Metal dust clung to the sweat on
my arms, glittering like shining scales. Even with the door propped
open behind me, the uncommonly warm October air did little to temper
the heat of the forge. A shower of sparks erupted as I plunged the
carbon steel rod back into the annealing embers and dragged an arm
across my forehead, taking care to avoid the bulky, blackened welding
glove. I’d probably still end up with sooty streaks decorating my
otherwise pale face. I always did.
Lost in the beat of my MP3
player, I started belting out the lyrics of Robert DeLong’s Don’t
Wait Up as I prepared
the next rod. Then a touch settled—light and tentative—on my arm,
and the bottom fell out of my stomach.
Tongs clutched in one hand,
hammer in the other, I spun.
“Whoa, whoa.” His lips formed
the words, though I couldn’t hear them over the music blaring
through my headphones.
An inch shorter than I was,
wearing jeans and a polo shirt, I had no reason to think the man was
anything but human. But then, who could tell these days? He took a
step back, hands raised, either to show he meant no harm or to ward
off the blow he thought was coming.
Behind him, near the open door,
stood a second man. He wore a rumpled brown suit that matched his
hair and eyes. Average height, average build, average looks. Nothing
remarkable about him.
Moving to put the anvil between
us, I set the hammer down and pulled off my headphones, but kept a
white-knuckled grip on the tongs. The higher-than-average number of
violent crimes this summer had me on edge—along with everyone
else—though none of the violence had come so far as my neck of the
woods. It seemed unlikely a murderer would get my attention before
attacking, but my heart raced a mile a minute as I faced the
strangers. “Who are you?”
The man nearest me lowered his
arms. “We announced ourselves, but it seems you didn’t hear.”
I scowled at his attempt to put
the blame back on me. This was my studio, and they were uninvited
guests.
“My apologies.” This came
from Mr. Unremarkable. The monotone of his voice matched his
appearance, revealing nothing. “You may call me Smith. My associate
is Neil. Am I addressing Alyssandra Blackwood?”
A muscle under my right eye
twitched. Most people only knew me as Alex. Alyssandra hadn’t
existed anywhere but legal documents since I was twelve and traded
the name in for something stronger, more practical.
“We’ve come to purchase an
item from you, an engraved silver box.”
My shoulders dropped as the
tension in them eased a little. Customers didn’t often stop by the
studio unannounced, but it wasn’t unheard of. People sometimes got
my address from the Souled Art Gallery in Boulder where I showed my
work, or from previous customers, and came to commission pieces. Most
were courteous enough to call ahead. “I’m booked on orders right
now. I could maybe get to it next month.”
“You misunderstand. We are
looking for an object already in your possession.”
“Oh. Well, sorry to disappoint,
but I don’t have an item like that in stock.”
“We know the box came your way.
If you hand it over, we can make it worth your while.” Neil had the
slick, sleazy tone of a used car salesman.
Curious though I was about this
box, and why they thought I had it, I’d had enough of the
conversation. Even if they weren’t killers, they gave me the
creeps. I shook my head. “You were misinformed.”
“Ms. Blackwood,” Smith said.
“Be reasonable. We’re willing to pay handsomely, and considering
the other parties involved, you’re not likely to get a better
offer. Surely it isn’t worth the risk?”
My breath caught as the thinly
veiled threat hit me like a punch in the gut.
“You need to leave, now.” My
voice trembled slightly. The studio only had one door, and they were
between it and me. I was trapped. Shifting my stance, I tightened my
grip on the tongs, willing them not to shake.
Smith raised his hands in a
placating manner. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.
You might not even realize you have the item we seek. It would look
quite common, like a jewelry box.”
“I told you, I haven’t got
anything like that. Now get out of here before I call the cops.” It
was a bluff, of course, I’d left my cell phone in the house. Even
if I could call, the police would never arrive in time to help. That
was the downside of living so far from town. I was on my own.
“Enough of this.” Neil
stepped around the anvil and reached for my arm.
Time slowed.
