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“If I wanted to keep this dirtbag alive, I wouldn’t have come to this place,” I grumble, huffing as I adjust the weight of my burden.
Said dirt-bag groans, shifting in my arms.
The sleeping pills I slipped him hours ago are wearing off. Muttering to myself about the uselessness of modern medicine, I wave a hand. Bands of ice appear around the scumbag’s hands and feet, strengthening the already present zip-ties. Satisfaction roils through me as I nod at my handiwork. “Let’s see you get out of that.”
I have been hunting this particular Fae for the past three months, one of my longer missions, but finally, he slipped up and made a mistake two nights ago.
This Fae was particularly tricky to catch, a little smarter than most, but finally, the idiot had gotten smashed and slipped up. He proved the point that I always tell my benefactors: every Fae has a weakness. Find it, exploit it, and wait for them to fall prey to themselves.
Works every time.
After all, I’ve been around for a long time. Sure, technology has changed. But a bastard is still a bastard, even if their clothing has changed. If anything, the evolution of technology has made my job a lot easier. Being out of the Winter Court, access to technology is as easy as snapping my fingers.
I silently bound across the dock as I head to my destination. My skin crawls as I think about why I was sent to retrieve him.
This particular asshole has a taste for little girls and whiskey. Two things that definitely shouldn’t go together.
Forty-eight hours ago, I had been tossing in my bed when my FaePhone chimed in the middle of the night. Casting aside any pretense of sleep, I rolled over and unplugged it from my charger before flipping it on. Pressing my finger to unlock the top-of-the-line technology, I scowled as I took in the picture this slimy Fae had posted on social media. His audacity shocked me.
The caption beneath the photo read:
Living it up in Vedon #toocoolforschool #funwithFae #partyhard #threesome
In the picture, my prey was too-tight leather pants with a white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to allow his curly black chest hair to peek out. He wore an overly large belt buckle, clearly overcompensating for something. He looked like a greasy fifties film star.
The worse thing, though, hadn’t been his disgusting appearance. That was the two skinny human girls hanging off his reedy arms. They couldn’t have been a day over sixteen. The photographed humans gazed adoringly at him as if this Fae were the golden-skinned Raphael Zeus himself, not some skeezy, low-powered Fae.
Shuddering in disgust, I snapped a screenshot of the fugitive and sent it to my benefactors before flying to Vedon. The city is known for three things: sex, drugs, and money.
The entire three hours I spent in the massive city were too much. I cannot emphasize enough how much I hate Vedon. It might be the worst place on the entire planet of Aranthium. I would rather spend days in the Gates of Hell with High King Hades, the DemiGod of the Dead, before I return to Vedon.
The city is in the middle of a desert, not a top vacation destination for Winter Fae. Not only that, but Vedon attracts all types of creatures looking to party away from the prying eyes of their family and friends. Fae, Vampires, Pixies, Warlocks, Angels, Were, Daemons, and even humans flock to the city all year round to gamble their lives away.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, in this case, it’s worth a hundred thousand dollars.
When they hired me, my benefactors were clear they wanted two things. Proof that this Fae bastard is a criminal, and for him to disappear. The photo was all the proof I needed.
Any self-respecting Winter Fae would never be caught dead in Vedon, the land of laughter, sin, and trickery. It stinks of the Summer Fae through and through. But clearly, this bastard is not that. Considering he is a low-power Fae with barely enough birthright magic to conjure up an icicle, it isn’t exactly a surprise.
That’s why it took me so long to catch him. He’s a coward who rarely uses his pitiful supply of magic so I couldn’t trace his magical signature. Every Fae has one. It’s like a fingerprint that belongs only to them. Usually, I can track those within a few days.
Grunting as I toss the pedophile in the trunk of the SUV Blake left parked for me outside the port, I pull out my FaePhone and snap a picture of the unconscious Fae to send to my benefactors.
Me: Got the asshole.
Three dots appear on the screen instantly. A few seconds later, my FaePhone vibrates in my hand.
Unknown Sender: The funds have been wired to your account.
Grinning to myself, I slam the trunk shut. Leaning against the back of the vehicle, I allow myself a moment to smile. There is just something about catching slimy dirtbags like this that makes a girl happy. My heart might be made of ice, but Fae justice will thaw even the coldest of hearts.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I straighten. Someone is watching me.
Who would dare?
I flip around, gasping as I catch sight of the red-headed Summer Fae from earlier standing a few feet away from me.
“Found you,” he says with a wry smile.
