Bedeviled (15 page)

“You couldn’t eat anything when you were there.”

“What?” Not eat? Maggie wiggled her fingers in a give-me signal. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been looking up Fae and all the other stuff, remember?” At Maggie’s nod, Eileen continued. “Well, the stories say that if a mortal eats anything in Otherworld, they’ll be trapped there for a hundred years.”

“Trapped?” Nora asked.

“A hundred
years
?” Maggie repeated.

“Time moves differently there, remember,” Eileen told them, and she seemed to be enjoying the fact that she had the absorbed attention of three adults. “So if Culhane takes you there, remember not to eat.”

“This could be a problem,” Maggie muttered, glancing down at the empty dinner plate in front of her. She’d eaten everything but the floral pattern.

“So you pack a lunch,” Nora quipped with a laugh. “Maggie, you said this Culhane wants your help. It’s not like he’s going to trap you there or something.”

“Hmm . . .”

“Also, the Fae aren’t real fond of mortals,” Eileen went on. “So they might not be happy to see you in their world.”

“Oh, great. Just great.” This kept getting better and better. Maggie rubbed the middle of her forehead in a futile attempt to get rid of the headache forming there.

How was she supposed to fight a legendary queen and win if she couldn’t even have a snack while doing it?

And where the
hell
was Culhane?

Ever since the night before, when he’d come to her in her studio, Maggie hadn’t been able to stop thinking. Remembering. As a girl she’d felt safe with him. As a woman she felt hungry for him.

But at the moment she’d prefer that safe feeling again.

Eileen was talking, though, sharing more information about the Fae and Otherworld, and Maggie told herself to listen up. Bezel might be training her, but so far Eileen was the real font of information.

But when she looked up she caught Quinn watching Eileen, and the flinty coldness in his eyes made every nerve in her body stand up and shriek.

Culhane strode through the palace halls, his gaze hooded, his steps quiet against the cold blue marble streaked with veins of gold. The crystal walls on either side of him hummed with an energy that pulsed with life, light. From somewhere close by music swelled: pipes, fiddles, drums. But he didn’t acknowledge it. He was here to find a friend. To see if the situation in Otherworld was as it should be.

He’d spent too much time on the mortal plane. And, he admitted silently, even when he wasn’t there his thoughts were. Even now, as he moved through Mab’s palace, his mind raced with thoughts of Maggie, of what she felt like in his arms. What he might do next to make sure she was as invested in her destiny as he was.

“Culhane!”

He snatched his knife from his belt and whirled around so that the edges of the long, dark brown coat he wore lifted into a swirl of motion about his body. In the palace, even when the halls looked empty, treachery lived and breathed and could erupt at any moment. But the taut tension inside him subsided some when he recognized the tall man headed his way.

“McCulloch.” Culhane slid his knife back into its scabbard and nodded toward the other warrior quickly closing on him. He’d known McCulloch for centuries, had fought at his side in countless battles, and trusted him, as he did all of his fellow warriors. McCulloch was the one spreading the word to the males of Otherworld, hoping to get them to take part in the revolution that would free them all from the shackles of second-class citizenry.

The other warrior stopped, looked up and down the hall, then leaned in to speak as though the walls had ears. And in this place it was true more often than not. Mab trusted no one—not her warriors, her servants or the women who served at the highest levels.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I’ve been busy,” Culhane told him, his voice no more than a whispered hush of sound.

“As have we all,” McCulloch muttered darkly. “So tell me now. Is it arranged?”

“Not yet.” Culhane scowled at his old friend, hating that he was forced to admit he hadn’t succeeded in winning Maggie over yet. He’d thought to have her trained and ready for battle quickly. But she was proving to be far less malleable than he’d at first hoped. He should have known, though. Even as a child she’d had a fierce will—otherwise she would have drowned in that stormy sea.

And what a waste, he told himself now, that would have been.

“Mab’s becoming suspicious.”

“Of what?”

“Of your absences.” McCulloch scraped one big hand across the small, neatly trimmed beard he was so proud of. “She’s asking too many questions. If she finds out about your mortal, you know what will happen.”

