TABLE CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Also by Karen Marie Moning
Copyright Page
For Elizabeth—if we weren’t sisters, we’d be cats. Sister cats.
You can borrow my hat anytime.
Damn, it’s good to be me.
—ADAM BLACK, ON BEING ADAM BLACK
Tuatha Dé Danaan: (tua day dhanna)
A highly advanced race of immortal beings that settled in Ireland thousands of years before the birth of Christ. Called by many names: Children of the Goddess Danu; the True Race; the Gentry; the Daoine Sidhe; they are most commonly referred to as the Fae or Fairy. Although frequently portrayed as shimmering, dainty creatures of diminutive size that flit about exuding effervescent good humor and a penchant for mild mischief, the true Tuatha Dé are neither so delicate nor so benevolent.
—FROM THE O’CALLAGHAN Books of the Fae
Adam Black:
Tuatha Dé Danaan, a rogue even among his own kind. His favored glamour is that of an intensely sexual Highland blacksmith with a powerful rippling body, golden skin, long black hair, and dark, mesmerizing eyes. Highly intelligent, lethally seductive. Alleged to have nearly broken The Compact on not one, but two occasions. He is, by far, the most dangerous and unpredictable of his race.
WARNING: EXERCISE EXTREME CAUTION IF SIGHTED.
AVOID CONTACT AT ALL COST.
—FROM THE O’CALLAGHAN Books of the Fae
PROLOGUE
LONDON, ENGLAND
Adam Black stood in the central chamber of the stone catacombs beneath The Belthew Building and watched as Chloe Zanders stumbled about, searching for her Highland lover, Dageus MacKeltar.
She was weeping as if her very soul were being ripped apart. Incessant and piercing, it was enough to split a Tuatha Dé’s head.
Or a human’s, for that matter, he thought darkly.
He was getting bloody tired of her constant wailing. He had problems of his own. Big problems.
Aoibheal, queen of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, had finally made good on her long-running threats to punish him for his continued interference in the world of mortals. And she’d chosen the cruelest punishment of all.
She’d stripped him of his immortality and made him human.
He spared a quick glance down at himself and was relieved to find that, at least, she’d left him in his favored glamour: that of the dark-haired, muscular, irresistibly sexy blacksmith, a millennia-spanning blend of Continental Celt and Highland warrior, clad in tartan, armbands, and torque. On occasion she’d turned him into things that didn’t suffer the light of day well.
His relief, however, was short-lived. So what if he looked like his usual self? He was human, for Christ’s sake! Flesh and blood. Limited. Puny. Finite.
Cursing savagely, he eyed the sobbing woman. He could barely hear himself think. Perhaps if he informed her that Dageus wasn’t really dead she would shut up. He had to find a way out of this intolerable situation, and fast.
“Your lover is not dead. Cease your weeping, woman,” he ordered imperiously. He should know. Aoibheal had forced him to give of his own immortal life-essence to save the Highlander’s life.
His command did not have the intended effect. On the contrary, just when he was certain she couldn’t possibly get any louder—and how such a small creature managed to make such a huge noise was beyond him—his newly acquired eardrums were treated to a wail that escalated exponentially.
“Woman, cease!” he roared, clamping his hands to his ears. “I said he is not dead.”
Still she wept. She didn’t so much as glance in his direction, as if he’d not spoken at all. Furious, he skirted the rubble littering the chamber—debris from the battle that had taken place there a quarter hour past between Dageus MacKeltar and the Druid sect of the Draghar, the battle he should never have intervened in—and stalked to her side. He grabbed the nape of her neck to force her gaze to his, to compel her silence.
His hand slid right through the back of her skull and came out her nose.
She didn’t even blink. Just hiccuped on a sob and wailed anew.
Adam stood motionless for a moment, then tried again, reaching for one of her breasts. His hand slid neatly through her heart and out her left shoulder blade.
He went still again, wings of unease unfurling in the pit of his all-too-human stomach.
By Danu, Aoibheal wouldn’t! His dark eyes narrowed to slits.
Would she?
Jaw clenched, he tried again. And again his hand slipped through Chloe Zanders’s body.
Christ, she had! The bitch!
Not only had the queen made him human, she had cursed him with the threefold power of the féth fiada!
Adam shook his head disbelievingly. The féth fiada was the enchantment his race used when they wanted to walk among humans undetected. A Tuatha Dé customarily invoked but one facet of the potent, triumvirate spell—invisibility. But it could also render its subject impossible for humans to hear and feel as well. The féth fiada was a useful tool if one wished to meddle unobserved.
But if cursed with it permanently? If unable to escape it?
That thought was too abhorrent to entertain.
He closed his eyes and delved into his mind to sift time/place and return to the Fae Isle of Morar. He didn’t care who the queen was currently entertaining in her Royal Bower; she would undo this now.
Nothing happened. He remained precisely where he was.
He tried again.
There was no swift sensation of weightlessness, no sudden rush of that heady freedom and invincibility he always felt when traversing dimensions.
He opened his eyes. Still in the stone chamber.
