The Violent Fae Read online

  Contents

  Part 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Part 2

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Part 3

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Phil Williams

  Copyright

  Part 1

  1

  Letty had a simple plan.

  When the physician returned to take her vitals, she’d jam the plastic fork in his eye. Well, near the eye, close enough for him to hand over the keys and whatever information she needed. The guard, a young one-eyed guy with a half-melted face, would get it, too. She’d recovered enough energy now. Her chest barely hurt, she was breathing freely. All good, considering the last thing she remembered was getting shot in the chest. There was a bruise, but no bullet hole, no scar.

  Her captors had healed her, but it didn’t excuse them locking her up in a whitewashed room with no windows and an adjustable bed as comfortable as a pivoting plank. She was going to break their jaws and get out. Then she’d tear through Ordshaw following Lightgate’s blood trail. That lunatic Fae needed her face smacked into the ground before she hurt anyone else. And to get her back for that gunshot in the chest. And just because she was a lunatic.

  With that done, Letty would break into the Ministry of Environmental Energy’s offices and take the Dispenser by force – fuck it – and finally lead her people back underground.

  She’d do it all, the second she got her hands on that plastic fork.

  The lock clicked and Letty clutched the side of the bed, ready to pounce. But the Fae who strolled in behind the one-eyed guard was someone new: a beanpole in a three-piece suit, slim with little round glasses perched on his nose, holding a big plastic disk. He was young, with the aura of a lofty accountant, and spoke in an educated tone: “Letty, good to see you awake.” She’d heard that voice while wrestling through drugged-up sleep. And – yeah – she’d met him, in Broadplain, around the time she realised Lightgate was preparing to screw everyone. “You remember me? Edwing. The Chair of Information for the Fae Transitional City. This is my brother, Flynt. I want you to know you’re not a prisoner.”

  So the one-eyed guard was this beanpole’s brother. Slim but ripped with muscle under a tight t-shirt and jeans, Flynt stood at Edwing’s shoulder, a revolver holstered low at his hip. His dark hair needed combing, and while an elegant black patch covered one eye, he could’ve done with covering the rest of that burnt half of his face. Words catching in her dry throat, Letty growled, “A locked fucking door is a prison.”

  Flynt grinned, showing a damned gold tooth. That smile disappointed Edwing. “You can go, Flynt. We’re sending the wrong message.”

  “All the same, Edwing,” Flynt said, “I might talk her language better than you.”

  Still, Edwing indicated the door. “I’ll shout if I need you.”

  Flynt took his time leaving and the suit paced further into the room. Past the room’s one decorative feature, a mounted flat-screen. “Sorry there’s no view, but –”

  “I can improve it,” Letty said. “Once I ram your head through that TV.”

  Edwing faced her dead on. Either too arrogant or too ignorant to be afraid. He held up his big plastic disk and turned it around: a concave, elliptical device with three concentric rings on its curved side, the outer two translucent like tube lighting. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Robotic human diaphragm?”

  “It’s a Clear Glider,” Edwing said. “Released this spring. Almost silent, mimics a second wing so well you wouldn’t notice the substitution. The system of Svenkin propulsion, I’m told, is the closest we’re likely to get to an anti-gravity engine.”

  Letty had no idea what Svenkin propulsion was, but got the point: this thing could replace her severed wing. The ability to fly properly would greatly improve her chances of escape. “What do you want for it?”

  “Nothing you don’t want yourself,” Edwing said, resting the Clear Glider on the foot of the bed. “You remember what you went through? You were unconscious for some time.”

  “Sure. Lightgate shot me when I tried to stop her killing humans. How’d that go?”

  “Not well,” Edwing replied. “You, however, were lucky. The strap of your artificial wing stopped the bullet. It left you with a cracked rib and concussion from a nasty fall, but nothing a course of medicinal dust couldn’t take care of. You’ll soon be fighting fit.”

