Harlequin Nocturne May 2015 Box Set: Wolf Hunter\Possessed by a Wolf (44 page)

“Whoa!” someone exclaimed in astonishment. Lexie had to agree.

“Your friend has exceptional talents,” said a voice from behind her.

She turned, the hair along her neck prickling. It was the tall man, his hands folded behind his back. He wore a pale trench coat unbuttoned over a tweed jacket and gray slacks. Something about the ensemble screamed professor. His face was the same: worn, a little baggy, more of a thinker than a man of action. What struck her the most, though, was the shiver that suddenly coated her skin. Not a ripple or a wave, but as if she was suddenly stuck in an envelope of electricity. She'd never felt the full force of magic before—not that she knew of—but this was how she'd always imagined it.

Lexie backed away. Faran had told her to go to security, and it sounded like the best idea in the world. But the man matched her step for step, lagging behind just enough that it felt as if he was stalking her. “Ms. Haven. Alexis.”

He knew her name!

“Alexis!”

She quickened her step, refusing to answer. Only her parents ever used her full name. Even professionally, she used Lexie.

But as she sped up, so did he. He grabbed her wrist. “Stop.”

The encircling fingers gripped like manacles. “Let me go!” She twisted her arm, trying to pull free.

“I wouldn't do that. You've already broken that arm.”

She froze. He released her, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“How did you know that?” she snapped. “Who are you?”

“My name is Ambrose.” He didn't specify if it was the first or last name. “I've been in touch lately.”

This is the one who is tormenting me
. “What the blazes do you want?”

“To talk, for now.” He held out a hand to the glimmering streetlights. “Come with me?”

“No.”

He reached for her again, but this time she was on her guard. She dodged, but the electric prickling grew stronger, weighting down her limbs. It seemed that if physical strength didn't stop her, he'd try other means. Lexie walked backward a few steps, afraid to take her eyes off him, but knowing her window of escape might be small. Her head began to pound, the buzz of the magic almost cracking her skull. “How do you know who I am?”

“Why, my dear, I'm a friend of your father's.”

“Why should I believe you? I never met any of his golfing buddies. They wouldn't know me.”

“Not your stepfather, Alexis. Your true father.”

That nearly caught her. Longing and curiosity welled up, searing the tender places inside where the loss of her father still ached. He'd walked away without explanation—no phone calls, nothing.

Her true father didn't deserve friends. And if this was a real friend, why would he be here, in Marcari, hanging out with a fetch? She spun on her heel and made for the stage door at a run. It was propped open to make way for a pair of enormous roadies lugging a huge silver box that looked like part of the set. They would just be clearing the door by the time Lexie made it there, but another man was stepping into place to block the path of any crazed fans.

She probably looked crazed, but escaping Ambrose was her new goal in life. She just had to get past the big, bearded guy who looked as if he folded sheet metal into origami cranes for a hobby.
Please, please, please let me through
.

The prickling on her skin began to burn as if some strange form of friction was at work. All at once she felt hot and raw, as if she was burning from the inside out. But there was no time to worry about that. Ambrose was close enough that she heard the pounding of his long legs. Fast, for someone who looked more versed in physics than the physical. His fingers grazed her back.

Lexie was no athlete, but she found energy in pure terror.
Please let me through! Please!
She bounded forward, a cry on her lips. The roadie at the door frowned, massive eyebrows scrunching together into one bushy caterpillar. He unfolded his arms and took a step forward, looking around as if to see the source of the noise.

Lexie zipped past him and through the door to the inky vault of the backstage area. The sound check was over, but the noise of the crew still setting up was all but deafening. The pounding of her feet disappeared in the clamor. She veered right, toward a stack of amplifiers. There was just enough room to wedge herself between them and curl up into a gap between the largest cube and the wall. If the band started to play, she'd be deaf for life, but it was the perfect sanctuary to catch her sawing breath.

She couldn't begin to guess how she'd made it past the guard, but she was glad she did. The air-conditioning was icy on her hot skin, but the magic—and her headache—was gone at last. When she finally stopped puffing, she straightened herself and started to edge around the speaker.

