March, seven years ago
“TELL ME ABOUT your mother,” Des says across from me.
The two of us play poker and drink booze in my dorm room, while outside a rainstorm batters against the windows.
The booze had been his idea. “A little corruption will do you good, cherub,” he’d said when he’d appeared in my room with the bottle, winking at me.
I’d sputtered at the sight of the alcohol. “That’s not allowed.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy that follows the rules?” With his leather pants and inked arm on display, he most definitely didn’t.
So reluctantly, I’d rinsed out my mug and my water glass and let the Bargainer pour us each a glass of “really fucking good” Scotch.
It tastes about as good as a dirty rim job.
“My mother?” I now say as Des deals out a new hand.
I pick up my cards distractedly, until I see the hand he dealt me. Three tens. For once I have a chance at winning a round.
His eyes flick from me to the back of my cards, then back to me. “Three of a kind,” he says, guessing my hand.
I glance down at the tens in my hand. “You cheated.”
He picks up his drink and takes a swallow, his muscular frame rippling in a very pleasing way as he does so. “If only. You’re easy to read, cherub. Now,” he says, setting down his glass. He looks coolly at his own cards, “tell me about your mother.”
I fold my hand, taking a sip of the Scotch and wincing a little when it hits my tongue.
My mother’s one of those subjects that I never talk about. What’s the use?
It’s just one more sad story; my life has enough of them.
But the way Des is looking at me, I’m not going to casually be able to change the subject.
“I don’t remember much about her,” I say. “She died when I was eight.”
Des is no longer paying attention to the game or the drink. Those two sentences are all it takes to divert his entire focus.
“How did she die?”
I shake my head. “She was murdered while she and my stepdad were on vacation. It was a mistake. They were aiming for my stepfather, but ended up shooting her instead.” My stepfather, who was a seer. He’d failed to foresee it
—or maybe he had foreseen it but couldn’t or wouldn’t stop it.
Innocent or guilty, that night haunted him.
“Her death was why he drank.” And his drinking was why … I suppress my shudder.
“Where were you when this happened?” Des asks. He still has a calm, lazy look about him, but I swear it’s just as much of an act as his poker face is.
“Home with a nanny. They liked to go on vacation without kids.”
I know how my life sounds. Cold and brittle. And that was the truth of it.
Technically, I had everything—looks and money to go along with it.
No one would suspect that there were long stretches of time when I was left alone in my stepfather’s Hollywood mansion, with only a nanny and my stepfather’s driver to look after me. Business always came first.
No one would suspect that those long stretches of loneliness were so much better than when he returned from trips. He’d see me and fall right back into another bottle.
And then …
Well, those are more memories I try not to dwell on. My skin still crawls anyway.
“Why was anyone trying to kill your stepfather?” Des asks, our game of poker utterly forgotten.
I shrug. “Hugh Anders liked money. And he didn’t care who his clients were.” Mafia bosses. Cartel lords. Sheiks with links to terrorist groups. He brought enough of his work home for me to see it all. “It made him a very rich man, and it made him a lot of enemies.”
Maybe that was why he had the Bargainer’s calling card in his kitchen drawer. A man like my stepfather walked around with a target on his back.
“Did you ever do business with him—before you met me?” I ask.
I hadn’t meant to voice that particular question, and now I find myself holding my breath. I don’t think he knew him. The Bargainer hadn’t acted like he knew him when I first called on him, but Des was made of secrets. What if he had known my stepfather? What if he’d helped him, the guy that abused me? The man that either directly or indirectly led to my mother’s death?
Just the possibility has my stomach turning.
Des shakes his head. “Never met the guy until he was swimming in a pool of his own blood.”
The image of his dead body flashes before my eyes.
“How about your birth father?” Des asks. “What was he like?”
“A nobody,” I say, peering into my glass. “My mother accidently got pregnant when she was eighteen. I don’t think she knew who the father was; he was never listed on my birth certificate.”
“Hmm,” Des murmurs as he absently swirls his drink, his gaze distant.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, only what I would be—that my parents sound like shitty people. My mother, who was interested in giving me a good life, but didn’t want much to do with it; my father, whose greatest contribution was his sperm; and my stepfather, who starred in all my most vivid nightmares.
“Why don’t you tell me about your parents,” I say, eager to take the spotlight off of me.
