“He said sit. He doesn’t repeat himself. Nor do I.”
When Ryodan shoves him away, R’jan drops down on the third side of our square, eyes blazing with challenge and hatred. Kiall and Rath slowly take their seats with elaborate
indolence, as if they do so because they wish to and for no other reason.
I eye the fourth side, wondering who else we could possibly be waiting for. When our final guest walks up the stairs and sits at our table, it’s my turn to bristle.
I know the face of an O’Bannion mobster when I see one. I helped kill two of them. Our final guest is black Irish with a light complexion, thick, dark hair and eyes, and the blood of a distant Saudi ancestor in his veins. Broad-shouldered and handsome in a rugged, outdoors way, he moves with long-limbed grace.
Kat half rises, looking ashen. “Sean?” she says. “What on earth are you doing here?”
I glance between the two. I don’t need a
sidhe
-seer gift to know there’s deep emotion between them.
“Yes, what is an O’Bannion doing here?” I say.
“The name is Sean Fergus Jameson,” the man says in a thick Irish brogue.
“First cousin to Rocky O,” Ryodan says. “He tends to omit his surname in certain quarters.”
“Why is he here?” Kat says again, resettling slowly.
Ryodan says, “You’re looking at the three primary suppliers of goods in this city: myself, the princes, and the black market—like his fathers before him, also known as Sean O’Bannion. Seems your boy learned a trick or two working in my club, little cat. Bribed my suppliers. Got himself into the game.”
“Only because you were charging half an arm and most of a leg for a simple meal,” Sean says hotly. “We’ve women and children in our streets who’ve no way of paying such high prices. They were dying for want of milk and bread.”
“You show your true colors, O’Bannion,” Ryodan says.
“A good and honest heart?” Kat says sharply.
The look Sean gives her tells me everything: they’re lovers, and I suspect they have been for a long time. How does he think to stand his ground against this kind of competition? He’s a human among beasts.
Ryodan cuts Kat a hard, flat smile. “That’s often how it starts. Just not usually how it ends. If the two of you had been talking about any of the things you should be talking about, you’d have known.”
“You will stay out of my business,” Kat warns softly.
Ryodan leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Start taking care of your business and I might. Business unattended is free trade.”
“You had no right to force him to work at Chester’s,” Kat says. “The debt owed was mine, not his.”
Sean gives her a quizzical glance. “Force? What debt? My working there had nothing to do with you.”
Kat blinks and looks sharply at Ryodan. “You said the price was demanded of him, not me.”
Ryodan lifts a brow and gives her a mocking smile.
“What price?” Sean says.
“I said, precisely, Katarina, that I’d had difficulty staffing lately, my servers kept dying, and your Sean was good enough to fill in. I also told you he was free to go. Both were true. From the first. When he decided to thieve on my turf, I fired him.”
His tone makes it clear how lucky she is that he didn’t kill him. I wonder why he didn’t kill him. No one takes from Ryodan and survives … unless the cool-eyed manipulator has a long-term goal that makes him willing to suffer the poor fool’s existence as Barrons does the princes.
“You pigs talk and talk and say nothing of interest to us. Too many of you here. Not enough of us. Or slaves,” Rath says. “We demand more Unseelie at this table.”
“Find another prince and we might take it under advisement,” Ryodan says dryly. Cruce is locked down and the Crimson Hag has Christian. In other words, never going to happen.
R’jan says nothing. If any of the Seelie Princes remain, he wants no competition for the Fae throne.
Sean says, “Why is Katarina here?”
I say, “As headmistress of the
sidhe
-seers, she’s the front line of human defense and protection.” I don’t add: and she sits on Cruce and keeps watch so he doesn’t get out. I really hope she hasn’t confided that to him. They say every person with whom you share a secret will inevitably share it with at least one more, that it grows in exponential leaps and bounds until the entire world knows what you wish it didn’t.
Sean assesses me. “Why are
you
here?”
Ryodan replies, “She has her uses. Any more fucking questions, take them up with Barrons. You don’t like who sits at this table, figure out how to get rid of them. But be careful, it’s not hard to figure out how to get rid of you. Human.”
Kat snaps, “You will leave him alone.”
