he says.
I shrug. I already have two rows of beads. What was one more? “Add a bead.”
I catch sight of my wrist just as another dull, black bead forms. “I rule.” He doesn’t even look up when says it.
I wait for more, but it never comes.
“Oh, c’mon, that’s it?” I say. “That answer was two words.” I deserve a better answer than that, considering the price I will eventually have to pay for the favor. In all likelihood, someday this bracelet of beads will turn into a very real version of Fuck-Marry-Kill.
“So was my name. You didn’t complain then.” He begins drawing in my mouth.
“You didn’t add a bead for that answer,” I say.
“A generosity I’m not interested in repeating.” His words are clipped. I grind my teeth together.
Dropping down to the floor next to him, I snatch the pen from his hand. “What exactly do you rule?” I demand.
The Bargainer rolls onto his side, propping his head up with a hand, a smirk on his face, a wisp of white blond hair falling into his eyes. He studies me for a second, then gives in. “I’m the King of the Night.”
“The King of the Night?” I repeat dumbly. What kind of title is that?
“In the Otherworld,” he elaborates, taking the pen back from me.
The Otherworld.
I stare at him.
The Otherworld.
Holy crap, this dude is a fairy. No, not just a fairy, a fae king. A leader of one of the most ruthless races of beings.
And I’ve been mean to him.
“So you’re … really important,” I say.
He inclines his head slightly, still looking amused. “A bit.” Well fuck me good, I hadn’t realized.
I take in his unruly white hair, his staggering frame, tatted arm, and black- on-black attire.
“You don’t look like a king,” I say.
“And you don’t look like the kind of girl that makes deals with the Bargainer, cherub. Your point?”
He has me there.
King of the Night. Just the name sounds badass. “Where are your wings?” I ask.
He levels me an annoyed look. “Away.”
Des must realize I’m going to keep pestering him because he closes my textbook and sets it aside.
Having the Bargainer’s full attention is like catching a tiger’s eye. All you wanted to do was pet the creature, but as soon as it turns its gaze on you, you realize it’s simply going to tear you apart.
“Tell me, cherub, would you like to visit my kingdom one day?” he asks, his voice soft like velvet.
Is this a trick question? I feel as though I’m about to walk into a trap.
“You’d take me?” I ask. I try not to sound too excited, or frightened for that matter. Everything I’ve learned about the Otherworld terrifies me. But the idea of the King of the Night giving me a guided tour of his realm is impossibly appealing.
“Oh, I’ll take you,” he promises, he wicked glint in his eyes. “One day I won’t give you a choice.”
Present
SHORTLY AFTER I agree to help Des, he returns me home for the night. Now that I’m onboard, he has preparations to make on his own end. Tomorrow we’ll be going over the disappearances. The day after, I’ll be interviewing the changelings. That means visiting the Otherworld and seeing for the first time in my life the kingdom Des rules.
I stand outside in my backyard, watching the Bargainer fly back into the night, a large part of me wanting to follow him.
Tonight, he didn’t need to show me his place, but he did. Just as he didn’t need to show me his wings, but he also did. If he’s trying to confuse me, he’s doing a good job of it.
Once Desmond fades out of sight, I slip inside and head into the kitchen. Earlier, he’d taken a bead from me shortly after he caught me drinking wine. He never explained what exactly he took the bead for, though I have my suspicions.
Now my curiosity gets the best of me. Time to test my theory and hope to God I’m wrong.
Grabbing a bottle of Jameson whiskey from my cupboard, I unscrew the cap, catching the first whiffs of the liquor. I pause for a second. If his earlier repayment is what I think it is, this might be unpleasant. That niggling worry stills my hand only for a moment, and then I tip the bottle back and take a long, deep swig from it.
The whiskey is like liquid amber going down; I can already feel it burning away my nerves. I close my eyes and enjoy the initial sting of it at the back of my throat and the warmth that curls inside my stomach.
A moment later, I relax.
