** Could an undying love blossom in the ruins of a shattered world? **
And so the world of men was lost
and a new one, our world,
was born.
- Morrígan
Goddess of the Battle
of the Túatha Dé Danann -
4th cycle anno Bellum.
The Second World War...
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Myreille led Zane back to the entrance, where a massive door led into the vault and the winding corridors.
"What do you think you're doing, sweetheart?" a smoky voice reached her ear as soon as she stepped out the door.
Myreille's muscles tensed instantly, though her head turned deceptively slowly to take in the source.
Leaning casually against the wall, the fae they had passed at the entrance was dragging on a cigarette. Behind him, the dark eyes of his goons stared back at them.
If she'd had a heart, her pulse would probably have quickened now ... but luckily for her - and the cat - hers had long since stopped.
"Tadgh," she said deceptively calmly, gesturing for Zane to stand behind her. Cursed and sewn up! Of course, they wouldn't get out of here that easily; it would have been naive to hope so... But the first obstacle right here? That was... annoying.
The Fae detached himself from the wall and pushed the cigarette between his lips. They stood facing each other in the corridor like two enemy commanders on a battlefield. The air was so thick you could have cut it with a knife.
"What are you doing here, Myreille?" the dark voice asked as the piercing gaze traveled over her face, which was still covered by the mask and lace veil. "I'm pretty sure... that this thing is not in the protocol...(*)"
"Assuming it is..." the Strigoi replied, jutting her chin up to look directly at the Fae. "What would it cost me to keep it that way?"
Tadgh was the head of the snake; the others were just henchmen. Lackeys who danced to his tune only saw what he wanted them to see. So she had to convince him first.
The fae laughed, and the dark brows under his fedora lifted as he let out a thoughtful hum. 'If you don't want us to wipe the floor with him, it will cost you... after all, we'll surely be slaughtered like rats if this gets out...' he muttered, leaning down to the petite figure.
The long, pale fingers lifted and played cheekily with the hem of the veil, slipping underneath and sending an unmistakable message as they stroked the soft curve of her jaw. "Damn, girl, is he worth it?" he asked, disbelief in his dark voice that she, of all people, had put herself in this position for a traitor and wanted man. "Is he that good?"
