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Late Sunday night, Cole and I exited the 747 we'd flown into Belfast on and made our way through the crowded international airport.
Finally, Sasha whispered in my head. Suspended on a chain around my neck, the little silver wyvern clutched Doirsain in his claws, all safely hidden under my shirt. I hate flying in airplanes.
It was all I could do not to nod in agreement. My eyes were gritty from the dry, recycled air on the plane and fatigue. The yoga pants I was wearing were comfortable in Jacksonville, but not near warm enough for a spring night in Belfast, and my tank top wasn't doing me any favors either. Yawning, I zipped up my red sweatshirt and pulled the hood up to cover my hair. First class or not, a seven-hour flight was three hours too long.
And I was starving. A glance at Cole told me he wasn't in any better shape.
"You want to see if we can find a place to get a burger?" I asked.
"A burger? You don't want to try the local fair?" Cole grinned at me, his low-slung jeans and close-fitting t-shirt making him look like a sexy bad-boy.
"Burgers are local everywhere," I responded. I did a search on the internet and came up with three restaurants close by. We picked one and got there a bare half hour before closing. The waiter showed us to a table and we ordered quickly.
I glanced down at my rumpled clothes. "First we check into our hotel. There's no sense in going to Trócaire House tonight. Everyone over there is probably in bed," I said.
"We could swing by it on the way to the hotel," he suggested. "Just to get the lay of things?"
"I'm not going to see Ryleigh's fiancée looking like I just climbed out of bed."
He waggled his eyebrows. "I like how you look just climbing out of bed. Most of the time, it makes me want to pull you back in."
I rolled my eyes and did a quick check of our surroundings. Stone floors and an open beam ceiling gave the establishment a rustic look. The place was nearly empty — only one other couple was there, and as I watched, they rose to leave. "Way to talk like a randy American."
He grinned, unrepentant. "You make me feel like a randy American. You're probably right about waiting until morning, though."
"We'll head over there first thing. We need to meet Imogen and get whatever information she has first-hand."
"Sounds solid." He finished the last bite of his fish and pushed the plate back. "We should at least be able to figure out where to look," Cole replied, popping a final fry, or chip, as they were billed on the menu, into his mouth.
We paid the bill and headed for the hotel. As the cab dropped us off, I looked up at the Bishop Hotel and Spa, where Zel had insisted on booking us a room.
I'd been thinking Holiday Inn or the equivalent even after the first-class flight. This was more like a five-star resort. How they'd wedged it into downtown Belfast, I didn't know, but it looked enough like a castle for me to believe it had been there as long as the city had, which was saying something.
How can Zel afford this?
Thick, quarried stone in a cream and gold color formed the building itself, solid and exuding age and grace in equal proportions. Inside, marble tile and paneled walls gave the feeling of old-world opulence and comfort. The thought of how much this place must be costing Zel made me squirm inside.
She'd promised expenses plus commission for my time, but this was ridiculous. "We can't stay here," I told Cole.
He looked around. "Why not?"
"Because this place must cost the earth. I can't have Zel paying for a luxury resort when I'm here to find her daughter."
Instead of answering, Cole walked up to the registration counter, smiling and giving the clerk our names when she greeted him. "We are here to check in."
"Yes, Sir. We have you right here."
"And, can you change the credit card to this one?" He pulled a dull silver card from his wallet and pushed it across the desk. My mouth fell open.
"Cole!" I whispered harshly. "You can't pay for this!"
He ignored me, taking the paper she handed him, signing it and handing it back. She gave him our key cards and he handed me one. When I turned around, our luggage had already been unloaded from the rental car Zel had arranged — a freaking luxury sedan, no less — and was loaded on a luggage trolley with a smiling bellman standing by.
"Cole!" I hissed.
He took my arm and leaned down to whisper in my ear. "You can charge Zel whatever you consider a reasonable amount for the room, and we'll split the rest between us. Finding a decent hotel at this short notice will be difficult, if not impossible, and it's a waste of time. You know as well as I do that the longer a person is missing, the worse the usual outcome."
He had me there, and I nodded reluctantly. The bellman followed us into the elevator and it whisked us silently upward.
