Changeling's Fealty (Changeling Blood Book 1) Read online

  A sturdy-looking blonde woman, silverish tattoos tracing across both her cheeks and clashing sharply with a trim black suit identical to the men who’d brought me there, stood up behind the desk as I entered.

  “Mr. Kilkenny,” she greeted me. “We were expecting you, have a seat, the Magus is busy but he’ll be with you shortly. Can I get you a coffee? It’s from a local organic roaster; they’re really good!”

  It took me a moment to catch up with her rapid-fire delivery and confirm that I would like a coffee. She bustled me over to a chair, poured a cup for me and passed it over when I declined cream or sugar with a wordless nod.

  To my surprise, the receptionist was right—it was good coffee. Not too hot, either; the pot was apparently kept at just the right drinking temperature. After seeing me settled, the woman returned to her desk, doing whatever mysterious work it is that receptionists do when men like me are stuck in their waiting rooms.

  I’d just finished the coffee when she looked up from her computer and the door behind her popped open.

  “The Magus will see you now,” she told me. “It’s the first door to your left.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “What was your name again?”

  “Sarah,” she replied.

  “Well, thank you, Sarah. That was good coffee.”

  Passing the cup to her to be thrown in a dishwasher, I took a deep breath and walked into the Wizard’s offices. The hall continued with the same black and red tiles, but here the paneling was waist height in some rich dark red wood.

  The first door to the left was made of the same wood and was closed. I knocked.

  “Come in,” a firm voice ordered. I obeyed and took my first look at the Wizard of Calgary.

  Kenneth MacDonald was, without any great effort, the centerpiece of attention in the room, even if I couldn’t put my finger on why. The Wizard was of average height, several inches shorter than me, completely bald, and in every way utterly unimposing. Yet he radiated power in a way even a fae noble like Oberis couldn’t match. Everything and anything else in the room faded in comparison to the certain knowledge that one stood in the presence of one of the heirs of Merlin, nigh unto a demigod made flesh.

  “Lord Wizard,” I tried to say formally, but fear and awe drew a mortifying squeak from my lungs in mid-word. In an attempt to regain some composure, I focused my attention on the outer wall of the room, which was a single giant window looking out over the city’s downtown. Even this late at night, lights were on in many of the office buildings. From here, we looked down on most of them, including one narrow, needle-like tower that was probably supposed to be tall.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Kilkenny,” the Wizard said gently, apparently recognizing my discomfort, and gestured. A large soft armchair, one of four I now saw were set next to a table by a large roaring fireplace, floated across the room to drop in front of the Wizard’s desk. I obeyed the unspoken order and seated myself in the chair.

  “You are Jason Kilkenny,” he continued once I’d sat down, “changeling of no known bloodline, born in Georgia to Melissa Kilkenny, a professor of Irish history recently immigrated to the state, twenty-four years ago. Identified just over three years ago on your twenty-first birthday.”

  “How do you know all that?” I asked, impressed and even more terrified. With a chuckle, MacDonald turned the large flatscreen monitor on his desk to face me and I saw a picture of myself attached to a page of text.

  “I emailed a friend of mine among the Fae Council,” he told me. “They have a file on every fae they know about. Yours is the shortest I’ve ever seen, to be honest.”

  “Oh,” I breathed softly, not sure if I was reassured that his means had been mundane.

  “What is your purpose in Calgary?” the Wizard asked.

  “I’m looking to find a place to live and mortal work,” I answered. “I didn’t want all this hoopla; I just wanted to move in quietly and avoid politics and attention.” I was whining. I was whining at a Wizard. Shit.

  “This is, from the supernatural perspective, a backwater,” the Wizard told me. “It is a backwater of some importance, for many reasons, but still an area with few inhumans present. I insist on meeting all of us, for my own reasons.”

  I nodded, remaining silent and regarding the heavy wooden desk and the wall of windows behind it that framed the Wizard. He stood and turned to look out the windows himself, eyeing the brilliant lights of the business towers and homes.