I didn’t like to fight, I
avoided confrontations when I could, but if he thought I was going to
roll over, he was wrong. With a guttural howl, I twisted my wrist out
of Neil’s grip and swung the tongs into his face. His skin split
apart like newspaper peeling back from a fire, scorched black and
crinkled around the edges. An unearthly shriek filled the studio, and
I stumbled back, shocked at the damage I’d done.
Neil shimmered and seemed to
melt. His skin became transparent, and a network of blue veins
crawled beneath its surface. His nose spread and sank into his face,
leaving two flared slits. Below that, the mouth emitting that
horrible sound elongated until the gaping, needle-lined hole grew so
large I could have put my whole fist in without scraping my knuckles.
When he reached up to cover his face, his fingers had nearly doubled
in length, the webbing between them connecting all the way to the
tips. His fingernails stretched and thickened to claws. The creature
before me was straight out of a horror movie, and I added my own
scream to the cacophony.
Wielding my tongs like a baseball
bat, I backed away from the writhing shape which had been the man
Neil seconds before. Even at the best of times, my stomach cramped
when someone mentioned the fae. Seeing one in the flesh was like
having a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. I shivered from head
to toe, and fought the urge to throw up.
Smith crossed the space between
himself and Neil in two steps and pulled Neil’s arms down to expose
the hideous gash burned across his cheek. My stomach lurched at what
I’d done. White glinted where bone showed beneath charred flesh.
The eye above had swelled shut and was rapidly turning a sickly
greenish color. Smith placed one palm against Neil’s forehead and
the horrible wail abruptly cut off as Neil sagged in Smith’s arms.
“It seems we were mistaken.”
Smith spoke as he had before, without inflection or emotion. Nothing
to show surprise or concern that he was holding an unconscious,
injured faerie in his arms. “Good day, Ms. Blackwood.”
My mind went blank as I fumbled
for words.
Smith took my stupefied silence
in stride. Hefting Neil without visible effort, he gave a small
parting nod and carried his companion out of the studio.
I remained where I was until the
sound of car doors closing and the crunch of gravel told me I was
alone. Then, still clutching my tongs, I inched to the door and took
a deep breath of the outside air. The driveway was empty, no cars in
sight. No faerie goons either. My knees gave out under the weight of
the panic I’d been keeping in check, and I sank to the ground,
tongs still clutched in my shaking hands. The tea I’d had for
breakfast felt like acid in my stomach, threatening to come back up.
A gray tabby with yellow-green
eyes peeked around the corner of the shed with a questioning, “Meow?”
Cat had appeared on my doorstep a few months back, begging for
scraps, and I’d made the mistake of giving him some. He’d come
around every day since. Despite the fact he’d already stuck around
longer than most of the guys in my life, I’d steadfastly refused to
name him.
“Fat lot of good you were.”
Lifting his nose, Cat swished his
tail and stalked away.
It was silly to take my anxiety
out on Cat, but it was easier than dealing with the panic and
adrenaline threatening to overwhelm me. Anything to distract from the
flesh seared to the tongs in my shaking hands.
I couldn’t imagine forging
more, so with a wary eye on the door I dampened the coals and stored
my tools, each in its marked place on my pegboard. The gooey tongs
went on a shelf, I’d throw them in an acid bath later.
The oversized shed I used for a
studio was a short walk from the ranch-style house on the seven acres
of Colorado mountainside I called home. Shutting the door on Cat’s
meows for handouts, I poured a glass of water with trembling hands
and guzzled it down to steady my nerves.
My first instinct was to call
Uncle Sol. Not really my uncle, he was the closest thing I had to
family since an accident took my mother and left me orphaned at
seventeen. It wasn’t just for comfort that I thought of him,
though. Few people outside the PTF—Paranatural Task Force—had
seen a fae without glamour since the end of the Faerie Wars a decade
before, and those who did were required to report it.
Like many officers from the war,
Sol joined the PTF to help police the fae after the peace treaties
were signed. They kept the registries of all the fae and halfers who
ventured off the reservations, as well as the few magic-wielding
human practitioners not on the leash of the Church. They also
investigated reports of paranatural activity, magic misuse, and the
possible existence of other creatures, like vampires, aliens, and
ghosts, though only the fae and practitioners had ever been
substantiated.