Moments later, we exited into a thickly carpeted hallway, our footsteps silent as we walked toward our room.
Opening the door, my anxiety plunged back. This wasn't a room, it was a suite with a kitchenette and living room, plus the bedroom — all furnished with antiques. I was never going to be able to pay even half the bill on this place.
Cole shook the bellman's hand, and I caught a flash of blue as he palmed his tip. I waited until the young man left to renew my protest.
"We can't stay here, and if we do, you can't keep giving twenty-euro tips to people. They're going to think you're rich or something."
"Char, it's all right. Stop worrying. Split three ways, this place is within both our budgets."
Nervous, I looked around again. Hardwood and marble gleamed in the soft light from the chandelier above us. A bowl of fruit, artfully arranged but real, sat on the island that divided the living area from the kitchenette. On the other side of the room, lacy white curtains framed a pair of French doors leading onto a balcony overlooking the city.
The whole place was stunning.
It was tempting to stay. It couldn't be that expensive, could it?
MONDAY MORNING CAME far too early for my taste, but I pushed my way out of bed and opened the curtains, drawing a groan from my boyfriend.
"Really? Do you have to do that?"
"I do if we're going to get to Trócaire House before ten a.m."
"Ugg. Fine." He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower as I enjoyed watching him walk. "Can you order us some breakfast?"
"Will do." I called room service before slipping into the shower after Cole came out. By the time I dressed in jeans and a tank top with a button down over it, breakfast had arrived. After eating, I slipped on a pair of sturdy ankle boots, figuring that if worse came to worst and I had to kick someone's ass, I'd at least be dressed for the occasion.
By nine we were standing on the sidewalk looking up at a monster of a house. "Is every building in Belfast a castle?" I asked, looking up, craning my neck until it hurt, and fighting the urge to touch my pendant just for reassurance. Sasha was sleeping, and I didn't want to wake him up unless I had to.
Trócaire House resembled an Irish manor more than an orphanage. The central field-stone manse was flanked on either side by what I was guessing were dormitory wings. Two rows of peak-roofed windows stuck out from the walls, one set a floor above the other. Broad, stone stairs led up the middle to the front doors — a pair of huge, triple hinged affairs banded in iron with ravens clutching iron wreaths in their claws for door knockers.
"They could film Gothic horror here and not have to change a thing." Cole lifted one of the knockers and rapped it smartly on the strike plate.
A woman eased the door opened a scant six inches and peered at us through the gap. Her fine hair, cut short and choppy, floated about her face like black and white feathers. A creamy complexion and deep set, brown eyes gave her an earthy look, like forest fae come to visit. Fine boned and petite, she nevertheless had an aura of strength about her that I had to admire.
Her brow furrowed in worry and she looked tired, but that might have been her condition. She laid a hand protectively over her pregnant belly and raised her brows in inquiry. "Can I help you?"
I leaned forward, holding out my hand. "I'm Charlotte Knox and this is Cole Delaney. Zelmara O'Connor asked us to—"
She glanced past us into the street, grabbed my hand in a surprisingly strong grip, and pulled me inside. Cole barely cleared the door before it slammed shut, and I heard bolts shooting home behind me.
"Hey!" I said, jerking my hand free of hers. "A simple 'please come in' would have done."
The woman didn't flinch. "Prove it," she said flatly.
"That you could have just invited us in?" I asked, confused.
"That Zel sent you."
I looked at Cole, but he was just as bewildered as I was. "How?" I asked the woman. "And before we even get into proving who we are, who are you?"
The woman ignored me, flicking on the hall light and holding up her phone to snap a photo. A few clicks later, she lowered the phone to her side. "I've sent her a picture of you, and you'd better pray she answers quick."
A chill trickled through my chest into my belly. "Or what?" I asked, and flicked a thread of awareness outward, searching for the nearest ley line, spooling power into my palms.
The woman dropped back into a fighting stance.
"Whoa, let's everybody settle down." Cole stepped between us. "We aren't here to fight. I'm guessing you are Imogen, right?"
A rush of whispers sounded overhead and I looked up. A five-foot-wide oak staircase rose grandly from the first floor to the second. A hallway, open to overlook the entry, ran along the three walls, two additional corridors branching right and left at the corners.
