City of Shadows (2 page)

I lifted the wipe away from the bite. More blood welled inside the wound. I tossed the wipe away and grabbed another. Maybe I needed stitches. I couldn't go to the hospital; I didn't exist on any databases and I couldn't pay for treatment. I rummaged one-handed through the packets of gauzes, but I didn't know what I was looking for. How do you treat fae bites? Could I just stick a Band-Aid over it and hope for the best? What if it got infected? I wasn't even sure if I
could
get infected.

Reign plucked a pair of latex gloves from the first-aid box, tugged them on, and set his uncompromising glare on me. “Let me help.”

“
The touch—”

He lifted a brow, giving me a droll “I know what I'm doing” look. At least one of us did. Turning my face away, I worked my arm all the way out of my top and watched his reflection as he went to work on the bite. Even with the gloves, shivers prickled my skin. Extended skin-to-skin contact with me tested the control he had on the beast coiled inside of him. It was an effort just to be this close to me. The times he'd lost control, he'd
turned
. And each of those times, he'd killed.

I wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault. But my telling him didn't make him believe it. He'd lived with the curse of Cu Sith longer than the fae had lived in London. My words didn't change a damn thing. Some days I wondered what I could possibly change. I wasn't human. I wasn't fae. I wasn't even real. The queen had created me to do her bidding while she was trapped beneath London. Her ancient draíocht lived in me. The same draíocht that could summon Cu Sith.

“What happened?” Reign asked, bringing me out of the memories before they could drag me deeper into despair.

“I tracked a fae. He bespelled a girl and stole her draíocht right out in the open. He attacked me, probably thinking he could shock me into submission. Apparently, he didn't like how I tasted.” I had a quip lined up—how he'd bitten off more than he could chew—which Reign might have chuckled at before, but one look at his hard expression killed it. I sighed, wishing so much was different. “They're ignoring the curfews, hunting in public, and what's worse, people
want
them there. Nothing is being done. It's going to get worse.”

“Alina.” A shiver trickled through me at the sound of my name on his lips. “You're not ready. We don't know how long—”

“
How long I've got left?” I interrupted, knowing all too well what he was going to say.

“What if he'd provoked the part of you that's fae?” He'd focused on the bite mark while his fingers worked to examine it. “It could have burned you out.”

Red-hot pain radiated through my shoulder. I hissed, flinched and jerked away from him. “I can't just sit around here doing nothing, Reign. I won't. The fae are more dangerous like this. It's not like before, when you were all in hiding, pretending to be myths. You're everywhere now, and you're—they are … angry? Afraid, maybe? They're lashing out. I don't know how to fix it, but I can help. I
need
to help.”

A muscle fluttered in his cheek, as though he were carefully chewing on the words, mulling them over before speaking aloud. “You're too afraid to fight.” He narrowed his eyes on the wound and leaned in to get a closer look. “What were you planning to do? Talk him to death?”

“I'm not afraid. Not of them.”

Reign shook his head, dislodging a lock of dark hair so it curled in front of his eye. We both knew he hadn't meant I was afraid of the fae. He brushed his hair back with the knuckles of his gloved hand and finally met my gaze. Inches away, he might as well have been in another room, or another city, because he certainly wasn't here with me. That look in his eyes … it was distant and laden with regret. I missed him. More than I cared to acknowledge. When we'd fought the queen, we'd been close. Now he guarded himself … from me.

“You could help,” I said, and knew the moment the words left my lips that I'd said the wrong thing.

A
shadow fell over his eyes. “You think I don't want to?” He yanked his gloves off. “You think I'm not going crazy down here, walking these bloody tunnels?” He balled up the gloves and tossed them with force onto the pool table, turning his back to me to lace his fingers through his hair.

My daggers rested beside the first-aid kit on the table. Reign hadn't touched my skin, but the hound stirred just below the surface of his. I could
feel
its hunger tugging on mine. It wanted out; freedom. He wouldn't allow it to escape. Just as long as we stayed apart, he had control.