  “My Order dislikes involving ourselves in inhuman politics,” he said to the window, the reflection of his eyes watching me. “However, I accidentally created a power vacuum here some years ago and found myself forced to impose order.

  “So, impose order I did,” he continued. “You have met my Enforcers.”

  It wasn’t a question, and I nodded agreement.

  “They bear my seal,” he told me, gesturing at the desk where I saw the front was engraved with the same stylized K as I’d seen on the SUVs. “Any man or woman who bears that seal speaks with my voice and will be obeyed as the law in this city. Do you understand me, Mr. Kilkenny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I do not care for mortal law,” the Wizard said simply. “My Covenant with the inhumans of this city is simple: I keep the peace. Murder, assault, rape—of mortal or inhuman alike—these will not be tolerated. Conflict between the species will not be tolerated. I will have peace to do my work. Follow these rules, and I will guarantee your safety. Now. Place your hands on my seal.”

  The order was unexpected, and it took me a moment to catch it and lean forward to place my hands on the seal burned into the front of the desk.

  “Do you, Jason Kilkenny, swear to uphold this Covenant, to observe my peace, and do no harm while within my city?”

  Oaths are not sworn to Wizards lightly. They have ways of punishing those who break them. I didn’t have a choice.

  “I do swear.”

  “Good.” MacDonald conjured, and the door behind me swung open. “This audience is over. Speak with Sarah on your way out; she will assist you in finding your mortal employment.” He eyed me over the desk. “Three days of succor won’t do you much good if you’re still unemployed at the end of it, and the job market in this city is a killer.”

  With a nod and a careful bow, I saw myself out of the Wizard’s presence.

  I almost ran right into the two men arguing in the hallway outside. One was huge, easily the largest man I’d ever seen. Dark-haired and full-bearded, he stood an easy seven feet tall and loomed like a human wall.

  “His word is final,” the other man told the giant, and I blinked as he came into focus. By any comparison except the man he stood next to, this man was tall, a few inches over my own six feet. He was shaven bald, and I could see lines upon lines of gold and silver runes tattooed up his neck and onto his bare head.

  “You ask me to allow the creation of weap—...” The giant cut off in mid-sentence when he saw me, then returned his glare to the tattooed man. “We will continue this conversation another time, Winters,” he snapped, and strode back towards the lobby.

  The tattooed man—Winters—looked at me.

  “You’re the new changeling, I take it? My master mentioned you,” he said softly. “Carry on.” He gestured me toward the front door.

  Accepting the dismissal as given, I quickly slipped out to see Sarah.

  “Who were those guys?” I asked her, as quietly as I could.

  “Gerard Winters and Tarvers Tenerim,” she answered. “Winters is my boss—the Head Enforcer.” Looking more closely at the blonde woman now, I realized that the silverish tattoos that traced around her cheeks were made of the same goldish-silver runes as Winters’ tattoos had been. “Tarvers is the Alpha of Clan Tenerim—the senior shifter clan in the city—and the Speaker for the shapeshifters in town.”

  I nodded, trying to organize a mental picture of the balance of power and authority in the city. The Wizard was unquestionably at the top, with Winters as his right-hand
man. Then Tarvers and Oberis, and I wasn’t sure which of them would be regarded as more “senior”.

  “Magus MacDonald said you’d be able to help me find work,” I told Sarah. “Something quick-ish, I don’t know if I can make it more than a week or two after my succor runs out,” I admitted.

  “Well, let’s see,” she replied, tapping away at her computer. “What are your qualifications?”

  “Umm...three quarters of a mechanical engineering degree and a lot of manual labor?”

  “Hrm,” she murmured, absently chewing on the end of a pencil. “Can you drive?”

  “Yes, but I think my license has expired,” I answered.

  “Oh, right, that’s not an issue,” she answered, and picked a manila envelope up from the desk. “The Magus conjured this while you were in with him,” she told me, and slid it across to me.

