Deception (Facets of Feyrie Book 3) Read online

  ‘Iza, you should be taking this seriously, you—’

  ‘—don’t handle things like this well and, unless I use these ridiculous fucking coping skills I picked up during life’s wonderful adventures—I’ll fall apart because, despite everything he did, I care about the dipshit.’ My tone of voice is all temper and naked honesty. I’m so freaking sick of people, including Phobe, telling me what I should be feeling about things.

  I FEEL everything!

  His eyes are liquid fire while they search my face and tamp down to embers when he meets my gaze. His mouth opens and then closes, and then he repeats the process, but nothing comes out this time either. Instead, he starts dragging me along beside him again and to be a dick, I dig my heels in to make it harder on him. When he stops again in a small clearing, the amusement fades away as I take a deep breath of the air around me and find myself saturated by the smell of Jameson’s fear.

  Yep, this is where they took Jameson from. The tang of urine is everywhere, looks like there’s a good chance he peed his pants in the process. Sniffing again I wrinkle my nose because I got two nostrils full of that raunchy perfume the vampire wears. The pee smells better that whatever it is she’s bathing herself in. How can someone who has enhanced senses wear that awful stuff? The stench climbs in and coats the inside of your nose—wait, it coats the inside of your nose.

  “She’s hiding something because why else would she wear something so foul?” I muse, walking around the disturbed area. He tried to fight, and I’m proud of him for that, but they took him out of action quickly. I’m pretty sure there’s an imprint of his face in the mud. There’s also the smell of shifter all over that area. I’m guessing that was who knocked him down. The depth of his imprint in the mud signifies that the one standing on him weighed more than the vampire.

  “You are correct. There are two of them. That is Jameson’s fancy footprint,” Phobe points a few feet from me, “he turned to run and was tackled where you are. By someone much bigger than he is.”

  Studying the impression of him closer, I can see his handprints from where he fought to push back against whoever was sitting on him. They’re deeper in the mud than they should be. Like he was using only his hands to lift, which is strange, his legs were free and stronger than his arms.

  The lack of drag marks does tell me that he was picked up and carried out.

  Turning in a circle, I look for the direction they went. Unlike the ‘woodsman’—who is watching me in exasperation—because I can’t read the signs as well. I didn’t eat a tracker or whatever he ate to give him that information. He should know by now that I have a horrible sense of direction.

  “They went east. There are footprints right… there,” Phobe says, pointing in the opposite direction I’m looking. Seeing them, only because he pointed them out, I follow them with my eyes and then turn back to Jameson’s impression in the mud. Something keeps pulling my attention back to it. Whether it’s the fact that I feel bad he suffered here, or my instincts are telling me to look deeper, I’m not sure.

  When the reflection of something in the dim light catches my eye, I kneel and dig it out of the deadened grass and soil. It’s coated in mud, and the screen is cracked diagonally from one corner to another, but I’d recognize it anywhere. Jameson’s tablet. My chest burns from the rage that fills me so suddenly it takes my breath away. With a roar of a thousand dragons, the Magiks leave me all at once. When the noise fades, and the trees stop shaking from the force. When I can think again beyond the rage that’s so potent my eyes are watering from holding it back, I look at Phobe. All around him is a crater of destruction. The ground suffered from the release of Magiks, tearing up the dirt and flattening the trees at the edge of the small clearing. But not Phobe, he’s completely untouched, with the area around his feet still intact.

  My eyes jerk to my stinging hand. Well, shit. The tablet, or what’s left of it, is now a completely crushed lump of metal.

  “There was a chance that someone could pull things off it. Until you broke it like an idiot, who lets their temper control them.” I don’t miss the lack of playfulness in his tone. He’s not thrilled I lost my head, the snideness hides a bit of annoyance with me. Well, buddy, I’m not either.

  “Thanks for your support, dick.” I’m already mad, something he’s fully aware of. His little prod is deliberate and pisses me off even more. The way I see things, he’s as good of a target as any. He at least can survive it. “All those mystical bullshit powers and you can’t tell me where they took him?”

