Big, Bad Red (Fairy True Book 2) Page 2

  Not even if the choice was between him and a bridge troll. Still, the kid was a shithead with a powerful dad so she pocketed the nearly overwhelming urge to fire him or kick him in the balls. “Just do it.”

  She waited, tapping her foot, until he disappeared into the hallway leading to the pub with the keg riding on his shoulder. After making sure she was the only one in the room, Red tilted a portrait of Granny in a wolfskin cap. The wall clicked, let out a soft sigh and a secret door swung inward. Hustling before someone came in, she dashed inside and the door whooshed closed behind her.

  “Bibbidi, bobbidi, boo,” she called out to the darkness.

  The lights snapped on, revealing a treasure room that would have given Ali Baba the jealous shakes. It wasn’t just the gold, even though there was plenty of that—the leprechauns were getting lazy about hiding it lately—but the valuable collector items that went for a pretty penny. A shiny red apple with a single bite out of it sat under a glass dome. The keys to Bluebeard’s din of horror were locked up tight in a small wooden chest. A spinning wheel bought off Maleficent at a decent price sat in the corner. Cinderella’s ball gown—the shoes had gone last week to a collector in Tokyo—hung on a specially designed rack next to the door.

  And then there was the Caladbolg sword, hidden in plain sight in a nondescript iron box. She’d gotten the sword off a collector who was in the middle of an ugly divorce and needed quick, untraceable cash—just what she specialized in.

  There was something about the sword that tugged her closer, as if it knew she was here and wanted to say hello. It was crazy, but she just couldn’t shake the sixth sense doing the conga along the back of her neck.

  “And that’s what you get for working double shifts on top of everything else,” she mumbled to herself.

  Something moved behind her near Cinderella’s ball gown. It was subtle, but it was there. She went statue still. The treasure room was warded six ways to Sunday, but Red knew better than to discount any blips on her situational awareness radar.

  Red stretched her arms as high as they could go and gave a fake yawn to cover her closer inspection of the gossamer gown. Yep, the gown was breathing—or at least whoever was huddled behind it was. On the street she would have attacked first and asked questions later. But on her turf? She wanted the Cinderella wannabe to spill how he or she got in here before turning the trespasser back into a pumpkin.

  Watching the dress out of the corner of her eye, Red opened the iron box and withdrew the velvet-and-jeweled sword case waiting inside.

  “Don’t touch it.” The dress shimmered as an invisibility spell dissipated.

  She knew that voice—rough around the edges with just enough smoothness in the middle to make a bad girl sit up and listen. “Liam MacTíre.”

  He appeared like a wall of testosterone-fueled muscle and pocketed a gold ring before she could get a good look at the crest. “You don’t understand what that sword is.”

  She swept her hand across the sword case’s sinfully soft surface and flicked open the hook holding it shut. “Why, because a girl can’t understand excellent weapons craftsmanship?”

  He stepped closer, whipping up the tension in the room that had nothing to do with the sword they were discussing. “That’s not—”

  “What you meant.” Knowing he wouldn’t rush her as long as she controlled the sword, she lifted the lid and her breath caught. “Good, because the Caladbolg sword is a thing of beauty and I know all about this badass weapon. It’s fifty-two inches long with a forty-two inch steel blade and a triple-fuller design, giving it even more strength despite a decrease in weight. She’s gorgeous.”

  It really was. Red hated to see it go, but she never held on to things that could be converted into cash. Still, after this incident, it wasn’t going home with Liam no matter how much he offered. “Who sent you to steal it?” Her hand hovered over the polished-steel grip. The air vibrated beneath her palm.

  “Trust me.” He stepped closer. “You don’t want to touch it.”

  An earnest thief. How sweet.

  “Honey, the only person I trust is myself. You better start talking or I’m going to take a slice out of you with this blade.” It would take two hands, but she was tall and strong; she could heft it.

