The Evolution of Fae and Gods (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 3)

Ozigeor’s accent is still deeply Arabic sounding, and his dark eyes narrow in on us shrewdly. He’s followed in by the other bodyguard, who closes the door behind him and they both post up to watch us with their hands clasped in front, their daemon expressions placid.

“Indeed,” Carrick says casually.

“I’m terribly expensive,” Ozigeor says, a way to let us out right now without further discussion.

Without a word, Carrick gently unclasps the necklace from around my neck and holds it out to Ozigeor to inspect. “Will this suffice?”

The sorcerer takes the necklace, examines it only briefly, and brings his attention back to Carrick. “This is a beauty.”

Then his eyes move slowly to me, raking down my body licentiously. Eyes pinned on my breasts, he says to Carrick, “I’ll take it and thirty minutes with your lady, then I’ll be glad to help you.”

I’m not offended in the slightest. Veda said he loved women and jewels, and I expect he’s the type who loves to drive a hard bargain.

But Carrick is enraged, and I let out a yip of fright at the sudden flash of movement as Carrick flies at the sorcerer. It’s so fast, I can’t even tell what happened but, within a nanosecond, Carrick has Ozigeor pinned to the wall, holding him a foot off the ground just with his hand at his throat.

This all happens before the two daemon goons can even unclasp their hands, but they eventually recover their wits and reach inside their coat jackets, presumably for guns.

While pinning Ozigeor to the wall, whose eyes are bugging out of his head, Carrick’s other hand flings out toward the two daemons. His fist closes as if he just grabbed something in the air, then it flings backward toward the window that looks out over the back alley.

Both daemons go flying through the air, arms and legs flailing as they scream in terror, and then they’re crashing through the glass.

My jaw dropped when Carrick first went after Ozigeor, but my chin is practically touching my chest when the two daemons disappear out the window.

I turn back to Carrick, who, as ever, looks completely unruffled, although I can tell by his expression that he’s still pissed at Ozigeor’s desire to have me as part of a bargain.

“Do you know who I am?” Carrick asks mildly.

Ozigeor can’t quite shake his head, but he makes a negative-sounding grunt.

“In your time, I was known as Atemu.”

Ozigeor’s eyes flare wide with recognition, and I remember Carrick told me that he used to be worshiped as a god under that name.

“Now, I know you think you’re immortal,” Carrick continues menacingly. “But if you believe who I am, you know I have the power to kill you a dozen different ways. My favorite, however, would be to chop off your head and balls and keep them in a glass container on my dining room table.”

The sorcerer makes a strangled sound as if he’s pleading for something.

Slowly, Carrick lets the sorcerer slide down the wall until he’s on his feet. He turns, bends, and picks up the necklace that had fallen to the floor before handing it to Ozigeor. “Now… let’s try this again. If you look at my woman again with anything but respect, you’ll lose your head and balls. You give me the information I want, you get this necklace and you get to keep your head and balls.”

I hate to say it… but at this moment, Carrick has never been hotter.

Ozigeor rubs at his neck, starting to cast a furtive glance my way before remembering he could lose two precious body parts, then gives his attention to Carrick. “What do you want?”

“I want to know about changelings,” Carrick replies simply.

Ozigeor shrugs. “What’s to know? It’s just an exchange of a fae baby for a human one. The fae baby becomes human and grows up as such, until it’s time for it to turn back into a fae.”

Again, so fast I can’t quite make it out because he’s a blur, but I think Carrick punches Ozigeor as his head snaps backward and he howls as he grabs his nose, blood pouring from it.

“Son of a bitch,” he yells, immediately grabbing a wad of tissues from his desk and pinching his nose with them to staunch the flow.

The necklace has once again fallen out of his hands, and when Carrick bends to pick it up this time, he turns and hands it to me. “Hold this for him, love. No telling if I’ll need to hit him again.”

Love.

He called me love.

I take the necklace and nod with a stony expression, not wanting Ozigeor to know how much his endearment meant, nor even how much enjoyment I’m getting out of Carrick and his arrogant ways.

“Changelings,” Carrick says, turning back to Ozigeor. “Go deeper.”

Ozigeor glares at Carrick, but he starts talking, his Arabic accent almost comical from the nasal tone of his pinched nose. “Before the changeling is placed, it’s touched to both parents so that it turns human and takes on their physical likeness. Placing a changeling and then stealing the human baby is a form of ritual that will harness and amplify power. It was primarily a tool by the Light Fae to build up their powers to pre-fallen status.”