Prologue
“Hi.” A woman stood in the doorway, American if her
breathy voice was anything to go by. “Are you Payann, by
any chance?”
Paen looked up from a tattered manuscript, wincing
slightly at the mis-pronunciation of his name. The woman
had to be from the southern US. No one else drawled his
name into two syllables. “I’m Paen, yes. Can I help?”
“Hi,” the woman said again, slipping in through the barely
opened door, a big Cheshire cat smile on her face. “I’m
Clarice Miller.”
Paen was on his guard the second the smile hit her lips.
Whose was she, he idly wondered as she smoothed down her
sexy, nearly see-through gauzy dress before starting
across the room in what he assumed was meant to be a
seductive slink. Daniel’s? No, Danny preferred redheads,
and this woman had a mane of golden-brown curls that
spilled over shoulders. Finn’s? Clarice turned her smile
up a notch as she stopped before the chair opposite him.
She might possibly be Finn’s, but his middle brother
tended to prefer earthier women, Pagans and Wiccans.
Clarice looked fresh out of an expensive salon or day spa.
Which meant she had to belong to—
“Avery said you’re the laird of Castle Death?” She tilted
her head slightly, so she was peering up at him through
her lashes in a pose he mentally dubbed the Princess Di
look. It was charming on the late princess…less so on the
American in front of him.
Regardless of the irritating interruption, he kept his
voice pleasant. “I’m the acting laird of the castle—which
is named de Ath, incidentally, not Death—but my father is
the true owner. He and my mother have moved to Bolivia
however, so if you have a question about the estate, I
will do my best to answer it.”
The scarlet-tipped fingers of her left hand trailed along
the edge of his rosewood desk as she sidled around it
toward where he sat. “Your daddy’s in Bolivia? How
fascinating. But you’re left here to handle everything
yourself since you’re the oldest son? That must be a lot
of work. Avery says your land runs for miles and miles all
around the castle.”
Paen heaved a small, inaudible sigh, and mentally wrote
the word “gold-digger” next to the woman’s face. Lately,
Avery had taken to bringing home women who seemed to be
more attracted to the family’s home and supposed wealth
than the men who lived there. “Yes, we have a bit of land.
And yes, it takes some doing to manage the estate, but as
I enjoy the work, it’s not really that much of a chore. Is
there something in particular I can help you with? Some
question you have, perhaps?” He glanced at the ancient
manuscript before him, wishing nothing more than to be
left in peace so he could finish translating it.
“Well now, that’s mighty kind of you, but I’m here to help
you,” she answered, scooting aside the manuscript so she
could ease herself onto the desk. Her smile changed into
one of blatant invitation. “I was thinking I might give
you a hand—” She paused as her eyes flickered briefly to
his crotch. “—with whatever you might need. I’m told that
I’m very good at what I do.”
Paen sat back as she crossed her legs. He gave her full
marks for the casual way her dress seemed to slide back on
her thighs as if by accident. Did she know what he and his
brothers really were? Or was she just looking for a fling
with a bona fide Scotsman, as he’d heard female American
tourists were wont to do? “What exactly did you think to
turn your hand to?”
“Oh…this and that,” she answered, her little pink tongue
running quickly across her bottom lip. Paen watched her
attempts at seduction with mild amusement. “Anything you
like, really. I’m open to all suggestions.”
She dropped one shoulder and leaned forward, allowing him
an unobstructed view of two plump breasts.
Being a man, he felt obliged to admire them for a moment.
That done, he gave Clarice a tight, dismissive
smile. “Indeed. I’m afraid that I already employ a
steward, and she’s quite competent, if a bit on the trying
side sometimes. Although I appreciate your offer, there
really isn’t much that I need help with.”
She licked her lips again, more slowly this time. “I bet I
could think of something.”
Paen looked down in surprise. Clarice, evidently
emboldened by his brief admiration of her breasts,
uncrossed her legs, kicking off a sandal and sliding her
bare foot along the inside of his thigh until it rested on
his crotch. “You wouldn’t by any chance be indicating that
you’d like to have sex with me?”
“Why, sugar, I thought you’d never ask,” she purred,
caressing him with her toes.
Enough was enough. Lord knew he was no stranger to casual
sex—quite the contrary, in fact—but he had work to do, and
it didn’t involve banging a lusty American. He carefully
pried her foot off his groin and pushed it away. Before
she could protest, he stood and marched over to the door,
holding it open for her. “Thank you for the offer, but
there are two reasons why I am unable to take you up on
it.”
“Two reasons?” she asked, not moving from his desk. Her
brows pulled together as she made a little pout at
him. “What two reasons?”
Paen sighed again. He was used to women fawning over his
three brothers, but seldom did one ever cast her eyes on
him. Normally he was the pursuer. He always supposed women
sensed something of his tormented, soulless nature, and
left him alone because of that.
“One, I don’t screw my brothers’ women.” He walked back to
the desk, stuffed her sandal on her foot, and gently
pushed her off the desk, returning to the open door. Rude,
yes, but he didn’t have the time or inclination to play
with this woman. “And two, you have no idea who I really
am. It would be best if you left now.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Clarice said, her voice thick as
she undulated toward him. Rather than feeling any
attraction toward her, her blatant attempts at seduction
left him cold. Perhaps if she had truly been attracted to
him rather than what he represented, he might have been
interested, but he was not so deluded to imagine she cared
for anything other than herself. “Or more to the point, I
know what you are.”
Paen stood silent as she leaned into him, her breasts
rubbing against his chest. She gave him a knowing smile,
and then tipped her head back and to the side, baring her
neck. “Avery told me all about you. Go ahead, sugar. You
know you want to.”