I thought he’d banned me from drinking alcohol, but obviously my theory was wrong.
I put the whiskey away, relieved.
It’s only as I’m padding back to my bedroom that I feel it. My stomach lurches. I swallow and pause. The sensation fades and I begin walking again.
Three steps later, my stomach convulses. The sensation ripples up my torso and I nearly fall to my knees; I can feel it all the way up to my throat.
That evil bastard.
I run to the bathroom and barely make it in time. My entire body spasms as I vomit up the whiskey. I can feel the threads of magic forcing my insides to rid themselves completely of the alcohol, and it’s just as invasive as it was the first time I’d felt his magic stir inside of me.
My knuckles go white as my grip on the porcelain tightens. Now I know what Desmond cashed that one particular bead in for.
Sobriety.
Forget the supernatural bounty hunters that are after him; that fucker is mine.
THAT NIGHT, WHEN Desmond Flynn opens the sliding glass door and saunters into my living room like he owns the place, I’m ready for him.
“I.” I chuck a whiskey bottle at the Bargainer’s head. “Hate.” Now a wine glass. “You.” Now a beer bottle.
The Bargainer’s form disappears the moment each item should come in contact with him. A moment later, he reappears, his body flickering in and out of existence as he heads towards me. Each glass container smashes against the wall behind him, amber and maroon liquid splashing against it and dripping down to the wooden floorboards below.
“That’s not nice,” he growls.
I go to grab more ammunition. My complete supply lines the counters. I’ve decided to use it as target practice since it’s clear I won’t have any other use for it now.
The Bargainer disappears again, and when he reappears, he’s in front of me.
“We have work to do today.”
“You can take your work,” I growl, “and shove it—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, catching my jaw and pressing me back up against the counter. “Be careful what you wish for around me. I’d like nothing more than to take my work and shove it somewhere the sun can never reach.”
I know from past experience that when in a bad mood, the Bargainer loves twisting his clients’ words. The thought makes the siren in me sing—the hussy. The rest of me is madder than hell.
The Bargainer seems to be aware of my conflicted reaction because his pupils dilate. “Time to go.”
“No,” I say obstinately.
“I wasn’t asking.” He drags me away from the counter and walks us across my living room to the back door.
Shards of glass and droplets of alcohol lift from the walls and the ground, the liquid making a path to the sink and the glass to the trash. He’s cleaning up for me again.
I yank against his hold of my wrist, fighting him the whole way. “Des-mond. Let me go. Now.” My siren has taken over my voice, making my angry command sound seductive.
Instead of letting me go, Des throws me over his shoulder.
“Keep talking to me like that, cherub,” the Bargainer says. “You don’t know how much it turns me on.” He pats my ass, and I see red.
“Put me down, you prick!”
But instead of putting me down, he rearranges me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. I try to squirm free, but his hold is like a cage, keeping me in place.
I pinch his back. He swears, and the glass and liquid he’s cleaning up behind us drops to the ground.
“Damnit, Callie,” he says, “don’t make me waste one of your beads on immobilizing you.”
I stare him in the eye as he carries me outside. “I dare you to fucking do it, Des.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t test me. I will, and I’ll enjoy feeling every inch of your skin while you’re forced to sit still.”
I settle for glaring at him. “That was wrong of you,” I say, “to take away my ability to drink.”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, cherub,” he says. “And it’s not permanent if you learn how to drink responsibly.”
The cojones of this man. How can I even learn to drink responsibly if I can’t drink?
I tighten my hold on him as his wings materialize. “I was doing just fine before you meddled in my life.”
He gives a derisive snort. “That’s debatable.”
Before I can retort, he launches us into the air. I let out a yelp of surprise, and he rubs small circles into my back, probably in an attempt to reassure me. I want to swap that hand away, but short of letting go of his neck, I can’t.
Instead, I fix my eyes on the sky above me, determined to recite constellations in an effort to ignore the man who both angers me and confuses me.