  “I’m never not fighting fit,” Letty said, stirring. “I could be flopping about on bloody stump legs and still be fighting fit. And you know that, with your ‘not a prisoner’ bullshit.”

  Edwing didn’t blink. “You’re tough, Letty, but it’s dangerous outside these walls. Half the Fae call you a hero, the other half a liability. Both hold you culpable.”

  Letty snorted. “And Lightgate?”

  “No one admits to having seen her. I’m afraid you have all the attention. Hence, this room.”

  “Hence, you’re a dick.” Letty adopted his stuffy tone. “Tell me you know where she is, at least? Tell me I gave her more than a fucking bruise.”

  Edwing shook his head. “Fortunately, Flynt found you before anyone else did, but she was long gone. Well enough to escape, it seems.”

  “She’s never been well in her batshit life.”

  “Nevertheless, Governor Valoria’s Stabilisers are scouring Ordshaw for you.”

  “Let the fuckers come!” Letty spat aside, a globule of saliva hitting the wall. Edwing stared with more curiosity than distaste. Not taking her seriously. They both knew the significance of the Stabiliser threat. Val’s elite soldiers, Fae who hunted other Fae.

  “We’re at a crossroads,” Edwing said. “Valoria is still telling everyone that your human friends are a serious threat to our community – that they’re on the brink of invading us, even. She plans to cut the FTC off from the humans entirely. Her people are tracking down other Ordshaw Fae exiles to limit potential leaks.”

  Letty gave him a level look. “So give me that wing and I’ll take her down.”

  “You don’t understand. The FTC is locked down. You are not a prisoner, but –”

  “I understand well enough.”

  Bracing one hand against the bed, Letty launched up with an outstretched kick to Edwing’s chest, a glancing blow but enough to send him stumbling. She swept the Clear Glider off the bed and rolled to the floor, down into a crouch, ready when Flynt rushed in with his gun drawn. He was looking Edwing’s way as she charged. She drove her shoulder into his gut and burst past into a short corridor, hatches to other levels in the floor and ceiling, another door at the end of the hall – an exit. Running, she rolled the Clear Glider over in her hands, searching for a way to attach it – the back had a couple of pipe holes. Was this some kind of fucking joke?

  Not stopping to figure it out, Letty slammed through the door onto a tight metal platform, a bal
cony with no railing, four Fae storeys up. She skidded to the edge, catching her balance before falling. There was hard concrete below, a metre or more down. Too far to jump. Breathing into her wounds, she realised fresh pain was already spreading across her torso. She spun and saw rungs beside the balcony, sunk into the wall like staples. The most rudimentary Fae fire escape. Opposite this building was another, about a foot away, made up of stacked metal containers, each the size of a human shoebox, welded together from scrap. Beyond that was empty space, the vast floor of a human warehouse with a wall far away. Hell. It was the edge of the Fae Transitional City itself. The place she’d been driven out of so many years ago. And there was a lot of open ground to cover, on foot, if she was to leave again.

  “Letty,” Edwing said behind her, urgent, “come back!”

  “Piss off.” Letty held up the Clear Glider like it would protect her. Flynt was next to Edwing, his pistol down at his side, looking more worried than threatening. These whelps weren’t stopping her.

  Dropping the useless artificial wing, Letty jumped onto the ladder rungs and started down. She descended a storey before the pain in her chest made her pause.

  “Letty!” Edwing hissed, leaning over the balcony, fearfully quiet. “It’s not safe!” Flynt was scanning the sky above. Between them and the distant ceiling was a whole lot of nothing.

  “Movement,” a metallic voice called from somewhere unseen, and a glare appeared, high up. Someone with a searchlight. Letty checked the next balcony, a short distance below. She jumped as the light swung from the opposite block towards her. The voice returned, through a loudhailer: “Peripheral citizens are not to move beyond the city limits.”

