Prince of Air and Darkness Page 5

  “Too soon,” he said. “I need time to get her to trust me.” His conscience stirred uncomfortably. He’d seduced women before, but never like this, never for the purpose of anything but mutual pleasure. He’d never violated anyone’s trust like he planned to violate Kiera’s. But it wasn’t like he had a choice; his mother had been quite clear about that when she’d given him this mission. He wished his damned conscience would just go away for good. It was a highly irritating and completely counterproductive accessory for a member of the Unseelie Court. He was tired of having to wrestle with it all the time.

  “The Queen wants that kiss in three days. She is not overly patient, as I’m sure you know.” Bane pushed his chair away from the table and rose. “If you fail, she has authorized me to administer discipline.” Anticipation glowed in his eyes. He was the ideal of the Unseelie Court, unfettered by conscience of any sort. Hunter both loathed and envied him for it. “Personally, I really hope you fail.”

  Chuckling to himself, Bane casually wove his way through the tables to the front door.

  Three days was not enough, Hunter was sure of it. After the way she’d brushed him off today, there was no chance Kiera would go out on a date with him so soon. Somehow, he was going to have to engineer a meeting before then, and it couldn’t be just a “chance” encounter in the lobby or a brief elevator ride.

  Struck by a sudden burst of inspiration, Hunter leapt from his chair and hurried for the door. He glanced left and right, and was relieved to see Bane ambling down the street not far away. If the goblin had hailed a taxi, Hunter would never have caught him.

  “Bane!” he called, jogging down the pavement.

  Bane looked both startled and amused, but he waited. Hunter came to a stop upwind. “I need a favor” Hunter said.

  The puzzlement in Bane’s face was almost enough to make Hunter laugh despite the seriousness of the situation.

  “A favor?” Bane repeated.

  “Yeah. I need you to find a kobold to rig up a device for me.” Kobolds were a breed of goblin who had a natural affinity for things mechanical. And unlike most of the fey, they could touch unalloyed iron without burning themselves and poisoning their blood.

  Bane gaped at him. “You couldn’t possibly be asking me to help you!” the goblin said incredulously.

  Hunter’s voice was grim, and he was sure his expression was as well. “If I’m to win a kiss in three days, I’ll need some way to force prolonged contact. I need a device that will trigger the elevator in my building to get stuck when Kiera and I are in it. Seems like something a kobold should be able to manage.”

  “Hey, shit-for-brains, I want you to fail, remember?”

  “But you’re not an idiot, and you don’t want to taste the Queen’s wrath any more than I do. She wants me to succeed. If refuse to help me with the mission, she will know, and you will pay.”

  Even the glamour and the disguise couldn’t hide the effect that reminder had on the goblin. No one, not even her favorite toady, was immune from the Queen’s wrath. His lips curled in a snarl, but he had no more choice in the matter than Hunter did.

  “I’ll bring the toy tomorrow,” he said, and it looked like the words caused him real pain. “But I’ll make you pay for it someday.”

  Hunter turned and strode away before his urge to shove his knife in the creature’s throat became overwhelming.

  Chapter 3

  “All right, out with it,” Jackson said, and Kiera froze with a morsel of sweet and sour chicken halfway to her mouth.

  They were sitting at their usual table in their favorite Chinese restaurant. Kiera had called him not long after this afternoon’s meeting with Hunter, feeling the need for his warm, familiar comfort. There were no mysteries about Jackson, and no sexual tension to grapple with. He was the perfect antidote for the fog of confusion Hunter caused. Except, of course, for the fact that he knew her too well not to see something was bothering her. She just wanted to forget all the confusion, not talk about it.

  “Out with what?” she asked, doing her best to look like she had no idea what he meant.

  He jabbed a chopstick in her direction. “Don’t think you can put one over on me, young lady. Your face is like an open book. So give.”

  She sighed and lowered her fork to her plate. She should have known better than to think she could avoid this conversation. Maybe subconsciously she had. “You know that sexy client I was telling you about?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Quit grinning at me like that.”