The hunger rose as the scent of a warm, willing woman
curled around him. His mind warred with the hunger—why
shouldn’t he take what he wanted from her? She was
offering it, after all. Once Avery knew she had tried to
seduce him, he would want nothing more to do with her, so
where was the harm it taking what was being offered?
Deep within him, the hunger growled and demanded
satisfaction. She leaned closer into him, her neck a few
scant inches away from his mouth. He swallowed hard,
trying not to give in to the hunger, reminding himself
that he was a civilized man, not a beast to jump on every
morsel of food. He inhaled her scent, finding nothing
unpleasant other than the chemical odor of a strong
perfume. He preferred a woman’s natural scent to anything
that came out of a bottle, but he wasn’t in a position to
complain. His tongue ran over the points of his sharp
canines, the hunger building until it was a dull roar in
his ears, throbbing to the beat of his heart. The urge to
bite, the need to drink deeply was almost overwhelming.
All he had to do was sink his teeth in that tender white
flesh…
“Take it, Paen. Take me. Take me now! Make me yours
forever!”
It was the triumph in her voice that stopped him from
giving in to the hunger. Like a bucketful of cold water
tipped over his head, distaste washed over him at her
words.
“You may know what I am, but I also know what you are,” he
said, stepping back, his voice cold and flat.
“What?” she asked, her eyes confused for a moment. “What
do you mean? You aren’t going to bite me? You aren’t going
to Dracula me and drink my blood? You aren’t going to make
me your eternal bride?”
“No,” he answered, more amused than annoyed. “I’m not
going to drink your blood, or marry you. My name is Paen
Alasdair Scott, not Dracula, and I’m not a prince of the
night, or a count, or even a dashing, romantic figure. I’m
a simple Scot with an interest in the history and travels
of Marco Polo, and a weakness for computer games.”
“But…you’re a vampire!” she protested. “You can’t refuse
me!”
“We prefer the name Moravian or Dark One. They are less
dramatic, and result in fewer people arriving at the front
door with torches and wooden stakes. As for refusing you…”
He gestured toward the open door. “Thank you again, but
I’m a busy man. If you wouldn’t mind leaving now?”
“Well, I have nevah!” The confusion in Clarice’s grey eyes
changed to haughty anger as the twangy cadence of her
accent deepened. “There’s just somethin’ wrong with you,
you know that?”
“Yes, I’m aware of it,” he answered, still amused despite
the annoying aspect of the interruption. “I’m more or less
damned by an ancient curse. My parents hadn’t completed
the seven steps to Joining when I was born, so unlike my
younger brothers, I have no soul.”
“But—your brother said that only a woman can save you. He
said that you need a woman to become whole again.”
“Clearly it’s time for me to have yet another talk with
Avery,” Paen said, sighing a little. “He means well, but
I’ve told him before—I have no intention of accepting a
Beloved even if I did find her.”
“Beloved?”
“Only a Beloved can redeem a Dark One’s soul. But I don’t
need a woman to live a happy life,” he told her, gently
pushing her out the door. “I’m quite content on my own. I
have my research, and family—although they can be annoying
as hell sometimes—and given my brothers’ randy natures,
all the beautiful women I can look at. I even had a
girlfriend a few years ago, although she left me for a
software genius. So as you can see, I may be damned, but
I’m just fine with it. Thanks again for the offer. See you
later.”
“But—you can’t—you need to drink blood—”
Paen quietly closed the door on the Clarice’s outraged
protests, turning the lock after a moment’s thought. No
sense in giving her the chance to pop back in and throw
herself at him again.
“Alone at last,” he said to himself as he turned back
toward his desk.
“Not exactly.”
Across the room, a shadow moved against a wall, separating
itself to form into a man. Paen watched with interest,
cautious, but not overly concerned about the sudden
appearance of what he believed was a demon in his
study. “Today seems to be my day for entertaining guests.
I assume this isn’t just a social call?”
The man-shaped demon chuckled. Paen was momentarily taken
aback by such an act—demons were notorious for their lack
of sense of humor. It was a rare one who could appreciate
sarcasm and irony. “I’m not going to drag you down to
Abaddon, if that’s what you are wondering. So I suppose in
a sense, this could be construed as a social call. I’m
Caspar Green.”
Paen looked at the hand the demon offered. It didn’t look
like it concealed any spring-loaded razor blades, or
deadly acid pumps, or even some horrible contagion that
would cause various body parts to wart up and subsequently
fall off, but you never really knew with demons. “Erm…
you’ll forgive me for being rude, but I don’t recall ever
hearing about a demon who assumed a mortal name.”
Caspar smiled. Paen glanced quickly toward a delicate
glass-fronted secretary that held his more valuable
manuscripts. Generally when demons smiled, things
broke. “That would be because I’m not a demon. I am, in
fact, an alastor.”
“Alastor?” The name tickled in the back of his mind.
“Yes.” Caspar tipped his head to the side. “I find myself
somewhat offended that you thought I was a common demon. I
assumed you were a man of some discernment.”
“Forgive me,” Paen said with a wry twist to his lips. “I
am a bit of the stereotypically cloistered scholar. I
haven’t had time to mingle much with citizens of the
Otherworld, but correct me if I’m wrong—isn’t alastor
another name for a demon?”
“I am of the demonic persuasion, yes, but not truly a
demon. Alastors are not bound to demon lords—they can be,
however, employed. A better name would be nemesis; it is
what most alastors are commonly called. As for my name—I
was mortal at one time. It is my preference to use a name
that puts humans at ease.”
