“No. I’m not.” There’s a security panel in every room that’s wired with video and audio capabilities. I go to the one on the far wall in the kitchen and hit the button to bring up the live feed. What appears to be a human male in his twenties is standing at the door holding a manilla envelope like those used for interoffice mail. Though it’s possible he’s a glamoured fae. We can sense whether someone is other, but only in person, not through technology.
I could ask him who he is and what he wants, but that would be pointless. If he’s human, he’ll lie, and if he’s fae, he’ll give me some kind of fae-truth that implies something he doesn’t mean.
Opening the small cabinet above the refrigerator, I use my thumb print to unlock the gun safe inside. The buzzer sounds again. Grabbing one of the Berettas, I check the clip and chamber a round, then look at Taryn.
“Go to your room until I tell you it’s clear.”
She responds by taking a Glock 9 from the safe. In a few seconds Taryn expertly checks that she has a full clip, chambers a round, and keeps the barrel pointed at the ground as she flips the safety off. “Rescuing me once doesn’t make me your damsel in distress, Verran. The next time you tell me to hide, you’ll have to face whatever it is with a bruised set of balls. Ponyatno?”
“Got it,” I repeat in English, unable to hide an appreciative grin. The buzzer going off a third time and snaps me back to reality. “You open the door, I’ll drag him inside.”
When we get to the door, we take our positions. I arch my brows to ask if she’s ready. She nods then does a countdown with her fingers. Three, two, one. Taryn pulls the door open just wide enough for me to grab the kid by the shirt and yank him inside. He screeches in surprise, and as soon as Taryn slams the door shut, I shove his back up against the unforgiving steel.
In tandem, like we’re in a Quentin Tarantino movie, we raise our guns and aim them at the kid—definitely human—who looks like he’s about to piss himself.
“Who the fuck are you and how did you get up here?” I growl.
“Oh, God, please don’t kill me! I-I’m Stan f-from the Law Offices of Hurst, Singh, & Hoffman. I w-was given the code for the elevator so I could personally deliver this package to a Mr. Finnian Verran.”
Considering Taryn was delivered flowers dusted with iron powder the night she was abducted, I’m not about to blindly trust a delivery boy with unexplained access codes. Keeping my gun right where it is, I look over at Taryn.
“Is there some kind of lie detector spell you can use so we know he’s telling the truth?”
The corners of her lush mouth lift in a Cheshire grin. “Why, yes. Yes, there is.”
She closes her eyes and chants softly to herself in Faerish, the ancient language of our people. The air hums with energy, like the sound vibration of her words are surrounding us in a bubble of power. Then it all stops. When she opens her eyes again, she looks at me and says, “He won’t be able to lie now.”
“Okay, kid, let’s take it from the top,” I tell him.
“What just happened? What did she do?”
“Don’t worry about that. Worry about what I’m going to do to you if you don’t answer my questions. Is what you’ve told us so far one hundred percent true?”
“Yes, it’s all true.”
“Who gave you the address and elevator code? Who’s that from?”
“No one gave me that information directly, sir. This envelope has been in a safety deposit box since 1906.”
“That’s the year I was born,” I muse.
Stan’s eyes blow wide. “What?”
Taryn steps in to explain it away. “Ignore him, Stan. Sometimes he says stupid things.” I give her a droll look, since she could’ve only uttered those words if she thought they were true, and she answers back with crooked grin and dramatic wink. Then to Stan, “Go on.”
“It was entrusted to our firm for delivery, along with an additional envelope of instructions that were to be opened on the day. The only thing we knew was that someone would reach out when it was supposed to be delivered, but no one ever did. Most everyone thought no one ever would, either.
“Then late last night we received a voicemail that said it was to be delivered today. Inside the instruction envelope was this address, an access code, and a note that it was imperative it only be placed in the hands of one Mr. Finnian Verran.”
“What’s the name of your client who left the message?”