  Weapons weren’t really her thing anymore. Normally she went for a more discrete approach to getting her way, but no one broke into her treasure room and walked away unscathed. Her reputation was the only thing keeping the king and the other jackals out there from scratching at her door until there was nothing left and she was out on the street again, just another jaded babe in The Woods.

  “It’s my sword.” Determination and the barest hint of desperation clung to him.

  “Really?” She shrugged. “It’s in my possession.”

  “It was stolen from my family generations ago and I mean to reclaim it.” Nothing but cocky self-assurance now.

  “I don’t offer reparations,” she said. “I conduct business.”

  He closed the distance between them, and for a second she basked in the bad-boy vibe coming off him in waves. It was enough to make even an experienced girl like herself blush. Another night, a different kind of break-in, and she might have gotten more out of this than the gnawing feeling in her gut that shit was about to go sideways.

  “You don’t have a second buyer.” One side of his mouth curled up in a smirk that was a serious danger to panties everywhere.

  “That’s what you’d like to think.” She dropped her hand an inch until it nearly touched the intricately carved grip. “Tell me how you got in here.”

  “I have my ways.” Liam’s gaze went left, zeroing in on her hand over the sword.

  “So do I.” And he was about to find out just what a girl who grew up alone in Dublin learned to do in order to stay alive. She lowered her hand. The sword felt warm against her palm, as if someone had just put it down after a long battle.

  “No, don’t,” Liam yelled.

  It was too late. Red curled her fingers around the grip and lifted it out of the case.

  Everything went fuzzy.

  It was like being hit by six bolts of lightning at once. The air around her hummed. The room wibbled and wobbled. Liam grabbed her shoulders as the sword dropped from her grip. In the distance she heard it clang against the concrete floor.

  But looking up into Liam’s blue eyes—so blue they reminded her of a postcard she’d seen once of the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Greece—she couldn’t care less about dropping a million-dollar sword. All she could focus on was him. His square jaw. And his arms, his arms, they were huge and covered in enough Celtic tattoos to make her brain flatline and her heart go into overdrive.

  How did the saying go? A woman like her doesn’t run toward a man, but if he has tats she might power walk? Yeah, that was it. Saints and fairies preserve her, she was power walking toward him without moving a muscle. He was perfect. Fucking perfect. How had she not noticed all of this before?

  “God, you’re hot.” All she wanted was to burn with him.

  Deep worry lines formed a V in his forehead. “Oh, shit.”

  His muttered curse was the last thing Red heard before everything went dark and she passed out in Liam’s strong arms.

  Chapter Three

  There weren’t any windows in the treasure room that Liam could see from his position on the floor, but according to the clock on his phone, it was way past dawn. Red sighed and snuggled deeper into his arms. She’d wake up pissed, he didn’t doubt it for a minute, but until then he got to look his fill at the woman fate had declared his true love.

  Like wolves, werewolves mated for life, and as soon as she’d touched that sword, she’d sealed the deal.

  Liam shifted against the hard ground. His ass had gone numb four hours ago, but he couldn’t leave Red by herself as she slept off the love spell’s initial whammy. No doubt she’d have questions. The why. The who. The how. The what now. As long as he could keep her away from the when, he�
��d have a chance to make it all work out.

  His phone buzzed. Trying not to jiggle her awake, Liam pulled his cell from his pocket and answered in a whisper. “Yeah?”

  “So you are still alive.” Max’s voice boomed through the speaker. The man did not have an inside voice. “Did you get it?”

  “Sort of.” Glancing down at Red, he didn’t let out his breath until she nuzzled her check against his chest and let out a contented and sleepy sigh. Her short gingham skirt had risen to show off several inches of brown thigh, the sight of which had tormented him throughout the night. “She touched it.”

  “That’s fast even for you.”

  Normally that would have made him laugh, but not today and not about Red. He pushed down the instinct to growl his disapproval. “Take your mind out of the gutter, Max. She touched the sword.”

  “No.” Every trace of laughter evaporated from his best friend’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, letting the reality of the situation sink in.