“I do.” He didn’t want to think about it. Not only would the hope of Otherworld be gone, but Maggie would die. And that wasn’t something he wanted to consider.

He grabbed the other warrior’s arm and pulled him farther down the long, empty hall to a doorway. They stepped through into a fantastic courtyard as the door silently closed behind them. Water splashed and rippled in fountains; hillocks of flowers bursting with scent and color seemed to stretch on for miles; and tall trees, their branches heavy with colorful fruit, lined a golden walkway that glittered in the sun.

Culhane ignored the beauty surrounding them and led his old friend a distance from the palace walls. A soft breeze sifted past them, rustling the leaves of the trees, making the flowers dance and spill their scent. When he was sure it was safe to speak again, Culhane asked, “Has there been talk?”

“No,” McCulloch said, lifting his chin and whipping his long, reddish-brown hair back from his face. Dark green eyes narrowed. “The warriors would never betray you, and none of them would speak of it to their women. The other males are quietly telling who they can about the coming battle, and we can trust that they will be careful.

“But you know Mab. Where there’s a secret, she’s like a mortal bloodhound. She will find out what’s going on, and when she does . . .”

Culhane swore viciously at the very thought of what the Faery queen would do to Maggie. He shifted his gaze to the distance and blindly stared at the horizon where sky met meadow. He didn’t see the beauty of his home, though. Instead he saw the small, silly house where Maggie Donovan slept. His mind drew up countless images of her, laughing, cursing, frowning. He heard her voice in the wind and could almost feel her skin beneath his hands.

He wouldn’t allow Maggie to be destroyed.

“Did you hear something?” McCulloch demanded.

Culhane looked at his friend to see the other warrior in a crouch, scanning the sky with a sharp gaze. Instantly Culhane did the same. Male Faeries couldn’t fly. But the women could. They couldn’t risk a palace female flying past, overhearing their conversation and reporting it to Mab.

“I don’t see anything,” Culhane finally said, relaxing his guard.

“Nor do I,” McCulloch admitted a heartbeat later. “But it pays to be careful.”

“Understood.”

“Remember when all we had to worry about was battle with the Tuatha De Danaan?” McCulloch asked with a strained laugh. “Warriors aren’t bred for palace intrigue, Culhane. And we’re not very good at waiting. It’s best if you prepare your half-Fae and end this as soon as possible.”

“It’ll be done when she’s ready and not before.”

“Maybe,” McCulloch mused, “what you need is a little help. What if I were to pay Maggie Donovan a visit? See if I could convince her to—”

Culhane shot him a venomous glare. The thought of another warrior around Maggie filled him with a rage he couldn’t explain, even to himself. It was enough that the feeling was there.

“Perhaps not,” the other warrior said, clearly enjoying himself as he held up both hands and took a step back. “Want to keep her for yourself, is that it?”

Yet more annoyance. In his long life he’d never felt more of it than he had since Maggie’s Fae blood had awakened. It seemed that he was straddling a razor’s edge all the time now, and one wrong step in either direction would see him sliced to ribbons.

“She’s not a trophy to be kept,” Culhane muttered darkly, though he wanted his hands on her badly. “She’s a weapon to be used.” But even as he said it, he knew that wasn’t all there was to it.

“Nothing more?” McCulloch wondered aloud, and then laughed when Culhane glared at him again. “Well, now, this is going to be more interesting than even I believed. The great Culhane brought low by a half-breed.”

He scowled at his old friend, though he didn’t bother denying the accusation. What would be the point? McCulloch wouldn’t believe him, anyway. “That half-breed will soon be full Fae and your future queen, you braying troll.”

McCulloch slapped Culhane on the back, a blow that would have sent a lesser man staggering into the bushes. “I may be a troll, old friend, but I don’t dally with mortals.”

Neither had Culhane.

Until recently.

Faery wars notwithstanding, Maggie still had jobs to complete. Days were ticking past faster than she would have believed, and she was being forced to fight for the time she needed to complete her contracts.

Every moment she wasn’t training, Bezel was complaining about her lack of conviction. Well, she had plenty of conviction. But she also liked eating. Thank God Grandpa had left her the house free and clear, so she didn’t have to worry about a monthly house payment. But there were still property taxes to pay, and pesky little things like gas, lights and groceries.

