Old Fashioned_A Temple Verse Series Read online

  “Hmm,” I replied, considering how to respond. Could I tell Robin about what had happened back at the garage? Not with Christoff and Hilde; I still wasn’t sure what to make of that, although in hindsight I was fairly certain the soldier Robin had taken down may have used the device I’d found to save himself…or take Christoff with him. But the time lapse? The do-over? Would Robin even believe me? Part of me hoped he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d tell me it was all part of my imagination, and I could write off the fact that I’d seen him die…

  Yeah, right. Wishful thinking.

  Or maybe telling him about it would break the time-space continuum or something. I’d seen enough movies to know better.

  I opened my mouth, prepared to speak anyway, when I saw something shiny on the exit road ahead; Robin had taken us on a route off the highway, headed towards the hospital—the only place I could think of where we might find a way to reach Jeffries or Lakota. I frowned and pointed at the shiny surface of the road, trying to figure out what light it was catching with the sky so overcast. “What’s that?” I asked.

  Robin squinted, then swore. He slammed on his brakes, hard, the tires squealing as he swung us around, trying to avoid whatever it was. But it was already too late. We hit the patch of black ice at a pretty good clip and slid, spinning in circles before careening into a guardrail. The air bags deployed, slamming us both back into our seats.

  Sometime later, I groaned. My eye throbbed. My chest and shoulder, too. The storm had broken, and I could hear sirens in the background. Rain poured all around us, some of it splashing through the shattered windshield. I fought to turn my head, looking for Robin, and found him unconscious, blood all over his face. A grinding noise brought me back around, but my movement was too sudden. The world went fuzzy as something the size of a crane reached out to draw me, limp and addled, from the wreckage.

  That was the last thing I remembered.

  Chapter 34

  I woke up in chains.

  And in a fucking dress.

  I opened my eyes, groggily, and immediately wished with every fiber of my being that I could simply pass out again. My body hurt all over, from the accident, which came back to me in pieces. Swerving. The collision. Being carried somewhere.

  Outside, the rain beat so hard it sounded like chips of stone striking pavement over and over again. My wrists ached, and my shoulders burned so badly I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out; they were hiked up and held by a thick set of manacles, the chain of which went up higher than I could see. My feet, mercifully, were on the ground, or else I’d be in even more pain than I already was; hanging from one’s arms is a torture all on its own.

  I glanced around, trying to figure out where I was. A factory of some kind, maybe? It was definitely an industrial building—too many machines with functions I could only guess at. Despite the fact that it was 70 degrees outside, I could see my breath. I shivered, chills making me writhe—which only made the pain worse; I whimpered, then hissed, trying to chase away the pain by getting pissed off.

  One day that would work, I was sure.

  “Oh, you’re awake. Excellent. I hope you don’t mind the dress. That jacket was appalling,” Jack Frost said as he stepped into my line of sight from behind one of the bigger machines, hands behind his back like some sort of British aristocrat, dressed in a pale blue dress shirt and dark blue slacks. “I’ll admit I was surprised to find you’d survived the car crash. I suppose you can thank Throm for bringing you here.”

  I frowned at the memory of being carried by inhumanly large hands. Inhumanly large and…blue? I shook my head to clear it, but all that did was remind me how much the rest of me hurt. I winced, then glared at Frost. At least the black ice on the road in the middle of spring made sense now. But how had he found us?

  A groan to my left gave me my answer; Jeffries, his suit splattered with blood, hung there, visible only in my peripherals when I turned my head as far as it would go. His eyelids fluttered, but otherwise there was little sign of life. How long had he been here? How long had I been here?

  “Ah, it seems your companion is also awake.”

  “What’s he doin’ here?” I asked, mostly to myself.

  “Same as you. Hanging around,” Jack said, smirking.

  Oh, great. A punny psychopath. My favorite.

  “He’s a fascinating Manling,” Jack continued. “A sensor of lies. Quite the skill. He and the Seer did an excellent job, tracking me down. Of course, they should never have involved the Chancery. Too many prying eyes and ears.”

