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Indigo
Is he really that dumb? Can any man—fae or human—seriously not know how offensive those words are? I cannot believe I let him into my bed. Of all the men—or women—I could choose to have sex with to briefly forget the call of the banshee, I can’t believe I chose a fae man so severely lacking in people skills.
I know that I’m being ridiculously over-sensitive, but it’s been a long while since I took a lover and the timing of it seemed to ram home the fact that my life centers squarely around death. To have that sensitivity compounded by Tarrien instantly telling me afterward that he thinks it unhealthy to be with me...
“Grr.” I stare at my reflection, as angry with myself as I am with him for giving in to lust, noting the marks on my body from Tarrien’s lips and mouth and fingers. An ache deep down in my belly immediately starts up as I remember what it felt like to have him moving deep inside me.
Stop thinking about that. He doesn’t want any more of it. He just wants to protect you, not ravish you.
Gradually, the need subsides and I re-enter the bedroom once I’m sure he’s gone. God damn it. I didn’t even get to find out more about what is going on with those foul loup creatures.
I curl into a ball on the bed and hug my belly. My inability to have children has never bothered me before. It still doesn’t bother me now. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I grew up in foster care and never had the chance to dream about having children or a family of my own, or maybe it’s simply innate, but for whatever reason, I’m not really into kids.
I’ve never met anyone who made me wonder what it would be like to have young ones running around to complete the family.
Until Tarrien. Maybe that was why I immediately assumed he was referencing that, when in fact, he was already in damage control mode in relation to his damn stupid iced-up heart.
“Idiot.”
Lola strolls into the bedroom and sits on the carpet staring up at me, blinking slowly as if asking who I’m calling an idiot.
“He’s an idiot. A bloody big one,” I tell the cat.
She blinks once more, and then begins to wash her face.
“I’m a goddamn idiot, too.”
Lola stops mid-lick and stares at me with all the disdain a cat can manifest and then turns and stalks out of the room. Yep. She agrees with me.
Why can’t I stop thinking about how sexy he is, despite his obviously insensitive nature? And why did I send him away, without finding out more about what the hell is going on with the loups and the threat toward humans?
What did he mean about the threat only going to get bigger? What exactly is the threat, and why does he still need to protect me? Are there many more of those loup creatures out there?
The image of the person upstairs in 602 pops back into my head, despite my best efforts to block out the carnage. A sick feeling fills my gut at the knowledge that it was most likely my presence in the building that contributed to the poor woman’s death.
Bait, the creature said, before he died. I took their bait. That means it is unlikely to be a coincidence that the victim happened to live directly above me, and her dying drew me out like a moth to a flame. They deliberately killed someone, just to draw me out.
An innocent casualty in a war I didn’t even know was being waged. My thoughts head straight back to Sienna. Oh, my dear friend. Were you also bait?
I hate death. I hate it with a passion. And both the neighbor’s death upstairs, and my best friend’s a few months ago, were hideous and violent, full of pain and terror. I wish I never had to experience anything like that ever again.
But unfortunately, I know I will.
I experience all of them, at least those within a certain range. I’ve never really tested the limit of the range, and that isn’t exactly something I want to do. But at a guess, I would say within a mile or so, perhaps just under.
If something happens outside that range, I might feel a twinge of unease, perhaps a tweak of pain and sadness, or sometimes even the strange lethargy that afflicted me at the theater, but nothing more.
The banshee magic that swirls inside of me is one of the key reasons I chose to become a singer. When I was young, death almost crippled me, every time it arrived. The force was so uncontrolled and wild, that I lived in a state of dread for years, until the day one of my foster parents—the only one who ever showed me any level of genuine caring—suggested I might be able to channel some of my distress into song.
That foster parent was the only person in the first sixteen years of my life who took the time to help me. She even paid for a course of singing lessons, and for that I will be forever grateful. Those lessons led to small parts in musicals, then working in the theater chorus for several years, to finally being the star act in a show centered around my voice. Being on stage and singing in such a controlled manner does help—at least a little—to curb some of the banshee angst.