Along the upper railing, a score of kids — the residents, I assumed — stared down at us. Several had the distinctive pointed ears and pale complexions of elves, another few the stocky build and wild hair typical of wolf shifters.
Siblings, I think, Sasha whispered in my head, and I agreed, glad that he was awake despite my earlier reluctance to disturb him. The trio had a predatory look, crouched behind the barrier as if waiting for an excuse to jump over it and land on top of us.
I noted four who looked like ordinary humans of varying ages from six to sixteen. Witches. Sasha's thought came to me softly and I caught myself nodding in response.
One graceful girl sat atop the rail, one hand curled casually around a corner pillar, her eyes a deep gold. A feline were, I was sure, though I couldn't tell what variety. She might be a leopard, with that long, black and gold braid, or she might be a garden variety cat.
The way she was watching me, I hoped it was the latter.
The woman's cell chimed, bringing me back to the current situation. "I am Imogen Chase." She eased out of her fighting stance to check the phone, tension slipping from her shoulders. "Zel vouches for you. I am sorry, but I hope you'll understand. We sometimes get..." She glanced up at the children and lowered her voice as she continued. "Unwelcome guests looking for one of our students. And, with Ryleigh missing since Friday, it's been difficult. She wanted me to set a circle, but we’re a school. We can’t just close ourselves off completely."
"Have you heard from her again?"
"No, but in her last message, she told me to lock the doors, let no one in and keep the children inside, so you can understand my suspicion, even though Zel did message me you were coming."
Her voice trembled on the last phrase, and my irritation melted away. "We understand," I said, releasing the ley energy back into the line.
A little more of her rigidity seeped away. "Georgina, would you be kind enough to bring a tea tray into my study?"
"Yes, Miss Imogen." The rail sitter with the braid stood, balancing on the narrow oak banister for a moment before making a fantastic leap to land beside me. Giving me a sly look, she disappeared up the hall behind the stairs.
"The kitchen is back there," Imogen said as she followed my gaze. "If you'll come with me?"
Cole and I trailed along behind her down the same path Georgina had taken, but turning left instead of right. Imogen took a key from her pocket to open an oak door and stood aside for us to enter.
Her office held a cherry wood desk and matching bookcases on one end, backed by a bay window, fully padded, with additional book storage below the seat. The other side of the room held a Queen Anne settee and chairs upholstered in cream brocade, with a matching cherry wood table and end tables.
Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall behind the seating arrangement, giving the room a studious air.
Imogen gestured to the couch and chairs. "Please have a seat. When did you get in?" she eased into one of the chairs, arranging the soft folds of her maternity dress gracefully.
"Last night, late," I replied. "We thought you'd rather we wait until morning to come."
"I don’t know what you could have done last night, so it’s best you waited. Curfew here is eight p.m. You'd have caught all of us in nightclothes."
The door opened and Georgina entered, her gait so smooth I thought for a moment she was levitating. She set the tea tray on the table and stood back.
"Thank you, dear. You may go on to class now. Algebra with Ms. Stenson, isn't it?"
"Yes, Ms. Imogen." Shooting me a watchful look, the girl turned and floated out of the room.
"Don't mind Georgina. Her father was ill for a year before he passed. Georgina took care of him, the house, and her two younger siblings all of that time," Imogen said. She poured out the tea and set several cookies on two plates, then handed each of us one with our cup. "It's made her mature beyond her years, and she's very protective of those she cares for."
"Understandable," I said. "You said you haven't heard anything more from Ryleigh?"
The tension crept back into Imogen's shoulders. "No," she said. "And it isn't like her. Ryleigh is one of the most considerate people I've ever met. She would never leave me to worry like this." She touched her abdomen unconsciously. "Especially not now."
"Is there any place she might go?" Cole asked. "Anyone she might take shelter with if she thought it was too dangerous to come home?"
She met his gaze directly as she answered. "No. We have friends, certainly. But they're all like us. Woefully ill-equipped to handle anything scarier than a letter opener." Somehow, I doubted that, given her actions at the front door. But I could see her worry as Imogen gripped and released her skirt as if she might wring Ryleigh's location from it.