  I opened it and found a passport, birth certificate and driver’s license with my name, picture and age, but saying I’d been born in someplace called Winnipeg. Everything was complete, including—I checked against a light—all the watermarks and holograms. I could only assume they were correct as well.

  Wizards scared me.

  “Then yes, I can drive. Why?”

  “I have a friend with a courier company who’s desperate to fill a slot ASAP,” she answered. “I can have him give you a call in the morning, if that works?”

  “At what number... Oh.” The last item in the envelope, which I was willing to swear hadn’t been there when I opened it, was a top of the line smartphone.

  “The phone’s ‘service plan’ goes through a semi-magical relay that taps into everybody’s network—you won’t be getting cellphone bills,” Sarah told me with a smile. “I’ll have my friend—Bill Trakshinsky is his name—call you. Go get some rest.”

  Another suited Enforcer—this one in a shaven-headed variety with no visible tattoos—was waiting to take me back to the van.

  I managed to stay awake, despite the apparently standard lack of conversation from the Enforcer—Sarah was the only one of them who’d seemed chatty—to make it back to the Manor. The dingy bar had emptied out, but Tarva was still there when I all but ran into the warmth of the building.

  “You made it back intact, I see,” the nymph told me with a smile that would have broken the heart of a mortal man. She handed me a key. “Eric wasn’t sure how long you’d be at the Tower, so we booked you a room in the motel across the parking lot. He must like you,” she added, cocking her head at me flirtatiously.

  “Why?”

  “He and Oberis agreed to extend your succor to seven days,” she explained. “We don’t usually stick to the three days of tradition, so that’s not a lot more than normal, but we usually stick to five or six.” She shrugged. “Your room is booked for all seven, and you have a tab here and at the barbecue place on the other side of the strip mall that Oberis will cover.”

  She was right. That was generous, which made me suspicious. I didn’t think I’d made an overly good first impression, but apparently, I hadn’t shoved my foot in my mouth too badly.

  For a moment, I was content. Seven days, plus the cash I had on me, should get me through to my first paycheck if Sarah came through with the courier position. Then it all came crashing down with one horrific thought.

  To get to the interview, hell, to even get to the motel room, I was going to have to go back outside into that cold.

  The motel room turned out to be worth the trip across the parking lot. It was nothing pretty to look at, but the heat worked, the bathroom was clean and the bed was soft. Three out of three on that list is two out of three better than a lot of places I’d stayed over the last few years.

  I was woken in the morning by the ringing of the smartphone to discover that I’d barely managed to get my winter coat and gloves off before passing out on the bed. I groggily crawled across the room to grab the phone.

  “Kilkenny,” I croaked.

  “Jason Kilkenny?” the voice on the other end asked.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I confirmed, rubbing sleep from my eyes with my free hand.

  “Jason, it’s Bill Trakshinsky from Direct Couriers,” the man introduced himself. “A friend of mine said you’re looking for work, and I’m desperate for a driver. Can you come into our office this afternoon for a test drive?”

  “Of course!” I quickly agreed, trying to force enthusiasm through my exhaustion. “You’ll need to give me bus directions,” I added, “I’m new to the city and don’t have a vehicle here yet.”

  “Sure,” Bill answered cheerfully, and quickly reeled off a series of bus route numbers and landmarks that I carefully wrote down. “Two o’clock work for you?”

  If I followed his directions correctly, it would take me an hour to get to his office. That would let me sleep for four more hours and still have an hour to get ready.

  The sleep sounded amazing.

  “Sure,” I parroted back at him.

  Bill must have been even more desperate than the blonde Enforcer Sarah had implied. There were three delivery trucks sitting in their yard when I arrived, but I didn’t see any drivers when I entered—just a very harried-looking redheaded receptionist. She flashed me a “one minute” finger signal when I entered the spartan office, dealing with a customer on the phone who was clearly complaining about a late package.

  “Yes, sir, we’ll do our best, sir,” she concluded, waited a moment more, and then clicked the phone back onto its stand.

