“No, of course you don’t. My everyday glamour is far too powerful for even other fae to detect, much less the likes of you.” He extended a hand to help her stand, tsking reproachfully when she jerked away from his touch. “Don’t be rude, human. It doesn’t suit your species.”
“Why did you…” She trailed off, breathing shallowly. “Why am I here?”
Had she been taken to prevent her further interference with their conspiracy? To somehow derail Hugh’s own investigative efforts? Or—
“It seems you’ve belatedly developed some real talent. Congratulations, Gwendolen. Having actual worth must be a vast relief to you.” The fae delivered the jab with aplomb, then added, “That’s the main reason I wanted you here. Although I also look forward to Hugh resuming his normal tedious, rule-bound work, far outside the Containment Zone or any future sites of disruption we might choose. You’re a bad influence on him, my dear.”
He spoke about Hugh with such disdainfulfamiliarity, as if the two were personally acquainted. And if he was glamoured, her kidnapper’s masculine appearance might be deceptive.
Had she been abducted by a disguised Tanielle Beech, the SERC chair?
“Who…” She swallowed convulsively, trying her hardest not to retch. “Who are you?”
“Anyone I want to be.” He bent in closer, as if sharing a secret. “Very few know about this particular glamour. Only the most powerful fae can fashion its like, it works solely on its creator, and it’s entirely undetectable. I’ve been using mine since SERC’s infernal creation, over two decades ago. If you pay a high enough price, even your scent won’t give you away.”
Honestly? Once something was priced at more than, say, ten thousand dollars, the amount started sounding like Monopoly money to her. She couldn’t even imagine how much his super-premium, members-only glamour would cost. A million dollars? A billion?
Maybe he spotted her incomprehension. Or maybe he was just in full-on villain-boast mode and eager to receive due creditfor his evil scheming, because he specified: “Creating glamours like mine costs us a good chunk of our natural lifespan. Afterward, we either die young or…” His lips twisted into an ugly smile. “We find other ways to supplement our longevity.”
He clearly assumed she didn’t know about the fae ability to consume human lifetimes. And since that assumption might benefit her at some point, she didn’t intend to contradict it.
His face tightened at her seeming lack of reaction. “But perhaps you wish to see the visage I’ve been offering the ignorant world?”
With a flick of his elongated fae fingers, almost everything about him altered. His hair gleamed bright silver, without any hint of tarnish. The lines bracketing the corners of his mouth and scoring his forehead deepened. His irises darkened to an unremarkable brown, even as his fingers shortened, his skin turned dull and opaque, and his wings vanished. Razor-edged horns peeked out from his swept-back hair.
The only thing that stayed constant: the malicious pleasure in those dead eyes of his.
She recognized him. Of course she recognized him.
“Josiah Goodling.” He swept her a mocking bow. “I would say ‘at your service,’ but that would be a lie. You’re atmyservice now, darling.”
To her shame, she sobbed aloud, the sound involuntary and sharp. His grin widened, and those shark’s eyes searched her expression avidly, greedy for more despair. And she hated—hated—allowing him such a humiliating victory over her, but…
Hugh’s trusted mentor was an evil fae disguised as an avuncular demon friend. And there was only one reason he’d be willing to reveal his alternate identity to her. Only one reason he’dshare the secret of his limited-edition, small-batch, artisanal glamour, when its strategic value would plummet if its existence became widely known.
He must believe there was no risk of that knowledge ever getting back to anyone important. Including—especially—Hugh.
She wasn’t leaving this place alive.
Instinctively, she slapped her palm against the base of her neck, searching for the amulet she no longer wore. Then she lurched forward, bent at the waist. Bracing herself with both hands, she threw up all over that cold, hard marble floor.
He heaved a disgusted sigh. With the peremptory snap of his fingers, the boots of one of his minions approached rapidly and halted at his side.
“Clean this once she’s done,” he ordered, then directed his next words to her. “Next time, you’ll tidy your own mess, human. Don’t ever make your decision to breed my problem again.”
Next time. Again. Those word choices implied she had some sort of future, right? That he wasn’t simply going to kill her immediately?
Clinging to that fraying thread of hope, she rubbed her forearm over her trembling mouth and angled her head to study her surroundings once more. If she intended to escape—and she did—she needed to find a possible exit.
Other than a few demon-provided descriptions of the Realm Below’s courtroom area, no public documentation of its interior existed. An unknown number of beings might work there, but they weren’t talking.
As it turned out, this particular expanse of the Realm resembled a slightly shrunken iteration of DC’s Union Station, all neoclassical grandeur, arches, and a soaring, vaulted ceiling. Themain incongruities: the lack of windows; the existence of only one visible, guard-protected exit; and the cluster of jarringly modern taupe-brown cubicles in the far corner.
The cubicles’ openings faced away from her. But she’d bet the entirety of her depleted checking account that they contained the kidnapped oracles whose disappearances Hugh had been investigating.
Neither he nor those oracles’ employers had been able to track where the seers had vanished to, and no wonder. The Realm was the one place where even the strongest telepaths couldn’t make contact. And while the missing oracles’ absurdly powerful employers held enormous sway over every country on the face of the planet, they had no access to or authority over the domain of Death and the Fates.
Now, however improbably, Gwen had been taken there as well.