And naturally, I see a whopping three stars in the sky—and one of them might be a plane. So I settle on simply ignoring Des, which proves to be nearly impossible. I’m breathing in the smell of him, his hair is tickling the backs of my hands, and all I can see besides the dark night is the menacing arc of his wings.
Something like ten minutes in, I give up and rest my head in the nook between his neck and shoulder.
The Bargainer tightens his hold on me, and I feel the rough brush of his cheek as he nuzzles me. I’m starting to notice a pattern; he gets affectionate when I’m in his arms.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but eventually I feel us begin to descend. I peek at the world beneath us and watch as Catalina Island gets larger and the Bargainer’s house comes into view.
Fifteen minutes later, we enter his living room. Today, sheets and sheets of handwritten notes and sketches cover his coffee table. I lean in to get a good look at them. I’ve worked enough jobs as a PI to recognize a case file when I see one.
I pick up one of the sketches, immediately recognizing Des’s handiwork. He used to draw portraits and landscapes back in my dorm room at Peel Academy. Though none quite like this.
In the sketch, rows and rows of women lie in what appear to be caskets, their eyes shut, their arms folded over their chests.
Holy shit.
“These are … the women?”
I feel the air stir; a moment later Des is at my back, looking over my shoulder, and I’m so very aware of him.
“They are. Each is returned in a glass coffin.”
Last night Des told me these women weren’t dead, but they look dead.
He leans around me and pulls out another image, this one of a single coffin sitting in what looks like a great hall.
Des’s palace. It’s such a strange thought.
My attention turns to the sleeping woman, wearing her battle leathers. In one hand she holds a weapon, and in the other—
My eyes must be deceiving me. “Is that … ?” “Yes. It’s a child.”
I STARE AT the drawing.
Child is not the correct word for the tiny life cradled to the chest of the sleeping fae warrior.
Infant. Baby.
Held in the arms of a woman who might as well be dead.
Being private investigator, I’ve seen and heard my fair share of twisted shit. Fairies always manage to top it.
“Is the baby dead?” I ask.
“Oh no.” The way Des says that has me turning to look towards him. “So it’s alive?” I probe.
“Very much so. The humans you will be interviewing? They are wet nurses to some of these children.”
My eyebrows knit together. What could a bunch of wet nurses know? I slide a glance to his notes, written in his looping scrawl.
… Male warriors still missing …
… goes by the name ‘Thief of Souls’ …
Des takes the sketches out of my hands. “In order to assist me, you first need to learn about the Otherworld—even before you learn the ins and outs of this particular mystery. Ignorance, you see, will get you killed in my world.”
I stifle a shudder. Already the Otherworld sounds worse than I feared. I sit down on his couch. “I’m all ears, Des.”
He takes a heavy seat next to me. From the pile of notes spread out before us, he produces a pen and a blank sheet of paper. “Here are the basics: The world of the fae is one huge hierarchy.” He draws a pyramid. “The power players are at the top, none as powerful as the queen and king of fae—Titania and her king consort, Oberon, or the Mother and the Father, as we call them. They’re some of the oldest ancients still living. You don’t need to worry too much about them. Both have gone far Under the Hill, and they have taken the undying sleep.”
“Um, in English,” I say.
“They’re in a coma-like state. Not sentient, but not dead.” “A bit like the female warriors,” I say.
Des gives me a sharp look. “Yes,” he says slowly, “a bit like them, I suppose.”
His hand slides farther down the pyramid, and he draws another line. “Beneath them are the four biggest kingdoms. Your history books may refer to them by their traditional name, courts.
“These four kingdoms are: Night, Day, Flora, and Fauna.”
I recognize Des’s house immediately, and once again I’m struck by how powerful this man is.
“There are two additional houses that usually go unrecognized, but are equally powerful—the Kingdom of Mar, which reigns over all bodies of water. And the Kingdom of Death and Deep Earth. These two houses keep themselves apart—Death doesn’t like to dabble in the land of the living, and the Kingdom of Mar likes to stay in its watery depths for the most part.
