Magic electrified the air. I broke into a fast run, pumping my arms as I sprinted through the tunnel, my feet splashing in the rising water. I might be crap at powerful magic, but I was great at running in heels.
If I could kill the assassins fast, maybe I could save the shop.
Long ago, priests had used these tunnels to escape Henry VIII, sneaking down to the Thames to flee the city. Now, I was using it to save my own rear.
Water streamed in heavier now, and running was getting harder. Still, the river called to me.
If I ended this fast, I’d keep Gina safe. I’d promised years ago to keep her from harm.
It had been two years since I’d found her running from a demon predator. He was about three hundred years older than her and rotten down to his bones. He’d broken her jawbone and nearly choked her to death behind a dumpster. I’d put him out of her misery.
Gina had lived with me since.
The icy water was flowing faster now, chilling my calves.
I was one minute away from the Thames. One minute till I could lure the assassins to me.
My breath grew ragged in my throat as I fought my way through the rising water. Another powerful wave of magic set my teeth on edge. The water rushed up to my hips now.
When the water reached my ribs, I dove under, sinking into its cold embrace. The water was my home, and I moved through it swiftly. I held my breath, and the river rushed over my skin as I swam, faster and faster, moving toward my target.
The assassins were fae like me, but they had struck a deal with the humans long ago. They could live in the world, in exchange for killing all the other supernaturals.
But why come for me when there were demons far more dangerous roaming London’s streets? Demons who could make your blood drain from your body on sight.
Moonlight pierced the water’s surface.
I kicked my legs, moving higher and higher, until my head reached the top. I took a deep breath of spring air.
Icy water soaked my clothes, and my teeth chattered as I hoisted myself up onto the river walkway. The moon and streetlamp cast faint light over the empty pavement.
I shivered, pulling my comb from my pocket. Tonight, mist hung thick and low over the Thames.
All magic had certain properties—smells, sounds, textures. I mostly listened to the sounds—like music that every magical being possessed. It was a thread of magic connecting two people.
I tuned into the vibrations of the assassin. He’d come for blood and it sounded like a drumbeat, a pounding in my blood.
Once I’d found him, I pulled the comb through my sodden blue hair, and I launched into a low, ancient song—the song of the Morgens. In the night air above London, my magic called to my target.
This was my magic—my sad dirt-hole magic. I lured men to me with a comb and a song. And if they were bad men, I killed them.
Admittedly, this wasn’t the most effective magic in a battle. I needed a body of water for this to work, and then I had to sit by the water while singing and combing my hair. There were very few battle situations that provided this kind of opportunity.
Once, I’d been jumped by a gang of six demons near Fenchurch Street. They’d beaten me within an inch of my life, burned my skin with their names. They’d left me for dead. My particular skillset had done me not a lick of good in that moment. “Sorry, fellas, but could you just pause the torture for a bit while I get my comb out and make my way to the Thames? Give a girl a fair chance, will you?”
But I’d found them in the end. I’d lured them to me. Then, I’d ripped out their hearts, dried them, and sold their bones in my shop.
The way I saw it, I was the scourge of the wicked, and I did a darn good job of it.
A shiver of connection skimmed over my skin as my magic found the rhythmic vibrations of my target. By the time this guy found his way to me, he’d be too mesmerized to fight.
Then, I tuned into a second sound. Gina had been right—there were two of them. The second was melodic and sad—like a dirge. Beautiful, really. Too bad I had to end it.
Soon, this would all be over, and I could go back to my shop.
I pulled the comb through my hair, chanting the ancient song. I could feel them drawing closer.
I felt my magic wending through the air, slipping around my victim.
In theory, Morgens were supposed to be seductive, and sometimes I looked the part. But right now, I was wearing an old T-shirt drenched in river water and cutoff shorts, my bare legs streaked with mud. Still, it wouldn’t matter.
When I felt the magic humming more powerfully along my bones, I turned and saw the flame-haired fae standing behind me, trying to catch his breath. Enormous, he cast a long shadow over me. Moonlight glinted off his weapons, and swathes of silvery fog curled around him. His cheeks were flushed, sweating. He’d run to get to me like his life depended on it.
In his amber eyes, I could see my spell had already taken hold. Entranced, his gaze swept over my body, taking in the wet clothes that clung to the curves of my hips and the swell of my breasts.
A strange sort of mental shift happened when I enchanted people. I could see how I looked to them, how they felt about me—like a bubble in my mind, giving me a clear view of their warped image of me.
And right now, this assassin’s vision of me was downright pornographic.
In his mind, my wet blue hair draped over my bare breasts, nipples hard in the night wind. I was wearing nothing but a white thong, practically transparent from the river water—one hand thrust in my knickers. My other fingers were by my mouth. I think that was honey I was licking off my fingertips, but the gods only knew. In his vision, my eyelashes fluttered at him. He envisioned me pulling the thong aside and smiling at him seductively. Men.
What he did not see was the reality—an angry, mud-spattered chick in a Joy Division T-shirt pointing a gun at him.
It almost felt like a sin to shoot someone as helpless as him, but my time was running out, and what’s more, his fantasies were filthy and disturbing. And in any case, he wouldn’t be helpless for long, and then he’d kill me in a frenzied rage of lust and violence.
He reached out for me like I was his long-lost lover, an ecstatic smile on his lips, hand straining for my breasts.
My heart felt heavy as I squeezed the trigger and shot him in the chest. Iron ripped right through his aorta, ending his life. He fell hard to the pavement, and I wiped a shaking hand over my forehead. At least he died happy, I guess.
Exhaling, I scanned the shadows by the river’s edge, quiet in the dead of night. Why wasn’t the other one here?
I was sure I’d lured him also.
When I turned around, I saw him, and my heart skipped a beat.
There he was, towering over me. The second fae. He glowed with the cold, unearthly light of an angelic king.
His beauty was devastating. Unfortunately for me, he did not look the least bit enchanted. In fact, he looked like he wanted to rip my head off.
Chapter 3
He smelled like almonds and sea-swept stones. The wind toyed with his pale hair—so light it nearly looked silver. His deep blue eyes pierced me. He had the cold perfection of an angel—sculpted cheekbones, a perfect mouth, straight, dark eyebrows—and the arrogant stance to match. Masculine beauty that could have been carved by Michelangelo himself.
With his tightly coiled muscles, he gave the impression of being a warrior. But the crown on his head told me he wasn’t an ordinary foot soldier in the assassin crew. At first glance, it looked like thorny wildflowers.