  “Don’t get sidetracked. What about the sexy client?”

  Kiera fidgeted, wondering why this whole thing made her so uncomfortable. It wasn’t like she was a teenager. She’d dated her fair share of men, should be able to handle this kind of attention. But none of those men had been anything like Hunter.

  “He’s coming on to me,” she admitted. “Not in any real blatant way or anything, but he’s given me enough smoldering glances to give me third degree burns.”

  Jackson looked distinctly amused. “And the problem with this is . . .?”

  She frowned, wondering yet again exactly what her problem was. True, she thought it was ethically questionable to date a client, but it wasn’t like she was his therapist or anything. There was no objective reason she could name for why she found the thought of dating him so unnerving. Not that he’d actually asked her for a date or anything.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something . . . wrong with him.”

  Jackson raised an elegant brow. “Wrong in what way?”

  She grunted in frustration. “That’s just it: I don’t know.” She pushed her plate away, realizing she couldn’t eat anymore. “For one thing, he just flat out does not look like a massage therapist.”

  Jackson laughed. “And what exactly does a massage therapist look like?”

  She shook her head, refusing to be goaded by his amusement. “It’s not that there’s any particular look massage therapists have; it’s just that he has a particular look that screams he’s not a massage therapist.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jackson said, looking at her like she’d gone nuts.

  She couldn’t blame him. She wasn’t explaining this well at all. Which was no surprise, as she couldn’t seem to straighten the thoughts out in her own head. “The man wears nothing but designer clothes,” she tried again. “He wears a full-length black leather coat.”

  “Ah, so massage therapists have no fashion sense!” Jackson said. “Now I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “A little less mockery and a little more friendly understanding would be appreciated.”

  His eyes still twinkled with amusement. “When you say something I understand, I’ll give you the friendly understanding.”

  “All right, let me put it to you this way: how many drop-dead gorgeous, filthy rich, straight men do you know who do massage for a living?”

  He no longer looked quite so amused, and Kiera was glad to see he was actually putting some thought into the situation. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll concede that what you’ve described doesn’t match the stereotype. But what is it that you suspect?”

  She shook her head. “Damn it, I don’t know! All I know is that all my instincts tell me something is off about the guy.”

  “And one of the things that’s off is that you don’t think he’s really a massage therapist.”

  “I know it sounds like some kind of ridiculous, paranoid conspiracy theory. And I’m sure this is all just my imagination running wild. But I can’t shake the feeling, so when he starts pouring on the charm it just makes me that much more nervous. I mean, come on, Jackson: I’m not the kind of woman a man like that chases.”

  Jackson blinked in surprise as he poured them each a fresh cup of green tea. “Why ever not?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she scoffed. “I’m a long way from anyone’s ideal of beauty. And no, I’m not fishing for compliments or an ego boost.”

  He cocked his head a
s he looked at her, his brows drawn together in earnest concentration. “I don’t think men are quite as shallow as you seem to think. Well, not all of them, at least. All it takes is a little chemistry, and FLOOF!” His hands mimed an explosion.

  “I know,” she admitted, but the thought brought her no comfort. Did she think she and Hunter had chemistry? Certainly there was genuine attraction, at least on her part, but shouldn’t chemistry make her feel more at ease with him rather than less so?

  “Eureka!” Jackson cried suddenly, loud enough to make her jump and to make several other patrons in the restaurant look in their direction.

  “Uh-oh. I don’t like the evil glitter in your eyes.”

  His grin broadened. “I’ve thought of a way to settle the question of whether he really is who he says he is.”

  “Oh?” She was intrigued in spite of herself.

  “Do you have one of his business cards?”

  She frowned, trying to figure out where he was heading and failing miserably. “Not on me, but I have a couple in my apartment.”

  “You know, I’ve been having this terrible trouble with my back lately.”

  “Uh-oh,” she repeated.

  “So kind of you to refer me to a massage therapist.”

  “What are friends for?”