“As for the four houses, I rule the Kingdom of Night. My people know me alternately as His Majesty Desmond Flynn, Emperor of the Evening Stars, Lord of Secrets, Master of Shadows, and King of Chaos.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No one calls you Bargainer?”
I don’t mention this strange ache I feel to learn about Des’s other life. The more he tells me, the more I realize how little I actually know of him.
“Not in the Otherworld, no.”
Turning back to his work, Des begins writing again. “In direct opposition to the Kingdom of Night is the Kingdom of Day. Ruled by Janus, Lord of Passages, King of Order, Truth Teller, Bringer of Light, Asshole Supreme.”
I almost miss the jab.
A surprised laugh trickles out. “Don’t like the guy?” I ask.
Des doesn’t laugh with me. “He’s the light to my dark. The good to my evil. The truth and beauty to my deception and wickedness. He is my opposite; I was made to dislike him,” he says. “Not that you should share my opinion,” he adds. “If you met him, you would probably like him. Everyone does.”
I glance over at Des as he stares at the people he’s drawn, and I notice something on his face. Envy? Regret? Longing?
Again, I feel a strange ache, this time for this man.
I place a hand on his leg, drawing Des’s attention. “Perhaps I’d like him— and perhaps not. My appreciation for truth and beauty died long ago.”
Des glances over at me, and a whisper of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth before he returns his attention to the sheet of paper.
“The Kingdom of Flora is ruled by Mara, Queen of All that Grows, and her consort king, the Green Man. She rules over all plant life.” He writes their names out on the sheet of paper.
“And lastly, there’s the Kingdom of Fauna, ruled by Karnon, Master of Animals, Lord of the Wild Heart, King of Claws and Talons. Also known in certain parts as the mad king for his reclusive tendencies and his … eccentricities.
“While you’re in my kingdom, you must follow my land’s rules. When you’re in the Kingdom of Day, you must follow theirs—even I, a king, must abide by their rules.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. “I’m not going to be in the Kingdom of Day or any others, right?” Because I don’t have enough time to learn the laws and etiquette of all the different fae kingdoms. Not if Des and I were going to visit the Otherworld tomorrow.
“You’ll be in my kingdom and mine alone, and there you have my absolute protection.”
I hear the hard edge of a ruler in his voice.
“That’s all you need to know about the Otherworld—for now.” He slides his drawing of the pyramid aside, his attention drifting back to his scattered notes.
My eyes unwillingly move back to the picture of the sleeping woman holding a baby against her breast. “So all the women come back with children?” I ask.
Desmond nods, his fingers trailing over the drawing.
“Whose children are they?” I ask. Fairies have a bad habit of taking kids that aren’t their own.
“They’ve come from these women’s wombs,” Des affirms. Not going to ask how they figure that one out.
“And the father?” I ask.
The beginnings of a wry smile spread across the Bargainer’s lips, but then it turns into a grimace.
“Just one more mystery,” he says.
He shuffles the papers into a neat stack. “For right now, none of this matters except …” he draws a sheet of paper from the pile, “this.”
I take it from him, looking it over. A list of questions spans nearly the length of the page, each one odder than the last. “What is this?”
“Those, cherub, are the questions you’ll be asking tomorrow.”
EVEN AFTER DES has set aside the case notes and I’ve tucked my sheet of questions away, he doesn’t make a move to end the evening. Instead, a spread of cheese and crackers drifts into the living room from the kitchen, a set of glasses and drinks on its heels.
I catch the Coke that floats just above my lap, while the Bargainer pops the lid on his beer, taking a healthy swig.
I give him the stink eye, remembering all over again that I can’t drink liquor alongside him, before I begin drinking my soda.
Des settles into the couch, his shirt riding up as he drapes his arms across the seatbacks.
