Thea Harrison: Storm's Heart

Tiago reached the conference room. It was a large executive boardroom with all the perks: black leather seats, a large polished oak table, state-of-the-art teleconferencing equipment and mysterious black metal contraptions that Tiago had been told were designer cappuccino and espresso machines. He couldn’t remember the instructions for how to operate them. As soon as he had realized they weren’t some kind of newfangled weapon the sentinels would be trained to use, he had lost interest in the conversation.

Dragos and all the other Wyr sentinels were already in the boardroom. Tiago almost twitched when he saw that Dragos’s new mate, Pia, was also present. She had come out of nowhere and now all of a sudden she played a major role in Dragos’s decision making.

When Wyr mated, they did so for life. It was a rare occurrence, especially in their exceptionally long lives, and it was an irrevocable one, so the change was here to stay. Dragos’s mating had sent shock waves through the Wyr demesne, and no doubt through all the other demesnes as well. It wasn’t a change Tiago liked, but he, along with the rest of the world, had to suck it up and start getting used to it. Dragos, a massive dark man with gold dragon’s eyes, paced at one end of the room.

“About time,” the Wyr Lord snapped.

Tiago stalked to his customary corner where he held up the wall during their sentinel meetings. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Tiago’s sharp hearing caught Dragos’s mate, Pia, as she whispered to the gryphon Graydon at her side, “Are you sure he’s housebroken?”

Tiago chose to ignore her. Instead he took his first good look around at those in the room. All the usual suspects were present, minus one. The four gryphons, Bayne, Constantine, Graydon and Dragos’s First sentinel, Rune, were all tawny, suntanned and muscled. They kept the peace in the Wyr demesne. The harpy Aryal, who was in charge of investigations, sat with her arms and legs folded, jiggling a foot. That chick didn’t do well with the concept of sitting still. Cuelebre Enterprises’ head of security, the gargoyle Grym, sat by Aryal as usual, half of his attention on the harpy. More often than not, when Aryal’s impetuous temper got her into trouble, Grym was there to haul her ass out of it.

Tiago scowled as he acknowledged the one person who had not joined them, and who would never join them again. Tricks, the faerie who used to head the PR department for Cuelebre Enterprises, had been an integral part of their group for a long time. Odd, how the absence of one cute little faerie could cause such a big hole in the room.

Then there was yours truly. While his Wyr form was known to the American Indian nations as the gigantic thunderbird, most just saw his human form, a six-foot-four, two-hundredfifty pound male with barbed wire tattoos circling thick muscled biceps and swirls shaven into his short black hair. His face looked like it had been hewn with a hatchet, and he didn’t often remember to smile. When he did, he seemed to cause alarm more often than not.

Here was the central dynamic of his life: while he went about the business of war, the usual tenor of his days was surprisingly peaceful. The reason why was simple. People tended not to argue with him.

Several hundred years ago he had become head of Dragos’s private army, most of which was currently traveling back from a canceled engagement in South America. He should be traveling with his troops and preparing for their next assignment instead of sitting in New York with his thumb up his ass. Fuck.

The upset in the room finally registered. Tiago’s eyes narrowed. Everybody had some kind of unhappy vibe going on. He said, “What’s up?”

Dragos spun at the end of the room and paced another lap. “Tricks is missing. She’s not answering her cell either.”

Tiago straightened from the wall and planted his hands on his hips. “She’s only been gone four days. What happened?”

Dragos turned to the huge flat-screen on the other side of the room and aimed a remote at it. “Some people have already seen this.”

Tiago turned. The flat-screen came alive to MSNBC morning news. The running ticker tape across the bottom of the screen indicated it was from this morning. The recording was only a couple hours old.

An unsmiling female reporter faced the camera. “It’s a story that could have come straight from a faerie tale—a fictional one, that is. It has captured the imagination just as Marilyn Monroe once captured hearts all around the world. For many years Thistle Periwinkle has been America’s sweetheart and one of the most famous public personages of the Elder Races. She has acted as PR spokesperson for Cuelebre Enterprises since the early 1970s. Both the paparazzi and the public love her. She has graced international magazine covers, made regular TV appearances, and was once a guest on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show . . .”

Tiago’s brows lowered in a scowl as photos and film clips of Tricks were shown while the reporter spoke. Taken from a wide variety of sources, they showed the petite faerie in different styles over the years. He learned more about her in just a few minutes than he had ever known before.

In one film clip she wore her hair in a Mary Tyler Moore flip. In another, her dark hair was teased and bouffant, à la Monroe, as she winked at the camera. In a third clip from the 1960s, she wore long braids, platform shoes and a tie-dyed minidress. The braids clearly showed delicately pointed ears, long dark gray Fae eyes that were larger than most humans’, high-cheekbones, a snub nose and angular face and a full mouth that was more often than not beaming a wide smile.

This was not going in a good direction. His stomach clenched. He demanded, “Why are they talking about her in the past tense?”

He got shushed by several of the other sentinels who were focused on the screen, their expressions tense. His scowl deepened, but he turned his attention back to the film clip. It cut back to the reporter, who said, “Then just days ago America was shocked when Dark Fae King Urien Lorelle was killed in a freak riding accident . . .”

“Freak riding accident,” Graydon snorted. “Yeah. He accidentally got torn apart by an angry dragon. Oopsie.”

This time Tiago joined in shushing the gryphon. The news segment was just getting relevant.

“. . . and it was revealed that Thistle Periwinkle was in actuality Niniane Lorelle, the long-lost daughter of deceased Dark Fae King Rhian and his Queen Shaylee. Niniane Lorelle had long been assumed dead, but both DNA and magical tests confirmed Thistle Periwinkle’s claim. She was indeed the heir to the Dark Fae throne.” The reporter paused dramatically. “After the break we’ll show the already infamous footage captured last night on a bystander’s cell phone. The clip shows an incident that has left three Dark Fae dead and the heir apparent missing. Posted to YouTube late last night, the video has quickly gone viral. It has taken the Internet by storm and left the Chicago police and Fae authorities asking serious questions. What really happened in that dark Chicago alley last night? Is Niniane Lorelle responsible for the Dark Fae deaths? Where is the heir apparent to the Dark Fae throne? Stay with us.”

Violence fulminated in the room as the scene cut to a toilet paper commercial. “Shit,” said Dragos as he looked at the remote. “Just a sec.”

The commercial went into fast-forward.

Rune said, “She was right about what she said before she left. We need to change how we think of her. We should remember to call her Niniane now.”

Pia said, “She must be so scared.”

The Dark Fae society had been under Urien’s iron-fisted rule for the last two hundred years and had for the most part become closed off from the rest of the world. Tricks—or Niniane, whatever—had gone alone to meet representatives of their government, individuals who had unknown allegiances and motivations.