I wasn’t sure exactly what
Sol’s job with the PTF was, just that he was a pretty big
muckety-muck whose work was classified. His assignments often took
him out of the country and off the radar, and he’d left for another
such mission last month. He’d be incommunicado for at least another
week, which meant I’d have to call the local PTF office just like
anyone else.
Pushing back the unruly auburn
hair that had escaped my ponytail yet again, I pulled out my cell
phone. The voice mail icon blinked in the corner.
I’d completely forgotten about
Aiden’s call the night before.
After a hectic afternoon
installing my work at the gallery and four hours schmoozing with
people whose clothes cost more than my car, I’d wanted nothing more
than to fall into bed. Aiden was a dear friend, but it was hard to
compete with a soft mattress at the end of a long day, and sleep
ultimately won out over what was sure to be one of his classic “the
world is out to get me” paranoid tirades.
I hesitated, staring at the
icon, but conversations with Aiden tended to drag on, and I had my
own mess to sort out at the moment.
Most cities had a PTF office,
but Nederland was too small to warrant its own staff, so I punched in
the number for the Boulder branch. First, I suffered through the
standard automated menu—press one if you think you may be
paranatural, two if you want to report someone you think may be
paranatural, etc. Then there was the call center secretary, whose job
seemed to be to test how long people would stay on hold. I drummed my
fingers against the counter as my irritation grew with every
transfer, hold music grating in my ear. Finally, I found my way to an
actual agent.
“Ben O’Connell here,” the
gruff voice said. “You have an incident to report?”
“Yes. Two guys threatened me,
and at least one was a faerie.”
“What makes you think that?”
His condescending tone put me on edge, like he didn’t think I was
qualified to identify a fae without the special training he’d
undoubtedly had.
“For starters, his face melted
when I hit him with my iron tongs.”
“You what?” I jerked the
phone from my ear in pain. When I brought it back he was mid-rant. “
. . . how dangerous it is to confront a fae?”
“It’s not like I meant to,”
I snapped defensively. “He grabbed me and I reacted. Besides, I
didn’t know he was a fae before that.”
“Fine.” He sounded only
mildly placated. “What happened next?”
“I guess his glamour broke,
because he stopped looking like a person.”
“Yes, iron will have that
effect.” I could practically see him nodding. “What did he look
like without his glamour?”
“About six and a half feet
tall, see-through skin, webbed hands, no nose, and a huge mouth full
of teeth like needles.”
“A sea fae then. What about the
other?”
“He looked human, but he didn’t
seem surprised when his friend changed. If he wasn’t a fae himself,
he at least knew the other guy was.”
“Can you describe him?”
I tried to remember specifics
about Smith’s features, but he appeared in my mind only as the
vague impression of a man. “He had brown hair and eyes, and he was
wearing a brown suit.”
“Did you get their names?”
“Yeah, but I doubt they were
real. The fae was Neil, and the second guy called himself Smith.”
“Did they say what they
wanted?”
“They were looking for an
engraved silver box.”
“Do you have this box?”
“Nope. I’ve got no clue what
they were talking about, or why they thought I had it.”
“All right, Ms. Blackwood.
Thank you for bringing this to our attention. If your visitors are
registered we should be able to track them down through their visas.
There aren’t many sea fae in this area.”
As part of the peace treaty that
gave the fae sovereignty over their reservations, the powers-that-be
also negotiated visas that restricted and recorded fae presence on
human lands. The fae reservations were nations unto themselves where
the human government had no jurisdiction, and humans were strictly
prohibited from entering. In exchange, any fae that wanted to leave
the reservation had to register with the PTF and apply for a visa
that monitored the length and purpose of their stay. Considering
their actions, I held little hope my visitors had followed the rules.
“In either case, we’ll try to
locate them and bring them in for questioning. Then we’ll contact
you with any findings deemed safe for release from your case file.”
I grimaced at the bureaucratic
parlance that boiled down to don’t
hold your breath.
“If you have any further
contact with them, report it immediately.”
“I will.” I pressed the
disconnect button and glared at the phone. If only Uncle Sol had been
available.
I was still holding the phone
when a knock at the door made me jump. My heart rate went into
overdrive. Neil couldn’t have recovered already, but Smith?
