High Voltage
I love my sword. I pet it; it soothes me. Cold, hard, frequently bloody, we’re two of a kind. Made for war, but with a bit of work we shine right back up again. Double-edged, the straight blade swells in thickness and width as it nears the guard. The blade, apart from the hilt, is 34.5 inches long—most of the time. In battle, I’ve seen that length increase and decrease. Dancer was never able to identify what it’s made from but it’s oddly light yet weighty at the same time, razor-sharp, and has proved unbreakable.
Although the blade shimmers alabaster, the grip is fashioned from engraved lengths of ebony and ivory metals woven together. The guard is dark as midnight and resembles narrow wings that arc back toward my hand. The heavily engraved pommel is formed from the same obsidian metal as the guard and is always cold. Ornate dark symbols—a cipher that has never ceased to stump me despite the considerable time I’ve wasted over the years with pen and paper trying to work it out—flow the length of the blade on both sides. The symbols often move, swirling too rapidly for me to transcribe. When I fight, my sword burns incandescent, and I often find those undecipherable symbols seared into the flesh of our victims.
Most of all, it feels good in my hand. As if it was made just for me. And one day, I just know deep in my bones, I’ll get to use it again.
I padded out into the bedroom.
My fingers tightened on the hilt.
There was a man sitting on my bed.
Not Fae.
But considering he’d breached my many booby traps to gain entrance, there was no way he was human either.
I put a spell on you
“BY LOKI’S BALLS,” THE man said, shaking his head, “you’re not at all what I expected.”
Expectations limit your ability to perceive things. I try to have few. I leaned against the doorjamb, assessing him, sword deceptively at ease at my side.
He scanned me back, absorbing the bare feet, the holes in the knees of my jeans, the face void of makeup, the tumble of wet hair. His gaze hitched briefly on my left hand and his eyes flared infinitesimally then narrowed. “But you’re a mere child. How did something like you get your hands on the Faerie sword?”
On February twentieth of this year, my last birthday, I’d decided to commit to an age. As I was somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-three, I split the difference and settled on twenty-two. Casual and without makeup, I knew I looked several years younger. It worked for me; strangers often underestimated me.
I shrugged and said nothing.
“Well, hand it over and let’s be done with it,” he said, pushing up from the bed, hand outstretched, eyes fixed possessively on the softly glowing blade at my side. “Time is short, I’ve much to do.”
I laughed in spite of myself. He was shorter than me, with a lean build, wearing black jeans, boots, and a green shirt. Wavy raven hair swept back from a high forehead above a narrow face. His eyes were nearly as emerald as mine, with tiny amber flecks, and alight with amusement. I was the one holding the sword. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t carrying a single weapon. “I don’t think so.”
“We made a deal. You will honor it.”
“I made no deal with you.”
He spanned the distance between us in a sprightly leap, smiling broadly. “Oh, but you did.” He caught my hand in his and lifted it to his lips, kissed it then held it between us and glanced meaningfully at the cuts across my fingertips.
Right. He was wearing black and green, like his calling card. His hair was black and his eyes were green. What was with people? Wasn’t anyone normal anymore? Was having a color theme the new trend? “That was a cheat,” I said irritably. “You made the edges razor sharp and flung it at me.”
He cooed brightly, “And you caught it. There will be no welshing. You plucked it from the sky, offered me your blood, and made a wish. I granted it. You owe me.”
“I didn’t make a wish and you didn’t grant anything. And I didn’t offer you my blood. You took it. Through deceit.”
Green eyes danced with mischief. “I just love that part, don’t you? Blood is blood no matter how you obtain it.” His gaze shifted, swirling with menace and mockery.
“That’s a trap. You can’t sucker people into spells.”
He clasped his hands together beneath his chin and sneered, “Oh, please, as if your history isn’t positively mired in tales of stupid humans lured into unsavory deals and contracts. And their repercussions.” He snapped his fingers sharply beneath my nose. “Wake up, child. Pay attention. Fools fall. It’s what they do.”
