Warrior Fae Princess (Warrior Fae 2)

Chapter One

Steve hummed a little tune as he waited on the Brink side of the portal in the South Side of Chicago. He would get the rare opportunity of shepherding in the new guys Roger had sent to join Devon’s pack. Rough and fierce, these three shifters were called in when things got hairy. Given Charity was getting strong magical surges and needed to be rushed through the dangerous wilds to the Flush, a place in the Realm where a subset of fae lived, so she could get aid from what was hopefully her people, Devon was going to need experience in his numbers.

Speaking of Devon—Steve checked his watch—he and his pack were supposed to be there ten minutes ago. Their flight from Santa Cruz must’ve been delayed.

It wasn’t like Roger to trust Steve with authoritative duties. Hell, it wasn’t like Roger to trust Steve with anything besides fighting. The alpha liked to keep Steve on a tight leash where he could. Then again, maybe Roger thought Emery would keep things in line. The Rogue Natural would be leading them through the wilds, trying to sneak around the elves who were patrolling in large numbers. It would be a longer and slower route than most other ways, but that was why there wouldn’t be elves standing in the way. He knew the wilds of the Realm as well as anyone could. His knowledge made him indispensable. But his choice of company made Roger a little nervous.

Emery ran with a couple of magical chicks that could bring a grown man to tears. One of those chicks, a fire-starter with a joy of killing things, was shacking up with an elder vampire. Vlad’s buddy, to be precise. If they didn’t need his expertise so badly, no way would Roger use him.

Roger apparently didn’t realize that Emery wasn’t one to follow orders any better than Steve. He was supposed to be here too, but the mage had decided to wait in Seattle until the last minute, where he’d then use a couple of magical fast tracks, somehow skirting past loitering elves to do so, and rendezvous with Devon’s pack at the agreed-upon time and place. It was dicey, Emery’s plan, especially since he’d expressly forbidden those types of patrolled magical roads when Charity was in tow, but it wasn’t Steve’s place to say boo. Given that Emery wasn’t pack, Roger couldn’t do dick about his decision, which was how Steve had gotten the solo role of fucking with the new guys.

Roger should’ve known better.

Steve looked around the deserted warehouse parking lot. This place was a real dump. Trash littered the streets, show windows were boarded up or broken, and a couple of used condoms were draped over a cracked parking bump five feet away. A fixer-upper, but the people here sure knew how to party.

He hoped someone tried to mug him.

The portal shimmered white before a booted foot stepped through the jagged slice in the sky. Although Steve didn’t know these shifters personally, he’d seen all three of them in passing and heard plenty of stories. Steve combined with these three would equal ten decent shifters on the battlefield—they were that good.

The first to step through was Dale, complete with a stupid-looking mustache and a bump in the side of his lower lip from his chewing tobacco. He trained his small black eyes on Steve before letting them drift away, sussing out the area.

“This place is a shithole,” Dale said, taking a wide stance with his hands on his hips. “This where that chick’s father lives?”

“The broken-down warehouse, yes.” Steve pointed at the condoms. “This is her boudoir where she entertains menfolk. She wasn’t here, though, so they just got after it themselves. Too bad you missed the action.”

Dale shook his head, his gaze barely flicking toward the mess. “Do you got duct tape for that mouth?”

“My, my. Kinky. Sorry, Chuck, I don’t swing that way.”

Dale’s eyebrows pinched together. “My name is Dale, and I wanted that tape to shut you up, dipshit.”

Steve grinned. Nothing irritated self-important pricks more than when you got their names wrong.

They were here to do what Alder, the beta of the North American pack, hadn’t been able to do those few months ago—talk to Charity’s father and try to get some proof of Charity’s ancestry. They wanted to make sure she was actually custodes—a guardian—a subset of fae known to their people as protectors. Back before the elves took the Realm in hand, giving it order and decency, the custodes watched over the fae, using their superior strength and speed to keep the beasties away. It was because of this efficiency and brutality in battle that they earned a nickname from the rest of the magical world. They weren’t called protectors—they were called warriors.

Steve didn’t often listen to Alder’s history lessons, but this one had had him in rapt attention. He remembered Charity at what he now referred to as Vlad’s impromptu barbecue. She was fierce and intense, ripping through vamps and demons like she was born to it. It had been thrilling. He wanted to know more of her people.