There was a man with his back to her, blocking her way. She silently swore. Now what?

“I know you're there,” he said in a quiet tone. “Don't move. He's still here.”

Lexie froze. “You mean Ambrose?”

“Yes.”

She studied the back of the man's head. Dark hair. Tall and well-built, shoulders sloping to narrow hips in a tautly muscled V. It was the kind of physique had that underwear advertisers waving contracts. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” said the stranger.

“You need to do better than that,” she snapped.

Silence. “Fair enough. I'm connected with the Company.”

“Did Faran send you?” She remembered him saying that he'd get them to look into who might have been asking questions about her past.

“I'm here on his behalf.” The man spoke English and sounded American. Vampire? Maybe. It was impossible to tell from behind. “You're lucky I saw you. I was following Ambrose from his headquarters near here.”

So the bad guys did hang out in this neighborhood. “What do you know about Ambrose?”

“Justin knew him from the time he was a boy.”

Her attention flipped from the speaker to his words. Maybe Ambrose really was a friend of her father's—but why should she believe this man anymore than her pursuer? Anxiety clawed her, but so did a rising fit of temper. “What does Justin have to do with any of this? Where is my father?”

The last came out on a choked sob. She pressed her back against the huge speaker, steadying herself.
Where is Faran?
She needed to find him.

“Your father had enemies. He left you to draw them away and for a time, it worked. But then they discovered he had left a family behind and Justin became the focus for Ambrose's attentions.”

“Ambrose's attentions?” Lexie demanded in a low, hard voice. “What does that mean?”

The man didn't answer, but Lexie caught a glimpse of a trench coat passing by.
Ambrose
. And then she realized who Ambrose was. Justin's older friend from long ago. The one who thought she might do something interesting if she was threatened with death.

Her stomach seized dangerously, fear and disgust bringing bile to her throat. Ambrose was just beyond the speakers, the top of his head moving as he looked from side to side. Looking for her. The Company man didn't flinch. He just blocked the sight of her with his body, making a wall of protection. Eventually, Ambrose moved off to the right. Lexie started to shake.

At last, the Company man spoke again, his voice quiet and carefully neutral. “Ambrose was grooming Justin, teaching him about his father's heritage. Gaining his trust from the start. It's what every fatherless boy wants to hear—how special he is, how someday he'll have gifts that his friends can only dream of. How he is better than those around him.”

“What gifts?”

“Surely you felt Ambrose's magic. He's fey.”

Fey. The ring. The gates. There's the connection
. What was it the king had said? The fey thought differently enough that they might be psychopaths by human standards.
Did Justin start out like that, or was he twisted by Ambrose?
Tears coursed down her face as she huddled in the dark cave of sound equipment. “What did he do to Justin?”

“He was trying to awaken magic in Justin's blood. I don't know the precise methods he used.”

“They didn't work. I never saw any evidence of magic.” Just horrible cruelty. “And why would Ambrose think he could do that?”

“Because your father was fey. But it's tricky with half bloods.”

“What?” She struggled to keep her voice quiet. Alarm and disbelief kicked her heart into a gallop. And yet she'd guessed it ever since Faran had taken her to the stone circle—she just wasn't ready to accept the facts. “That can't be true. I've been to the hospital plenty of times. I check out as human.”

“Fey physiology is indistinguishable from human, unless you're looking for it.”

My poor mother!
She'd been in love with something more than human. No wonder she'd had such a hard time getting over her first husband. “But I've never... Who are you anyway? Why do I feel like I should know you from somewhere?”

He cut her off, speaking quickly as if he was running out of time. “Strong emotion is a common tool for awakening magic. Ambrose has been playing on your fears to bring your strengths into play.”

Which sort of explained the skewer and the idiotic phone message—and maybe even some of Justin's behavior long ago. She remembered the fear on his face when he'd stabbed her with the skewer—had he been afraid she'd display a talent for magic that he lacked, no matter what rosy future Ambrose promised? “But what does Ambrose want?”