Frustration, anger—mostly involving me—would wake the beast. He always fought it. He'd been fighting it for years, but the strain had started to show on his face. It wasn't getting any easier.

I'd started wondering if maybe it wasn't just me that called to the hound in him. Perhaps it was easier for him to blame me than face the guilt of his own crimes. Reign
had
killed the four powerful fae Keepers who had imprisoned the queen. He'd told me he wasn't good. He could easily have
wanted
to let go of his control, just for a little bit. But people died when he did. One slip in public, one mistake in front of the cameras, and the killing could happen again. He wasn't free. He was too recognizable to be free. The second he was spotted in public, the Fae Authority would close in. He was London's Most Wanted; by the police, by the FA, by the people who didn't know any better.

“At least you have your freedom,” he said softly, clearly thinking the same as me.

For however long that might be. Days. Weeks. Until I stole someone's draíocht. Or didn't, and faded away as a result.

I
snatched up a wad of gauze, pressed it to my shoulder and worked my top back on—all within easy reach of my daggers. The hound still stirred inside him, an ever-present simmering of draíocht that set my teeth on edge.

It wasn't all about freedom. The anger behind his eyes, the frustration behind his words—he'd lost his life, a life he'd worked hard to build for himself, a life he'd loved. Like all fae, he thrived in the spotlight, and now he had to resort to stalking the shadows. So much had changed. Days after he'd met me, he'd lost everything he'd ever cared about, including Shay. Shay, his … whatever she was to him. Lover? Friend? I'd yet to figure it out. She'd left him alone down here. He wouldn't talk about her. He wouldn't talk about anything.

“You don't understand,” he said, hands still locked in his hair, still facing away, clearly unable to look at me.

I tugged my jacket back on, ignoring the burn in my shoulder. I understood a lot more than he believed. “That's right, because I don't know anything. I was
created
weeks ago. It's not like I understand anything you must be going through. You're over two hundred years old and I'm nineteen going on one.” He muttered something under his breath—likely a curse. “Is this bite going to do any lasting damage?” I snapped.

He dropped his hands and turned.
Say it. Just say it
… I thought.
Stop pushing me away
—
talk to me!
He stayed quiet, but those eyes … they said so much.

I plastered an “I don't care” look on my face to hide the hurt and hoped he'd bought it.

“No, you'll probably heal in a few hours.” He braced his hands on the edge of the pool table and bowed his head. I didn't imagine the trembling through his shoulders. My being around him would just make it worse.

“
Good—then I'm going back out there.”

He flicked his gaze up and glared through dark lashes. “Let me teach you how to take a little draíocht.”

“No.”

“Just enough that should you feel yourself burning out—” He straightened. An undercurrent of old draíocht pulled tight between us. If he moved forward, I'd go for my daggers.

“No.”

“Alina,” he growled. “Ignoring this won't make it go away!”

A step closer, and I lifted my chin, defying the order in his tone. “Is that what you're hoping will happen with me?”

He saw my glance toward the weapons and, either knowingly or on instinct, took a few steps back.

“You need to learn …” The tension in his shoulders loosened, the fight draining out of him.

I'd stolen draíocht once, and I still dreamed about the sensation of falling into the mind of my victim and how it had felt so terribly good. My unwilling victim had been a friend. The only friend I'd had. Now he probably hated me, but he'd dream about me too because he didn't have a choice.

“I'm not like you.” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“
You're worse
,” the fae in the alley had said. I wasn't sure what I was.

Reign flicked a hand toward the door. “Go, then. Do what you have to do. But if you won't help yourself, don't expect me to.”

The
bar that my hungry fae friend had visited was a dead end. I spent an hour watching the crowd come and go, but it appeared as though the fae who'd bitten me would be the only customer with pointed ears that night.

Another hour, another club. This one with a sprinkling of fae among the crowd. I didn't need to see them to know they were there. Voices chatted a little louder, flirtatious laughter tinkled among the throbbing music, and a thread of excitement wove through the customers jammed into the basement bar. Even after the events of a few weeks ago people still adored the fae—maybe even more so because of the risk.