“Damn pixie doesn’t care what I’ve got going on. All he’s interested in is bitching and eating all of my chocolate.” Turns out Bezel had quite the sweet tooth. She’d gone through three bags of Dove milk chocolate in the last week, with no end in sight.

“Who’s eating all of your chocolate, and what could they possibly be thinking?”

Carrie Hanover was thirty-five, divorced, with a two-year-old son. And, since coming home to Castle Bay after her marriage ended, she’d been the owner of the diner that Maggie was currently decorating with an idyllic scene of a New England winter, complete with a decorated tree in town square. She was also the woman who made the best chocolate-chip cookies in the universe.

Maggie looked down and grinned. Deciding to ignore Carrie’s question, she asked one of her own instead: “What do you think?”

Stepping back to the curb so she could get the whole effect, Carrie pushed her blond bangs off her forehead, crossed her arms over her chest and took a long look. Just when Maggie was starting to worry a little, the other woman smiled.

“I think you work too cheap for being a genius and everything.”

“This is why you’re my favorite customer,” Maggie said, jumping off the stepladder and giving herself a mental pat on the back. Hadn’t floated once all day.

“And I thought I was loved for my cookies.” Carrie’s smile broadened as she walked up and dropped one arm over Maggie’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you a latte to go with a platter of cookies.”

“God bless you and all those you love,” Maggie said with a heartfelt sigh. “Let me just put my stuff away and I’m so there.”

Laughing, Carrie went back to work, and Maggie did the same. It didn’t take her long. She had a system. Folding up the ladder and stuffing it into the trunk of her car, she walked back to gather her paints. They were neatly lined up in a couple of cleaning trays supposedly built to hold household supplies for the overeager housewife. Plus, she had a couple of buckets of water that she used to mix paint and soak her brushes. Too full to transport, the buckets were easily rinsed out behind the diner, so Maggie picked them up and headed down the short, shadowy alley to the rear.

This is what she wanted: normalcy. Nothing out of the ordinary. Do a job, get paid, eat cookies, go home. Nice. Tidy.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Maggie dropped the buckets, stood up and spun around so fast she made herself a little dizzy. When her eyeballs stopped jittering in her head, she focused on a young guy in torn jeans and a raggedy denim jacket standing just a few feet from her. His hair was black and hanging over his eyes, and his mouth was nothing more than a grim slash across his narrow face.

He looked every inch a thug, and Maggie knew instinctively that she was in trouble.

“Oh, God . . .” Maggie looked around for help, but naturally she was alone back here.
Perfect.
Fear was awakening inside her, closing down her lungs, squeezing her throat shut.

He shook his head a little as he noted her fear. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t want
you
. God, you’re
human
. All I want is the power.”

His eyes flashed black. The whites were gone completely, giving him an eerie, terrifying look that went well beyond that of a common street thug. He held up what looked like a gold jewelry box—what he was planning to trap her Fae power in—and it looked really out of place in his grubby hand.

Maggie fought for control. Fought to gather in the focus Bezel had been pounding into her head for the last few days. This was her first test, after all, and if she couldn’t beat a scroungy demon, how would she last against Mab?

“You know,” she said, scuttling along the wall of the diner, “you might want to rethink this whole thing. Remember how I killed a demon to get the power. . . .”

He frowned a little as if considering it, then shrugged. “You were lucky.”

“Maybe.” Seriously, where
was
everybody? What happened to alley people? Didn’t they wander up and down peeking through trash cans anymore?

“Let’s see what you got, then,” he said, and swept in so fast she could hardly track his movement.

Maggie did the first thing she thought of: She kicked one of her buckets, hard, and it flew straight at the guy, drenching him in pastel-colored water that streamed off his face and soaked into his denim jacket.

Didn’t slow him down much, but it did distract him.

“That’s it, lady. You’re toast.” Disgusted, he wiped the colored water off his face with a sneer. Then he reached behind him, pulled a wicked-looking knife from somewhere and held it up so she could admire the gleam of the sharp blade. “One swipe and the dust is mine.”