“A replacement for Justin, and that means you, with your power awakened. As far as anyone knows, you're the last of your father's bloodline. His family's lifeblood was used to seal the gates to the Dark Fey kingdom, along with the rubies of Vidon. Ambrose and his confederates need both you and the ring to get them open again. Having you here for the wedding might be pure luck, or a coincidence he manufactured.”

Lexie tried to gather her spinning thoughts. “This can't be about me. I'm as magical as a loaf of bread.”

The man's voice was amused. “Surely you noticed turning invisible when you rushed past the security guy at the door?”

Her mouth dropped open. Was that what the sunburn feeling had been about? “Seriously?”

The man tensed. “I have to go.”

“Just one more question!”

He stilled, every line of his body quivering like an arrow about to fly.

“Why did Ambrose wait till now to contact me? Why not do it long ago?”

“I can't be sure,” he said, voice tight. “After his failure with your brother, perhaps Ambrose left you in the wild, so to speak, until he absolutely needed your blood. Mixed-blood humans can be unstable once their power wakes. Ambrose would have been stuck if you went off the rails and got yourself killed just like your brother.”

And then he was gone.

Grief hammered into Lexie. It stole the air from her hiding place, making the midnight walls of the speakers close in on her with coffin blackness. There was too much to think about—magic, blood ritual, plots. But she wept for something far more simple, pain welling up like a razor-clawed beast.

Justin. If not for Ambrose, who might he have been?

Chapter 23

F
aran chased the fetch away from the concert hall, back toward the winding streets of the city. The thing was fast—faster than any human and every bit as fast as Faran himself. After the first two blocks, he knew this takedown was going to be a challenge. After eight, he was growing annoyed and there were too many people around to risk shifting.

The fetch angled its path toward a maze of brick town houses dotted with tiny knot gardens and playgrounds. This was the last place Faran wanted to start shooting. He poured on the speed, heading the anti-Kyle away from the tidy homes. The fetch looped around a row of parked cars and bolted for an alley. Faran leaped to the roof of a Citroen and ran along the cars, ignoring the outraged cries of onlookers. When he saw the narrow alley, ending in a dock, he nearly laughed.

Faran sprang from the cars and landed in a crouch a dozen feet away, gun still in his hand. The fetch had halted in confusion. The alley was plain and empty of people, but it ended in a modest pier. The tiny inlet had long been used for loading supplies bound for the great sailing ships of past centuries, but that was of no use to a creature of the fey. They might crave salt and water, but running water was poison to their kind.

“Give it up,” Faran said. “I'm sure even your kind doesn't like getting shot.”

“My kind,” said the fetch. “I'm sure you've heard those words before.”

He had. He was pretty sure his dead parents had, too, but he would never be able to ask them. A burn of anger flared, but it was an old, familiar one. “It's never right to kill someone just because of what they are.”

The fetch pulled off his sunglasses. He had Kyle's face, every detail. But where the prince was magnetic, this thing had none of his charisma. It was like the cheap reproduction of a masterpiece, robbed of everything that made it special. “Then don't kill me. Let me go.”

“Gee. No. You're still working for the bad guys.”

“I don't have a choice.”

“Then tell me who made you.”

The fetch gave a slow smile, obviously proud of his creator. “The Five. My master is First.”

“Name?”

“He is known as Ambrose.”

“Prince Leopold?”

The smile warped to a sneer. “He is one of them also, but he is the least. They need his connections.”

That was no surprise. “Come with me. Explain everything and clear your name.”

“No.” The fetch shook his head. “I am ordered to fight to the death before allowing myself to be arrested.”

“Funny how people who never do the fighting come up with these orders.”

The fetch shrugged. “I have never expected to live out the week.”

Faran winced. “Fun times. Your move.”

The fetch turned and ran to the wall, scuttling up it like a spider. Faran cursed, holstering his gun and dashing for the nearest fire escape. If he'd been a werecat, this would have been easier.