I can channel all the terror and fear and everything negative that comes with being part-banshee, into my voice, so that it becomes a pressure release and allows me to survive those moments when the death call arrives. Not enough to stop it altogether, but I visualize it as being similar to a valve that releases a tiny bit of steam at a time.
Singing for pleasure instead of pain seems so much healthier than writhing around on the floor wondering if this is the moment the magic becomes too much, and I’m finally going to end up dead, too.
***
THE CABARET CLUB IS full when I arrive with Dreya. I can’t believe she talked me into this but the show after-party, held at the intimate club across the street from our much larger theater, is actually being thrown in my honor. It was my ten-year anniversary with the company last week, and my fifth year as lead performer.
All members of the troupe, as well as several of our company patrons, and even a few of my regular audience members, have been invited as guests to help celebrate the milestone. It is also a good opportunity for our marketing team to promote some of the upcoming shows—or so I’ve been told. There will apparently be a team of photographers and PR people on hand to document the evening. I guess it would be churlish to not at least make a brief appearance.
I hate show after-parties, generally, and avoid them as much as I can, but since Tarrien stomped out of my bedroom and popped away in a flash of silver light several days ago, I have to admit, I’ve been moping around a bit. Maybe tonight will give me something to think about other than a particularly sexy and extremely annoying faerie man.
“You’ve been a proper wet blanket this week,” Dreya says. “I hope you snap out of it soon. It’s getting annoying.”
“I know,” I reply.
She’s not being rude. We have the kind of relationship where truth is valued, and Dreya is never afraid to tell it like she sees it. In this case, she’s absolutely correct. I haven’t been myself since the night my upstairs neighbor died and I tried to block out the angst by losing myself in Tarrien’s arms. It’s not like me to sulk as long as this.
“I’m sorry, Dreya. I’ll try and be a bit more fun from now on.”
“Good! Now, don’t forget,” she says, snagging two sparkling wines from a passing waiter and shoving one of them into my hand, “you have to make a speech thanking everyone for coming along to celebrate your anniversary.”
“Oh, hell!” I forgot about that part.
“Drink up, and remember! Fun! You need to let loose and smile a bit more. You might even meet someone sexy if you do that.” Dreya flashes me a cheeky grin. “Someone as sexy as that faerie guy. Though he did set the bar pretty high.”
She winks and disappears into the crowd.
I stare around, knowing most of those in attendance already and positive I won’t meet anyone remotely as sexy as Tarrien. I remind myself I can appreciate the warrior’s sexiness without harboring any desire to see him again.
My woman bits zing at thoughts of Tarrien. Liar, liar.
I shake my head and take a sip of my wine, wondering how quickly I can leave. People often think I must be an extrovert, standing up on stage every night, but it’s actually the opposite. When I’m performing, I lose myself in the song. I love singing, for the pure joy of song itself and not just because it provides a release from my banshee magic. But I hate being the center of attention.
And right now, in the middle of a crowd that has gathered to honor my ten-year anniversary, all eyes on me, I feel far more anxious than usual.
Drink up, Dreya suggested, so that’s what I do. I throw back the whole glass in a few large gulps, and someone laughs and presses another into my hand. I down that one, too, and then paste a large smile onto my face and move into the crowd, greeting the many who come up to wish me well.
I may not like being around crowds overly much, but these are still a decent bunch of people and as close to family as I’ve ever really known.
The memory of a set of hazel-green eyes staring almost directly into mine in the hallway of my building flashes in my brain, and I wonder what it would be like to actually meet one of my siblings. Or even, several of them? Maewen. She must be tough, to work with SUDAP when, presumably, she is as affected as I am by the call of death. She must face death practically every day in her job. How does she protect herself from what must be sheer hell? Why would she choose to put herself through such torture?