  “What d’ye want?” I asked, cutting to the chase. As much as I enjoyed a good monologue, I wasn’t all that interested in how I’d gotten here so much as how I could get out of here; the longer he left me hanging like this, the less I’d be able to do when I finally got free.

  If I got free.

  “Who, me?” Frost asked, surprised. He seemed to consider that for a moment. “What a mortal question to ask…”

  “What d’ye want with me?” I clarified, grinding my teeth. Sure, I’d put the FBI on his scent, but abducting me couldn’t have been terribly convenient. Had I pissed him off so badly when I shook his hand that he’d come after me to settle the score? Or was it something else?

  “Oh, self-interest,” he said. “Much better. The truth is I want nothing from you. I’m pretty sure Throm liked the color of your hair and decided to bring you to me as a gift. Like a cat leaving a dead mouse in your shoe. Well, a soon-to-be dead mouse, anyway.”

  “Throm?” I asked, choosing to ignore his threat.

  Frost pointed across the room. I frowned, following his finger. On the far side of the building, something moved. My eyes widened. What I’d originally mistaken for heavy machinery was, in fact, an impossibly large man-like creature. A hand, so big it took me a moment to process it even was a hand, rose and waved. From this distance, at a guess, I’d say he was at least thirty feet tall. Built like a prison inmate—his upper body heavyset, his legs thin and knobby—Throm looked as if he could tear apart houses with his bare, blue hands. Stubble littered his cheeks, each hair on his face as thick as an icicle, with the same consistency.

  “One of the smaller Jotnar,” Frost explained. “The Ice Giants from Jotunheim.”

  “Where the fuck d’ye get an Ice Giant?” I asked, my jaw still hanging. Jotunheim was one of the nine realms described in Norse mythology, separate from our own realm, which they called Midgard. Frankly, aside from Hilde, I’d never met—nor expected to meet—any of the Norse races; they were notoriously isolated. I’d taken a professional interest in the Norse pantheon years before, trying to get my hands on some of the epically cool shit their dwarves had reportedly forged.

  Frost cocked his head. “You didn’t think we took only human offspring to raise in Fae, did you?” He shook his head. “Throm’s mother left him to die, thinking him too frail, and so I stole him away to be raised among my kind. Among his own people, he would be considered frail. But the Fae don’t discriminate. Size is not strength. Power is strength.”

  I had a flash of insight. “Is that why you’ve been murderin’ people, Ripper?” I asked. “To gain power?”

  “Oh yes, the clever FBI Agent brought that up. Impressive. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten. You lose track of such things when you return home. But yes, killing those mortals had seemed the most expedient option.”

  “Expedient?” I spat. “Ye murdered people. Innocent people. Ye took away mothers from their children! D’ye know what it’s like to grow up without a mother, ye Fae piece of shit?”

  He waved that off. “You wouldn’t understand. None of your kind could. You lot live here, after all.” His electric blue eyes stared off at nothing for a moment. “I don’t know what it is about your realm, but it makes you care so much about abstracts. Justice. Morality. People you’ve never met. Life. Death. The Chancery,” Frost said, scoffing. “What an absurd thing they’ve created. They’ve forgotten what it means to be Fae. But they must be reminded, if
they hope to survive what’s coming.”

  Jeffries groaned, again, then coughed. “What’s coming?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “The Fomorians,” Frost answered, as if we should know exactly what that meant. “Something has called them here. I sensed it, too, the moment I was sent back to the mortal realm. It’s in this city. Like a beacon, drawing them close.”

  I could still see the writing on the wall, written in the blood of that poor, mutilated woman: Beware the Fomorians. Frost must have written that. But why? Who, or what, were they? Before I could ask, Frost roused himself. “Anyway, don’t worry,” Frost said, “I’ll be sure to kill you quickly, I promise, once I’ve finished with the Seer.”

  Jeffries struggled, still groaning, but seemed as securely bound as I was. “Why the kid?” I growled. “What happened to the Twelve Days of Christmas? Couldn’t find a convenient target for ‘seven geese a’ layin’?” I asked, trying to bait him.

