7. Chapter Seven

KIERAN

This place smells like shit.

The stench crawls up my nose and into my lungs, seeping into my skin. Pungent tobacco, all manner of illicit drugs, sweat, actual shit, and heavy perfume and cologne stinks up the air. Under it all is a distinct metallic tang that coats the back of the tongue.

I don't like being here.

Espero isn't an easy place to find. Not if you're of pure heart, as you'll be misdirected every time you walk in its direction. You won't find it on a map. Powerful magic keeps it hidden from the low-level royal guards that patrol this part of Occasus.

My time in the underworld, though I don't recall the short time I was there, proves mine is pitch-black. I'm irredeemable. It's no wonder Rose doesn't want to have a mate like me.

But still, I find myself here, trying to tip the scales. To do something worthy of this eternal misery.

I duck through the gates and fall into step amongst the assorted crowd of mostly fae and a smattering of witches. A snaggle-toothed berserker chews on a bone next to me, and I resist the urge to pluck it from his fingers as the sound grates on my ears. A short witch with sallow, pockmarked skin, greasy hair, and oversized pajamas bumps me as she makes to pass. She snarls—evidently, I'm going too slow for her.

I hiss at her, my serpent rising to the surface just enough to warn her. The witches' eyes flash in fear when she glances back at me and hurries away.

Normally, I keep a tight leash on my serpent, but if there's any place to embrace it, it's here in Espero, where strength, power, and cunning are the currencies of survival. Most of these people belong at Bedlam Penitentiary, and only escape punishment because they're undetectable here.

Here, they lie, steal, cheat, and kill instinctively. Here, everyone is fiercely territorial, looking out for themselves alone. Why? War has stripped them of everything, leaving behind raw, seething cores hungry for power, safety, and sometimes vengeance.

When He, whoever he is, came knocking and promised something better, it's no surprise many were quick to pledge their swords or deceit in exchange for a glimmer of hope. Espero is a den where a fae's baser needs—to fuck, to fight, to claw out an existence—are not just met but celebrated.

Too bad it's all a fa?ade. The underbelly of this small city hides something far more sinister at its core, and I'm hoping I can provide just what they need to dismantle it from within.

I don't want to solve the world's problems. Nor do I care if people use drugs to escape their miserable lives—the gods know I've done enough of that myself—but I do care about people being held captive and traded as though they were a commodity. I'm one of the few who can do anything about it.

Serpent venom is my commodity of choice, provided free of charge.

Rather than heading for the stall I'd normally meet the old witch at, I slip into a back alley and squeeze through a small door more fit for a ground gnome than a full-grown fae. The door creaks open with a protest, too small and narrow. Serpents aren't the biggest fae order, but we're much larger than humans and this doorway leading to the tavern's storage room.

The air inside is thick with the scent of old wood and stale beer, mingling with the sharper tang of spirits that never made it to the front bar. Shelves cluttered with unmarked bottles and dusty crates line the walls, some stacked so high they disappear into the darkness above.

Shitty light filters through a grimy overhead bulb, painting long shadows and giving the place an aura of neglect and secrecy. The floor is a patchwork of old, cracked tiles and uneven wooden boards that groan underfoot. Every corner seems to hold a discarded relic from the bar's busier days—a rusted bar stool, a broken sign, a faded poster peeling from the wall.

This is where our backup meeting space is. The small network of rebels in Espero send a delegate here every Saturday evening at exactly nine o'clock. Just in case there's news from the outside that needs to be shared, or vice versa.

"You're over a week late."

The noise startles me so suddenly I almost go full-serpent. I spin towards the sound.

Just Callum.

"For fucks' sake, don't scare me like that." I grip my chest, scowling at the scent-cloaked human in front of me. I normally meet with one of the elderly witches in charge of the rebels, though Callum is usually sent when I bring in more supplies than the witches can safely carry with magic. The human has on at least fifteen layers of clothes and boots with risers in them to give off the illusion of being fae—at least from a distance.

He has no magic. Not even a trickle of a charm running through his veins.

"Ach, sorry about that," Callum whispers. "Guess this stuff really works, doesn't it?" He pulls the neckline of his many shirts out to sniff himself before shrugging.

I throw up a sound barrier to contain our noise as I continue to glower at him.

He looks about my age, so around twenty-five human years. He's got green eyes, red hair, and pale skin. The accent is a dead giveaway—thick and rolling, definitely from somewhere up in the northern territories of Earth.