  “We got a right to be here!” Flynt called up as Letty darted into a doorway. Just in time; the searchlight scanned the balcony, its source getting closer. Bracing herself against the door, Letty found the handle and rolled inside.

  “Scout Chief Flynt?” the metallic voice continued.

  Letty scrambled into an unlit corridor, kicking the door closed behind her. A light came on, and Edwing appeared halfway down the hall, pulling shut a ceiling hatch behind him. Trapdoors – the Fae answer to stairs.

  “The hell is –” Letty started, but Edwing put an anxious finger on his lips for quiet, floating to the floor. Above them, Flynt was talking to someone, a man.

  “They want you, Letty,” Edwing whispered, “for the same reason we do. You have friends amongst the humans. Ones outside the Ministry. The difference is, we want to nurture that.”

  He said it almost pleadingly. Talking about Pax, wasn’t he? The one human Letty could rely on. Hell, the only person she’d been able to rely on. Pax risked her neck to get the Dispenser back from the Ministry’s Greek Street office, before everything went to shit. Then what? Stopped the Ministry from decimating the FTC after Lightgate unleashed a monster on them, surely. Pax was the only person remotely capable of convincing the Ministry goons to give the Fae a break. But where would she be now? If not wanted by the human government, then another target for the Fae?

  Letty gave the exit another look. She’d need that artificial wing, and more of what this clearly harmless suit was offering. Perhaps her escape plan had been rash. She turned back to Edwing.

  “You got a phone?”

  2

  Pax held a pair of queens.

  The best cards she’d had in an hour. Half a day into the World Poker Tour, she was barely hanging on. The biggest game in town – maybe the biggest in Europe right now – and a win could cover her bills for five years. Could build a career to replace hustling for pennies. Except tournaments required the sort of luck you couldn’t wait for, and she’d barely picked up a decent hand all morning.

  The kid in early position mumbled a big raise, turtling inside his grey hood; an internet player who would push with nothing, just what she needed. Except Dutch McRory followed, in middle position. “I’ll raise.” He barely looked up, as casual as ordering an espresso. He scanned his own stack, the pot in the middle, the young guy’s stack, running the calculations. “Six thousand.”

  He’d tripled the kid’s bet and created a pot half the size of Pax’s modest stack. A roller-coaster drop: if she wanted in, she had to bet everything. And one of these two would certainly see her. McRory was a legendary poker author and three times World Series bracelet winner. Re-raising in middle position, against an early opener, he had something. Almost certainly a pocket pair, aces or kings, ace-king at worst. Or did he just have the gall to move against an overeager youngster? With four people still to act? Unlikely.

  The action folded to Pax and she gave her queens another look. The third-best starting hand in Texas Hold’em. Against two guys claiming something big, third-best was dubious. Lose now, with a month’s rent spare, and she was back to grinding local clubs. Brushing shoulders with men she now knew to be bloody criminals, who she’d rather never see again. Bees, Jones, Monroe – all men who knew she knew they were bloody criminals.

  She needed these queens to be good. Go All In, triple up against two weaker pocket pairs or an ace that didn’t hit? Or lose and put herself firmly in the gutter? Her instincts said walk away. Survive for later. Or was that just fear? Another way to lose, folding away to nothing . . .

  In the background, the central hall of Featherback Casino was loud with spectators and table shuffling. The World Poker Tour’s first Ordshaw outing had swelled with the city’s recent troubles: poker players were nothing if not thrill-seekers, and the crowd were eager to explore dangerous Ordshaw for mutant alligators, since the news had reported subterranean tremors and sewer monsters attacking offices. The reports were a long way from the reality: those monsters and crumbling buildings were connected to forces no one understood. In case she unwittingly revealed she knew that, Pax had been studiously avoiding TV cameras and loudmouths who hounded her on realising she lived here. She was trying to focus, at least for a minute, on improving her life.

