United (The Guardians Book 2) (34 page)

“So how bad were you exactly?” Sacha wanted to know, after they'd listened to the party for at least twenty minutes. His voice was surprisingly light. “On a scale from say, kicking a clown in the junk, to. . .bringing an end to Christmas?” He grinned down at her with playful eyes. “Seriously, did you bring an end to Christmas while I was gone? Because if so, I take back my forgiveness. Clown nuts, sure. Christmas, hell no.”

Gable laughed, slapping his arm half halfheartedly. “You're such a lame ass.”

“Whatever,” he teased. “You love my lame ass.”

He was still in there, she realized. Her old Sacha – the playful, strong, stubbornly protective Sacha – was still in there somewhere. He had a long way to go before he would ever be okay again – they
all
had a long way to go – but in the end they would make it. They would be okay, she knew that with all her heart. She could feel it.
 

“So that guy in there – the boss guy. He called you a Guardian?” His tone was teasing. Before his kidnapping and her alliance with Pablo, neither of them had ever had any dealings with the Guardians, but he knew her well enough to know that it wasn't exactly her style.

“Oh God,” she grumbled.

“You
have
been busy while I've been away.”
 

“Don't even!”

He poked her playfully in the ribs. “My little Guardian. Aw, so noble.”

“Shut up!” she demanded between chuckles, but she didn't really mean it. Because he was laughing again, and God, did it feel good to hear him laugh.

Yeah. They were going to be okay.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the far off distance when the celebrations finally ground to a halt and the last of the Outcasts had fallen asleep. It cast a deep pink and orange glow, lightening the dark blue sky of night.

As she did at the end of every evening, Terelle walked the length of Yarmac & Bogely's, weaving through the tents as she checked to make sure all of her people were well. It was her favorite time of the day; when the quiet filled her with a sense of serenity, but the gentle sounds of snoring assured her that she was not alone.

It was strange; she'd never wanted the responsibility of leadership, but now it was hers, she wouldn't give it up for anything in the world. She wouldn't give her
people
up for anything in the world. She loved them, every last one of them.
 

She peered into the temporary tents that had been set up for the new additions while they re-cooperated from their vile ordeal, relieved to see that they all seemed to be sleeping. Some flinched and cried out in their sleep – reliving nightmares, no doubt. Nightmares they'd probably have for the rest of their lives. She would allow them to stay for as long as they wanted. Yarmac & Bogely's was a safe haven, and they all felt that. And if they wanted to stay forever, she'd allow that too. She was always open to expanding her tribe.

Briefly, she stopped outside Cadby's tent, pulling the entrance flap open to glance inside. Her heart warmed at the sight of Gable and Sacha wrapped around one another in their sleep like they needed to touch to carry on existing. Their noses were pressed together and they looked so. . .serene. Serene in a way they never were when their eyes were open. Both of them had suffered so much in their lives. Too much. As somebody who had slept besides Gable plenty since Pablo's death, Terelle knew that it was the first true night of peaceful rest her friend had had in a long time.

She was eternally grateful to have Sacha back amongst them once more. Not just to ease her own guilt – she would
never
force him, or anyone, to leave the tribe again – but for Gable's sake also. For the past year her best friend had merely been existing, instead of living. Losing Sacha had drained the soul right out of her, and working for Pablo had positively destroyed it. Now that she had Sacha back, hopefully she would be able to find the happiness that eluded her. It was all Terelle wanted for her.
 

Smiling softly, she left the two of them to sleep.

Satisfied that all of her people were safe and well, Terelle made her way back to her own tent. She lifted her nose in the air, inhaling the smell of burnt twigs and the dusty scent of smoke in the cool, early morning air. The bonfire that the youngsters had set up earlier had been reduced to a pile of burning embers, and she chuckled under her breath as she caught sight of the Outcasts that had passed out around it, some still with bottles of Cadby's homemade wine clutched in their hands. She couldn't blame them – it was potent stuff. Cadby himself was flopped out on his back on the grass, his mouth wide open as he snored. He'd spent most of the night dancing with Ianira, the beautiful succubus.