  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I’ll try to get an appointment with him, and I’ll really camp it up.” He’d been sitting in a casual slouch, but now he straightened to sit primly on the edge of his chair. The lines of his face seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes as he molded his expression into something vaguely pouty looking.

  Usually, when Jackson wasn’t dressed for effect, a stranger would be hard-pressed to realize he was gay. It wasn’t that he tried to hide it or anything, but he didn’t particularly flaunt it either. Strange how with only a change in posture and facial expression, he’d managed to make it unmistakable.

  “If Mr. Macho Stud can give me a massage,” he said, his voice suddenly pitched higher and his hands punctuating his speech, “then you’d have to admit he’s the genuine article. No straight man would let me get naked within a hundred yards of him if he’s not an honest-to-God massage therapist.”

  She laughed out loud at the mischievous twinkle in his eye. She tried to imagine Hunter putting his hands on Jackson’s naked back, and she had to agree that if anything could flush him out, that would be it.

  “Thanks for humoring me, Jackson,” she said.

  He picked up his cup of tea, his pinky pointing daintily outward. “You don’t have to thank me, darling,” he lilted. “I plan on enjoying myself.”

  ****

  Hunter prowled his apartment, nerves jumping and singing as he waited for Bane to bring the device he’d promised. Practicality told him he had to enlist the goblin’s help, but that didn’t make depending on Bane any less distasteful. It seemed such a cruel irony that it had come to this.

  Hunter had come to the mortal world brimming with confidence and sure that Kiera would have no chance against his charms. He would sweep her off her feet, get her pregnant before he had a chance to get attached. He’d even told himself he could accomplish his mission without hurting her—after all, she’d never know he’d impregnated her on purpose, and when he disappeared from her life, he would be just an ordinary failed relationship in her memory.

  He had not been prepared for her resistance. Nor, he had to admit, had he been prepared to like her. He’d bedded mortal women before, and never had even the prettiest of them managed to touch him in any but the most superficial way. He’d assumed he was incapable of feeling more than lust for a woman. Before Kiera, his full palette of emotions had seemed to comprise lust, hatred, and fear.

  Cursing his mortal father for falling into the Faerie Queen’s arms and siring him, Hunter opened a bottle of Chivas. Feeling decadent and dissolute, he held the bottle to his lips and downed a big swallow, hoping to dull his mind, because he didn’t like where his thoughts were going. He downed another swallow, but no alcohol in the world worked that fast, and his mind spiraled out of control, conjuring memories best left buried. Memories of a warm smile, of kind words and real affection. Memories of feeling safe, of knowing someone stood between him and the terrifying hordes of the Unseelie Court. Bittersweet memories that always led him down the same road, to the memory of the execution.

  His father had somehow managed to shake off the seduction spells the Queen of Air and Darkness had woven around him. He had snatched his seven-year-old son and fled the Queen’s palace, making for the nearest Faerie circle in hopes of escaping into the mortal world. The endeavor had been doomed from the start.

  The Queen’s executions were never quick, never clean. She ruled her Court with terror, and her mortal consort paid a terrible price for his betrayal. And Hunter had been forced to bear witness to the entire ordeal.

  His father was bound, naked, to the whipping posts that loomed ever in the palace courtyard, a reminder of the price of displeasing the Queen. Each day for a full week, the Queen ordered her consort flogged. Bane, wielding the whip, had stripped every inch of skin from the poor mortal’s back, while Hunter stood in his mother’s arms, her hand holding his head so that he could not look away. Each night, she used her magic to heal the wounds so that her victim would live to suffer more.

  After the seventh flogging, she’d declared it was finally time for Hunter’s father to die. It still wasn’t quick. Bane used a knife, inflicting wound after wound, none serious enough to kill.

  In the end, his father had finally escaped the torture by bleeding to death. Afterward, Hunter had his first taste of the whip himself, as a reminder that he, too, was subject to the Queen’s discipline.