  As the minute dragged longer, McRory gave her a gentle look. This man had taught her so much through his books, and they had never spoken. Now he was reading her, this daft woman in loose jeans and a tatty hooded sweatshirt, better suited to loitering on street corners than challenging poker millionaires. And she saw, in his expressionless face, that to go All In with the queens would be desperate.

  “I want it too much,” Pax said, and slid her cards to the dealer.

  Two more folds and it went back to the kid, who immediately announced All In himself. McRory called without excitement and the kid flipped over ace-king like he’d already won. McRory showed aces. Bullets that would’ve cut Pax down. The dealer drew the community cards: a king on the flop, so the kid would’ve beaten Pax, too. Instead, he mumbled ungracious defeat and stalked away. McRory offered a sad look, this ruddy white-haired American who’d seen off countless hopefuls. He asked Pax, “Queens? Jacks?”

  “Queens,” Pax admitted. A rake-thin player in a loose red shirt laughed. It was the table’s other celebrity, Yannick “YnkSpotX30”. An online millionaire who hadn’t met a single person’s eye since he sat down, and didn’t now.

  “Thought you were off with the fairies,” Yannick joked in a Scandinavian accent, massive Adam’s apple bobbing. Pax blanched at the expression. By pure chance, he’d broached the exact subject she was avoiding thinking about.

  Part of her wanted to lose, to be away with the fairies. Her Fae friend Letty was out there unaccounted for. Sam Ward from the Ministry of Environmental Energy had failed to make any inroads with the Fae Transitional City; no one knew what the Fae were planning behind their closed doors, nor if they had any idea themselves what had become of Letty. Last located at the scene of a massacre, no doubt caused by Lightgate. No doubt something Letty tried to stop.

  What the fuck was Pax doing? Mulling over cards while her friend might be dead –

  Yannick continued, “Champion material, she is. Representing for you, girls.”

  Pax frowned, drawn back into the room. Yannick was
addressing his fans, who offered appreciative hoots. The group gathered at the rail comprised spotty, bespectacled guys and glamorous blonds, none much older than twenty. Except one. Catching her eye, Pax half-rose from her seat.

  Holly Barton, penned in by younger women, smartly presented with her short bob of hair and ironed blouse, didn’t share the mood. She waved with an awkward not-sure-what-I’m-doing-here smile. Pax’s heart skipped – did Holly bear bad news: another kidnapping, a Fae attack, something worse? She excused herself from the table and pulled Holly aside. “What are you doing here?”

  “Joining the zeitgeist, apparently,” Holly said, jostling to get free from Yannick’s fans. “How long has poker been a spectator sport? I have no idea what everyone’s watching – were they impressed that you lost a hand?”

  Pax almost smirked, but the ill-feeling remained. “Holly, is something up?”

  “What? Oh.” Holly threw a look back towards the main entrance, the gilded double doors barely visible through the bustle. “Grace wanted to come, but I called and they wouldn’t let a teenager in. I told her we’d only be distracting you –”

  “Why would Grace want to come?” Pax guided Holly away from the crowds.

  “For support, of course,” Holly said. “Though Grace shouldn’t be walking anyway. Which Diz isn’t helping with, jaunting about like his ankle was never broken. Thank you, miracle glowing liquid. And where are your family, your friends?”

  “The guys I play with would find this game too rich or too public.” Thankfully. “But you’re not really here to cheer me on, are you?” Pax could buy it from Holly’s daughter, or the wayward young vagrant Rufaizu, who the Barton family had temporarily taken charge of, but Holly was no cheerleader.

  “Well,” Holly said, cagily, “you’ve not answered our calls.”

  Pax offered a guilty smile; Holly didn’t sound entirely serious. In the two days since they’d all escaped the threat of gun-toting fairies, no one could blame Pax for being a little on the quiet side. She had imagined the Bartons, like her, had mostly been sleeping and talking evasively with Ministry agents. Only, where Pax had swindled a ticket to this tournament, they’d had the responsibility of house-training Rufaizu.