“I’m not human,” Paen pointed out, finally shaking the
alastor’s hand. He may not be able to tell a demon from an
alastor, but he wasn’t a fool. He’d heard enough stories
of how tricky those beings born in the service of dark
powers could be.
“No, you’re not, although some would say you’re close
enough to count as human.” Caspar smiled again and
gestured toward a chair. “May I?”
“Certainly. Er…I don’t often have denizens of Abaddon
visiting. What is the proper protocol? Should I offer you
a whisky, blood of a virgin, or would you prefer a small
rodent?”
“Whisky will do just fine,” Caspar answered, seating
himself in the chair opposite Paen’s desk. “Although the
blood of a virgin…?”
Paen poured some whisky in a small lead crystal glass and
gave it to the man. “I’m afraid we’re fresh out.”
“Ah. As I feared. The market price on virgin’s blood has
been outrageous of late. Ever since the virgins formed a
union, they have been unreasonable in their demands.
Slainte.” Casper sipped at his whisky. “Excellent. How old
is it?”
“My father set it down the year I was born,” Paen
answered, leaning a hip against his desk, his arms crossed
over his chest. “What exactly is it you want?”
Casper took another sip. “Extremely smooth for a whisky
that’s…hmm. I judge it to be approximately three hundred
years old?”
“Two hundred and forty-six.”
“Ah. Delightful, nonetheless.”
Paen frowned. His curiosity was roused by the being who
sat before him drinking his father’s whisky, but not so
much that he was willing to spend all afternoon in polite
chitchat with him.
“The reason I am here involves your father, actually. You
have no doubt heard how he met your mother?”
“Yes,” Paen said, growing uneasy. Caspar Green might not
be a demon, but nothing good could come of someone from
the Otherworld being concerned with his father. “They met
at the conclusion of what is now referred to as the French
and Indian War. My mother was French. My father fought on
the side of the English. His head was almost completely
severed during one battle, and she found him and tended to
him despite her family’s objections. They fell in love.
What do my parents have to do with you?”
“A great deal, actually. Or rather, their meeting does.
The story you’ve been told isn’t quite accurate—your
father was wounded, and your mother did nurse him back to
health, but he himself inflicted the injury.”
Paen thinned his lips. He didn’t believe anything so
ridiculous. “Why on earth would he do such a foolish
thing?”
“Because I told him his Beloved was nearby.”
“You told him?” Paen stared at the man in outright
disbelief.
Caspar smiled, on the surface a pleasant smile, but Paen
was aware of the aura of power that surrounded the
alastor. “Yes. Your father engaged the demon lord Oriens
to find his Beloved. I was charged with locating her,
which I did. I informed your father of her situation, and
counseled that a drastic action would be needed to get
within her circle of friends. He took the action, and the
rest, as they say, is history. Literally, in this case,
but that’s one of the perks of being immortal.”
“Even assuming that’s true—and it sounds highly unlikely
to me—what does that have to do with my father now?”
Caspar carefully set the glass onto the desk, clasping his
hands over his knee, an affectation that for some reason
annoyed Paen. “There is a little matter of the debt your
father accrued in purchasing Oriens’s help.”
Paen’s jaw tightened. Yet another gold-digger, albeit a
demonic one. He went around to the other side of the desk,
pulling out the estate checkbook. “How much?”
“You misunderstand me, Paen. The debt your father owes
Oriens is not one that can be repaid by means of mortal
money.”
“Oh?” Paen closed the checkbook, watching the man
suspiciously. “What is it he owes for this debt, then?”
“A simple thing, really. A small statue of a monkey. You
may be familiar with it? I understand it is a family
heirloom—the Jilin God is its most common name.”
Paen frowned as he dug through his memories. “A statue of
a monkey? No, I’ve never heard of it, let alone am
familiar with it.”
Caspar pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here is a
sketch of it. It’s about six inches high, black, made of
ebony. It’s origins are said to be Chinese, about six
hundred years old.”
“Ming dynasty,” Paen said absently, still poking around in
his memories. As far as he could remember, his father
never mentioned anything about a monkey statue as a family
heirloom. He himself knew every square inch of the castle,
and he’d never seen such a statue.
“Yes. How perspicacious of you to know that. Are you
familiar with the era?”
“Only in a collateral sense. I am doing some research on a
knight in the service of Marco Polo. He was in China
during the Ming dynasty. What proof do I have that any of
what you’re telling me is true?”
Caspar smiled yet again. Paen was starting to get tired of
that knowing smile. He felt decidedly out of his depths
with the man, and it wasn’t a feeling he relished. “I
thought you might ask for some proof. I have here—” Caspar
pulled out a small leather case, the size to hold a
passport. “—a document signed by your father, and bearing
his seal.”
Paen took the document over to where a magnifying light
sat on his worktable. He read the document quickly. It
simply stated that one Alec Munroe McGregor Scott, of
Darmish, Scotland, did swear to provide the lord Oriens or
his due representative with the statue known as the Jilin
God in exchange for services rendered him. Paen, no
stranger to antique parchment, and certainly familiar
enough with it to detect modern paper doctored to look
old, examined the item closely with the magnifying glass.
He went so far as to pull out a small pocket microscope to
examine the fiber content of the document, as well as the
red wax seal.
“Very well. I concede this document is real. But why has
Oriens waited two hundred and forty years to collect this
debt?”
“Oriens is a busy demon lord. Perhaps it slipped his mind,
or perhaps he had no need for the statue until now.
Regardless of the why, the debt is now being called due,
and it must be paid.”