Des leans back and squints at me, a slow smile curling his lips. I can’t stop staring at him.
“We share similar tragedies, cherub,” he says, still smiling, though now it seems a bit bitter.
My eyebrows rise at his words. A fae king sharing anything in common with his human charity case?
I find that doubtful.
He pushes himself to his feet. “I’ve got work to do. Keep the Scotch—and for the love of the gods, practice drinking without wincing.” He turns to the door.
I don’t bother trying to convince him to stay, though I want to badly. I already know he won’t. Especially not after our—my—little heart-to-heart. Sometimes I imagine the Bargainer’s mind is a vault. Secrets go in and they don’t come out.
He pauses, then gives me a look over his shoulder, and his expression says it all. I may not have told him about how my stepfather abused me, but he knows.
“For the record, cherub,” he says, “if your stepfather were alive, he wouldn’t be for long.” There’s steel in his eyes.
And then, like magic, he disappears into the night.
Present
I SPEND OVER an hour cleaning my place up. There’s stuffing and wolf hair everywhere. Not to mention the claw marks. My coffee table and a side table have to be thrown out. At this point, they’re nothing more than kindling.
Should’ve asked Des to magic the rest of this mess away.
But then, he’d been so broody; I hadn’t wanted to push my luck.
Des. It’s been less than two hours since he left, and I’m already restless to see him again. I miss his house, his macaroons, his fluffy guest sheets.
I miss his smell and his touch. I miss him. It takes being back in my empty house to remember just how lonely I am. I’d forgotten that while I’d been with Des.
I do what I can to straighten my house up, trying really, really hard not to think of the man who seemed like he didn’t want to leave me earlier—not to mention the one who destroyed this place fighting for me.
I should just swear off men. Nothing but heartache comes of them.
Heartache, and trouble. Now, on top of hiding from the supernatural authorities and an Otherworld monster, I have to buy new furniture because
my ex broke one of the most important pact laws and visited me when he was on the shifter equivalent of the rag.
Once I clean up the bulk of the mess, I turn my attention to my cracked cell phone, biting the inside of my cheek nervously. I’ve been putting this part off, but I can’t any longer.
Plugging it in, I check my messages. Thirty-one texts and twenty-five missed calls. Some from Eli, a couple from various interested parties, but most from Temper.
I don’t bother checking any of them before I tap on Temper’s number and, taking a deep breath, call her back.
She answers on the first ring. “Where the fuck are you girl?” she says, panicked.
“I’m back at home.”
“Home? Home?” Her voice rises. “Your house was ransacked, there’s a bounty
out for your capture, and you’re home?” “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“I thought you were dead.” Her voice cracks and I hear her sniffle. “I couldn’t find you.” Temper’s a pro at tracking people with her magic, but I never thought she’d use it to look for me.
“Are you … crying?” I ask.
“Fuck no, I never cry,” she says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. I really am okay,” I say softly.
“What happened to you? You just fell off the map, and Eli’s been blowing up my phone, but he won’t tell me anything.”
I press three fingers to my temple. “Um. It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.”
I sigh.
She huffs, her voice hiccupping a little. “Don’t you sigh, you skinny bitch—I spent the last twenty-four hours thinking my best friend died.”
“Temper, I’m sorry. I’m alright—I’m sorry and I’m alive.” Obviously. But sometimes with Temper it’s important to reiterate the obvious.
“Girl, what happened?” she repeats. I can tell she’s pacing by the subtle jangle of her jewelry. “I mean, the best possible scenario I could come up
with was that you had some angry-as-fuck make up sex with Eli and that ohmygod-he-probably-went-beastie-on-you-that’s-so-goddamn-nasty.” It all comes out in a rush. “And yeah. He shredded shit up—and you in the process.”
I wince at that.
She lets out a breath. “Don’t tell me he turned you. Please don’t tell me that. I remember how much the thought frightened you. And if he has, so- help-me-black-Jesus, I will smite that hairy little shit and make a coat out of his fur. Ya feel me?”
The line goes quiet, and it’s just the sound of Temper’s heavy breathing. “Holy shit,” I finally say. I clear my throat. “Um, no, we didn’t have angry
animal sex; no, Eli didn’t turn me; and good lord woman, please don’t make my ex into a coat. He didn’t hurt me.”
“Then what did happen?”