Pocketing the phone, I crossed to the front window and peeked out. A
short, round woman with dark skin and darker hair stood on my porch.
I breathed out, but my shoulders
refused to relax. There was a reason I lived miles from the nearest
town. It was rare for me to get a single visitor in a week, which was
just the way I liked it. This was nothing short of an invasion.
I pulled the door open enough to
speak, but left the chain in place. “Can I help you?”
The woman straightened as though
she could make up for the difference in our height with sheer will.
“Ms. Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Garcia.” She
indicated a polished badge on her belt.” I work for the Lakewood
Police Department.”
I narrowed my eyes, frowning.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
She gestured to the cracked door
that separated us. “May I come in?”
Clenching my teeth, I slipped the
chain off the door and stepped back. “What’s this about?”
“I just need to ask you some
questions.” She pushed past me and paced straight to my dinged-up
dining table.
I made a detour to the attached
kitchen, where I poured a mug of coffee from the half-empty pot left
from that morning and zapped it in the microwave. “Want a drink?”
“No, thank you.” She pulled
out a seat facing me, her back to the wall, and plucked a small
notebook and pen from her pocket.
I sat across from her, clutching
my warm mug in both hands. My knee jumped like a jackhammer under the
table. “So what’s this about?”
“I’m part of a special task
force investigating a number of possibly connected deaths.”
My stomach turned to lead. Had
the police finally found a connection between all the recent murders?
But . . . . “What’s that got to do with me?”
Garcia watched me with an
unreadable face. “Are you familiar with a man named Aiden Daye?”
The pressure in my gut spread to
my lungs. I didn’t like where this was going. “He’s a friend.
We went to college together. Why?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell
you this, but Mr. Daye is dead.”
The mug slipped from my fingers.
I was only dimly aware of coffee spilling across the table and
dripping to the floor. My vision began to swim. I crossed my arms
over my stomach and rocked in time to the throbbing in my ears until
I remembered how to breathe.
“He was killed in his home last
night.” Garcia’s voice sounded distant, as though she were at the
far end of a tunnel.
I slammed invisible chains over
the door behind which my emotions pounded. A cold hollowness
enveloped me, and I welcomed it like an old friend. I hid in that
emptiness like a child in a blanket, waiting for the monsters to
pass.
“When did you last hear from
him?”
I remembered his picture flashing
across my screen and the voice mail I’d put off listening to. “Oh
my god!”
“What?” Garcia perched at the
edge of her seat, looking as though she wanted to vault the table and
wring her answers out of me.
“He called me last night, but I
was tired . . . . I didn’t answer.” My voice caught on the
implication. Could it be my fault he was dead, because I’d been too
wrapped up in my own life to answer the damn phone? My message may
well have been the last words of a dying man. Fumbling the phone out
of my pocket with shaking fingers, I accessed my voice mail and put
it on speaker.
“Alex?” Aiden’s
characteristically tense voice was pitched low, carrying my name
through the receiver in a hoarse whisper. “Damn it! What’s the
point of having a cell phone if you don’t pick up? Listen, I think
someone’s watching me. I’ve got this feeling, ya know? Anyway,
you should pick up the present for your grandfather as soon as you
can. Okay, well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
As the message cut off, Garcia
and I stared in silence at the phone in my hand, processing words
cast back to us by a ghost.
Garcia recovered first. “Do you
have any idea who might have been following him?”
I shook my head. “Aiden always
said stuff like that. He always thought someone was out to get him.
When we were in college, he thought people were planting devices in
his room to spy on him. He wouldn’t let anyone into his house until
he’d run a background check. He was paranoid.”
“Maybe he had reason to be. Did
he ever mention who might be out to get him, or why?”
“No. His paranoia seemed
totally illogical. Just a weird quirk. When we asked him about it,
he’d get all secretive and say it wasn’t safe to talk.”
“You never saw any evidence
that he was being targeted?”
“Like I said, I thought he was
just being paranoid. But that part about picking up a present for my
grandfather . . . ”
“What about it?”
“I don’t have a grandfather.
I haven’t got any
relatives. Aiden
knows, er, knew that.”