“I have no idea what or where this Jilin God statue is. If
Oriens waited this long, he can wait another three months
until my parents return from the depths of the Bolivian
forests to their home in La Paz.”
Caspar spread his hands. “Alas that it was so easy. The
debt must be repaid within one lunar cycle upon being
called due, or else Oriens is entitled to claim the
collateral used to secure his services.”
Paen could have sworn his blood turned to ice. The
situation was quickly going from bad to worse. “What
collateral?”
“There is really only one thing a demon lord wants—a soul.”
“My father promised his soul in order to have you locate
his Beloved?”
“No, his soul was held in trust for another, so he could
not use it,” Caspar answered, shaking his head. “He tried
to, but Oriens wouldn’t accept that as collateral.”
Little glaciers rose in his heart. “Then whose soul did he
use?”
Caspar smiled, just like Paen knew he would. “Why, that of
his Beloved, naturally. Although strictly speaking he
wasn’t in possession of her soul, the fact that she was
his Beloved, and would by her very nature agree to
sacrifice herself on his behalf, served as a guarantee.
I’m afraid that means if you do not provide me with the
Jilin God in the next five days, your mother’s soul is
forfeit. Unfair to her, true, but that is the nature of
these arrangements.”
“Five days?” Paen asked, his mind a whirl. He would die
before he let a demon lord lay one hell spawned finger on
his mother, let along her beautiful, pure soul. “What
happened to a lunar cycle?”
“I’m afraid that it took me some time to track down your
whereabouts,” Caspar said with faux apology.
“That’s ridiculous! Right, there are four of us. We’ll
just divide up the work…”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Caspar gave him
a sad little smile. “Didn’t I tell you? This debt is yours
alone to fulfill. You are your father’s son, you see.”
Paen frowned. “Why mine? My brothers are just as much the
sons of my father as I am.”
“Yes, but you are the eldest. According to the agreement
your father signed—“ he gestured toward the note. “—the
debt must be repayed by the debtor himself, or the nearest
member of his blood. That would be you, the oldest son.”
“That is completely outrageous. My brothers—“
“—are not eligible to locate the missing statue. If they
do, the debt will be considered forfeit, and the
collateral will be collected.” Caspar plucked the
promissory note from Paen’s hands and tucked it away in
the leather case. “All that remains is five days. If you
do not have the statue in that time…well. We won’t dwell
on the unpleasant.”
“Get out,” Paen said, gritting his teeth against the pain
that threatened to swamp him at the thought of what the
alastor was saying.
“I understand that you are upset, but—”
“Get the hell out of my house! Now!” Paen roared, starting
toward the unwelcome visitor.
“I will be in touch about your progress with the statue,”
Caspar said hurriedly, backing toward the wall as Paen
prepared to grab him and throw him out of the room. Hell,
he wanted to throw him out of the country…off the planet,
if he could manage it. “Until then, farewell!”
Paen snarled several obscenities and medieval oaths as the
man’s form shimmered, then disappeared. He continued to
swear under his breath over the next half hour as he
placed four international phone calls, and authorized
three messengers to be sent out into the depths of the
Bolivian forests in an attempt to locate his parents.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea where they are, or
where this monkey god statue is?” he asked his brothers
that evening.
“Not a clue on either count,” Avery said as he slipped on
a leather jacket. “No one tells me anything. The whole
thing sounds a bit dicey to me, to be honest. We can’t
help you search for this statue because you’re the eldest?
What’s up with that?”
“Some archaic medieval law still around a few hundred
years ago, no doubt,” Paen grumbled. “There were all sorts
of agreements then that operated under obsolete laws.”
“Well, I hate to be callous, but since we can’t help you
search for the statue, I guess I’ll go out.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Paen said, stalking past
his brother. “You and Dan will go to the Lachmanol Abbey
in the Outer Hebrides, and beg the abbot for access to his
very rare collection of sixteenth century manuscrips.
There you will scour the manuscript for references to this
damned statue.”
“Me? Why me?” Paen’s second youngest brother looked up
from the evening paper. “Why can’t you go? And I thought
this demon said none of us could look for the statue?”
“You’re not going to be looking for the statue itself. I
want to know more about it—where it came from, what its
history is, that sort of thing. You’re the only one
besides me who knows Latin. Avery can use his charm to get
access to the manuscript, and you can translate them.”
“Sounds like a bloody bore, but I’ll do it for Mum.” Avery
admired himself in the mirror again, then frowned at
Paen. “You’re not going to brood the whole time we’re
gone, are you? Because if you are, we won’t bring back any
souvenir girls for you.”
“We’re going to an abbey, you idiot,” Daniel said,
smacking his brother on the arm as he stretched and
grabbed his coat.”
“Bet you I could find some.”
Paen only just kept himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m
not brooding. I never brood.”
His brothers, all three of the rotters, laughed.
“Paen, you’re the world’s champion brooder,” Daniel said,
stretching again and squinting at the clock.
“Aye, and a broodaholic, to boot. I’m thinking we need to
do an intervention, or maybe get you into one of those
twelve step programs. ‘Hi, my name is Paen, and I’m
broody.’ Maybe that’ll help you lighten up a bit.” Finn
grinned at his brother.
Paen stifled the urge to sock him in the arm. Finn was
just as tall as he was, and although he had a good twenty
pounds on his brother, it had been a near thing the last
time he wrestled Finn…or any of them, for that matter.
