City of Fae

“What sort of accident?”


“Caroline didn’t die in an accident. She was almost five hundred years old. Five-hundred-year-old fae don’t have accidents. Besides, an accident doesn’t usually shred the body.” Charmaine kicked my foot back, dislodging it from the doorway. “I can’t say anymore. I’ve already said too much. No fae will talk to you, Alina O’Connor.” She slammed the door in my face.

Opening the mail slot, I peered inside. “Charmaine, please … Did someone kill her? Is that what you’re telling me? Please, I need to speak with you some more.” Silence was my answer.

“Damn it.” I jogged down the steps, pausing on the sidewalk. Crisp golden leaves rustled around my shoes; city sounds ebbed and flowed on the breeze, grounding me. A fae had been killed at the party. No wonder the Fae Authority were jumpy. I had a few hours left, time enough to continue cold-calling the attendees on the guest list.

A car pulled up against the curb in front of me. I peered in through the passenger window and received a detective-grade glower from Andrews. I flashed him a grin, straightened my bag, and strode down the sidewalk, heading toward the nearby Underground Station. Within a few strides the sound of a car door slamming rippled down the street.

“Miss O’Connor.”

Damn. I turned, smiling a closed, innocent smile.

He planted a hand on his hip, peeling back his suit jacket, and glanced up the steps to Charmaine’s house. It took all of about three seconds for him to figure out I’d been snooping, and then his disapproving stare settled on me. “We need to talk.”





Chapter Seven


Detective Andrews’s car smelled of mint and toner. I sat in the front passenger seat, hands clasped in my lap, waiting for him to start the engine, pull away from the curb, and take me in for questioning, but he didn’t. He twisted in the driver’s seat and leaned back against the door, studying me.

I arched an eyebrow. “So, you goin’ to slap the cuffs on me, or what?”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” that was good, “that I can find.” Oh. “So, I can’t slap my cuffs on you. Unless you have something to tell me?”

“Like a confession?”

An uneven smile upset his straight face. “I’m not a priest. I’m more interested in where Sovereign is.”

“Why?”

“It’s my job. Speaking of which …” He reached across the center console, opened the glove compartment, and removed a Met Police–stamped folder. As he straightened, his hand brushed my knee and a static shock snapped between us. “Sorry,” he mumbled, fumbling with the folder. “We had a spare one of these at the station.”

I eyed the Fae Survival Pack in his hand with disdain. “What am I supposed to do with that? Hit Reign with it?”

“Well, no, that’d be assault, and I really would have to cuff you. I just thought …” He scratched idly at his chin, hands animated. He had a restless ease about him. Small touches, here and there. Thoughtful, and curious. “Maybe you could do with some advice?”

Was he kidding? His honest hazel eyes and amiable expression held no trace of humor. I sighed and took the pack. I could imagine he’d broken suspects with that look alone. Those eyes made me want to confess my every sin just to appease him. Taking the pack might at least get him on my side. If I played my cards right, he might tell me more about Reign’s indiscretion.

“Miss O’Connor, tell me you’re not following this story.”

“I’m not following this story.”

He pressed his lips together, not impressed. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“No, you’re a good cop.” I thumbed through the pack. I’d seen it before. Everyone had. Every year we got one delivered to our homes. You could find them at the post office, at tourist information hubs. Anywhere and everywhere. How best to avoid the fae, and what to do if you messed up and touched one of them, found yourself wanting to touch them. Yeah, I could relate to that.

“Thanks for this, but he’s not bespelled me.” Yet, I added silently, placing the pack on my lap. “A fae was killed at Reign’s after-party.”

“It was an accident, but yes, a fae died.”

“An accident.” I repeated, watching his face for any glimmer of deceit. Nothing. He believed it. “Can you tell me what sort of accident?”

“No.”

“How did she die?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Do you know?”

He frowned. “The FA aren’t big on sharing information.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when you came with Miles to question me?”

“Because you’re a reporter, and I wouldn’t be a good cop if I told members of the public details they didn’t need to know.”

“How do you know they don’t need to know?”

Andrews looked at me, eyebrows up, face tilted away, humor playing in his eyes. “You don’t stop for air, do you?”