It's right about then I notice he's got blood seeping through his clothes. Normally, that would be the first thing I smell. But the de-scenter is spelled by one of the rebel witches and it makes it so I can't scent a damn thing about him. "Is that yours or someone else's?" I gesture towards his abdomen. There's quite a bit of it.

He shakes his head, grimacing. "One of the guards got me real good when I tried to keep him away from little Aaron. Some kind of ice spike, I think. Nearly froze me to death a few hours ago. Hurts like a sonofabitch."

"Fucks' sake, those need to be tended to." I've been on the receiving end of a few of these, being raised by my grandma after my parents died. But I'm fae, and it's no more than a little slap on the wrist for us. But to a human? "Show me," I snarl.

Callum carefully peels back the layers of his clothing, his face contorting in pain as he does so. As he lifts his shirt, a cold, harsh reality hits us both. The wound is far worse than he let on; not only is there a steady flow of blood, but the edges of the wound are tinged with an unnatural blue, the flesh around it hard and cold to the touch when my fingers probe the area, like the onset of frostbite.

He glances down, eyes widening in shock. "Oh, shit," he breathes, pulling the shirt up higher to reveal more of the icy affliction. The wound looks like it's been carved by winter itself, spreading a creeping frost across his skin that shouldn't be possible in the temperate air of our surroundings.

"I didn't realize it was this bad," Callum mutters, his words shaky. The cold seems to radiate from the injury, chilling the space between us as I kick some boxes out of the way and lower him to the floor.

"Hold still for a moment." I focus my attention on the wound. Despite my serpent nature, my grandmother's frost fae heritage grants me a unique blend of magic—one that gives me an edge in dealing with cold-related injuries. Kneeling beside him, I place my hands over the icy blue edges of the wound. I draw upon the warmth of my serpent fire, a heat that simmers deep within my core, ready to counter the biting frost.

The room around us grows warmer as I channel the heat through my palms. Callum gasps as the warmth meets the icy bite of the wound. "It's burning," he murmurs, but there's relief in his voice.

"Just a bit longer," I assure him, pushing more warmth into the frozen flesh. Slowly, the blue tinge begins to recede, the frost melting away under the influence of my magic. The blood flow normalizes, and the hard, frostbitten edges soften, regaining the natural color of almost healthy skin.

After a few moments, I withdraw my hands, the effort leaving me drained but satisfied with the result. The wound is no longer a threat of frost, though it still needs proper care to heal completely.

"Now I'm going to heal it. This shouldn't hurt, though it might itch a little." A faint, green glow emanates from my hand against his abdomen. His abs flex, and when the light fades, I rise to my feet.

He glances down, looking around at it from different angles. "It's completely healed." His gaze snaps to mine, and I raise a brow as I help him up.

"That's how healing works."

Callum chuckles. "Not for humans, it doesn't. Thanks, mate."

I step back, eyes wide as I shake my head, hands raised in a placating gesture. "No, no, we're not mates."

How do humans mate? I assumed it was the same as us, but perhaps not? I suppose he's conventionally attractive, probably more so to humans, but I'm definitely not into him like that.

Callum and I have only met up a handful of times, just for me to give him some venom. The other times I've met with an old, nearly toothless witch.

"Oh." He lowers his shirt, straightening his posture, though I don't miss the slice of hurt rippling across his features. "My mistake."

The curiosity is killing me, so I blurt out, "Is that really how they mate on Earth? Or is it a Scottish thing?"

"Wait, what?" He itches his head, mussing his red hair even more.

"Humans. How do they mate?"

Little lines crinkle around his eyes and his face goes all red before a tiny wheeze escapes him. He doubles over, and I'm wondering if maybe the stories about changelings are true and I'm about to witness him shifting for the first time. That is until he braces himself against the door and throws his head back to laugh.

"You see," he breathes, or tries to. "When two people fall in love," he squeaks out between peels of laughter, "he shows her his one-eyed snake, and the bird gives him a warm, wet hole to bury it in."

It takes me a moment to catch on to what the hell he's talking about, like it's a foreign language. "Fucking hell," I mutter. "I know how people have sex."

"I like you well and all, friend." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "But I wouldn't want to be saddled with you for the rest of my short life. Mate means friend in some parts of the human world."

I shrug his arm off my shoulder and shake my head at him. "How the fuck was I supposed to know that? Mate means something else entirely here." I know exactly who I want to spend the rest of eternity with, and it isn't this human.

He doesn't respond, and instead just gives me a shit-eating grin.

"How many have they taken this week?" I grumble, changing the subject, and I watch as his smile falls.