Reaching her tent, she was grateful to find it blissfully empty; the Guardians must have gone back to their headquarters. It felt wrong for her to be so tired considering she hadn't been on the mission nor one of the kidnapped Outcasts, but leading a tribe was never easy. She often found herself ridiculously exhausted at the end of each day.

She caught her reflection in the ornate mirror by the bottom of her spiral staircase. She was beautiful, she knew that. Beauty was natural for a faerie. But could she truly be beautiful when she felt so
empty
inside? Did it show in her reflection? In her smooth face, unnaturally free of lines? In
her brown eyes, ringed with purple? Because she didn't feel beautiful, not anymore.
 

No, she felt old. She was one hundred and twelve years old – though due to her faerie origins, she aged four times slower than humans so didn't look a day over twenty eight. But still, she felt older. Perhaps it was the weight of responsibility, or the loneliness of leadership, or maybe it was because she was missing home. She'd lived in the human realm for forty years, and though she did love it, it wasn't home. She
longed
for a taste of Zawavia. She had hidden it, but she'd been so, so envious of Gable and the others as they'd left for their mission, despite knowing it would be perilous. She'd wanted to go with them, even if it was to the awful Dark Islands and not her beautiful Summer Fields. Oh, how she missed the summer region. The warm pink and orange skies, the dancing trees, the sparkling, clear oceans. She missed her parents, her sisters and brothers, her cousins. She even missed her uncle, the King, the faerie that had ordered her wings to be ripped from her back and then banished her to the human realm.
 

Her hand automatically went to her shoulder blades as the memories washed over her. It had been forty human years since she'd been banished, but she still felt the fresh pain of her wings being torn away like it was yesterday. Though the scars were invisible, she could still feel them. Having her wings torn away, it was a torture she would never get over.

And her heinous, banishment worthy crime – it had simply been falling in love. With a human.

She closed her eyes, willing away the painful memories. The past wasn't something she allowed herself to think on often; it hurt too much.

Her cell buzzed – a welcome distraction. She reached for it, smiling when Race's face lit up the screen. Her loyal pixie could always sense when she was feeling low and was needing him most.

All pixies were assigned to a faerie, to protect them and take care of them for the entirety of their lives. And so when Terelle had been banished, Race had suffered the same fate. Like her, he'd lost his family and his friends and his whole world – literally – yet he'd never blamed her for it. Never hated her, not once.

“Are you okay?” he demanded as soon as she'd answered, forgoing a regular greeting.

“I'm fine,” she assured him, confused by his urgency. “Just having thoughts of a melancholy nature, that's all.”

“No,” he denied. “It's something else. I sense you're in danger.”

Terelle glanced around her living room, but nothing seemed out of place, and she didn't sense any threat. A pixie was always tuned into their faerie and could sense when they were in danger, but when the two of them had been sent to the human realm, Terelle had given Race his freedom. He'd chosen to travel, and though he still visited every few years, they had been separated more than any faerie and pixie was supposed to be. Perhaps it was confusing his senses? “I'm truly not,” she reassured him. “I'm home, and I'm perfectly safe.”

He grumbled into the phone. “Still, I think I'd like to come for a visit anyway, so I would.”

His familiar Irish accent filled her with warmth. “That would be wonderful.” Though he'd made Ireland his home over the years, he'd been temporarily living in London to protect the life of Heidi and her young daughter ever since Gable had spared the empath from Pablo's hit list. “Especially since the threat to Heidi's life is officially over. The missing Outcasts have been found and the operation destroyed. Both Pablo and his partner are dead – Heidi is safe and free to come home.”

Race let out a whoop of delight. “Gable did it, did she then? Never doubted she would. Little spitfire, that one. Tell me she got her wolf back?”

“She did.”

“Ah, tis bloody wonderful news. Tell her I'm proud as shite – no, wait, I'll tell her myself. We'll be on the next flight out. Heidi will be chuffed as punch – she's been pining after her old Guardian fellow.”

Terelle chuckled. “Then I'll see you soon, Race.”