  Frost shook his head. “That may not be necessary. Not now. The Seer’s power should be enough to complete the ritual and finish the song. I believe I can use it to ferret out whatever is calling to the Fomorians. With one sacrifice, I will end the threat that looms over this realm and save you all. You’re welcome.”

  “I swear I won’t let you touch Lakota,” Jeffries whispered.

  Frost snapped his fingers, and the air, already chilly, took on a brittle quality. “Let’s test that, shall we?” He reached out and flipped a switch. The sound of grinding machinery whirring to life echoed throughout the building until I saw Lakota, strapped to a conveyor belt, slowly nearing us. He was unconscious and naked from the waist up, and…a girl. Definitely a girl.

  Huh.

  Talk about a plot twist.

  I blinked a couple of times, just to be sure I wasn’t imagining anything, but I wasn’t. Lakota had breasts. I’d never noticed them under…her clothing, so she must have chosen to dress in a way that hid it from others. Or, I just really sucked at noticing things. I leaned to glance back at Jeffries, but the FBI Agent wasn’t even looking; he’d delivered his promise and promptly passed out. I wondered if he knew. But then, at the moment, it hardly mattered.

  Boy or girl, Lakota was at the mercy of a killer.

  And there was nothing Jeffries or I could do about it.

  The Faeling rolled up one sleeve and slid an iron blade across his forearm, hissing as he sliced open his own flesh. He flung his arm up, and droplets of his blood—as red as mine—flew into the air. They froze, then extended, lengthening to become slender needles of ice, and began spinning—interlocking at different points to form a sort of rotating language.

  I’d never seen anything like it.

  It reminded me of ritual magic; a type of sorcery used to draw circles or cast curses. Elaborate, complex, and time-consuming, ritual magic was routinely practiced by witches or summoners, not by Faelings. As far as I knew, the Fae never bothered with anything that fancy; magic came to them as easy as breathing.

  This, well, this looked like work, and it was taking up Frost’s entire attention.

  Which is perhaps why Frost hadn’t noticed that—while the rain had stopped—the thunder hadn’t.

  And it was getting much, much closer.

  Chapter 35

  An ear-splitting crash tore through the building as what I could only guess was a door went soaring past me to collide with some other contraption, the din of metal on metal almost as loud as the bellowing roar that echoed throughout the building a moment later.

  A roar I recognized.

  I glanced over to see Frost was too focused on his blood-cicle ritual to notice the party crasher.

  Paul, the bridge troll, came lumbering through the opening he’d created, his thick, hairy green hide covered in assorted furs, including shoes made from skunks. Unfortunately, Paul’s warrior mode—which included tearing doors off their hinges—also came with a need to assert masculine dominance.

  Because he immediately hiked one leg up and took a firehose-sized whiz on the floor.

  “Really, Troll?” I heard someone grumble. “Now we all have to run through that, you realize?”

  “What’d Paul do?” someone else called out from behind her.

  “He peed on their floor.”

  “Nice one, Paul! Way to show them who’s boss!”

  Paul grunted and fist pumped before coming forward, walking gingerly around Jeffries. He stared up at the man as if debating whether to eat him or not, then saw me and brightened. “Ruby!” he bellowed, calling me by the nickname he had come up with for me. He wrapped one massive hand around the chain holding me and yanked, tearing it loose from the ceiling. I fell and rolled to my right, which turned out to be pretty lucky; the remainder of the chain and part of the ceiling crashed down only a few feet from where I’d been standing, sending debris everywhere.

  I got to my knees, I tried to, anyway—with the dress on, the best I could do was slide my legs underneath myself and sit up—cursing as the pain in my arms grew even worse now that they weren’t being suspended in midair. Paul eyed the chain in his hand as if debating whether or not to keep it, then dismissively dropped it—which was good, considering I was still technically attached to it by the manacles around my wrists.

  “Quinn! Are you okay?” I heard someone—the voice who’d cheered Paul’s dominance by urination—ask. I spun, only to find Robin’s bushy beard inches from my face.

  “Oy!” I leaned back a little. “Personal space, Robin. But aye, I’m alright. Listen, ye have to get Jeffries and Lakota out of here. Especially Lakota. Frost plans to kill her,” I said, talking so fast I sounded like I’d had twelve shots of espresso.

