“Thank you,” Gideon said, mocking the corpse. “Now I have much to do. I think I’ll take advantage of your little ploy and build from there. The next headlines will be ‘Fae prince saves the day.’ ”
Caressing the sword and its lovely, lovely gemstone, Gideon took a last look around the miserable place. “A fitting tomb, don’t you think? And now on to the next phase of my plan. Where do you think Lady Fiona might be?”
He stepped back out of the path of the spreading slime. “Oh, my apologies. You don’t have a brain left to think with.” He chuckled at his own wit and then opened a doorway to his home. “I wonder if she has received my message yet?”
Chapter 35
Campbell Manor
Hopkins met them at the door before they made it out of the garage. “A note just came for you, Lady Fiona.” His body practically hummed with suppressed fury. “I think we may have a problem.”
He turned to Sean. “If you would please open the vault and bring out the special items I showed you once?”
“Are you sure?” Sean’s face turned pale.
“Yes.”
Sean wasted no more time with questions, but just took off back toward the garage.
Christophe and Fiona followed Hopkins inside and to her office. “What kind of problem? We don’t need another problem. Did you read the note?” Fiona asked.
“I would not read your mail.”
“I think we’re a little past that. Have you listened to the news?”
Hopkins nodded grimly. “I was going to wait five more minutes for you and then read it. I think Declan’s in trouble.”
He handed over a thick envelope, cream parchment with her name elegantly written on it in slanted black letters and bold black ink. She ripped it open and held the note out so they could all see it.
Lady Fiona,
As you may know, I am not precisely the man you assumed me to be. I should like to meet with both of you to discuss our future plans. Your brother has graciously accepted my hospitality, as well, and is currently enjoying a bit of light refreshment. Tell the man from the water that Declan tells me the wine is a very good vintage.
Yours,
Fairsby, Lord Summerlands
Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs absolutely refused to draw in air. She collapsed to the floor before Hopkins or Christophe could catch her.
“He has Declan. Feransel has Declan.”
“We’ll get him back,” Christophe said, scooping her up off the floor and into his arms. “I swear to you by my oath as a Warrior of Poseidon that we will get him back.”
“What does it mean?” She pushed away from Christophe and smoothed out the crumpled letter. “I get that ‘man from the water’ is you and ‘Lord Summerlands’ is a not very subtle way to say lord from the Summer Lands especially since that’s not his title, but what does that mean about the wine?”
“It means that Declan accepted drink, maybe food, too, so they more than likely have enchanted him.”
She thought about it. Thought about all the reasons why she should remain sane, and calm, and rational.
And then she threw back her head and screamed.
Christophe understood what she was feeling. He even understood her need to howl out her rage. But it wasn’t helping their current problem, and he needed for her to think. He figured he’d give her another minute before he tried shaking her or pouring cold water on her head, or whatever he should do to calm hysteria. One minute, and then she had to stop.
She stopped screaming thirty seconds later.
“Right,” she said briskly, as if she hadn’t just had a minimeltdown. “Let’s figure out what to do next.”
Her cell phone rang. She pulled it out like it was a lifeline, then held it up in a shaking hand. “It’s him. It’s Declan.”
She flipped it open and adjusted something so they could all hear.
“Declan, honey, are you okay?”
“How touching.” Fairsby’s voice—no, Feransel’s voice—rang out.
A wave of fury hotter than molten steel forged in the fires of the nine hells swept through Christophe, searing and burning everything in its path, until all that was left was rage and determination. The Fae was going to die for hurting Fiona. He was already a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
“You put my brother on the phone, Fairsby, at once,” Fiona demanded.
The Fae laughed, and even through the phone, the sound was so chillingly evil that all three of them recoiled as if a serpent perched on the tiny electronic device instead of at its other end.
“He’s a little busy at the time, with a few water nymphs. Did you know your baby brother is a virgin?” He laughed again. “Oh, too bad. I do believe was is the correct verb tense.”
All the blood drained out of Fiona’s face. Christophe took the phone out of her shaking hand.
“What a brave elf to play with little boys, na Feransel,” Christophe said, mocking him. “Does your mommy still wipe your ass for you, too?”
“Call me elf at your own peril, Atlantean. I would think, in any case, that you had enough to concern you,” the Fae said; still calm, still taunting.
Christophe had shaken that smug serenity a little bit, though, and he planned to shake it up even more. “I heard Telios stole your thunder with the Siren. Sad, that. Outwitted by a vampire. What’s next? Shifters in the Summer Lands?”
“Ah, yes. Telios. I learned of his little demonstration just a bit too late. So sad that he was defenseless in his sleep this morning. One would have expected more of a fight from the celebrated Jack the Ripper. I so wanted to keep his head to decorate my wall. So tragic that they dissolve so fast.”
Fiona traded a glance with Hopkins and then they both looked at Christophe. She made a “move it along” gesture.
“What, you expect us to mourn for him? Where and when do you want to meet? The boy had better be safe and intact, or you will answer to me.” Christophe never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. Power roared through his body and enhanced his words until they thundered through the air and into the phone.
“Interesting trick,” the Fae said. “Your voice alone just killed my favorite rosebush. I’ll have to take that out of someone’s flesh, of course, but it was interesting. I wonder how much of that raw, rough power I have caused.”
Christophe stared at the phone, but knew better than to allow the Fae to draw him into a useless argument.
“When and where?” Fiona shouted at the phone, at the Fae. “Just tell us when and where, damn you.”
“The dulcet tones of my future wife. Yes, my dearest one, I know you are impatient to join with me and bear my sons. Tonight, at midnight. A bit clichéd, but for a reason. The hour holds sacred power here in the Summer Lands.”
Fiona fell back against the desk, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. Christophe took over, forcing himself to ignore the bit about “future wife”—for now.
“How do we get there?”
“Come to Fairsby Manor, of course,” the Fae who was and was not Fairsby replied. “I’ll be there to meet you. Midnight and not a minute sooner, mind, and only the two of you. Oh, and Fiona? I’ll gladly trade your brother’s freedom for that Atlantean’s head on a plate.”
The click as he hung up on them echoed in the space between the three of them.
Hopkins nodded once, decisively. “Now we go plan how to kick his arse.”
“Yes,” Fiona said. “Now.”
An hour later
They’d cleaned up and changed from the explosion’s after-math, and now all Fiona wanted to do was take off for Lord Fairsby’s family home and find her brother.
“Believe me. I’d be all for it if it had a chance in the nine hells of working, but it doesn’t,” Christophe said. “The entry to the Summer Lands moves around, and never at the request of non-Fae. It’s like the portal to Atlantis. It has a mind of its own. If we try to storm the place early, na Feransel will make sure we never find your brother.”