Instead, Paen gave them all a narrow-eyed look, wondering
for the umpteenth time how his fair-haired mother and dark-
haired father could produce four sons who differed so
greatly in appearance. He took after his father in looks
with black hair that insisted on curling despite his
efforts to make it lay flat, and grey eyes. Avery was
every bit his blonde-haired, blue-eyed mother’s son, while
Finn and Daniel were somewhere in between. “There is a
vast difference between being concerned for Mum’s soul and
brooding. What you see here is concern, with just a dash
of worry thrown in to keep from going stale. There’s not a
single shred of brood on me.”
“Here it comes,” Avery told Finn.
The latter nodded. “The bit about us lot being so lucky
because we have our souls, and him being damned and all.
Same old, same old.”
“Well, I am damned! You don’t have the slightest concept
what it is to be in my position,” Paen argued. “You have
no idea the torment, the pain—”
“—the agony of living each day without any hope, without
love shared with a soulmate, without any chance at
redemption,” his brothers all chanted together.
Paen growled. He loved his brothers, but there were times
when he would pay good money to be an only child.
“And yet you claim you’re perfectly happy that way. We’ve
told you that we’d move heaven and earth to help you find
your Beloved,” Avery said. “Just say the word, and we’ll
scour the length and breadth of Scotland for her. The
whole of Britain, even!”
“I met a woman yesterday who you might like,” Daniel said
thoughtfully. “I could ring her up before we leave—”
“No!” Paen said quickly, a little chill running through
him. “I’ve had enough of Avery all but pimping for me—I’ve
no need for any more of you bringing home women you just
know will turn out to be my Beloved. I don’t need a woman
to save me. I’m perfectly happy, in a completely non-
brooding way, just as I am, and besides, I’m well on the
way to locating the Simia Gestor Coda.”
“Oh, not that fairy story again,” Daniel said, rolling his
eyes.
“It’s not a fairy story.”
“I know, I know,” Daniel said, holding up his hands. “This
book you’re always going on about supposedly contains the
details about the origins of Dark Ones, including a way to
unmake the curse binding you guys.”
“Exactly. I just have to find it, and I will be able to
lift the curse myself. Completely without the assistance
of any interfering woman, thank you.”
“Paen, you’ve looked for the last twenty-five years for
that manuscript—I think it’s time you admit it doesn’t
exist,” Avery said. The others nodded. “I don’t know why
you’re so bent on fighting the fact that you need a woman
to save you. Women are nice! They are smooth, and they
smell good, and god knows they do things to my body that
make my eyes cross with bliss. You need to get off this
high horse of ‘I’ll save myself’ and get with the program,
brother. Find your Beloved, let her save you, and make
lots of little Paens.”
Paen glared at his irresponsible brother. “Just because I
can keep my dick in my pants and you can’t—”
“Oh, I can, it’s just a lot more fun out and about,” Avery
answered, pausing to punch Finn in the shoulder until keys
to a car were handed over. “Ta, mate. We’re off to this
abbey of fun. I’ll call and let you know how many women I
manage to find there, too.”
“Between the fast cars and faster women, you’re going to
kill yourself one of these days,” Paen warned.
“One of the perks of being immortal, brother, is the
ability to do whatever you want whenever you want, and to
hell with the consequences. You should try it sometime.”
A muscle in Paen’s jaw twitched. “One of us has to have
some responsibility and keep things together while Mum and
Dad are off.”
Avery rolled his eyes and left the sitting room. Daniel
grabbed his jacket and followed after his brother,
saying, “I’m with Av on this, Paen. You need to loosen up
a bit, and let go of some of that responsibility you’re
always harping on. I’ve got my mobile phone. I’ll give you
a ring if we find anything.”
“Well?” Paen turned to his remaining brother. “Don’t tell
me you’re going to pass up an opportunity to get in a few
digs about how I need to ignore the castle, the family,
and Mum’s eternal happiness and instead live like there’s
no tomorrow.”
Finn grinned. “Could I pass up such a wonderful chance?
All that repressed sexuality—what you really need is to
fall in love with some delicious bird, fuck your brains
out, let her save you, and try out happy instead of
gloomy.”
“Do you know how tiring it gets repeating that I don’t
need a Beloved? Women I can, and do, have whenever I’m
struck with the desire for sex. A female doesn’t need to
bind herself to me to satisfy my sexual desires.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but here goes—
Paen, you’re missing out on a whole world of pleasure by
keeping yourself at an emotional distance from women. You
might as well use slags for all the involvement you have
with them. I know you equate feeling affection for a woman
with a Beloved, but you know, you can actually like a
woman you sleep with without her saving you. Maybe even
love her a little, if you’re determined not to find your
true better half.”
“I don’t have a better half,” Paen said, fighting the
desire to punch something, anything. “I’m whole as I am. I
might be in eternal torment, but love, souls, and
emotional commitments are all overrated. If I didn’t know
that for myself, all I’d have to do is look at you lot.
Always falling in love with some woman or other, then
moping around when they end up stomping all over your
hearts—no thanks. If all you’re going to do is lecture me,
you might as well go, too.”
“I was about to ask what you wanted me to do to help you,”
Finn said with a grin.
“To find the statue?” Paen ran a hand through his hair,
happy to change the subject of conversation. “You can’t.”
“Not technically, no. So what can I do to help you find
it?”
Paen felt as if the weight of the world had descended upon
his shoulders. “To be honest, I’ve no idea where to even
start looking for it. I’ve never come across a mention of
it in the family papers, and since Dad is completely
incommunicado until someone tracks him down and forces a
satellite phone into his hand, I’m at a loss as to where
to begin searching. It could be in the castle, hidden
somewhere. It could have been lost or stolen or sold over
the years, and I’d have no way of knowing.”
“Hmm,” Finn said. “Sounds like we need some professional
help.”