What was the other name Tarrien mentioned? Aleah. What is she like? He said she lives out in the country, on a farm somewhere. Has she done that deliberately, to reduce her interactions with people? Our mother has a lot to answer for, populating this world willy-nilly with half-banshees all over the place, and then leaving us to fend for ourselves in whatever way we can.
Would my half-sisters like me? Or would they think me prickly and brash and wish we weren’t related at all?
I down a third drink and decide to get the welcome speech over with. I approach the corner stage that currently holds a quartet playing dance music. Before I can step up to join them at the waiting microphone, Brady, one of the male dancers from our troupe, drags me by the hand into the middle of the crowd on the dance floor.
‘Time to let loose, Indie,” he says, twirling me around with great aplomb.
Music from quartet washes over us and my muscles relax as the wine begins to take effect. It won’t last. My fae blood means I’ll process the alcohol a little more quickly than a human might, but for now, the tension that has held me tight for the past several months begins to dissipate at last.
I sink into the moment. The speech can wait. I even smile at Brady, and he takes the encouragement and steps close, sliding his arms tightly around my waist. I sway against him, wondering if he thinks it would be unhealthy to be with me. Judging by the growing hardness in his groin as he mashes it against me, I’m guessing he would be really keen to take it further.
I want to feel something for him in return, but I don’t. Not one whit of desire. It feels like I’m dancing with my brother. What is wrong with me? I’m half drunk, in a cozy club, being held close by a handsome man, and all I can think about is my desperate need to see Tarrien again.
My thought patterns are so annoying I tip my head to the side and let Brady nuzzle at my neck. I so want to feel something—anything—but my body remains unstirred—until I stare over the top of the nuzzling guy’s head, and meet a stormy silver-gray gaze directing fiery judgement my way.
Tarrien? What the devil is he doing here?
My heart jumps and my whole body switches on as if I’ve just stuck my finger in an electric socket. Moments ago, I was craving desire, trying to prove a point to myself. Just like that, knowing he’s in the club and only meters away, there’s an instant ache between my legs and the delicious flutter of butterflies in my belly.
God damn it! Why does that fae—and only that fae—have such an effect on me?
To my horror, a tiny moan escapes me and my dance partner squeezes tight, thinking my reaction is due to him.
“No, please.” I struggle in Brady’s arms, trying to push him away. “I need to—”
“My turn now, sir.” Tarrien steps smoothly between us, wrestling me neatly out of the other man’s grip and twirling me away until we reach the far side of the dance floor.
“What on earth—”
“You looked about as happy as if you were sitting in a dentist’s chair, ready to face the drill,” he says.
I raise a brow at the analogy. My banshee blood means I’ve been lucky enough to never need a dentist, but from what I’ve heard from my human friends over the years, he’s probably not far wrong. I don’t need to admit that to him out loud.
“So, you decided to swoop in and rescue me?”
“I am a warrior, after all. Rescue is my thing.”
He says it with such seriousness that a chuckle pops out before I can stop it.
“Your thing?”
“Yes. And that’s better. Now your smile is genuine.”
Despite my annoyance with him, and confusion as to what he’s doing here, I can’t help but realize he’s right. For the first time since I arrived, I actually feel genuinely at ease, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
“All right. You win. I admit that I’m not...displeased to see you, warrior. But why are you here, Tarrien? Where did you go, and why have you reappeared now?” A thought strikes me, and my grin becomes a frown. “Has something else happened in relation to...you know?”
I don’t feel like I can mention the abominations in the middle of this crowd, but he knows what I’m asking.
“No. At least, nothing that I’m aware of. And I never went anywhere. I’ve been keeping a discreet distance all week, but I’ve been making sure you’re safe. I—”
“Wait.” I stop swaying to the music and pull back from him. “You’ve been following me? Since that night? Sneaking around and spying on me?”