He takes a swig of his beer, eyeing me over the rim and looking as sinful as all get out.
This doesn’t feel like the end of an evening, it feels at the beginning. It also doesn’t feel like repayment.
The whole thing is a bit too intimate for that.
“What, pray tell, is going on my little siren’s mind?” he says, his eyes moving over me.
My little siren.
“I’m not your anything,” I say.
He takes another swig of his beer, smiling around the rim.
Once he brings the drink away, he swirls the amber liquid inside its bottle. “You were once my client,” he says, “and then you were my friend, and now
…” His lips curve up almost nefariously, his silver eyes glittering. “Perhaps we won’t put a label on what we are now.”
The atmosphere in the room changes, becoming heavy, almost sultry. I don’t know whether it’s his magic, or just Des’s natural magnetism, but it has me shifting in my seat.
“Why come to earth?” I ask, desperate to get the focus off of our relationship—or lack thereof, in my opinion. “Why do any of this if you’re a king?”
Some of the heat in the room dissipates. He takes another swig of his drink before answering. “Do you want the appropriate explanation, or the real one?”
“Both,” I say, kicking my shoes off, so that I can better curl up on his couch.
Des notices the action, his expression becoming almost pleased.
“The appropriate answer is that I have time for it. Laws and politics aside, my kingdom does my most important job on its own,” he says, kicking his own booted feet up onto the couch and crossing them at the ankles. “It drags the night across the Otherworld.
“Another part of my job as King of the Night is to make sure that chaos exists, and chaos—that is the natural state of things, even here on earth. Again, the universe does my job for me.
“Then there are those other deeds that best happen under the cloak of darkness. Violence, sleep and—” he runs his gaze down one of my arms, and I feel a phantom finger trailing down my skin, “sex.”
My siren stirs.
“Let’s call them baser impulses. And, again, those don’t need much management.”
Am I hearing him correctly?
I set my drink down on the coffee table. “So, you encourage … people to get it on?” I can’t believe we’ve never talked about this. He always acted like a nun around me. I never would’ve guessed this would be part of his job.
One of his eyebrows arches. “Would you like a demonstration?”
The siren in me is waking up. All the things he rules she feeds off of.
Violence, chaos, … sex.
She would gladly take a whole armful of beads for such a demonstration.
He sees my silence for what it is—consideration. One moment he’s sprawled on his end of the couch, setting his drink down, the next, he disappears. I jolt when he reappears next to me on the couch.
“You would enjoy yourself, Callie,” he says, leaning in. This close to me, his presence is overwhelming. His lips brush my ear. “I would make sure of that.”
He was never like this with me before. Only now am I learning that he fought his most innate nature to be appropriate with me. Even when I put all the moves on him I could think of.
I clear my throat. “Des.” I’m drowning in years of desire for this man. “Think about it.” He pulls away. “Nothing would please me more.”
My heart’s thundering, the siren desperately trying to claw her way out the longer I stare at him.
“You were mentioning your reasons for visiting earth?” My voice is hoarse as I force the question out. It’s a last ditch effort to stop whatever’s going on from continuing.
His mood shifts, his eyes shuttering as he returns back to his corner of the couch. “Ah, yes, the official reason. The duties I have running my kingdom still leave me with plenty of time to work on international—interworldly,
really—relations. As the Bargainer, that’s what I’m doing. I mingle with supernaturals here, use my magic to grant them petty favors,”—favors like mine—“and I collect repayment with interest. These things make my kingdom richer, safer.”
He picks his beer back up and takes another swallow. “And what’s the unofficial reason?” I ask.
He stares at me for a long time, his eyes growing distant. “I’ve been pulled here for reasons that have long mystified me.”
The eternal wanderer.
His eyes move over his living room, his gaze still unfocused. Wherever his mind drifted to, it’s not here.
“Do they still?”
His attention snaps back to me. “Still what?” “Mystify you.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps. “No, cherub, they don’t.”