“Could it be a misdirect to
confuse whoever he thought was watching?”
I shook my head. “I don’t
know. If he was trying to confuse someone he did a good job, because
I have no idea what he was talking about.”
Garcia pulled a digital recorder
out of her pocket. “I’d like to make a copy of that message.”
“Of course.” I played the
message again, choking up at the end. Turning away, I scrubbed at the
pressure building in my eyes and tried to push away the conviction
that if I’d only answered the phone that night I might have
prevented my friend’s murder. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“Home invasion. We don’t know
what, if anything, was taken, but the house was tossed.” Garcia
paused before adding, “Your friend put up a fight.”
I pictured Aiden fighting for his
life and clenched my fists. Why hadn’t he just run? But then, that
was just like him, fighting even when he knew he couldn’t win.
“We haven’t released the name
or details yet,” Garcia said. “So please keep this to yourself
for the time being.”
Without thinking I blurted, “I
have to tell David.” Then added, “He was Aiden’s only real
friend besides me.”
Garcia flipped to a back page in
her notebook. “Would this be David Nolan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m planning to speak with
him later today. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait until tomorrow
to talk to him.” Garcia’s tone made it clear that “appreciate”
really meant “insist,” and I wasn’t going to like the outcome
if I didn’t comply.
It pissed me off, but I could
understand the reasoning.
“You and Mr. Nolan were the
only emergency contacts listed with Mr. Daye’s employer. Do you
know if he had any living relatives?”
I shook my head, a cavern opening
up in my chest. “He didn’t.”
She nodded and made a quick
stroke in her notes. The finality of the motion made me cringe.
“When will his body be
released?”
Garcia’s eyes softened. “You’ll
need to contact the coroner’s office for that information.”
I didn’t need to know, not
really. Aiden had a standing order at a crematorium. David and I had
teased him mercilessly when he told us about it. Now? Well . . . I
rubbed at the pressure behind my sternum, trying to ease my breath.
All I had to do was scatter the ashes when they arrived.
Flipping her notepad closed,
Garcia pushed back from the table. “Thank you for your help, Ms.
Blackwood.”
I held up a hand to stop her as a
thought struck me. “A couple fae came to my studio this morning
looking for a box they seemed convinced I had. Do you think it could
have to do with Aiden? If he meant for me to pick something up . . .
”
Garcia sat back down. “What
happened, exactly?”
“They were looking for a
silver box. When I said I didn’t have it, one of them tried to grab
me, and I hit him with the iron tongs I was holding. His glamour
broke, and he passed out. The second guy seemed to believe I didn’t
have what they were looking for, and they left.”
“Hmm. If they were killers
you’d probably be in the morgue, but the timing is suspicious. I’ll
check with the PTF, look for a connection. What agent did you speak
with?”
“O’Connell, O’Conner,
something like that. He’s in the Boulder office.”
“Thank you, Ms. Blackwood.”
Garcia held out a business card. “If you think of anything else,
call me.”
I took the card, swallowing a
lump in my throat. “Please find who did this to my friend.”
She nodded. “I intend to.”
Cat was still on the porch when I
opened the door for Garcia. For a moment, I considered letting him in
just to have another heartbeat nearby. Then Garcia’s SUV started
down the drive, and I closed the door on the offer of comfort in
those big green eyes.
Crossing the living room, I
picked up one of the framed pictures on my stone mantle. It showed
David, Aiden, and me making silly, drunken faces on a spring break
beach in Mexico. The dull ache in my chest sharpened, growing deeper.
When I’d started college, I’d been alone. No parents, no
relatives, no friends. A lifetime of moving had left me with few real
connections and no delusions about lasting relationships. David
changed that when he sat next to me in freshman lit and struck up a
conversation despite my best efforts. Two months later he introduced
me to his eccentric roommate, Aiden, and the three of us became
inseparable. With Aiden gone, it felt like a piece of my heart was
missing.
I stared at the photo until a
growling stomach reminded me I was still alive. Hobbled by the order
not to contact David until the following day, I found some leftovers
in the fridge, ate them cold, and turned in for an early night, all
the while clinging to the dim hope that a good night’s sleep would
bring a better tomorrow.