The fetch was a faster climber, appearing at the top of the ladder before Faran made it onto the roof. His boot stomped toward Faran's head. Faran jerked aside just in time, grabbing for the ankle. He missed, but it made the fetch stumble, giving him just enough seconds to make it onto the flat roof.

But not enough to avoid getting tackled. Faran went to his knees, skidding with the impact of the anti-Kyle's weight. It wouldn't do to fall backward—not with a two-story drop
right there
.

Faran somersaulted over the fetch and then they were both on their feet. Faran lashed out with his fist, testing the fetch's reflexes. A rain of kicks and blows followed, proving that the anti-Kyle had the original prince's expertise in martial arts.

It was a good fight, but it had to end. Faran made a textbook grapple, but the fetch bounced back up, drawing a blade from inside his jacket. It flashed with an unmistakable gleam.
Silver.

The blade lashed through the air. Faran grabbed for his weapon but fire flared in the muscle of his arm as the knife struck home, and his weapon dropped from nerveless fingers. Quick as a cat, the fetch's boot snaked out, kicking the gun out of reach.

“Worried yet?” the thing sneered.

“You have my attention.”

“Good.”

It sprang, just as Gillon had, with all limbs extended toward its prey. Faran spun and kicked, planting a boot heel in the thing's solar plexus. He heard a crack of bone, but still the fetch came on, all but crawling up his leg to drive the knife home. Faran twisted, using the motion to lever the fetch into the air. With a mighty heave, he tossed him off the roof to the cobbled alley below.

Then he snatched up his gun left-handed, aimed with care and shot the thing in the head for good measure. Even at that distance, his shot was true. Matter exploded into the air.

All the same, Faran didn't take any chances. There wasn't time to bother with the ladder, so he jumped, landing gracefully a few yards away from his quarry. Faran rose, checking himself over. His wounds weren't deep, just annoying and painful.

Faran strode to where the fetch lay. It had fallen badly, limbs splayed in ways that nature never meant. Nausea roiled in Faran's gut. Without a face, it looked even more like Kyle sprawled dead on the ground. And then it started to melt with that same eerie, gelatinous slide of flesh. The clothing began to hiss as it burned.

Faran bent and stirred the charring fabric with the point of the silver knife, then drew back as a shiver of power snaked up his arm. It felt like sticking his finger in a light socket. He reached out and quickly searched the fetch's pockets before they self-destructed. A moment's riffling through the contents of its wallet—concert tickets, brochures, a map of the palace maze—told him what he wanted to know. He rose and walked away to avoid the smell of the decomposing body.

Faran pulled out his phone and dialed. “Sam? I know when and where this is all supposed to come together. And have you ever heard of something called the Five?”

* * *

Lexie felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and almost squeaked. A glittery apparition was kneeling at the entrance to her hiding place, a bemused look on his face.

“If you wanted a backstage pass, you just had to ask,” said Maurice. “But if you stay here, the sound will rattle the teeth right out of your head.”

“I'm sorry, I was trying to avoid someone,” she said.

“Looks like they already have you rattled.”

“They do.”

“Come on,” he said, extending a hand. “A friend told me to keep an eye out for you. I have some very large fellows on my payroll who will take very good care of you until Faran returns.”

Lexie inched out from between the speakers. She had no sense of how long she'd been there, but she'd cried herself into exhaustion. It might not have been the best timing, but mourning for the brother she'd lost—whenever it was she truly lost him—had been years in coming. She felt oddly calm.

But now that she had left her cave, she could hear the rushing surf of the audience chanting,
Mau-rice! Mau-rice!
Feet stomped in rhythm to the words, vibrating through the building.

“Would you like to watch from the wings?” he asked with an amused expression. “I can guarantee a good show.” He was vibrating with energy, and whether it was the glitter or something more, he almost seemed to move in a halo of sparkling light.

She nodded. With so much backstage security, it was probably the safest place in the building. “Can I take pictures?”