  “You are so fucked.” Max laughed, a big, booming sound that made the phone vibrate in Liam’s palm. “How long do you have before the spell wears off?”

  Not long enough. “Three days total and the clock started ticking yesterday.”

  He had three days to make her fall in love with him. After that, the love spell would wear off for Red—but not for him. He’d be in love forever with a life mate who probably wouldn’t want to have a thing to do with him. He’d be a werewolf abandoned by his mate, never to find another. The family name would die with him and he would have recovered the family’s Caladbolg sword for nothing. He will have failed.

  “So what are you going to do?” Maxim asked.

  What else could he do? “Get her to marry me.”

  “Good luck with that, jerk.” Red pushed away from him into a standing position and cradled her head between her hands. “What in the hell did you hit me with? Troll slime?”

  Her skirt twirled around her strong legs as she spun away from him, giving him the briefest view of white lace panties. The semi-hard-on he’d been fighting all night woke up and said hello. He jumped up to his feet before he got another look at what would surely torment him for the rest of the day.

  “Gotta go,” he snarled into the phone.

  “Have fun with your one and only.” Maxim hung up without waiting for a reply.

  ###

  Red had the worst case of cotton mouth in the history of oh-my-God-kill-me-now hangovers, but she hadn’t had a single sip of anything stronger than the bar’s watered-down OJ. She cracked an eyelid. The room didn’t spin exactly, but it glowed soft and fuzzy like a woodland pixie bonfire. In the middle, staring at her like a man ready to devour her whole—but in the good way—stood Liam. Her lips curled upward and her heartbeat went into teenage-girl-at-her-first-dance mode, all jittery and fast. It was new, this feeling, and it sent her brain into panic mode.

  Fight-or-flight response engaged, Red paced as she tried to get her bearings and quell the unfamiliar giddiness making her insides fizz with... happiness? “What time is it?”

  “Eight.” He stayed planted in front of the display case holding the little mermaid’s clamshell bikini top, arms crossed. He watched her with as much focus as a predator deciding whether to go in for the kill.

  Refusing to act as though she were anywhere but at the very tip top of the food chain, Red crossed over to him and—ignoring the way his nearness made her belly flop—reached behind him to tilt the bikini top display so the enchanted door would open. “I gotta get out front before the night rush swallows up Charming.”

  “A.M.” Liam shifted, blocking her from touching the display case.

  “What?” Her hand fell to her side, hitting her hip with a resounding thump.

  “It’s eight in the morning.”

  Frantic, her gaze crisscrossed the treasure room searching for the true Blarney Stone, the real one not the replica tourists kissed. She spotted it in the back. It remained as gray as iron, without a hint of the green glow denoting someone was telling a lie.

  “What the hell?” She scurried away from him and an ice pick of pain sliced her brain in half, knocking her off balance.

  Liam’s strong arms wrapped around her before her ass hit the ground. The pain disappeared in half a blink. Gone. As if it had never existed. Relaxing her back against his strong chest in relief, she closed her eyes and sighed, unable to hold the reaction inside. The stubble on his jaw scratched her cheek as he dipped his head lower and kissed her temple.

  Everything rushed back, like a movie playing on fast forward. Treasure room. Liam. Sword. Bolt of lightning straight to the chest. Bam! Darkness. Whatever this was, it smelled of magic, double-crosses and hot-dude sex pheromones.

  She peeled her back off his wide chest, immediately missing his touch and internally berating herself for it. Needing space so her brain could focus on something else besides Liam’s sinewy arms and firm pecs, Red took three steps before the pounding started again. She paused by the sword, letting her fingers trace the Celtic cross carved into its grip. “Spell or a curse?”

  “Spell.” He didn’t hesitate—a point in his favor.

  Finally, some good news. “So it can be broken.”

  Liam shook his head and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Not this one.”

  No. Every spell had an out. Witches loved loopholes. “Why not?”

  “We’re already bound together.” His gaze held steady. No jerk to the left to signify a fib. No sinking to the floor to avoid the situation. No skittering to the right to add mental distance between them. Just a steady gaze as solid as the floor under her feet.