It’s only when she asks for a third time that I realize I’ve picked up on some of the Bargainer’s bad habits, like withholding secrets.
I glance down at my bracelet, which is missing over a row of beads. “Can you come over?” I ask.
“Is the sky blue, bitch?”
I give a shaky smile, even though she can’t see it. “Good. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
JUST LIKE I promised myself, I fish out some comfort food and turn on a show that will rot my brain while I wait for Temper to get here.
None of it helps.
I’m disturbed by my trip to the Otherworld, I’m upset by what happened here in my house, but most of all I’m annoyed that I keep replaying every single intimate thing Des has done since he came for me.
Ten minutes later my front door opens, and I hear the click-clack of heels. Temper stops in the entryway when she sees me, blinking rapidly. “My girl.” The two of us close the distance between us, hugging each other tightly.
When we finally break apart, Temper sniffles, her gaze moving about my place. Her eyes linger on my restored table and the unbroken windows.
“I was here this morning,” she says, brushing her braids away from her face. “Your kitchen table was broken.”
“That’s, uh, part of what I have to tell you about.”
“I’m all ears.” She sets down her stuff then plops on my couch. A tuft of cotton flutters into the air as she does so.
Missed a spot.
Temper grabs my bowl of popcorn and begins eating it. “Where’s the booze?” she asks, looking around. Usually nights like this always have a beer or a glass of wine to accompany them.
Crap, she doesn’t yet know.
“Um, I’m trying out this whole sober thing,” I say, gingerly sitting down next to her.
She swivels to fully face me, popcorn forgotten. “Okay, what is going on?” I scrub my face. “Way, way, waaaaaay too much.”
Where to even start?
Dropping my hands, I glance down at my wrist. “You know this bracelet?” I begin, lifting my arm.
“Yessss.” She has no idea where I’m going with this.
“Each one of these beads is an IOU.” I run my thumb over them, not meeting her eyes. “I’m in a lot of debt.”
She settles into the couch. “So pay it off,” she says, and now she resumes eating my popcorn. “You have money.” She snaps her fingers as an idea comes to her. “Or, better yet, glamour that shit away.”
I clear my throat. “It’s not that simple. I can’t glamour this guy. And I am paying it off. That’s why I’ve been gone.”
Now she squints at me. “Who’s the guy?”
I give a nervous laugh. “He’s, um … he’s the Bargainer.” It’s quiet for several beats.
Temper raises her eyebrows. “Wait, the Bargainer? The same Bargainer who nearly killed that teacher a decade ago? The same guy that’s been linked to over twenty disappearances? The same guy that’s always at the top of the Politia’s Wanted List because that same guy is always pulling mad-ass shit?”
“All that stuff is alleged,” I say.
She snorts. “Bitch, you and I both know that motherfucker ain’t innocent.”
“He’s a decent guy.” And he kisses like a rockstar. “You’re defending him,” she says, astounded.
“It’s complicated.”
“He’s a bad guy, Callie. And this is me you’re talking to. I grew up in Oakland—I like ’em bad. But even I think he’s too naughty to tap.”
I roll my lips together and stare down at my hands.
She takes one look at my face and blows out a breath. “Oh, naw, girl, don’t tell me you like him?”
I don’t say anything.
“Shi-it. You do.” She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Let me give it to you straight, bitch—it always ends terribly with the bad ones.”
Unfortunately for me, I already know that all too well.
IT’S DEEP NIGHT by the time I eventually go to sleep, my mind too consumed by my thoughts.
Earlier, I managed to fill Temper completely in, starting from eight years ago. She’d always known someone had broken my heart, but until tonight she’d never known the details. I’d told her about my deal with the Bargainer and the mystery I’d gotten myself involved in, and lastly, I told her about Eli coming here during one of the Sacred Seven days and shifting on me.
Poor Eli. I’m no longer the only supernatural he’s going to have a reckoning with. And personally, I’d be much more scared of Temper’s wrath than mine.
Outside, the wind whistles against my windows, shaking the glass panes against their frames. It sounds like a dying creature. The waves crash angrily against the cliffs, the whole thing so loud that once I do fall asleep, it becomes the soundtrack to one anxious dream after another.
I hear those fae children in my head.
He’s coming for you. Coming to get you.
Their hands hold me in place while something in the distance creeps closer. Closer.