  “Easy there, we’ll get them,” Robin said. He jerked his head back towards the door, where a small host of Fae stood, eyeing the big yellow stain in the middle of the floor as if deciding the best option to get around it. There was Cassandra, astride Black Beauty, her spinal cord whip in hand. Barb, dressed in tattered black robes, hood up, floating in the air like a sexy Dementor. Dementress? And, lastly, a third Faeling I didn’t recognize. She was draped in furs, her eyes literally on fire, a black bow strung over one shoulder.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. Said she was a friend of someone named Othello. Cassandra seemed to trust her, and I wasn’t exactly in a position to turn down help. Besides, she said she could hunt you down, so I followed.” Robin shrugged, then glanced up over my shoulder. His baby blues went wide. “What the hell is that?”

  I turned. “Oh. That’s Throm.” Throm, finally realizing it was time to earn his keep since Frost was still completely focused on his ritual, had risen to his full height, looming so far above us that I could barely make out the features of his face from this far down. Only Paul, who was about a third of Throm’s size, seemed unfazed; of course, he wasn’t exactly the brightest member of Team Quinn.

  “What’s a Throm?” Robin asked, sounding only slightly terrified.

  “Ice Giant. Jotnar,” I elaborated, “from Jotunheim. Frost raised him.”

  “He raised him? Like a pet?” Robin’s eyes went even wider. “What would it take to feed that thing?”

  Before I could reply, Paul took off at a dead sprint and charged at the Jotnar, ramming his shoulder into the Ice Giant’s kneecap. Throm grunted and wobbled a little before swatting Paul away like you might a small dog trying to piss on your leg. The bridge troll rolled to his feet and prepared to strike again, but I could see it would do no good; despite how hulking and strong Paul was, the bridge troll didn’t stand a chance of bringing the Ice Giant down with sheer force.

  Thankfully, it seemed the three female Faelings had survived the yellow pond of testost-urine and were prepared to offer reinforcement. The Faeling I hadn’t recognized approached, gazing down at me. I felt something, a certain kinship, register immediately. Which meant—if Dobby’s warning could be believed—that I should be wary around her. “Get her and the other two mortals out of here, redcap,
” she told Robin without breaking eye contact with me. “We’ll handle the giant,” she said, jerking her chin at Cassandra and Barb.

  “How d’ye know Othello?” I asked her, just as she was taking a step towards her chosen foe.

  The woman paused, considering her response as she turned a level gaze back to me. “She’s mentioned me to you before, I should think. If you’d have been smarter, you’d have sought me out, first. Then none of this would have happened.” She took off before I could refute that assertion, moving with unbridled grace and speed, testing the draw of her bow in one smooth motion—as easy as brushing aside a spider’s web—like a sexier, scarier, more powerful Hawkeye with flaming peepers.

  Not Hawkeye, I decided.

  More like…Hawteye.

  As Hawteye joined the fray, Cassandra slung her whip with the sound of cracking joints that would make a chiropractor squeal, the force of her motion winding the bony cord around Throm’s ankle, constricting it. Then, before the Ice Giant could react, the Dullahan turned, tied the whip handle to her saddle, and charged forward with Black Beauty. The whip went taut, and Throm was pulled off balance by the weight of the lunging stallion. The ground shook as the Ice Giant fell to one knee.

  That’s when Hawteye made her move.

  She ran right towards the Ice Giant and commanded, “Troll! Down!”

  Paul dropped to all fours as if he’d been struck by the hand of God, eyes bugging out of his head. Hawteye leapt up, planted one foot in the middle of Paul’s back, and used her bow to pole vault into the air. She hung, suspended for an instant, before landing gracefully, rolling to her feet.

  Throm roared, clutching at his eyes, and Robin winced.

  “What was that?” I asked, feeling like I’d missed something.

  “She shot him in the eyes.”

  I hadn’t seen a damned thing. No one could draw a bow that fast. Especially not twice.

  “But, he’s so big…” I drifted off, frowning.