I glance at her but she’s trying to send a silent message with her eyes to Sean. Unfortunately, he’s now staring too fiercely at Ryodan to notice.
She exhales gustily and I echo it.
The males at this table are ruthless. The only way Sean can hope to compete in business with them is to be equally ruthless. As the princes adopted a degree of civility to optimize their survival, Sean will have to adopt a degree of barbarism to optimize his.
Leaving me to wonder the same thing I know Kat’s thinking: how much of the man she loves will remain?
6
“I’m going be that n-n-nail in your coffin”
JADA
The woman moves through dark streets, thick with fog blown off the sea. Dusk cloaks her in mist and shadow as if she’s a secret the night has sworn an oath to protect. Moonlight illuminates wet cobblestones and rain-streaked windows but glances off her as if deflected by an invisible cloak.
Like the Shades, she’s a smudge in the darkness.
Born of long and unforgettable habit, she avoids the pale yellow pools of streetlamps.
Better to see than be seen.
Being heard is another thing. Sound skitters and reverberates, and unless one is a highly skilled hunter, it’s difficult to secure the target in one’s crosshairs by noise alone.
She can do it. She’s as infamous as the legendary Queen’s Huntsman. She’s never missed her mark.
Her enemy isn’t so skilled. The one she seeks tonight is
sloppy, blinded by gluttonous appetite, but to lure it she’s not enough. She needs an attractive, sexually viable man.
Stiletto heels that gleam silver kick gusts of fog into lacy, sharp-edged patterns as she strides through Temple Bar toward Chester’s nightclub, where she will select her bait. She’s dressed to kill, weapons concealed: gun strapped to her thigh, knives flush to her skin, a sexy chain of a belt that distracts the male eye as it swings at her hips, a lethal garrote. The ricochet of her shoes on pavement is loud, deliberate. She knows she’s difficult to see and at the moment desires to be accessible.
Immediacy is efficiency.
Contempt for death is her way of life.
Nothing touches her.
To be touched is weakness.
As she turns down an alley, mist swirls back from long, bare, lightly oiled legs, the edgy hem and neckline of a black spandex dress, the supple body of a dancer, long hair pulled back in a high ponytail, the serene face of a stone-cold killer, before enveloping her again.
She’s beautiful.
It’s a weapon.
She has suffered the worst the world has to offer.
And thrived.
She’s compiled a list of names.
And will hunt them one by one.
When at last the fog parts upon the face of her enemy, she will have no mercy.
This world had none for her.
7
“This night could almost kill you”
LOR
“Who am I?” the blonde kneeling between my legs demands.
I need to come so fucking bad my teeth hurt.
I know the answer she wants. She wants me to call her “mistress.” Like she’s the Dom. She’s already tried to get me to say it twice, sneaking it in like she thinks I won’t notice because of the mind-blowing stuff she’s been doing with her lips and tongue and that flawlessly executed glide of teeth so few women ever master when giving head.
She’s wasting her time. It’s never going to happen. There isn’t a submissive bone in my body. I’m alpha to the motherfucking core.
I pull her head from my groin and grin down at her. Hot, horny blondes are a dime a dozen at Chester’s. Riots may have sacked Dublin last Halloween and a killer freeze might have shut the city down for a while, but it’s rebounding fast. People
have been flooding in, resettling both sides of the River Liffey, drawn by the thaw, restored power, and supplies, but most of all by the endless parade of sexually insatiable Fae that pack the bars and dance floors of 939 Rêvemal Street every night of the week, hunting human lovers. The hottest, most deadly nightclub in Dublin is bigger, better, and badder than ever: Chester’s is Sin Central—if you want it, we got it.
“You’re not
that
good, honey.” I flash her a grin. My comment is guaranteed to spark one of two things: either she’ll get up and walk out pissed or I’ll get even better head.
I know by her confidence—and the hungry way she’s been watching me all night—she’s not walking.
She laughs and runs her tongue over her lips to make them even wetter, shiny with the spit of a pro and pre-ejac. I lean back against Ry’s desk, since he’s off at some meeting for a few hours, looking forward to her amped-up performance, watching her, watching the club through the glass floor beneath my boots, loving life. As long as women walk this earth, I’ll be a happy man. If they ever get wiped out, I’m done. I’ll go in search of K’Vruck.