“What sort of professional help?” Paen asked as his
brother went to the phone. “If it’s anything involving
demons, it’s right out. We’re in enough trouble because of
them.”
Finn dug around in his jeans pocket and pulled out a
handful of miscellaneous items, extracting a blue sticky
note from his keys and change. “Not a demon. I met a woman
last week in Edinburgh, an underwear model—man, she had
great tits, just how I like them, big enough for my hands
but not fake looking—and she said her cousin was trained
as a Diviner, and the two of them were just opening up a
private detective business. I bet a Diviner could figure
out where the statue is. I’ll give Clare a ring and get
the cousin’s number.”
“Might as well,” Paen said glumly as he slumped down into
a chair. Despite his protestations to the contrary, he
wanted nothing more than to brood about the latest trial
fate had dumped on him. As if things weren’t bad enough
already… “It’s not like a Diviner could make things any
worse.”
Chapter One
“What do you think of the sign?”
Clare set down a box of desk supplies and a bouquet of
fresh cut flowers, and frowned. “Well, to be honest, Sam,
I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but I don’t think
the crow landing on your head this morning is a good omen.
It means your life is about to go crisis central. But I’m
here to help, and you know I’ll do what I can to keep you
from going outright insane.”
“No…I meant the sign on the door.” I nodded to where a
local sign painter was putting away her stencils and
paints.
“Oh. Mmm.” Clare tipped her head and considered the
freshly painted words on the upper half of the open office
door. “Eye Scry, Samantha Cosse and Clare Bennet, Discreet
Private Investigations. It’s nice, but I still think it’s
a bit too strange. People are going to think we’re not
normal private investigators.”
“We aren’t normal, Clare.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m as normal as they come.” She
plucked a tulip from bouquet and went to the window, using
her elbow to wipe a small clean patch on the grimy
glass. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? “
I glanced out the window at the grey, sodden-looking sky,
and shrugged as I arranged paper in my new
printer/copier/fax machine. "It's a typical Scottish May:
grey, cold, and wet."
"When I woke up this morning," Clare said dreamily,
unconsciously striking an elegant pose that made her a
star on the fashion runways, "the dew had kissed all the
sweet little flowers just as if fairies had danced upon
them with damp little slippers. Don't you think that's
lovely? I thought that up all by myself."
"Very, um…." Clare blinked silver-tipped lashes at me. I
relented under her hopeful expression. "Very poetic. But
not terribly accurate, is it?"
She blinked again, her large blue eyes clouded with
confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Well…just look at you." I waved a hand toward her
torso. "You're the opposite of short, sturdy, dark-haired
me—you’re tall, lovely, elegant, and have that silver
blonde hair that everyone seems to rave about, but you're
hardly in a dancing on the dew-kissed flowers sort of
form, are you? You'd squash the little buggers flat were
you to try it in your human form."
She rolled her expressive eyes and bopped me on the arm
with her tulip. Clare always had flowers with her—she
couldn’t help it any more than my mother could. It was
just part of their genetic makeup. "You're going to start
that silly business again, and I won't listen to it, I
simply won't listen to it."
I took her by both arms and shook her gently. "You're a
faery, Clare. It's time you face up to that fact. You're a
faery, your real name is Glimmerharp, and you were left
with my aunt and uncle because your faery parents wanted
you to have a better life than running around in wet
shoes, stamping dew onto flowers. I doubt if they would
have done so had they known that your idea of a better
life is to parade up and down in scanty lingerie in front
of a strangers with cameras, but that's neither here nor
there. You are a faery, and the sooner you admit that, the
happier everyone around you will be."
"I am not a faery; I am an underwear model."
"You're both."
"Oh!" She plucked a piece of the smooth red tulip's flower
and popped it in her mouth. "You take that back!"
“I won’t,” I said calmly, releasing her to hook the
printer up to the laptop that sat on the scarred and
battered oak desk I’d claimed as my own. “It’s the truth,
and you know it, even if you are in denial.”
“You’re a fine one to talk about denial!” she said,
marching over to her desk, a trail of tulip blossoms
gently drifting to the floor behind her. “You deny your
heritage every chance you get.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it, the mere thought of me
being able to ignore who I was was beyond
ridiculous. “There’s no way I could deny my parentage—not
after growing up the only kid in my neighborhood whose
mother is a bona fida poetry-spouting, pointy-eared, gonna
live forever elf. Years of Keebler jokes made sure I knew
just how different I was, and we won’t even go into what a
mention of Lord of the Rings does to me. What I’ve never
understood is how you can accept the fact that my mother
is an elf, and yet insist that there are no such things as
faeries.”
“I refuse to talk to you when you get in that mood,” Clare
said, and picked up an empty milk jug she’d brought to
serve as a vase. “I won’t let you ruin the excitement of
the day with all that nonsense.”
“Excitement?” I looked around the small office as Clare
left to fill the vase with water. The painter had toddled
off, leaving the faint odor of acrylic paints behind her.
Through the open door I could see a dark, dingy hallway
that led to a couple of flats, and a shared bathroom.
“That’s not quite the word that comes to mind,” I said
loud enough that Clare could hear me down the hall. “But
never fear! A little elbow grease and some creative
decorating courtesy of that thrift store you saw on the
way in should do much to wipe out the years of neglect. I
just wish Mila would come and get her boxes of sex toys.”
Clare’s muffled voice drifted into the room as I crawled
under the desk to plug in the computer equipment. “You
shouldn’t have told her she could keep her stock here.”