Callum winces, glancing towards the giant stack of crates blocking the door to the main part of the tavern as he lets out a sigh. "Sixty-two; six from the England, forty-two from America, one from Russia, two from Poland, one from Japan, one from Canada, and the rest from Scotland."

"Why so many from America?"

He studies me for a moment. "They have no healthcare and have a lot of debt. Lured them in with the false promise of universal healthcare and no student loans."

I shake my head. Barbaric. "How about Scotland?"

He huffs. "Same way the bastards got me. I was at the pub with some friends, and they offered to show me a real faerie."

"The humans there know about the fae?"

"Many of us believe in faeries. It's all legend to some, but there are a few who know the truth."

"Though you should know we're not faeries. We're fae."

"Have ya got wings?"

"Some of us do."

"And magic?"

"Yes."

He shrugs. "Faeries. Sidhe. Fae. Same difference. Some legends depict them with wings, magic, and the power to enchant or curse. In the old tales, they'd whisk folks away to their realm for dancing and debauchery that could last for what seemed like a blink or an eternity in the human world. Others told of bargains struck that could bless or doom a soul depending on the fae's mood." He sighs, resignation and wistfulness softening his voice. "So, to the locals, the line between myth and reality is thin as a whisper. That's how easily some fall into the trap. If they'd known what they're all really like …" He shakes his head.

"We aren't all like this." I hold out my hand for him, palm up. "I can fill a few jars if you've got ‘em."

He sucks in a tight breath. "Yeah, yeah. Hang on." Callum scans the messy stock shelves filled with bottles of alcohol, from absinthe to mead and everything in-between. Hidden behind a bottle filled with bright-green La Fee Verte is what he's looking for. He grabs three jars and hands them over.

Raucous noise sounds from behind the barricaded door, and the human glances nervously at it, shifting his weight as he darts his attention back to the jars in my hand.

I throw up a glamor, one that mutes our noise to outside ears even further, helping redirect any ambient sound so it doesn't sound like just a void in the room. "Grab onto me," I grumble.

Callum extends a hesitant hand, finally resting it on my shoulder. I close my eyes, imagining a blanket draped over us, rendering us invisible. Our timing is perfect. Just as we vanish, a bartender bursts through the stockroom door, grumbling to herself. She hoists a barrel over her shoulder and pushes the door open again to return to the bar.

Trembling next to me, heart racing, the human lets out a whoosh of air. "Fuck, I thought we were done for."

"Let's just get this done so you can be on your way." I pull back the rubber seal of the jar with a practiced ease. I tilt my head forward, feeling the familiar pinch as my fangs extend, sharper and longer than any serpent's I know. The venom rises, a tingling heat flooding my jaw—it's uncomfortable yet strangely satisfying to release. As I bite down on the rim, the venom drips out, its acrid scent filling the air, reminiscent of bitter almonds. Relief washes over me as the pressure in my glands eases with each drop that falls.

I fill three jars, and by the time I'm done, I'm both mentally and physically spent. Shoving the jars into Callum's chest, I stagger back, my head spinning. It's always taxing to do this, but because I've been out for over a week, I want to give them more to make up for it.

The human steadies me, eyeing me cautiously. "You alright there?"

"Yeah," I grumble. "Don't let that touch you. See if you can get them to organize a party for the guards. You can dump a jar in the barrel of their beer before it's served."

"Good thinking." He checks the seal on the jars before depositing them into the bag slung around his shoulder. "One of our contacts is spiriting away a group of fifteen this weekend?—"

"Spiriting away?"

"Yes, teleporting."

I cock my head at him. "That's called sifting." It's something only shifter fae can do. And luna fae, who aren't technically shifters, though they can go feral.

I've seen a tiny taste of the beauty of a luna fae going feral. It was when Rose attacked me on campus, and I couldn't even be mad. She could've stabbed me, and I would've thanked her for it.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "Still like spirited away better." Straightening his many shirts, he brushes his hair back out of his face. "Taking them to Sundahlia. One of ‘em is only eleven. Took her right out of an orphanage."

All the air whooshes out of my lungs as grief sears my chest. "Eleven?" Technically, that's older than me. Physiologically, though, she's a human child. I feel my serpent rise to the surface, unable to control the ripple of rage that follows on the heels of my pain.

It's moments like this where everything I'm doing, everything I've done, reminds me that it's worth it. But it feels like too little. Not enough.

I've got to figure out how the fuck to get these humans out of here. And then? Figure out how the fuck to stop whoever is organizing this because cutting off all of its limbs doesn't help. I need to go for the head.

I just have to figure out who it is first.