  “Follow the footprints.”

  Without another word I turn and do as he bids, because anything that comes out of my mouth right now will be hateful, meaningless junk, and we both know it. Saying it serves absolutely no purpose.

  Eavesdropping on my rant, he says, ‘except to amuse me.’ Sarcastic jerk.

  Of course, if he keeps running his mouth, I might say all of it, and not regret a single word later. He chuffs, having heard my thoughts loud and clear. Deciding to simply ignore him—barely—I continue following the two sets of footprints that end on the edge of the parking lot at the entrance. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the rage tamped down again. It is the only way to control the Magiks that want to lash out from me like thousands of shards of glass and destroy everything around me.

  It’s strange that I’m this irritated, I know it is. Yes, I’m pissed off they took Jameson, but being this angry doesn’t make sense. I’ll admit, to myself, that I care about Jameson. Something about the nerd made him grow on me, but this level of rage? Something’s off.

  “So, which way did they go now?” I ask, tossing my hands up. They got into a vehicle, and we can’t track that. Well, I can’t track that. Looking at Phobe staring at me in his Phobe-ness way tells me that he can’t track it either.

  “Magiks are shielding them from me,” he explains.

  “That’s fun. What fucking now?” His look would make most folks run in the opposite direction. Technically, I guess I do, because I turn and start walking home, at least, the direction I think is home. A few turns later I find myself on the familiar road leading to the Sidhe.

  While I walk, I think and chastise myself for my behavior. What the fuck is wrong with me? I have a temper, I know I do—everyone knows I do, but this… this is different.

  “It is your Magiks. Something is affecting them.”

  “Like, literally?” I realize the question is stupid as soon as it leaves my mouth. I start walking faster, annoyed with the situation and myself.

  “I am starting to suspect that when the Sidhe was Magikally attacked, something was left behind, a trojan horse of sorts,” he muses from close behind me.

  “How is that even possible? I’m connected with the Sidhe on the deepest levels. I’d know if someone tampered with it.” Right?

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” His vagueness is annoying that I can’t deny, but this time it’s so frustrating I want to turn around and punch him as hard as I can. “That will be considered foreplay, Iza.”

  Ignoring his remark, I continue, “How very informative of you, Phobe. I just want to find the fucking nerd and eat the fucking bird.” I catch myself stomping, so I slow my pace and take a deep breath.

  I’m angrily rhyming shit. This is getting absurd.

  “Very.” His comment is so dry, that dirt could ignite it.

  Stopping, I turn to him and exhale in one long breath. “Since I’m not thinking with any amount of sense right now, any ideas?” Fighting the anger that wants to tear his face to bits, I clench my hands in my pockets. Squeezing until the pain of my claws sinking in my hands frees me from the grasp of what the fuck ever this is.

  With a smile that’s all sharp teeth, he moves in a blur and the impact of his solid body hitting me takes us both down to the ground. On top of me now, he grinds his pelvis against me, his smile big and bright. I’m so shocked my mouth flies open, only to be filled with his seeking tongue. The taste of copper floods my mouth as hi
s sharp teeth take and invade with no mercy, the fucker made my lips bleed—but I love it. I grab his head and hold his mouth to mine and meet him bite for bite. The wet, tickling sensation of hot blood dripping down my chin and into the hollow of my throat makes me kiss him harder.

  Tearing himself out of my grasp, he moves a few feet from me, panting.

  “This anger is… attractive. I want you to rage and slaughter, and then I want to fuck you while you’re covered in the guts of your enemies.” The fire in his eyes heats and parts of me get hotter as well. “This very second, I want to bury my teeth in your bloody skin and feast on you,” he sighs, “this is unacceptable. I may want these things, but not with this kind of… Magikal push.”