A snarl curved his lips. Human, cursed, and powerless? Barred from the Fae realm? He tossed back his head, raking his long dark hair from his face. “All right, Aoibheal, you’ve made your point. Change me back now.”
There was no response. Nothing but the sound of the woman’s endless sobbing, echoing hollowly in the chill stone chamber.
“Aoibheal, did you hear me? I said, ‘I get it.’ Now restore me.”
Still no response. He knew she was listening, lingering a dimensional sliver just beyond the human realm. Watching, savoring his discomfort.
And . . . waiting for a show of submission, he acknowledged darkly.
A muscle leapt in his jaw. Humility was not, nor would ever be, his strong suit.
Still, if his choices were humble or human—and cursed and powerless, to boot—he’d eat humble pie until he choked on it.
“My Queen, you were right and I was wrong. See, I can say it.”
Though the lie tasted foul upon his tongue.
“And I vow never again to disobey you.”
At least not until he was certain he was secure in her good graces again.
“Forgive me, Queen Most Fair.”
Of course she would. She always did.
“I am your most humble,
adoring servant, O glorious Queen.”
Was he laying it on too thick? he wondered idly, as the silence lengthened. He noticed he’d begun to tap a booted foot in a most human manner. He stomped it to make it be still. He was not human. He was nothing like them.
“Did you hear me? I apologized,” he snapped.
After a few more moments, he sighed. Gritting his teeth, he dropped to his knees. It was universally known that Adam Black despised being on his knees for any reason, for anyone.
“Exalted leader of the True Race,” he purred in the ancient, rarely used tongue of his kind, “Savior of the Danaan, I petition the grace and glory of thy throne.” Ritual, ancient words of formal court manners, they signified as nothing else could, his complete and utter obeisance. And ritual demanded she reply.
The contrary bitch didn’t.
He—who’d never before suffered the passage of time—now felt it acutely, as it stretched too long.
“Damn it, Aoibheal, fix me!” he thundered, lunging to his feet. “Give me back my powers! Make me immortal again!”
Nothing.
Time spun out.
“A taste,” he assured himself. “She’s just giving me a taste of this, to teach me a lesson.”
Any moment now she would appear. She would rebuke him. She would subject him to a scathing account of his many transgressions. He would nod, promise never to do it again, and all would be made right. Just like the thousands of other times he’d disobeyed or angered her.
An hour later nothing was right.
Two hours later and Chloe Zanders was gone, leaving him alone in the silent, dusty tombs. He almost missed her wailing. Almost.
Thirty-six hours later and his body was hungry, thirsty, and—a thing nearly incomprehensible to him—tired. The Tuatha Dé did not sleep. His mind, customarily razor-sharp and lightning fast, was getting muddled, sluggish, shutting down without his consent.
Unacceptable. He’d be damned if any part of him was doing a single thing without his consent. Not his mind. Not his body. It never had and never would. A Tuatha Dé was always in control. Always.
His last thought before unconsciousness claimed him was that he was bloody well certain he’d rather be anything else: stuck inside a mountain for a few hundred years, turned into a slimy, three-headed sea beast, forced to play the court fool again for a century or two.
Anything but . . . so . . . disgustingly . . . pathetically . . . uncontrollably . . . hum—
1
CINCINNATI, OHIO
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER . . .
Summer, Gabrielle O’Callaghan brooded—always her favorite season—had absolutely sucked this year.
Unlocking her car, she got in and slipped off her sunglasses. Shrugging out of her suit jacket, she nudged off her heels and took slow, deep breaths. She sat collecting herself for a few moments, then tugged free the clip restraining her hair and massaged her scalp.
She was getting the start of a killer headache.
And her hands were still shaking.
She’d nearly betrayed herself to the Fae.
She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid, but, God, there were just too many of them this summer! She hadn’t spotted a fairy in Cincinnati for years, but now, for some bizarre reason, there were oodles of them.
Like Cincinnati was some kind of great place to hang out—could a city be more boring? Whatever their unfathomable reason for choosing the Tri-State, they’d appeared in droves in early June, and had been ruining her summer ever since.
And pretending she didn’t see them never got any easier. With their perfect bodies, gold-velvet skin, and shimmering iridescent eyes, they were a little hard to miss. Drop-dead gorgeous, impossibly seductive, dripping pure power, the males were a walking temptation for a girl to—
Brusquely she shook her head to abort that treacherous thought. She’d survived this long and was darned if she was going to slip up and get caught by one of the erotic—exotic, she corrected herself impatiently—creatures.
But sometimes it was so hard not to look at them. And doubly difficult not to react. Especially when one caught her off guard like the last one had.
She’d been having lunch with Marian Temple, senior partner at the law firm of Temple, Turley and Tucker, at a posh downtown restaurant; a very critical lunch, during which she’d been interviewing for a postgraduate position.
A soon-to-be-third-year law student, Gabby was serving a summer internship with Little & Staller, a local firm of personal injury attorneys. It had taken her all of two days on the job to realize she was not cut out for representing pushy, med-bill-inflating plaintiffs who were firmly convinced their soft-tissue injuries were worth at least a million dollars per ache.