She slaps the head of my dick then closes her mouth over it in one long perfect slide all the way to the base … does some kind of swirly thing, then an intense suck back out.
I nearly stagger.
Son of a bitch, she’s good.
She has her hands on my ass, face grinding into my groin, my dick is down her throat, and I’m a frigging volcano about to blow. Problem is, I been ready for a good twenty minutes, but whenever I get close she mixes it up and shoves it out of reach. What was initially a turn-on has become a pain in the ass. Not to mention the balls. I’m beginning to think they
might rupture. I’m dripping sweat and I’m not even the one doing the work, although I’m looking forward to getting down to it. The woman has one damn fine body.
I take her head in my hands and try to move her mouth on me the way I want.
She resists with a muffled laugh.
I pull her mouth off me and she looks up, smiling. Takes my breath away for a second. Her hair is a hot mess around her face, just the way I like it—bed-head always makes me want to fuck. Then again, pretty much everything does.
“Let me come, honey,” I say. “There’s plenty more after, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Do I look worried? I know exactly what to expect from a man like you. Who am I?” She flicks her tongue over the swollen head of my dick.
I start to hit it, I’m so close, but then she does this twisting thing with her hands and mouth at the same time, and I get needles on my dick.
Pleasure killed by pain.
Velvet of her mouth.
Needles.
It’s starting to chafe more than I like. And I’ve been known to play rough with the right woman. Or three.
“Mistress,” she purrs. “Is it really so much to ask? For what I make you feel?”
I consider. She
is
blond with big, beautiful tits. Whole world knows I got a weakness for the combo. That’s how I’d ended up in the boss’s office, leaning back against his desk, leather pants around my ankles, buck-naked brick shithouse between my legs while the bass of Rob Zombie’s
Pussy Liquor
—and when the hell is she ever gonna give
that
up? It’s one of my
finest skills and I haven’t even gotten the chance to dazzle her—rumbles in the desk beneath my ass, pounding up from one of the subclubs below.
I love this place. One of our better investments.
“I’m giving you the best head you’ve ever had,” she says. “Admit it.”
Not a problem. I say so to every woman that sucks me. Women enjoy doing things they excel at, praise guarantees repeat performances, every repeat performance is more practice for the woman, which guarantees the next man even better head. Given how long I’ve been at this, and on how many continents, I’m pretty sure I’ve single-handedly improved the quality of head around the world.
“Sure, babe, you’re the best. Head. Ever.” Damn close anyway.
“Who am I?” she purrs.
I groan. “The bitch sucking my dick.” We agreed on no names. She asked me to call her bitch downstairs when we were doing shots at the bar. Said it turned her on. Later, with a laugh, she switched it to princess. Now she wants mistress. High maintenance. Some women are worth it.
She cups my balls and squeezes, then begins sucking them with exquisite precision. All the muscles in my abdomen clench and I exhale explosively. I’m beginning to think this might be the best orgasm I’ve ever had.
If
I ever get around to the bloody fucking thing.
“You really don’t get this, do you?” she says. Laughter tinkles and the hair on the back of my neck feels weird all the sudden. There’s a darkness to the sound that might worry me if she wasn’t so frigging hot.
Speaking of hot, I look down to see sweat running down my
six-pack, dripping down my legs. I’m practically standing in a puddle of my own sweat. What the hell did Ry do? Crank up the heat in Chester’s to a hundred? I’m burning up. Light-headed, like I have a fever. Which is impossible.
“Don’t care. You’re here. I’m here. Do that thing with your tongue again. The swirly thing.”
“I’ll give you a clue,” she says, and somehow she’s smiling while she’s sucking and for a second I think I see rows of tiny needle-sharp shark teeth. Not what a man wants to hallucinate with a woman’s hot wet mouth on his dick. I blink and wipe sweat from my eyes. Trick of the light. She has perfect teeth, movie-star white, framed to perfection by smears of crimson lipstick, most of which is all over my dick and stomach. Oh, yeah, I’ll take a blonde with cherry red lipstick every day of the week that ends in
y
. Life is sweet. I laugh.