  “It’s not all Magiks, Phobe,” I say quietly, climbing to my feet. I start pulling the leaves out of my hair. Every moment of that was fucking awesome, his words after—more so. I love the wildness of him because something inside of me responds to it. This though… he’s right, something is off, because this level is unusual, even for us.

  Especially, at such a bad time. Phobe and I are incredibly attracted to each other, but neither of us is keen on having sex given the current situation. We’re not that kind of monsters.

  Pushing my mind off sex, rather forcibly, I say, “This bullshit is affecting you, too, isn’t it?” He nods. Oh, this isn’t good at all. Phobe going batshit? That’s how the apocalypse starts.

  “Anything that affects you affects me,” he states, rather calmly, all things considered.

  “Does that mean that it’s my behavior versus the actual Magiks?” He nods again. Okay, that helps. “Let’s see if we can get home without ending the world, all right?” This time he rolls his eyes at me. For some reason this makes me smile, and as I’m turning back around to start walking again, I see the smirk on his mouth.

  The shit did it on purpose.

  P hobe

  THE WASH of lustful rage that consumed me earlier is easing, but it is not completely gone. I want to grab her and fuck her senseless, and the thought is so tempting that it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to deny it. There is still residual heat between us, that never seems to ease, no matter the circumstances. How can I touch her and not feel it? She is the pulse of life for me.

  Watching her walking in front of me, oblivious to her surroundings, amuses me also—which helps with the almost undeniable want of her. I think it also relieves her to know that her emotions are what affect me, not the Sidhe mess. Only her. Our essences are so intermingled that I get the backlash of all that untapped violence inside of her—and I love it. I love the chaos of it, and the rage and the desire to destroy, but she does not like destruction in the same way that I do. I destroy things and that is fun to me, but she cannot tolerate hurting those she considers innocent. This part of me is something that I need to learn to control around her, or we will both be in trouble.

  I see the flash of her black eyes over her shoulder, feeling her turbulent emotions through our bond like little shocks of static electricity on my skin. No, WE will not be in trouble, but this world she cares about—the people she cares about will be. I cannot be the cause of something that she will regret in such a way. Not because I care about any of them, but because of the guilt she will have if she hurts them.

  Seeing her hurt in such a way displeases me.

  Pushing through the last bits of her shield that I think she is not even trying to maintain, I let her thoughts sink into me. A small crowd is standing outside of the Sidhe. Unsure of what has happened to draw them outside. She braces herself to deal with them. She is not good at explaining things and does not like doing it but pushes herself just the same. In Iza’s mind, getting her fingernails pulled out one by one is preferable to dealing with more drama. Her thoughts focus on Michael standing at the front of the crowd.

  “We found out where Jameson was taken from. Now, who has enough skill with a computer to see if we can get anything off this?” She holds out the crushed device.

  Michael steps forward and takes it from her, looking at her, then at the mess in his hands. “What happened to it?” he asks.

  “I was a little mad,” is all she says before pushing past the group of people to walk inside.

  Nika steps into her path. Without saying a word, Iza firmly pushes her to the side and out of her way. I suspect the dragon wants some type of explanation or reassurance, but she will not be getting either one. Grazing the dragon’s thoughts, I see that is not all. She has certain expectations of what Iza should be doing and, in her opinion, Iza should not return home until Jameson is found. There are moments when Nika completely oversteps her place in Iza’s life, putting importance on herself that does not exist. Her demeanor has pushed her to the sidelines of the ones Iza tolerates but dislikes on principle. It is the dragon’s fault, Iza is not the type of creature that you can push without her pushing you back.

  If you are not strong enough for the pushback…

  Following Iza to Jameson’s room, I lean against the doorframe, watching her mutter to herself while looking on his computer. Clicking around on it, she starts to type.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, curious despite myself.

  “He has this blog thing, and people read the dumb shit he posts. I figure we can start here.” After a few minutes, she closes it with satisfaction on her face. “I think they’ll get my point.”

