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

That trust in Uthman was misplaced since he was the first to steal a piece of the meteor. With it, he granted himself immortality and magical powers. Uthman left the Pharaoh’s service, who was none the wiser to the stolen piece of stone, and he renamed himself Ozigeor.

He lived as Ozigeor for the rest of his life, but adopted aliases to fit the era in which he lived. Veda said Ozigeor had been in Berlin for the last fifteen years as Otto Von Schmidt, and while he’s known to the human criminal elements as being deep into black-market trades, his most valuable commodity is his expertise in dark rituals. Over the years, with the magic he’d gained and his knowledge as an Egyptian priest, he was known for creating sinister rituals, twisting existing ones to be even more evil, and he was the go-to source if someone wanted to summon a Dark Fae through the veil into the human world to cause chaos and destruction.

He was the oldest dark sorcerer known, and he was greedy, egotistical, and inherently dangerous.

I’m actually surprised Carrick is letting me come after hearing all of that.

But here we stand in a line cordoned off by a velvet rope, waiting to get into the nightclub Otto owns as one of his “legit” business covers. A man, most likely the club manager, walks down the line, checking out how people are dressed. Carrick places me on the outside so I’m on full display, my body half turned so the front and back of my dress can be seen.

The man takes one glance at me and undoes the velvet rope, pointing us to the front door and immediate admission.

At this point, I understand just how calculated Carrick’s choice of outfit for me was, and I think he’s brilliant to think of details like that. I’ll also admit without an ounce of shame that I love the feel of Carrick’s hand on my bare lower back as he guides me inside.

The club is dark but pulses with neon lights that match the tempo of the techno music. The dance floor is made up of lit squares of tile that make the bottom half of the patrons’ bodies glow and the upper part cast in shadows. Two operational bars are serving up cocktails, and an elevated DJ platform holds two men at turntables mixing up beats. The remaining space is filled with tables, chairs, and a cordoned-off area guarded by two huge bouncers I immediately peg as dark daemons. Beyond the rope, there’s a couch, several chairs, and a low-slung table. In the middle of the couch is a handsome, dark-skinned man who appears to be no older than his mid-twenties, dressed in a designer suit that looks incredibly expensive. He has a woman on each side draped over him.

It has to be Otto Von Schmidt.

Carrick sees him, too, and starts walking us that way. When we get near the rope, the two beefy bodyguards close in toward each other to block off the entrance completely. Hands clasped before them, one rattles off something in German.

Carrick can apparently understand what was said, but he replies in English, no doubt for my benefit. “Tell Ozigeor we wish to buy something he specializes in.”

Carrick drapes his arm over my shoulder, then brings his hand around to pointedly tap a finger on the stone that rests against my chest.

The intentional use of Otto’s evil sorcerer name as well as the tap on the large piece of jewelry I’m wearing guaranteed that one of the guards stepped over the velvet rope and went to the man on the couch, bending to talk to him. Ozigeor leans to the side to look around the bodyguard’s mass, studying us for a few seconds before nodding his head.

The bodyguard returns and steps over the ropes. With his arm swept out to the side, indicating the direction in which he wants us to go, he says, in English that’s heavily accented German, “Mr. Von Schmidt will see you in his private office.”

We’re led through the club to a back staircase that leads to a door with no visible lock but has an electronic pad beside it, where he punches in a code while angling his body so we can’t see. The lock clicks and he opens the door, motioning us inside. He doesn’t follow us in, but he stands in the open doorway watching us.

Carrick’s hand stays at my back as we look around with interest. The office is opulent and sleek. All black leather and chrome. There are two large windows, one that looks out over the club and another that looks out over a dark, back alley.

“I’m told you are in the market for a very specific product only I can provide,” we hear from the doorway, and Carrick and I both turn that way.