His eyes flare with what looks like irritation. “I’m not a sneak. Nor am I a spy. I’m simply doing my job—as a protector—and ensuring that you remain safe.”
I want to be angry with him. I should be angry with him. It’s creepy to know I’ve been going about my normal life—and missing him intensely—while he has been there all along in the shadows watching without my knowledge. But he seems to honestly care whether or not I’m safe, and as much as I want to tell him off, I manage to bite my tongue.
I’m not used to someone else caring about my safety and wellbeing. Even if his care comes from a place of duty rather than any other reason, at least it’s there. And it’s real.
Just as I open my mouth to make a joke about how his icicles must be back in place if he’s able to protect me so dutifully, he lifts a hand and caresses my cheek. The words freeze in my throat, but everything else turns hot. That touch does not feel like duty. My shiver is one borne of desire, not cold, and I suck in a shaky breath and hold it far too long.
One corner of his mouth curves up in a sardonic grin, as if recognizing and approving my reaction. “I reappeared, as you put it, because it seemed like the right time. You seem less angry than you’ve been all week, and I’ve been wanting to say something to you ever since the last time we spoke.”
Wow. He really has been keeping a close eye on me all week, then.
His gaze softens. “Indie, I really wanted to apologize for—”
His voice is cut off by the sound of a huge explosion. Then a whole series of smaller explosions follow and the noise and smoke and flashes of light turn everything in the club into utter chaos.
***
Tarrien
STUN GRENADES. HUMAN ones, at that, but no less of a threat, because where there are flashbangs, trouble is sure to follow. Plus, the majority of the crowd here are human and therefore far more fragile in terms of their mortality than Indie or me.
I can’t worry about the others. I push Indie to the ground and throw myself over the top of her, intending to create a protective bubble. Before I can cast the magic, a deep growl reverberates through the screams and chaos and the tripping and falling humans all around us. Then another growl, lower and even more menacing than the first, and I realize there are two loups in the building, and they are stalking us.
Stalking her, to be accurate.
Even through the chaos of running people, smoke from the grenades and the dim lighting in the room, two sets of eyes, red tinged with purple, are visible. Both sets are clearly fixed on Indie. Werewolf shifters, with the twisted promise of madness evident in their features. No modicum of civility or reason is left in these two, even though they have retained the half-form often preferred by their kind at the time of the full moon. Part man, part beast. No humanity.
My heart rate speeds up. Not because I can’t take these two—I can, of course—but because I’m not sure I can do so effectively while keeping an eye on Indie. I doubt these two loups used human flashbangs, which means they are not the only attackers.
The stakes seem so much higher now than when Lady Renna first gave me this assignment.
“Stay down,” I whisper in her ear, “and get yourself under one of those tables. I’ll take care of these abominations and come back for you.”
“What table? I can’t see a goddamn thing after those flashes.” She rubs her face and then stares around. “Except for those awful reddish-purple eyes. I can see those. Unfortunately.”
Her half-human senses must have been affected by the flash. Luckily, being full-fae, I am immune.
“Blink hard a few times. Your sight will come back in a minute or so. There are two loups about to launch, over there to your right where you can see those eyes. I need you to drop completely to the floor and roll away, to your left.”
“No, wait, I—” She grabs at my arm but I have to trust that she’ll do as I say. I can’t fight them from down here on the floor.
“Now!” I yell.
Indie drops and rolls. I jump to my feet and swivel to face the twin abomination threat. One of the giant creatures launches at the spot just vacated by Indie. I drop the surface glamor I had donned for the party, and call for my armor and weapons.
Metal fills my fists and I twirl as fetid breath and a spray of hot mucus fans across my face. Indie is gone, thank the winter gods. I can only hope she’s sheltering under one of the club tables.
The loup swivels back and roars in rage. We are only about eighteen inches apart. I can’t use my sword in here, not with all these humans rushing back and forth in panic. Close work calls for the dagger.