“I had a hard enough time persuading her to rent this
office to me—ow!” I rubbed the back of my head where I
cracked it on the underside of the desk. “Evidently her
sex store is doing a tremendous amount of business and she
needs all the storage space she can get. Besides, she
knocked a hundred pounds off the rent just for us putting
up with a few extra boxes.”
Clare’s answer was drowned out by the sound of running
water. I scooted backwards under the desk, dragging with
me the phone cord to plug in the new set of phones I’d
purchased. “Regardless of the naughty toys, I don’t know
how exciting this job is going to be to someone who spends
time in Milan and Paris and Berlin being paid thousands of
pounds to stand around and pout in her panties."
“It’s not nearly as exciting as you might think,” Clare
said, coming back into the room. “That’s why I decided to
go on hiatus for a year. My modeling batteries need to be
recharged, and this job should do wonders for that.”
“Eh…OK.” I plugged the cord into the appropriate wall
socket, and jumped violently when the phone above me rang
loudly, causing me to whack my head on the desk a second
time.
“Phone,” Clare said helpfully.
“Oh, thank you. I might have thought it was my umbrella
ringing, otherwise.” I hunkered down under the desk
rubbing my abused head.
“I’ll get it,” Clare said, hurrying over to her
desk. “Your umbrella is ringing. Honestly, Sam! Your
imagination! Good morning, Eye Scry, discreet private
enquiries, this is Clare. How can I help?”
I crawled out from under my desk, wondering as I brushed
off the dusty knees of my pants who was calling us. I’d
only set up the phone lines the day before, and had given
the number out to just one person other than Clare. It was
probably just the phone company checking to see if the
line worked. I turned on my laptop and sat down at my desk
while Clare made little murmurs of encouragement to
whomever was on the phone.
“I see. Well, I don’t believe that will be a problem, Mr.
Race. My partner has a particular talent with finding lost
objects. Oh, you did?” Clare looked at me, her eyes
round. “Then perhaps it would be best if you talked to her
yourself. Can you hold? Thank you.”
“Lost items?” I asked. “That’s not a client, is it?”
“Yes, it is. It’s a Mr. Owen Race. He’s a medieval
specialist of some sort, and he wants us to find some sort
of an antique book for him. But Sam—he says that Brother
Jacob recommended you to him. I thought you were kicked
out of the Order of Diviners?”
“I was, but Jake said he’d keep an ear out for me for
anyone who might be able to use the services of a failed
Diviner. Sounds like he found someone. Hello, this is
Samantha Cosse. I understand you need some help locating
an object?”
Like Clare’s, the man’s voice was English, very upper
class, positively reeking of places like Eton and
Cambridge and the BBC. It made me all the more aware of my
flat, accentless (to my ears) Canadian speech. “Good
morning, Miss Cosse. Yes, as I told your associate, I am
seeking to locate a very rare medieval manuscript that was
stolen from me recently—the Simia Gestor Coda is its name.
I understand from Brother Jacob at the Diviner’s House
that you studied there for several years, and have a good
deal of experience in locating missing items?”
Oh dear. He wanted a Diviner, and I was anything but one.
I’d have to let him know right away that I wasn’t what he
thought I was. “I’ve had some luck locating missing items,
yes. But if you are seeking the assistance of a true
Diviner, Mr. Owen, I’m afraid you may have been misled. I
did study at the Diviner’s House with the Order, but I was…
well, to put it bluntly, I was kicked out before my
novitiate was completed. Although I have been trained in
elementary divination, I’m afraid I am unable to conduct
the more advanced rituals.”
“I see. I appreciate such frankness, and can assure you
that I have no need for the services of a professional
Diviner. Brother Jacob recommended you to me because you
apparently have a talent for locating items that goes
beyond mere divination.”
I slumped back in my chair in relief. I hadn’t anticipated
Jake sending me a customer despite his declarations that
he would do all he could to help me, but now that I had
bared the ugly truth in my past, I could focus on the job
being offered. “I will be happy to put the full resources
of my firm at your disposal,” I said. “Perhaps we can meet
to discuss this further?”
“Excellent. I’m in Barcelona at the moment, but I would be
happy to pay your airfare out here.”
I blinked back my surprise. “Er…I appreciate the offer,
Mr. Race, but we are still in the process of setting up
our business, and I wouldn’t be comfortable leaving all
the remaining work to my partner.” I motioned to Clare and
wrote he wants me to go to Barcelona on the notepad. Clare
looked panicky. I’d had to promise her when we thought up
the idea of the investigation agency that I would handle
all of what she termed the “messy businessy stuff.”
“Sam, no,” she whispered.
“Don’t worry,” I mouthed, then said into the
phone, “That’s very generous of you, but I’m afraid it’s
out of the question. However—” I raised my eyebrows in
question. Clare nodded quickly. “However my partner would
be available to fly to Barcelona. She would be very happy
to stand in my place and discuss with you all the
necessary details.”
“Erm…no, that won’t be necessary,” he said, sounding
disappointed. I shook my head at Clare. “I will be
returning to Edinburgh at the end of the week, so we can
meet then.”
“I would be happy to get started on your project if you
can give me the details over the phone,” I said in my most
professional voice, opening a text document. “Why don’t
you give me the specifics of the item that was stolen, and
later you can fax me any insurance documents you have, as
well as the police report.”
Twenty minutes later I hung up the phone and hit save on
my document file.
“Well?” Clare asked, absently nibbling on a carnation. “Do
we have a job?”
I smiled. “We are employed! Let fly the doves and all
that.”
“Hurrah! I told you this was going to be exciting!
Although I’m disappointed I won’t be going to Barcelona.
Such a pretty city. So, we’re looking for a book?”