  “I’m Trysta; can I help you?” she asked with a summery smile, a welcome spark of warmth in the chilly day.

  “I’m Jason; I have an interview with Mr. Trakshinsky?” I told her.

  “Of course!” Her smile flashed again, and I couldn’t resist smiling back. “He’s on a conference call right now, but if you can wait a minute, he’ll be right with you. While you’re waiting,” she continued, apparently without breathing, “I need to run your driver’s abstract. Can I borrow your license?”

  Hesitantly, I passed her the license I’d been given last night. I presumed Sarah wouldn’t have sent me somewhere where their IDs would get me in trouble, but I wasn’t sure.

  Trysta hummed a bouncy tune as she worked, apparently without much difficulty, to pull up a fictitious record of my driving history.

  “There you are!” she announced brightly. “Looks like a clean record; that’s good.” She printed off a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “Take that in with you.” She checked her switchboard board. “Bill is free; head right on in.”

  She gestured to one of four plain white doors leading off from the reception area. I followed her instructions and went in to meet Bill.

  He turned out to be a crusty old fellow dressed in jeans and a faded blue dress shirt. I felt like he looked right through me as he looked me up and down, and I regretted the fact that clean jeans and a nice sweater were the best clothes I had.

  “Hmph,” he grunted at the sight of me, and took the driver’s abstract. He glanced at the sheet of paper and tossed it on his desk. “Come on,” he barked, walking past me.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “I don’t care if you talk pretty, do I?” he asked. “I care if you drive safe. So, come on.”

  I followed him out to the delivery trucks, where he got in the passenger seat and gestured me into the driver’s seat. With a deep breath, I obeyed.

  Bill’s idea of a “test drive” turned out to be “I’ll show you how the GPS works, give you an obscure address, and let you go find it.” The GPS was easily five years newer than the truck it was mounted on, a quiet and accurate little piece of technology.

  I found his first address quickly, so he gave me another one. I found that one. I handled one street covered in ice, at least three idiots I could swear were trying to kill us, and navigated to three addresses, each easily six or seven miles apart, before returning to the dispatch yard.

  Bill pointed me to the stall we’d pulled out of when we left, and I neatly parked the van. I
was a little impressed with myself until the old trucker grunted, “I’ve seen better.”

  “Oh,” I responded, crestfallen.

  “Check with Trysta for your details and paycheck setup,” he continued.

  “I got the job?” I asked, caught off guard by the sudden swing in tone.

  “Yup,” he answered gruffly. “Now go see Trysta.”

  The redhead happily rifled through my various identification.

  “Is this your current address?” she asked, glancing over the driver’s license and typing at blurring speed as she read everything.

  “No, I don’t have a permanent address here yet; I just moved into town,” I explained.

  “Not a problem; just let us know where you settle in when you have an address, if you could.”

  “Of course,” I promised. She continued on her way down the form and then ran two copies off on her printer.

  “Now, you get paid a week in arrears,” she explained quickly. “Start tomorrow, you’ll get paid for half of this week next Friday. Works?”

  “Works,” I agreed, quickly skimming the HR boilerplate and signing both copies of the form. “When do I start?”

  “Six AM tomorrow.” The girl—she was a year or so younger than me, I thought—sounded disgustingly cheerful at the thought. “We all start then,” she added.

  I groaned but nodded acquiescence.

  3

  Six AM the next morning, I reported to work and was promptly tossed into a van with Jake, the oldest driver at Direct Courier, to learn the ropes. He was on the edge of elderly, only a few years from retirement, with a thick accent and from somewhere in Eastern Canada I didn’t catch the name of.

  The two days I spent with Jake passed in an exhausting blur, but on the Friday of my first week in this frigid city, he pronounced me ready to go out on my own at noon. He helped me load up the packages Trysta gave us and sent me off on my merry way.

  I delivered everything on time, got the necessary signatures, and returned to the office to Bill presenting me with a beer and a clap on the shoulder—I was now officially part of the team.