I thrust forward and up with my silver blade, burying it to the hilt in the chest of the were.
For a moment, we are eye to eye, and I stare deep into that bloodshot gaze, looking for a trace of its soul. Nothing remains but darkness, and pain, and rage, beneath a strange purple miasma that roils inside the creature like an oily ooze.
Why won’t it fall?
“Damn you!”
The abomination’s top lip curls up on both sides, to reveal canines almost four inches in length. Not good.
“You will not stop us, fae,” the were hisses. “We will get her in the end. We will get all of them.”
“Not while I live!”
I twist the knife as the creature opens its mouth wide—wider than my head—and readies itself for the kill. I drop the sword and grab another silver dagger from my etheric arsenal. This one I angle up and into its throat. The start of a roar becomes instead a wet gurgle. Blood gushes up and out of its mouth, coating me and the floor, as a piercing wail on the edges of my consciousness begins to make itself heard.
Indie? Has my action just set off her banshee cry?
The wail rises, hurting my ears, as the were collapses to the floor, dead. Quickly, I pull out the daggers and turn, looking for the other monster. It hovers over the table that Indie has managed to roll beneath. The giant head bends and sniffs at her with that half-wolf, half-human snout. She is curled up into a tiny ball, rocking back and forth, wails still slipping out of her. She is obviously in the throes of a death call.
Is that still for the were? Or are there others around us who have been injured or killed in the melee?
I cannot afford to remove my gaze from the abomination to see what else is happening around us. I stagger toward them, slipping in the dead loup’s blood and stumbling sideways. The other one’s gaze snaps to me.
Good. Keep looking at me, abomination. Don’t you dare go near the banshee.
The monster launches toward me in a huge leap. I don’t quite have enough purchase on the blood-soaked floor to twist away in time. It lands squarely on my chest, the weight of it knocking me backward into the edge of the bar. Hot breath and one of its canines grazes my neck as I arch away and stab blindly.
Bullseye. Somehow, I manage to slide my dagger between two ribs directly into its heart. The monster is already dead when it collapses on top of me. By the time I manage to push it off and leave the carcass propped over the bar, I realize I can no longer hear Indie crying. Shouldn’t she be singing about the second abomination’s death? Shouldn’t I be able to hear her above everyone else in this crazy, smoke-filled room?
I turn toward the table that sheltered her, and she’s no longer there.
As I swivel back and forth, searching frantically for a sign of where she might have disappeared to, the overhead lights switch on fully and a team of SUDAP-suited police officers rush in. Leading the way is a woman who looks almost exactly like Indie. Similar, and yet different. Maewen. The sister.
She stops short when she sees me. I’m no doubt a horrific sight, covered in loup blood and still sporting my winter warrior armor. Her eyes narrow and she points a finger directly at me.
“Grab that one first,” she directs two members of her team. “And use the special cuffs.”
***
Indigo
THE DEATH CALL IS STILL upon me when multiple sets of hands drag me out from beneath the table and across the floor of the club. These aren’t abomination hands, or paws, or claws. They are human hands, and they are dragging me along the floor against my will.
There are too many of them to fight off. I kick and wriggle as much as I’m able, given the keening call of death has turned me to jelly. One of them picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. Before I can say anything between the crying bouts, I find myself out the door and on the street, being bundled into the trunk of a large black car.
Just before the lid of the trunk is slammed shut, I catch a glimpse of a team of police officers rushing into the club. Is that...Maewen? My sister? Why is she not pretzeled up like me, crying at the deaths that befell some of those in the club?
At least she’ll be there to help Tarrien. Oh God. Tarrien! He’s facing those abominations on his own. Will he survive?
A blast of powerful heat washes over me. Is that magic? It doesn’t feel like anything I’ve ever experienced before. Another blast and my vision fills with purple, even in the confines of the trunk.
What is happening? What...?
My thoughts disintegrate into nothing.