I growled, “I’m neither a child nor a fool.”
“By my standards, you’re both. You didn’t have to catch it. I presented an opportunity. You took it. Pay up. The sword is mine.”
I said coolly, “I didn’t make a wish and you didn’t grant one. I’m not giving you the sword.”
He hopped with delight and did a fast, merry dance in a tight circle, as if pleased with himself beyond enduring. I half expected him to kick his heels together and break into a sprightly jig. Then he spun about to face me, applauding with gusto—clearly himself, not me. “That’s the very, very, very best part,” he gushed, eyes sparkling. “I did grant your wish. You just don’t know it yet.”
Not good. Which of the many half-formed desires that had sprung to my mind when I read his calling card had he chosen, and in just what convoluted manner would it be granted? History was full of genie-gone-wild tales and rabbit-paw stories. You never got what you asked for. You got a version of a wish as razor-edged as his calling card, something that would either harm me or benefit him, or both.
I still wasn’t giving him my sword. He was going to have to take it. If he could.
“Oh, I can,” he leered, leaning nearer until our faces were inches apart.
I went motionless, searching his eyes. Flinty eyes narrowed with cunning antiquity, something old and deadly lurked beneath his sprightly demeanor. I’d underestimated him. He employed prancing gaiety for the same reason I allowed people to think I was younger than I am. “Who are you?”
“A name for a name,” he cooed.
A small price to know my enemy. “Dani O’Malley.”
His eyes twinkled with mirth. “You may call me AOZ; that’s A-O-Z, and all capitals, by the way.”
“Gotcha, the A is silent,” I mocked. He’d pronounced it Ahhhs. “What are you?”
He laid a long finger to the side of his thin nose as if pondering what answer to offer. Finally he said, “Those who belong here.” His face shifted and changed, the bones sharpening, skin drawing taut and far too pale, eyes narrowing, all playfulness gone. I caught a sudden reek of soil, blood, and bones on his breath when he hissed, “Unlike the treacherous Faerie who think to take what is ours, not once but twice. Give me the sword, child, and do it now.”
The command affected my head, my limbs—similar to something Ryodan had once done, although he’d merely forced me to eat a candy bar when I was hungry, not give away my most prized possession—and I was horrified to feel my hand rising, preparing to hand him the hilt of my sword. Apparently, the spell agreed with him; we’d made a deal and I had to honor it. I was ensnared by his power.
“Stop!” an imperious voice thundered, and my hand froze, fingers locked on the hilt.
AOZ spun to face the intruder, hissing, “Get thee gone, Faerie!”
I blinked, startled. Inspector Jayne had just sifted in, joining us in my bedroom, and stood a dozen paces away, on the opposite side of my bed. He wrinkled his aquiline nose and said, “By the bloody saints, what is that smell, Dani?”
I shrugged, taking pains to avoid direct eye contact. Meeting the gaze of a Fae prince is never a wise thing to do. First your eyes bleed. If you hold their terrifying inhuman gaze too long, it’s said your mind will hemorrhage as well. I’ve never tested that theory. My brain is my finest weapon. “Don’t ask.” I hadn’t seen the inspector in years. Not since he’d undergone the transformation from human to Fae. I nearly hadn’t recognized him. The head of the old Garda, Dublin’s police force, had once been a rugged, barrel-chested Liam Neeson look-alike.
No more. He’d become a towering, otherworldly being with a stupefying gaze of opal-kissed skies threatening thunderstorms, hair the color of sunshine glinting off fast-running streams, and the lithe, beautifully muscled body of the Light Court. He smelled of fresh dew on morning petals, the crush of spring grass beneath my boots, the fertile, earthy promise of forest awakening from a long winter and raw, to-die-for sensual pleasure. All trace of rugged humanity was gone.
Mac hadn’t changed that way. Sure, her hair had lightened and lengthened, but she’d remained human, like us. I scanned him intently, found nothing to define him as having been born of our race. Inspector Jayne was Fae with finality.