I was technically immune to their touch. The 1974 Trinity Law meant nothing to me now.
Look, but don't touch. Touch, but don't feel. Feel, but never love.
Life had been easier when I could blame my feelings on bespellment. As it was, everything I felt for Reign—the anger, the desire, the fear—was real.

The crowd jostled at the bar, buffeting me from all sides. I shouted my order at the barman and tried to pick the fae from the crowd while I waited. One stood nearby, taller than the majority of people here. Glamorous, like a 1940s movie star, she smiled easily and dipped her chin, as though demure, but her tricolored eyes sparkled with hunger. Her date, with his ruddy cheeks and eager eyes, would no doubt make a nice draíocht snack.

I paid for my drink and brought it to my lips. My gaze flicked over the rim of the glass to a guy who was sitting too still at the end of the bar. Ruffled chestnut hair and soft mocha-brown eyes that were now slightly narrowed, probably because he knew me and was already figuring out the quickest way to the exit. Detective Danny Andrews.

He'd
gained a few lines around his eyes and there was a dash of stubble on his chin. Maybe he was on leave. Although that wouldn't account for the shadows under his eyes.

I could lie to myself all I liked, but that didn't stop a knot of guilt from lodging in my throat. I swallowed my sip of drink and tried to drink the guilt down with it. The music droned on, drowning out everything but my own regrets.

It usually takes three or more touches to bespell someone, but the process begins from the first touch. Andrews and I had touched; just fleeting, inconsequential touches here and there, neither of us aware I was toxic. Taking his draíocht had sealed his fate. I hadn't meant to hurt him; I'd been dying at the time. In fact, if he hadn't been there, I might have fizzled away to faerie dust, or whatever I was made of. He'd saved my life, and in return I'd taken away his free will.

My gaze wandered back to where he was seated, but a young man and his date had taken Andrews's place.

I carved my way through the crowd, drink sloshing over my hand every time someone nudged me. My thoughts were too loud, the air too thick with the smell of sweat and the sweet taste of alcohol. I tasted it, smelled it all, and pushed deeper into the sea of people. It'd be easy here to brush up against one of the fae—touch skin-to-skin and lose your mind.

Colored lights lit up faces. Most eyes reflected it, but those of the fae absorbed the kaleidoscope. I counted at least two more fae breaking the curfew.

The crowd finally spat me out at its fringes, where I found a long-haired male fae seated at a table with another man, enthralling him with tales of how he'd been caught by the Fae Authority
in flagrante
with a “date”—which I heard as
“
victim.” He'd braided half his golden hair in a tightly woven plait, revealing a face too angular to be handsome, yet he still managed to draw surreptitious glances his way. Most fae cut their hair, trying to blend in with modern trends, but not this one. He wasn't here to blend in.

“I ran,” he said, adding a sly little smile. He seemed young; maybe early twenties, but they aged slowly. This one could easily have been twice the age of his audience. “You don't fight the FA unless you're sure you can win.” Or maybe it was the attitude that gave the impression of youth; although they all had a knack for cocky arrogance.

With one eye on the long-haired storyteller I leaned against the wall and absently sipped my drink while scanning the crowd. A fae target rarely escaped the Authority once the elite group of warriors had one in their sights. This one was already on borrowed time.

I might have lost track of the biter from the alley, but this fae appeared to have a history of avoiding the Authority. My night might not be a total disaster.

I kept my new target firmly in the corner of my vision. His rapt audience of one reached a hand under the table and rested it lightly on his thigh. The tale continued, their gazes locked. There was nothing I could do and, technically, nothing I should do—yet. The victim slid his hand up the fae's thigh and out of my line of sight. I found myself wondering if I looked at Reign like that. I hoped not, but I had to admit I probably had given him that expression of wide-eyed wonderment more than once. Considering I'd been designed to kill Reign, I'd had a funny way of going about it.