  “Bullshit.” It came out too fast, too high. As if she were grasping at straws. Even if she was, she knew better than to let the truth slip out. Strangers couldn’t be trusted. Ever. This man, Liam, he’d done something to her that went beyond a cheap love spell. She squashed her nerves with a well-practiced mental shove. “There’s nothing tying us together.”

  He snorted. “So you don’t have a headache when I do this.” He crossed the concrete floor, getting as far away from her as possible in the tightly packed treasure room.

  The hammer whacking against her skull picked up the pace. She almost dropped to her knees, but like before, he was there to stop her fall. His legs were long and thick with muscle, but he shouldn’t have been able to cross the room that quickly.

  “How’d you do that?” Understanding prickled across the back of her neck before she’d even gotten the words out. Liam MacTíre was many things, but one-hundred-percent human wasn’t one of them. She hot-stepped it out of his grasp.

  “Cross the room so fast?” The wide yellow band around his blue irises grew more vivid. “Long story.”

  “I’ll make time.” Crossing her arms over her chest and planting her feet shoulder width apart, she tilted her chin up and gave him an icy smile, challenging him head-on. A scrapper, that’s how Granny had described her when she took a half-starved Red in after she’d been cornered by a roving band of tree elves. The elves had thought they’d found an easy target. They’d been wrong. Very wrong.

  “Do you know the history of the Caladbolg sword?” Liam wrapped his fingers around the sword’s hilt and lifted it from the velvet case. The sword was heavy—six-big-bags-of-dog-food heavy—and he held it as if it wasn’t any weightier than a pencil. The air shimmered around him.

  Refusing to acknowledge the magic winding around them, heating up the air, Red stuck to what she knew: Attitude. “Up until now, I’ve only been interested in the money that comes with it.”

  He held out the sword, testing its balance and weight, before turning it with the flick of his wrist. “Most folks think it belonged to Fergus mac Róich. According to the tales, when Fergus swung his huge sword in battle, a circle—like an arc of rainbow—appeared, juicing up the power factor and giving it enough umph to slice the tops off mountains and slaughter whole armies. It was
his greatest possession, but Fergus had a wandering eye and lost the sword in a battle after sleeping with a more powerful warrior’s wife.”

  “A sword for a sword, eh?” So what if she had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy.

  “Something like that.” He laughed; a big, booming sound that filled every nook and cranny in the treasure room and even shook loose a genuine smile from her.

  Wiping it from her face before he noticed, she hitched her chin at the sword. What she needed was information, not cheap laughs. It was the only thing that would give her the napalm needed to decimate the butterflies in her stomach that took to flight whenever she even looked at him. “But that’s not really this bad boy’s story though.”

  “No.” Liam laid the sword back in its case and closed the velvet lid. Some of the magic swirling around them dissipated and the yellow faded from his eyes, leaving them the clearest blue. “Have you heard tell of the talking wolf from Ossory?”

  “Werewolves? Please. They’re as extinct as the Dodo bird and my virginity.” Next he’d be telling her he’d found that bimbo Bo-Peep’s sheep.

  He rammed his fingers through his thick blond hair, sending the long strands every which way until they stood up nearly on end. One quick head shake and every strand fell back into place. “Once upon a time, there was a witch in County Cork who came upon a werewolf that wanted to be completely human. The witch warned him it had never been done before and she wasn’t sure he could. But he begged her to make him and his entire family human and, finally, she said she’d try. She performed a complicated ritual and the werewolf became, as did everyone in his clan, human.”

  A shiver worked its way up her spine, coaxed to the surface by his low, honeyed voice. The last time that had happened had been never. The fact that it wasn’t the man but the spell causing it just pissed her off. Some things weren’t meant to be magically controlled. Gathering her arms tighter around her, she hardened her tone. “Fascinating. Now, can story time be over so I can concentrate on how to break this love spell?”

  “Patience is a virtue.” He grinned, and it was all dark promises and hot nights.