  Hunter tilted the bottle to his mouth and practically choked himself with a huge gulp. Unlike his father, Hunter was immortal, and if the Queen ever decided to execute him, his body could endure much more terrible tortures.

  Ruthlessly, he pulled himself back together. It didn’t matter how much he liked Kiera, and it didn’t matter how bad it made him feel to lie to her. He would do what he had to do because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

  The doorbell rang, and every nerve in Hunter’s body came alive. This would undoubtedly be Bane, bringing the device that would stop the elevator. Hunter’s heart pounded. He took deep, slow breaths, trying to calm himself. Bane rang again, and Hunter went to the door, aware that his movements had taken on a predatory glide. The knife slipped out of its sheath in his sleeve. The dire need to avenge his father was a palpable force, urging him to fling the door open and drive his knife into the goblin’s throat.

  Luckily, some hint of rationality remained, despite the alcohol, and Hunter re-sheathed the knife before he opened the door. He wasn’t able to school his expression, however, and Bane, with his unerring recognition of pain, grinned.

  Hunter swallowed hard. “I’m warning you, Bane,” he said in a low growl, “goad me now, and I’ll kill you. The knowledge that I’ll suffer for it won’t give you any satisfaction if you’re dead.”

  The goblin’s grin widened. “Thinking about dear old Dad, eh?”

  Hunter’s whole body was shaking with the effort to control himself. “I’m not kidding!”

  Bane moved with surprising quickness, planting a hand in the center of Hunter’s chest and giving him a mighty shove. Unprepared, Hunter couldn’t keep his balance. He fell hard and scrambled to his feet in time to see Bane slip into the apartment and close the door behind him.

  Somehow, the knife seemed to have slipped out of its sheath again, and Hunter brandished it. Bane just shook his head.

  “Now is not the time, Boyo,” the goblin said. “Someday, you’n me’ll have it out. But not yet.”

  Hunter was sweating as he battled himself. He’d never felt anything like the hot rage that coursed through his blood right now. Always before, his anger had been a slow, controlled burn.

  Bane came slowly closer, holding his hands out to his
sides, palms open. “You probably shouldn’t drink when you know you’re going to be around me,” he said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Not good for your self-control. Now put the knife away.”

  Hunter curled his lip away from his teeth, wishing briefly he had goblin fangs to add to the menace of the expression. The knife was the only thing keeping Bane from striking, and Hunter sure as hell wasn’t giving up his only advantage.

  “Remember yesterday?” Bane asked. “You said I wasn’t an idiot. Well, you’re right, I’m not. You’re drunk and out of control. I’m not going to goad you or hurt you when there’s a good chance you’ll kill me for it. So put the knife away—you don’t need it.”

  The damned goblin sounded . . . reasonable. Hunter drew in a deep breath, trying to dispel some of the coiled tension. His nerves were still vibrating with the need for action, but he forced himself to withdraw the knife.

  “Good boy,” Bane said, but he said it lightly enough not to trigger Hunter’s rage. He reached into his bedraggled, filthy coat and pulled out something about the size of a ballpoint pen. “Just press the trigger here,” he said, pointing to a button on the pen-like device, “and the elevator will come to a stop. It’ll kill the lights, too. Make sure you’re between floors when you trigger it, or they’ll be able to pry the doors open.”

  Hunter took the device gingerly from Bane’s hand, not wanting to brush against the creature’s filthy skin. He’d have to sterilize the device in alcohol after Bane left.

  “Happy hunting, Prince,” Bane said, nodding briefly before heading for the door.

  “Bane.” The goblin turned toward him and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think we’ll ever be able to have it out without the Queen making the winner wish he’d lost?”

  The look Bane gave him was strangely thoughtful, and he didn’t answer immediately. Then he shrugged, as if coming to some internal agreement. “I’m a goblin, Boyo. Fate ’n me are like this.” He held up his crossed fingers. “The Queen foretold that you would kill me someday. She may punish you when you do, or you may do it with her blessing, but either way, I know we will have our chance to fight.”