"Do you know if Ryleigh had any enemies? Anyone who might want to cause trouble for her?" My words drew her attention to me and I held her gaze.
"No one." She looked down. "We've run Trócaire House for the last five years and the community is very supportive — so much so that we've gathered enough in donations to open a second branch in the country. We take care of our students, set them up for success in life. Ryleigh handles the intake and teaches several classes. I oversee the domestic side — cleaning, who sleeps where, food, all of that. I teach as well, of course. My point is, there's nothing dangerous or controversial here. Whatever Ryleigh is running from, it's something new."
"I hate to ask, because I know it might come off as offensive, but were you and Ryleigh having any problems? Is there anything going on here that would explain her actions?" Cole asked.
"No, nothing," Imogen replied, taking the question in stride. "In fact, things have been especially good lately, what with the baby coming and finishing the new house."
"And she left here Thursday?" I asked.
"Yes. We found Nate missing again, and Ryleigh went to track him down."
"Nate?" I repeated.
"Again?" Cole asked.
"Nathaniel Byrne. He's been with us a year, but for three years prior, he lived on the streets with his mother. When she died, CFA brought him to us. He still runs away on occasion, though less often than he did at first. Ryleigh's gotten quite adept at finding him quickly. This time..."
Tears welled in her eyes and she took a sip of her tea, hiding behind the cup to compose herself. "It's never taken her more than a day to find him, even the first time he ran. Something else is going on."
"That's impressive," Cole said. "How did she do that?"
"Ryleigh is a witch, and a damned good one. Many of the children who come to us... They are recently bereaved or have been abused. A lot of them try to run away, to find their parents or out of fear that their parents will find them. Ryleigh got into the habit of taking a small token from each one. A button or a shoelace. Something that wouldn't mean anything to the child, and is easily replaced. She'd label them and put them away to use as focusing objects... in case."
I looked at Cole then back to Imogen. "Smart. I can do a similar spell, but I'll need something of hers. Preferably an article she handled recently or frequently."
"Of course." Imogen got up and went through a door on the other side of the room, closing it quietly behind her. A moment later, she returned with something small and sparkling in her hand.
The apartment door burst open and a highly agitated Georgina ran inside. "There's a demon in Nate's room," she cried. "He's attacking Billy!"
Without a word, Imogen sped from the room, Cole and I right behind her. No way was I letting a pregnant woman fight off a demon.
Sasha? I may need some help with this one.
I'm here. For once, there was no sarcasm in the wyvern's tone. His voice in my head carried determination and reassurance, calming me.
We followed Imogen down one floor, turning left into a long corridor. Screams and curses came from the opposite end of the hall. I pushed past Imogen. "Cole, keep her back," I yelled over my shoulder, though I had no hope at all that he'd stay behind and out of danger. It wasn't his style any more than it was mine.
"Get off o'that, ya wee bugger," piped a shrill voice. It didn't sound like a demon, so I figured it must be Billy.
"Nice mouth ya got on you, kid." The second voice was nasal, twangy. Not at all what I would have expected from a demon.
I crashed into the room at full speed, sending the door smashing against the wall with a resounding crunch.
My eyes widened. The room was trashed. Both single beds were askew, the mattresses pulled free and flipped on their sides with the blankets torn off. A dresser lay on its back, emptied of contents, the clothing tossed around with abandon.
A bag of chips, or rather crisps, as they were called here, had been ripped open, the thin, yellowish slices spilling across the sapphire blue rug. Books and a few toys were strewn about as if a hurricane had been through the room.
Near the window, a boy of around ten struggled with an imp. The two were a match for size, but the imp sported a stronger physique. What he lacked in muscle, the child made up for in fire and determination. Neither looked in my direction, despite the noise I made.
The boy, who I guessed must be Billy, held tightly to the sleeve of a blue shirt in one hand, manifesting a fireball in the other, his bright red curls nearly standing on end. "Let go, or I'll scorch ya so bad you'll be crying for your mum!"
The imp let go of the shirt abruptly and Billy fell back with a cry, his fire winking out. In a blink, the imp was on him, gnarled fingers around the child's throat.
