Jae nodded solemnly. Slow realization dawning on his face. “You’re wearing a disguise. Someone else's face.” He noted.
“Someone that you both knew.” I spat.
“That isn’t what this is about,” Jae said softly. “This isn't about Frankie.”
I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t. It was the same story, but with another man. We sat in silence, the distant sounds of kitchen cabinets opening and closing could be heard from the other side of the cabin. The crash of a mug and a grunted curse word.
A few minutes later, Hart returned, a strange expression on his face. He rubbed the wrinkled material of his shirt, right over his heart. Scratching his chest, like an irritating scab.
My chest filled up like a lead balloon.
I couldn’t have marked another man, could I? Bond marks didn’t just happen. Soulmates didn't just happen. Monogamous pairings were rare. I knew only of one triad pairing. Had I done something? Had my desperation for contact, and affection, somehow tied my lifespan to two different men? Two Hunters?
I didn’t have a chance to ask.
The front door of the cabin burst open. Hugo rushed through, his gaze frantic before settling on mine. When he saw that I was whole and healthy, his whole body relaxed. Davenport stepped through a few seconds later. He surveyed the rumbled clothing, the air mattress and the scent of sex, with no emotion on his face. Davenport crossed his arms over his chest.
“Watchtower reported your vehicle returned last night, in tatters.” Davenport gave us all a look that could freeze water. “Why was I not informed?”
Chapter 12
After we were called into Davenport's office in the main building, Jae and Hart leaped into an explanation about the car crash, the dark shadow, and the invisible attacker.
I couldn’t exactly explain that I had smelt wishes. That the metaphysical concept of a wish had a tangible effect on my senses. Old coins and dying flames. The scent conjured the mental image of a burning pile of blood-stained ancient coins, each one with dead ruler stamped into the metal.
Davenport had waved away the explanation and demanded that Dr. Lee and Sgt Hart get back to work. Davenport's dark gaze was inscrutable as he watched the two men leave.
I struggled to maintain eye contact when I remembered the previously forgotten warning that the commander had issued. A thinly veiled demand that I retain distance from his Hunters.
Davenport tented his fingers; his elbows rested on the lip of his desk. He pressed his lips to his clasped hands and inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes for a long minute. I waited in silence, but it was as if I was not in the room.
“Was there anything you wanted to add?” Davenport asked. His eyes remained closed.
The sound I made sounded like a cross between a gurgle and a question mark. It must have been my lack of a father figure because the gravitas that Davenport welded—the unsaid command of every part of his body and existence—made me want to roll on my belly and call him Daddy.
“Was there anything that you could not say in front of Dr. Lee or Sgt Hart?” Davenport clarified. His words held no inflection.
“It smelt like wishes,” I explained.
Davenport made a thoughtful sound. The statement was vague enough to belong to a Fae. The Fair Folk had brilliant senses. He didn’t need to know that I could taste magic.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat.
“After your first session with Dr. Lee, it has become apparent that he is aware of your identity.” He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Unless Corporal Gardiner had suffered a psychotic break, it was unlikely that she would have changed so abruptly. You have forced my hand. Not to mention that you also told the man outright.”
“You think that Jae could be behind this?” I could not keep the incredulous hitch out of my voice.
Davenport shot me down with a look. “That is beside the point.”
“You put me in therapy.” I hissed. “What did you want me to do?”
“I do not have to justify my decisions to you.” Davenport leaned back. The picture of calm serenity. “We need to maintain appearances for the sake of the entire operation. Please refrain from telling anyone else. You, as a Mimic Sidhe, one of Dermot Dirk's mercenaries, should be capable of that.”
I huffed and blew a lock of hair away from my face. Davenport reached into his filing cabinet and produced a document. He slapped it onto the desk and opened it up at a page of a crime scene.
“Tell me what you see.”
I rose off my seat to look down at the various photos. A blood-stained crime scene. Burn marks. Salt and dead animals. No markings. I remembered the motivational posters on the walls of the tiny office, a computer and a desk that must have belonged to a long-defunct company.
“I don't understand.” I breathed, flicking through every single photo. “I saw the markings before. Hugo projected the image of the crime scene. The summoning circle was right there.”
“Wax chalk.” He explained. “Invisible once activated. To all eyes. Except those with Demon Blood.”
A roll of sweat ran down my forehead and then my cheek. I restrained the urge to wipe it away with the back of my hand. I locked my muscles. Beating down any urge to squirm or shift.
Did Davenport know?
Did he suspect?
My eyes darted to the exits before I could control myself. I licked my lips. They were dry.
“Hugo is a Demon,” I said without emphasis. “I saw his memories.”
Davenport nodded as if confirming something, shutting the manila file. He stood up, placing the sleeve of documents back into the filing cabinet. The metallic door closed with a soft snick.
Davenport turned to face me, resting his hip against the side of his desk. “Have you thought more about what I’ve said?”
I cocked my head to the side, confused.
“About becoming a Hunter?” Davenport elaborated with a patient smile.
I blinked a few times. My mouth parted in an O. “No.”
Davenport bent at the waist until our faces were only a foot apart. His eyes burned into mine as he took in every aspect of my face. “My team could use someone like you.”
“Someone who can be anyone?” I spoke delicately to hide the hurt I felt. “Wear any face?”
Davenport continued. His words were soft and carefully measured. A rebuff. “Someone with knowledge of Demonic rituals. Someone loyal to my Hunters. Someone who doesn’t crumble under pressure.” He listed. “Hart told me that you didn’t panic when you encountered the Ifrit. You didn't start screaming or try to escape. You didn’t draw attention to yourself. You identified the threat immediately.”
I'd never heard of my proficiency at fleeing described as a positive attribute.
“Hart mentioned that your aim was also particularly good,” Davenport said.
My heart sank. That skill belonged to my host, not me.
“Would I have to follow orders?” I asked sweetly. “I don't think I would be too good at that.”
Davenport's lip twitched. “My Hunters are not slaves. They have some discretion when it comes to following the chain of command. That said, following orders helps everyone.”
“I don’t think I could follow orders.” I pouted.
“Then, you might be punished.” His gaze darkened. His face was so close to mine that I had a front-row seat as his eyes turned to ink. Dark and deep.