“Yes, some sort of medieval manuscript that was stolen.
Evidently Mr. Race has quite a collection, and he didn’t
notice the theft until he had ordered an inventory of his
holdings a month ago. He’s going to have his housekeeper
round up some information about the manuscript, but until
then, we can get to work on the little info he gave me. He
believes the manuscript could well have been taken by a
rival collector.”
“Oooh. How thrilling! It’s like an art theft, only with a
medieval book.”
“Mmm,” I said, gathering up my bag and jacket. “I’m going
to go visit a couple of antique shops and see if I can’t
get some info on who the big collectors are in Britain.”
“What would you like me to do?” Clare asked, chewing
another bit of flower.
“You’d better stop eating those flowers, or you won’t have
anything left but a vase full of stems,” I said at the
door.
She shot me a look of pure outrage. “I do not eat flowers!”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at the half-eaten
carnation in her hand. She glared at it for a minute as if
it had magically appeared in her hand. “You’re a faery,
Clare. No one else eats flowers but really hard-core
vegetarians, and I’ve seen you wolf down a steak, so I
know you’re not that. If you want to do something helpful,
do an Internet search for me on the—” I consulted my
notes. “—Simia Gestor Coda. With a name like that, it has
to have some sort of a history. I’d like to know
everything you can find out about its past. All Mr. Race
told me was that it was written by a mage who was
supposedly in Marco Polo’s service. Oh, also, pull up a
list of the major antiquities dealers for England. It
wouldn’t hurt to know who might be dealing in something
like a rare antique manuscript.”
I spent the next couple of hours visiting various antique
shops in and around the Royal Mile, the most famous street
in all of Edinburgh. By the time I tottered into the last
shop on my list, a small, dusty shop tucked away between a
bookstore and a Gyro shop, I was feeling uninspired. The
antique dealers were particularly loathe to talk about
their clients, and none of them had heard of the Coda.
A little bell over the door jangled as I entered the shop.
Like others of its ilk, this antiquities shop was filled
to the rafters with statuary, objets d'art, stuffed
animals, strange old mechanical pieces, books and
illuminated manuscripts, and a myriad of other items whose
use and purpose were shrouded in the distant reaches of
the past. I browsed through the items, glancing
periodically at a man I took to be the owner as he stood
with his back to me in the doorway to another room,
speaking to someone I couldn’t see.
“Shoot,” I said to myself as I glanced at my watch. I was
three hours away from the office already, and I wanted to
get back to help Clare. I stopped in front of a bookcase
bearing a stuffed spider monkey, and sent yet another
impatient look toward the man in the doorway. “I don’t
have time for thiaaaaieeeeeee!”
My heart just about leaped out of my chest as the spider
monkey I’d assumed was stuffed suddenly jumped from the
bookcase to my shoulder. “Oh, man alive, you just scared a
good ten years off me. Hello there, Mr. Monkey. Um…that
is, I assume you're a mister. I can't tell what with that
little sailor suit you're wearing. Do you belong here? Of
course you do, what a stupid question. What else would a
monkey be doing in an antiques shop? Would you mind asking
your owner if he could talk to me for a few minutes? No?
Drat. Well, doesn’t matter—you’ll do as an excuse to
interrupt him.”
The monkey, evidently satisfied with his evil plan to give
me a heart attack, leaped back onto the bookcase where he
smoothed down the fur on his tail.
“Um…I can’t use you as an excuse unless you’re on my
shoulder, so hop on…er…what’s your name?”
I reached out a tentative hand to stroke his arm. He
didn't seem to mind being petted, so I gently touched the
jeweled collar he wore around his neck. Tiny rivets
spelled out a series of letters.
"B…E…P…well, hello there, Beppo."
The monkey stopped examining his tail and held out a rust-
fingered hand. Stifling back a giggle at the dignified
look on his little face, I carefully shook his hand.
Satisfied, he returned to his grooming.
"You are one strange little monkey. All right, Beppo, hop
on and let’s go interrupt your owner."
He dropped his tail and held out his hand again.
"Hee!" I shook his hand again. That completed, he picked
up his tail.
"Beppo," I said again, unable to resist. Down went the
tail, out went his hand.
"OK, cute but could well become annoying. Here, if you
don’t mind—” I hoisted the monkey off the bookcase and set
him onto my shoulder. His tail wrapped around my neck as
he clung with one hand to my ponytail “Groovy. Now let’s
go pretend that I just found you in a dangerous situation
and see if I can’t have a quick word with your owner
before toddling on my merry—holy crap! What is it with
everyone trying to startle me into an early grave?”
A being popped up in front of me. I mean, literally popped
up right out of the floor. All my supernatural senses went
into high tingle mode at the sight of what appeared to be
a short, middle-aged man
Only he wasn’t a man. I didn’t exactly know what he was,
but he wasn’t human.
“Hello,” I said politely, feeling it was better to give
him the benefit of the doubt. I’d come across a few
different types of beings in my time with the Diviners,
and although only a couple of them had turned out to be
from the wrong side of the tracks, metaphorically
speaking, some who looked bad had turned out to be quite
nice. “That was an impressive entrance. Was it for me in
particular, or are you just a fan of antiques?”
The man looked from Beppo to me. “You bear the monkey.”
“Beppo?” The monkey promptly held out his hand. I gave it
a little two-fingered shake. "He jumped on me earlier, but
I was just taking him back to his—what’s this?"
The man shoved a shoebox-sized package at me.
“I am charged to give it to you. It is yours now,” the man
said, then without another word, dissolved into black
smoke that sank down into the floor.