I lunged, grabbing the little monster by his pointed ear. "Do. Not. Touch. Him," I snarled.
The imp screeched in pain as I hauled him backward, slamming him against the wall so hard plaster dust sifted down on us from the ceiling. Tapping a ley line, I used the force to strengthen my hold, pinning him against the wall. "Cole? The boy?"
"Got him!" I felt movement behind me, but didn't dare take my eyes off the imp. "Who are you?" I demanded. "Give me a name before I send you back to the underworld without a passport."
The creature's bulbous eyes rounded. "You can't do that."
"Watch me," I said, making my voice as vicious as I could. I wasn't at all sure that I could, but that wouldn't stop me from trying. I lifted my hand, letting the squat little creature watch as I filled it with a pulsating ball of ley line energy.
It’s a long trip, Sasha warned. You might want Doirsain to give it a boost.
I'm not actually going to send him. I might rematerialize him inside a rock. Besides, I need information. I narrowed my eyes, taking in the imp's appearance. Gangly limbs, too long for his bowling ball shaped body, dangled as I held him. Knobby knees and elbows matched overlarge knuckles. His skin had a faint green tinge which, coupled with the bulging eyes and pointed ears, made him a singularly ugly creature in baggy black pants and suspenders over a filthy white button-down shirt.
Might be an improvement, Sasha remarked laconically.
You make a terrible enemy, I replied.
On the contrary, he said. I make an excellent enemy. You always know exactly what to expect. No mercy and a quick demise.
I nearly closed my eyes in resignation, but I didn't want to lose sight of the imp even for a second. Well, we aren't killing him unless he forces the issue. He might know something about Ryleigh and Nate's disappearance.
Sasha sniffed in disapproval. Fine. Can I at least toast his ears a bit? Might speed things along.
I glared at the imp, who still hadn't answered my question. I shook him slightly. "Name? Or do I need to let my wyvern out? He's been asking for toasted imp ears for a week now. He's eager to see if they taste as good as he's been told."
Yuck. I will happily toast any part of him that you want, but I'm not eating imp. They taste awful.
I sucked in a surprised breath, taking with it an unhealthy amount of imp-stench. I nearly choked. When did you eat imp? Wait. You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know. "Name!" I yelled into my captive's face.
"Y-y-you don't have no wyvern." The imp sneered at the last word, but ruined the effect when he gulped so hard his eyes watered.
Sasha poked his head out of my shirt and breathed out a thin stream of fire.
"Wanna bet? He changes size, too," I said.
"Grag! My name is Grag," the imp yelped.
"What were you looking for?" I asked, pressing my advantage.
"My pack! One of your thieves-in-training took it and I need it back." He pushed against the wall, trying to knock me off balance, and I brought the ball of energy around, pressing it against his chest and shaping it with my will. Bright purple bands of light slithered over him, binding his arms and legs to his body until the only movement he could manage was from the neck up. I let him drop to the floor and stepped back.
"We do not train thieves here," Imogen said hotly. "You are the thief. And a destructive one at that, tearing the boys’ room apart like this." Careful not to touch the glowing bonds, she plucked something from his pocket and held it up. An engraved pen. "I gave this to Nate for his birthday last week. Who is the thief, you... you..." She tightened her jaw. "Nasty little THING, you?"
I couldn't help giving Imogen the side eye. Bad ass women usually had better trash talk. Still, she was standing over a demon's imp, almost nose to nose with him, something that would turn most people's stomachs, if only because of the smell.
My nose wrinkled and I parted my lips, attempting to take in enough oxygen between them to avoid breathing in Grag's stench. It was a cross between rotting meat and three-day-old cabbage.
"Call it what you like. The sneaky brat stole my pack, and with it any chance I had of appeasing Drakat and getting my freedom. I want it back!" His last sentence rose into a desperate shriek.
Silent and pale, Imogen leaned her back against the wall. "Drakat is involved?"
Wriggling in his bonds, the imp muttered a string of curses.
"Who is Drakat?" I asked Imogen.
She looked up at me with despairing eyes. "The most ruthless, ambitious demoness in Ireland, and the Countess of Belfast."