“Be my guest.” And then he ran ahead, grabbing his sleek black guitar from one of the stagehands. She could hear the moment he hit the spotlight from the ecstatic wail of the crowd.

The relentless, headbanging furor of the opening number was exactly what Lexie needed to counteract her mood. The conversation with the nameless stranger had lasted no more than two minutes, and he'd barely spoken—but he'd blown her entire history to pieces. Everything she'd known about herself was based on half-truths.

Digesting all that wasn't going to be quick or easy. Lexie propped herself against a speaker stand in the wings, applied the earplugs somebody gave her and began shooting pictures. Out of morbid curiosity, she kept checking the images for reflective eyes. The drummer, the keyboard player and the bassist were all human. So were the guys on the soundboards, the roadies and the tough-looking woman who seemed to be in charge of flash pots and other exploding items. Feeling better about her immediate surroundings, Lexie began shooting pictures of the crowd.

That was a different story. It made sense that the palace would have sent over a bunch of security to help with the charity concert, but every other one of the green-coats guarding the stage was a fetch. Lexie's skin crawled. And then she saw Ambrose moving through the audience like a shark, speaking a word to one of them, then the next. Each one nodded as if they understood an order. It was hard to say what it might be. Maybe to capture her, but why stop there? The cream of society—at least the part that liked loud music—was there. Prince Kyle and his entourage were in the best of the gallery seats above.

Maurice went into one of his famous guitar solos. It started sweet, an intricate dance of two melodies that chased each other in twining counterpoint. Lexie loved it when he played this way, because it showed the talent and years of training that hid behind Maurice's showmanship. But the tune grew angrier, the two voices no longer in harmony but in argument, striving louder and sharper to shout each other down. Then they gave way to a screaming ecstasy of pain—not just physical pain, but the soul-agony of the middle of the night, of every regret and loss that rose like wraiths in the mind. Maurice swayed and stumbled across the stage, his glittering costume dark with sweat. The audience swayed with him, charmed into a trance.

Lexie would have been lost in the music, but her gaze was trained on the fetches in the crowd. They clearly didn't like the howling guitar. Every one of them was squirming and twitching—and no wonder. Lexie could see bones through the flesh of their faces, as if they were...
They're melting!

The gelatinous ooze that made them was sensitive to sound vibration. She turned to the roadie next to her, shouting in his ear. “I'm with palace security. I saw terrorists in the audience. Don't panic anyone, but lock the doors.”

He gave her a look that clearly said she was crazy. But then Lexie held up the camera, zooming in on a row of security guards with eyes glowing in hellish shades of yellow and orange. His brows shot up. He looked at the audience, grabbed his own camera from his jacket pocket, and took a series of shots. Then he carefully examined the evidence on the digital screen. A moment later, he vanished.

Ambrose watched from the opposite side of the auditorium. Lexie saw him there and used her zoom lens to get a closer look. As if he knew she was watching, he gave a slow nod, eyes turned directly her way. A crawling thrill of horror covered her whole body. She looked up from the camera, unnerved. She mentally cursed him, thinking again what he'd done to her family. For that, if nothing else, she was going to ensure he didn't win this battle.

And he wouldn't. Maurice's solo wound on, sobbing and moaning like a heartbroken siren. The pitch of the guitar climbed higher and higher, stabbing knives right through Lexie's earplugs. Ambrose pushed through the audience toward his creatures, but they were already streaming for the door. A monitor popped a mountain of sparks, fountaining white light into the air—but the band played on.

Oblivious, Maurice threw back his head and screamed, his instrument coughing a snarl of distortion as the rest of the musicians jumped in, bringing the song home with a pumping, caveman bass. It might have been the bass that did it, because one by one the fetches shuddered and drooped, like candles melting into puddles of wax. Then, they each popped in a wet, sloppy shower of goo. The audience members shrank away, disgusted, outraged and horrifically delighted.

The newspapers trumpeted the event as the dawn of a new era of interactive special effects. The sales of Maurice's album tripled overnight.