He kicked me in the stomach, right where he’d shot me. I gasped with pain, collapsing to my back, staring at the arched stone ceiling. Shadows writhed along the pillars, as if this place were cursed. And maybe it was—Smithfield, the vortex of slaughter. Moaning, I gritted my teeth.
The fae smiled, apparently enjoying my grimace of pain.
At the sight of his shit-eating grin, rage flared in me. Fight, Cassandra. Always fight. If only there were some way I could use my remaining magic… I grasped around me for metal, glass, anything.
“No one to save you anymore.” He knelt over me, running a fingertip down my chest. “No more tricks. No more magic. Just me and you. Do you know what I think I’d like to do? Break your ribs, one by one. I want to see the fear in your eyes. What do you think, profiler? Will I enjoy it?”
A line of blood trickled from my mouth. “I think you need a more pro-social hobby.”
He leaned over me, his pupils black as coal, completely devoid of feeling. “Ready to die, mongrel?” he asked, pressing his knee on the gunshot wound.
I screamed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His fingers wrapped around my throat.
As if in a dream, I stared into his eyes. So soulless, so empty, that I could see nothing in them but my own reflection.
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
Despite my Special Agent training, I nearly got myself killed three seconds after leaving Heathrow airport. I could handle snipers, knife attacks, poison, bombs—just not cars driving on the left side of the road.
But hey, in my defense, I was a bit preoccupied with the serial killer case I’d been called in to profile.
Anyway, three steps into the road, and it was all screeching brakes, honking, and the words “stupid twat” and “fuckwit” piercing the air.
And I’d been thinking everyone in England would be polite.
As the red-faced man continued his tirade (“Watch where you’re going, fucking dozy mare!”), I jumped back to the sidewalk, cheeks burning. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. I was in England now. The land of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and—as I was quickly learning—inventive swearing. They drove on the left here, something I should really keep in mind.
Having oriented myself, I decided that maybe navigating my way to a bus in a foreign city in the middle of the night was beyond my capabilities right now.
I mentally scanned through everything I’d digested in my tourist guide on the plane: trains, the Underground, black cabs. Perhaps best to just get one of those. Supposedly, the black cab drivers were required to memorize the entire city, street by street.
I turned, catching a glimpse of the yellow Taxi sign by a long line of cabs. Pulling my suitcase behind me, I hurried across the crosswalk, back toward the terminal. As I hustled past the airport’s gleaming windows, I caught a glimpse of myself: pale skin, rumpled blond hair, wrinkled skirt, and coffee stains on my white sweater.
Apart from the gloriousness of my favorite black boots, I looked like shit.
I reached the line of black cabs, and a bearded man rolled down the window, leaning over. “Taxi? ”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, relieved. “I need to get to the Bishopsgate police station.”
“No problem.” He smiled. “Hop in. I’ll get your bags.”
I let him put my carry-on in the trunk while I slid into the back seat. At least some of them are polite.
The driver got in, switched on the engine, and rolled into traffic. I relaxed into the soft leather seat.
I stared out the window at the dark West London streets. I was pretty sure we had a long drive ahead of us to the other side of London—the part called “the City.” It was the old section of London, the part the Romans had encircled with a wall nearly two thousand years ago. The wall had fallen, but the ancient Square Mile still had its own governing bodies, separate from the rest of London. The Square Mile even had its own City police force.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. My stomach churned as I watched the contact name slowly scroll across the screen: Under No Circumstances Should You Answer A Call From This Ballsack, it read.
That would be my ex-boyfriend.
See? Brits aren’t the only ones who can swear creatively.
I’m not normally the angry sort, but when I’d come home to find that my boyfriend had left open a dating site on my computer (username: VirginiaStallion), the swears had just rolled off the tongue.
According to a quick Google search, the Virginia Stallion had also been quite busy swapping dating tips on bodybuilding forums. Apparently, wearing a nicely tailored suit attracts the ladies, and Valentine’s Day can be a nightmare when you’re “banging three chicks on the regular.” All things I’d learned in the past two weeks.