The moaning wind is speaking to me. Humming.
“Fee, fye, foe, fin, I caught the scent of a sweet siren. Fey, fye, fah, fing, I’ll pluck her feathers and make my bird sing.”
I try to pull against the children’s hold, but I’m stuck. I stare out my window, and I swear I see a dark silhouette against the night.
I drift, lost in the sea of my mind.
The doors and windows rattle. “Let me in, siren; I’ll give you wings to fly.” I swear I can hear the voice right in my ear. “Just open your door and part your pretty thighs.”
My exhale echoes in the still air. “Callypso, it won’t be long …”
And then the strange dream evaporates away.
I RUB MY eyes as sunlight streams into my room. My nose itches as a soft feather flutters down it.
Scrubbing my face, I glance at the clock next to my bed. Two p.m.?
I hadn’t planned on sleeping that long. Then again, for most of the night, I wasn’t really sleeping so much as gliding through one unsettling dream after the next.
I throw the covers off me, causing dozens of feathers to flutter into the air. I make a face. Not the bedspread too.
Eli must’ve shredded up my comforter. I hadn’t realized … I push out of bed, more feathers scattering along the floor. Ugh.
I lift up a foot, peeling the little bastards off my skin, when I really take notice of the feathers littering my floor. Hundreds and hundreds of them are arranged in lines that arc away from my bed.
I back up, tilting my head.
When I see it, my blood runs cold.
It’s a wing. The feathers are laid out in the shape of a wing.
Someone was in here. In my house. In my bedroom. Someone stood near me while I slept and meticulously placed hundreds of feathers.
I round the bed, my skin beginning to crawl, only to see another identical wing arcing from the other side of it.
I put a hand to my mouth. My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest.
Where did all the feathers come from?
I lunge for my bedspread and yank it down. But it’s not the comforter that’s been torn open.
The fitted sheet and the mattress are in shreds. Right where I slept. And I know for a fact it wasn’t like that when I went to bed last night.
I can’t wrap my mind around the horror of it. The invasiveness. Someone had practically reached under me to rip open my mattress and extract all those feathers.
How could I not wake up?
My breaths come faster and faster; I can’t take in enough air. I back up, nearly tripping on my own feet.
I open my mouth, the words coming out almost reflexively. “Bargainer, I want to—”
Des materializes before I finish my sentence.
At first, he has eyes only for me. And he looks so damn happy—happy that I called him.
But then he notices the feathers. The fucking feathers, which are
everywhere.
“What happened.” It’s not even a question; it’s a threat to whoever did this. The edge in his voice makes the back of my neck prickle.
I’m shaking my head. “I don’t know.”
He walks around the bed, studying the patterns. He almost manages to pull off looking calm, but I can see the dark outline of his wings.
He places a hand on the mattress, gathering a fistful of feathers. “They did this while you slept?”
“Yes,” I croak out. My voice sounds embarrassingly weak. Scared.
I hug my arms across my chest. I feel violated in my own home, my sanctuary.
Des drops the feathers and stalks to the other side of the room, checking the doors. From what I can tell, they’re still locked.
He drags a hand down his mouth. I feel his magic then, building and building. Strands of my hair begin to lift at the static electricity in the air.
“You’re under my protection,” he says. “You have been for a very long time. Whoever did this was capable of sensing that.”
As he speaks, the floorboards shiver beneath his feet and the glass panes behind him begin to rattle as they did last night. I hear one of them fissure.
“No one—no one—touches the people under my protection.” His wings flicker in and out of existence with his words.
I’m woman enough to admit that right about now I’m a little scared of Des. I can feel his fury riding the magic in the room. This is one of those moments when I have to recognize that fairies are very different from humans. Their anger is bigger and more ferocious than anything a human can conjure. And they’re so much quicker to snap.
Des’s face contorts into something merciless, and I’m pretty sure he’s close to completely losing it.
“Please don’t kill anyone on my behalf,” I say. It’s nearly happened before.
He laughs, but it’s angry. “All the beads in the world couldn’t make me agree to that.” The Bargainer comes back over to me, clasping my wrist between his hands.
His face still looks furious, but the longer he stares at me, the more that fury melts away. “Now, cherub,” his words roll off his lips like honey, “the first repayment of the day: you’re coming home with me, and you’re not leaving until your debts have all been paid.”