At the opposite end of the legal spectrum was Temple, Turley and Tucker. The most prestigious firm in the city, it catered to only the most desirable clients, specializing in business law and estate planning. What carefully selected criminal cases they chose to represent were renowned, precedent-setting ones. Ones that made a difference in the world, protecting fundamental rights and addressing intolerable injustices. And those were the cases she hungered to get her hands on. Even if she had to slave away for years, doing research and fetching coffee to get to them.
She’d been stressed all week, anticipating the interview, knowing that TT&T hired only the cream of the crop. Knowing she was competing against dozens of her classmates, not to mention dozens more from law schools around the country, in a cutthroat bid for a single opening. Knowing Marian Temple had a reputation for demanding nothing less than high-gloss sophistication and professional perfection.
But thanks to hours of aggressive practice interviews and pep talks from her best friend, Elizabeth, Gabby had been calm, composed, and in top form. The aloof Ms. Temple had been impressed with her scholastic achievements, and Gabby had gotten the distinct impression that the firm was predisposed to hire a woman (couldn’t be too careful with those equal-opportunity statistics), which put her ahead of most of the competition. The lunch had gone swimmingly, until the moment they’d left the restaurant and stepped out onto Fifth Street.
As Ms. Temple was extending that all-important invitation to come in for a second, in-house interview with the partners (which was never arranged unless the firm was seriously considering making an offer, joy of joys!), a sexy, muscle-bound fairy male sauntered right between them in that infuriatingly arrogant I’m-so-perfect, don’t-you-just-wish-you-were-me way they had, so close that its long golden hair brushed Gabby’s cheek like a sensual ripple of silk.
The intoxicating fragrance of jasmine and sandalwood surrounded her, and the heat radiating off its powerful body caressed her like a sultry, erotic breeze. It took every ounce of her considerable self-discipline to not inch backward out of its way.
Or worse—yield to that incessant temptation and just pet the gorgeous tawny creature. How many times had she dreamed of doing that? Copping one tiny forbidden fairy-feel. Finally finding out if all that golden fairy skin really felt as velvety as it looked.
You must never betray that you can see them, Gabby.
Thoroughly discombobulated by the fairy’s proximity, her suddenly nerveless hand lost its grip on the iced coffee she’d taken from the restaurant in a to-go cup. It hit the sidewalk, the top flew off, and coffee exploded upward, drenching the impeccable Ms. Temple.
At that precise moment, the fairy turned back to look at her, its iridescent eyes narrowing.
Panicked, Gabby focused all her attention on the sputtering Ms. Temple. With the enthusiasm of near-hysteria, she plucked tissues from her purse and dabbed frantically at the spreading coffee stains on what had been, moments before, a pristine ivory suit that she had a sick feeling cost more than she made in a month.
Babbling loudly about how clumsy she was, apologizing and blaming everything from eating too much, to not being used to heels, to being nervous about the interview, in a matter of moments, she managed to completely blow the image of cool, c
omposed confidence she’d so painstakingly projected through lunch.
But she’d had no choice.
In order to make the fairy believe she hadn’t seen it, that she was just a clumsy human, nothing more, she’d had to act like a complete spaz and risk sabotaging her credibility with her prospective employer.
Sabotage it, she had.
Swatting away Gabby’s frantically dabbing hands, Ms. Temple smoothed her ruined suit and huffed off toward her car, pausing to toss stiffly over her shoulder, “As I told you earlier, Ms. O’Callaghan, our firm works with only the highest-caliber clients. They can be demanding, excessive, and temperamental. And understandably so. When there are millions at stake, a client has every right to expect the best. We at Temple, Turley and Tucker pride ourselves on being unflappable under stress. Our clients require smooth, sophisticated handling. Frankly, Ms. O’Callaghan, you’re too flighty to be successful with our firm. I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate fit elsewhere. Good day, Ms. O’Callaghan.”
Feeling like she’d been kicked in the stomach, Gabby watched in stricken silence as Ms. Temple accepted her spotless Mercedes from the valet, dimly registering that the fairy, blessedly, was also moving on. As the sleek pearl-colored Mercedes merged onto Fifth Street and disappeared into traffic—the job of her dreams flapping farewell on its tailpipe—Gabby’s shoulders slumped. With a gusty sigh, she turned and trudged down the street to the corner lot where simple law students not-destined-for-success-because-they-were-too-flighty could afford to park.
“ ‘Flighty,’ my ass,” she muttered, resting her head on the steering wheel. “You have no idea what my life is like. You can’t see them.”
All Ms. Temple had probably felt was a slight breeze, a moderate increase in temperature, perhaps caught a whiff of an exotic, arousing fragrance. And if, by chance, the fairy had brushed against her—although they were invisible, they were real, and were actually there—Ms. Temple would have rationalized it away somehow. Those who couldn’t see the Fae always did.
Gabby had learned the hard way that people had zero tolerance for the inexplicable. It never ceased to amaze her what flimsy excuses they dredged up to protect their perception of reality. “Gee, I guess I didn’t get enough sleep last night.” Or, “Wow, I shouldn’t have had that second (or third or fourth) beer with lunch.” If all else failed, they settled for a simple “I must have imagined it.”