  “Did you discover anything else?” I ask, simply to maintain the ruse that her shields are still up. I like playing this game with her, even during times like this.

  “Jameson has bad taste in pornography, but other than that, no.” She sits back and crosses her arms. “I don’t understand any of this. It feels like there’s a big, important chess game happening and I have no idea what the rules are.”

  “Do you even know how to play chess?”

  “No, it looked a bit boring to play. Too much like real life, really. A cruel parody of how so many leaders sacrifice the little guy, to reach your goals. I didn’t need a game to teach me that life lesson.” Wiping a hand down her face, she looks up at me. “You’re awful quiet about the entire thing,” she says, the doubt of my lack of opinion thick in her voice.

  “Nothing I say will help. I do not have any more answers than you do, yet.” I give her an honest answer. I do not think she will appreciate me keeping anything from her right now concerning Jameson. She genuinely cares about the imp... all of them. Something I do not understand, especially in Jameson’s case. He betrayed us and sacrificed us, much like the king does to the pawns in the chess game. All to protect himself.

  “Would it not be better to carry on and let them keep him?” I do not think she will agree, but the option needs to be put forward.

  “They’ll kill him, Phobe.” I shrug at her answer.

  Jameson is not an important person in her life. He helps her, yes, but they are not tasks that someone else cannot be trained to complete, possibly more effective. I tell her so, “I do not see the big deal, he is replaceable.”

  She sighs and says, “Jameson does a lot around here, and he deserves the chance to redeem himself. He’s been working so goddamn hard, and he warrants more than to die at the hands of some slutty vampire who bathes in dog piss.”

  That raises another question. “Why do you think she is trying to hide her scent?”

  “You know,” she stands and crosses the room to stop in front of me, “I’ve been thinking about that. I think because whoever is pulling strings don’t know what I am, only the who.” She walks past me heading towards our room.

  Yes, our room, even the Sidhe knows it.

  “Shifters have a strong sense of smell, but they don’t have one nearly as good as I do. The man who squished poor Jameson into the mud is a shifter. I could smell his pheromones all over the place. He was excited about hurting the chicken man. You know,” entering the bedroom she strips off most of her clothes and climbs onto the bed clad only in her underwear. “It’s kinda strange they didn’t try to m
ask his scent too.”

  Distracted by her, I say nothing at first. Even with all the clothes stuffed into her closet, she still prefers being nude. Not that I am complaining. I sit on the end of the bed, close enough to feel her body heat but far enough away to fight the temptation to touch her. Once I touch her, there are other things that will take precedence in my mind, and all of this will be momentarily forgotten.

  “He is expendable.” I break the thick silence, giving voice to her suspicions.

  The small, other part of me does not care that she is in turmoil, it cares that it wants her, hungers for her. Right now, turning that part loose on her will cause more harm than good. The majority that makes up the creature I am does care, at least, about her. I feel nothing concerning the rest of her refugee family. That is the only reason I give a shit about finding the idiot who got himself captured, over something so absurd, that even Iza cannot make up an excuse for his behavior.

  Then again, going by one example of her level of ridiculous, Iza does things like lick wallpaper in the store because she thought it would have a flavor like a movie she watched with ‘snozberries.’ That is the level that very few creatures achieve. I catch myself almost smiling. She had turned to me with the oddest look on her face and told me, in no uncertain terms, that the wallpaper did not taste like berries of any kind, and that TV lied, then proceeded to lick it again to be certain.

  “What are you smiling about?” she demands.

  Letting the smile that is tickling my lips break free I answer, “snozberries.”

  Covering her face with her hand, she peeks at me from between her fingers and says, “I feel like it was a perfectly acceptable mistake. It looked like real fruit, like in the movie.”

  “That is why you are hiding your face?” I tease. Her tongue pokes out between her fingers.

  Dropping her hand, her face grows serious as she asks, “Why did they pick him? Out of all the people, why him?” The frustration in her voice makes it deeper, huskier, and her eyes flash black.