Stan pauses to check the handwritten receipt taped to the envelope. “Barwyn Seàn.”
“Barwyn?” I don’t need to ask any more questions. I’m convinced this is nothing more than a simple—if mysterious—delivery from the Dark elder, a seer who lives alone in the desert and has aided my family on several occasions over the centuries. Lowering the gun, I say, “Hand it over.”
Stan hesitates, his blue eyes bouncing nervously between me and the gun Taryn still has trained on him. “I’m afraid I have to ask for proof of identification first.”
Taryn arches a brow at me. “I thought everyone knew who the Verran Kings of Vegas are.”
“Everyone knows my brothers,” I say wryly as I grab my wallet from the console table and pull out my ID. “I’m the lesser-known Verran.” A few magazine covers aside, I’m rarely in the limelight like Caiden, the Fortune 500 CEO, and Tiernan, the (reformed) billionaire playboy. I offer my ID to Stan, but he doesn’t even glance at it.
Stan holds the package tighter to his chest and winces, as though what he’s about to say physically pains him. “I’m sorry, but that’s not the proof I’ve been instructed to get.”
Expelling a heavy breath, I narrow my eyes. “Stan, you seem like a good kid, and I understand you’re only doing your job, but my patience is wearing thin. Tell me what you need so you can give me the damn thing and be done with it.”
He swallows hard. “Th-there’s a scar. Here.” Stan points to his own chest.
Taryn’s lavender eyes widen at me with a questioning look. She would have seen my scar yesterday, in my room, and though I’m sure she was curious about it, she didn’t ask. The only time fae incur scars is by pure iron. As I’ve only had mine since last September, there are precious few people in the world who know about it, which makes it a good marker for proving my identity.
Tossing my wallet on the table, I reach back and grab my T-shirt between my shoulder blades and pull it over my head. His eyes drop to where a four-inch line of raised, puckered skin slashes on a diagonal across my left pec. Then, in case he was told to be extra thorough, I turn around and point to the small scar the size of a pencil eraser where the tip of the dagger barely pierced through.
“Satisfied?” I ask, facing him again.
“Yes, sir. Here you go,” Stan says and finally relinquishes the fucking thing.
“Thanks. Taryn, can you flashy-thing him for me?”
Lowering her gun, she clicks the safety on and sticks it in her waistband at her lower back and says, “Your wish is my command.”
My throat dries up and more blood than I can afford to lose in my brain right now rushes south. I know she’s just messing around but tell that to the hungry thing inside me that can’t stop fantasizing about her under my command and under my body.
As she walks up to Stan and whispers something into his ear, I draw in a deep breath to regain control and pull my shirt back on. Seconds later, Taryn guides Stan out and thanks him for the coffee delivery he never made and shuts the door on him. I check the video panel to make sure he leaves, then allow myself to relax for the first time since hearing the buzzer.
“So what it is? That was an awful lot of fuss for that thing. If you open it and it doesn’t glow like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
We head into the living room as I check the receipt, but there isn’t any information on it that Stan didn’t already give us. I unwind the string holding the flap closed and slide out another smaller envelope like you’d use to send a letter. Sitting on the couch, I study my name written in neatly scrawled handwriting on the aged mailer.
“Get ready for disappointment then because if it came from Barwyn…” I trail off when I turn it over and see the gold wax seal. Absently, I trace over the large initials with my fingers.
Taryn sits next to me, tucking one of her legs under her. “Finn? What is it?”
“Every Verran royal has a stamp with our Armas and their initials. Caiden uses ink stamps or stickers, but before him they used wax.”
“Whose initials are MV?” she asks.
I scrub a hand over my mouth and jaw, trying to reconcile this in my mind. “They’re my late grandmother’s initials.”
“Oh, Finn, I’m sorry.” Taryn places a gentle hand on my arm. “I think it’s really sweet of her to leave something for you, though. Were you two close?”