“Be careful,” he warned again before she could hang up. “Something still doesn't feel right.”

“I always am.”

She tossed her cell on the coffee table when she disconnected, kicking off her black pumps before glancing down at her short but respectable black dress. If she'd have known the Outcasts would be returning that day, she might have worn something a little less. . .funerally. And short. A sigh slipped from her lips as she thought about the Summer Fields once more. Back home, her day to day outfits had included long, flowing gowns that swirled like the raging ocean or sparkled like the flames of a fire or fluttered like the blossom in a swaying tree. A magical material not found in the human realm.

She blew out all of her candles, a yawn escaping while she trailed her hand over the banister as she took the spiral staircase to her bedroom. She was so tired, and nothing in the world seemed more appealing in that moment than a long night of rest in her comfortable, luxurious bed.

But she froze when she reached the top of the staircase, her hand gripping the rail so hard it cracked a little in her fist. The room was shrouded in darkness, but enough moonlight shone through the open curtains that she could see the outline of the stiff figure sat with his back to her on the edge of her bed. He didn't even bother to turn around at the sound of her gasp.

She
hated
that he'd caught her off guard, hated it with a passion. Why hadn't she sensed him up there? All faeries, even fallen, had excellent senses – especially when it came to intruders. No one had ever managed to creep up on Terelle before, and the fact that this stranger had. . . Well, it frightened her in ways that other things just didn't.
 

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded harshly, scrambling for a match to light the candles scattered across her dressing table. As soon as enough were lit, she span back around, not wanting her back to him for even a moment. She hid her hands behind her, appalled at the way they trembled. She was Terelle Mcalla Xmilar, niece to the Summer King of Zawavia, fallen faerie, leader of the New York City Outcasts – she did not
tremble
.
 

With the dim light of the flickering candles, Terelle could now make out his short, messy blond hair, the curve of his perfectly chiseled jaw dusted with a light stubble, a straight nose, distractingly pouty lips. Even sitting down, she could see the muscles straining against his dark gray t-shirt. He would be lean, she decided, if he were to stand – not too muscular, but definitely not someone to trifle with. She studied the bulge of his bicep, to the light spray of blond hair over his thick wrist, ending with his large, very capable looking hand, casually holding onto a gun.

Her defenses immediately rose, and she could feel what was left of the faerie in her rising to the surface. Her fingers sharpened into talons, and she knew the purple in her eyes would be blazing. “I said who are you?” she hissed. “And what the hell do you think you're doing in my home?”

He wasn't one of her Outcasts, and she didn't recognize him as one of the prisoners from the island. Which meant he was somebody completely new. How had he gotten into their magically hidden grounds? Tamitri and Xantherus, the gate guardians of Yarmac & Bogely's, would never allow anybody entrance without her permission. This stranger had somehow found his way inside with nobody knowing – though it had been attempted many times, it had never before been accomplished. Who
was
he?

The man tilted his head towards her just a fraction, glancing in amusement at her with hooded eyes. Her breath caught in her throat – one of his eyes was grass green, and the other a vivid purple. The same purple that ringed her own eyes.

It suddenly became all too clear why she'd been unable to sense him earlier – this man was a raechlen, the hybrid offspring of a human and a faerie. Relationships between humans and faeries were strictly forbidden, so raechlen children were incredibly rare, almost unheard of. They were born without wings, but had the strength, slow aging, speed and senses of a faerie. And like nature was trying to protect them, they were untraceable to other faeries, which was lucky for them because most raechlen were hunted down and slaughtered, seen as abominations.

But this raechlen, he appeared almost the same age as Terelle, maybe even a little older. Either he was incredibly skilled at fighting and staying hidden, or even worse, he was very connected. Perhaps both.

At least now she understood why Race had been able to sense her danger when she hadn't.

“My name is Isaak Wechsler,” his simple answer came finally, his voice spine shiveringly deep and gravelly. His accent was lilted, something Terelle wasn't entirely familiar with. German, maybe. He paused just a moment before speaking next. “I'm here to kill you.”