Chapter 5: The Unseelie Invitation

Chapter 5: The Unseelie Invitation

The cheap whiskey did little to dull the angry throb in my calf where the Redcap’s scythe had carved out its pound of flesh. I sat in the creaking chair behind my desk, the rain outside my window providing a familiar, miserable soundtrack. My office was a disaster zone—I’d swept Elara’s Fae gold into a drawer, out of sight but not out of mind, and the blood-stiffened strip of my shirt I’d used as a bandage was a grim centerpiece on the cluttered desk. In my hand, I held the small wooden horse, its smooth surface a stark contrast to the grit under my fingernails.

Even without the Gloom Sight, I could feel it. A gentle, rhythmic pulse of warmth, like a sleeping heartbeat. This tiny toy held more raw power than I’d ever encountered, and its supposed mother was a high-ranking Fae noble who played games with lives and lies. The Redcap's dying words, "She... paid...," echoed in my head. Paid for what? Kidnapping? Or something else entirely? Every theory I formed crumbled into dust.

My desire was a desperate, clawing need for a truth that made sense. But the world of the Fae wasn't built on sense. It was built on power, secrets, and beautiful, deadly deceptions.

That’s when the shadows in my office stopped behaving.

The deep patch of darkness in the corner, the one usually occupied by a stack of cold case files, detached itself from the wall. It wasn't a trick of the light; it pooled and stretched on the floorboards like spilled ink, rising into a slender, man-shaped silhouette with no features save for the oppressive weight of its presence.

"Grimm Gourden," a voice whispered, not from the shadow itself, but from every dark corner of the room at once. It was a silken, amused sound. "Your recent... extermination services have not gone unnoticed. Lord Vorlag requests the pleasure of your company."

This wasn't an invitation. It was a summons. My hand instinctively tightened on the wooden horse. "I'm not really in a party mood," I grated out, my other hand inching toward the heavy iron paperweight on my desk. A pathetic weapon, but better than nothing.

The shadow chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "Oh, this is no party. It is a business opportunity. You have something our Court is interested in. And we find that what the Unseelie want, they tend to get." The shadow flowed towards my apartment door. "The Velvet Thorn. Now."

The shadow seeped under the door and was gone. The oppressive feeling lifted, but a cold dread remained. The Unseelie Court. The ancient, dark-mirrored rivals of Elara's Seelie. If the Seelie were the beautiful, cruel light of summer, the Unseelie were the seductive, terrifying darkness of winter. I had killed a creature connected to a Fae noble's child. Of course, the other side had noticed. I was no longer just a PI on a case; I was a piece on a board I couldn't even see.

The Velvet Thorn was tucked away in an alley in the city's old theater district, a place of faded glamour and forgotten names. There was no sign, just a heavy black door marked with a single, silver thorn. The bouncer was a Fomorian, a giant of a creature with one large, intelligent eye and mismatched limbs, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit. He gave me a slow, appraising look, his gaze lingering on the bulge of the wooden horse in my coat pocket, and simply stepped aside.

The moment I stepped through the door, the glamour hit me like a drug. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and spiced wine. The music was a hypnotic, thrumming bassline that seemed to sync with my own pulse, weaving a tapestry of desire and abandon. The club was a cavern of crushed velvet and dark wood, lit by enchanted lanterns that cast shifting, seductive shadows. Beautiful people draped themselves over plush couches, their laughter like silver bells, their smiles sharp and predatory.

But my Gloom Sight tore the beautiful lie to shreds. The charming patrons were revealed as a menagerie of goblins in stolen finery, vampiric creatures with hungry eyes, and other, darker things whose true forms were twisting amalgamations of shadow and spite. The hypnotic music was a web of compulsion spells, designed to lower inhibitions and pry open wallets and secrets. The entire club was a beautiful, dangerous venus flytrap, and I had just walked willingly inside.

I was led through the throng to a secluded booth at the back, curtained off with heavy, blood-red velvet. Sitting there, swirling a dark liquid in a crystal glass, was Lord Vorlag.

Where Elara was all silver light and ethereal grace, Vorlag was chiseled shadow and raw charisma. He looked human, but in the way a perfectly sculpted obsidian blade looks like a simple knife. He wore a modern, tailored suit of charcoal grey, his black hair swept back from a face of sharp, aristocratic angles. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, holding a depth of ancient cunning and a flicker of cruel amusement. His glamour wasn't one of perfection, but of seductive, dangerous power. He was a king cobra in a bespoke suit.

"Mr. Gourden," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone. He gestured to the seat opposite him. "Please. Join me. You've had a busy night."

I sat, the worn leather of my trench coat creaking in protest. My leg ached. "You have my attention. You can skip the pleasantries."

Vorlag smiled, a flash of perfectly white teeth. "Direct. I appreciate that. It's a refreshing change from the endless, flowery deceptions of my Seelie cousins." He leaned forward. "You gave a gold coin to a goblin information broker today. A very specific, very old, High House Seelie coin. That coin screamed its presence across the magical channels of this city like a jilted lover. It told us a major player from the Summer Court was making moves in the mortal realm. We thank you for the tip."

My blood ran cold. Griznakh. The price of my information was my anonymity.

"Then you killed a Redcap down at the docks," Vorlag continued, his eyes glinting. "A Redcap who was, until recently, on the payroll of one Elara Meadowlight."

The floor dropped out from under me. "The Redcap worked for her?"

"Of course," Vorlag said with a dismissive wave. "You didn't really believe a brute like that could bypass the wards on a Seelie noble's penthouse, did you? No, no. He wasn't the kidnapper, Mr. Gourden. He was the escort. Part of a little political gambit Elara was playing."

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Elara's lies. The Redcap's dying words. "What kind of gambit?"

"The usual kind," Vorlag sighed, taking a sip from his glass. "A secret meeting. An exchange. A plot to frame a rival for treason. She was using her own son as the centerpiece in her little game. But her opponent didn't play by her rules. The meeting was ambushed. Her Redcap guard was killed—ah, I suppose you simply finished the job—and the prize was taken by a third party." He leaned back, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. "She didn't lose her son to a kidnapper. She lost him because of her own arrogance. And now she's hired a clever half-breed to clean up her mess and hopefully take the fall for it."

Every word was a hammer blow, shattering the last of my illusions about this case. I was a pawn in a game I never even knew I was playing, hired by the person who caused the whole disaster.

"And the boy?" I asked, my voice low. "Why is he so important?"

Vorlag's charming smile returned, but it didn't reach his stormy eyes. "Because Lyra is not just a child. He is a font. A living wellspring of raw, unaligned magic. A key that could shift the balance of power between our courts for the next millennium. Elara was trying to use him, and in doing so, she has put him in play for everyone."

His gaze dropped to my coat pocket, and I felt the warmth of the wooden horse against my chest, suddenly feeling like a brand. "A prize you now possess a direct link to."

This was it. The turning point. The offer.

"Find the boy, Mr. Gourden," Vorlag said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Elara wants her weapon back. I, on the other hand, believe such a unique individual deserves a choice in his own destiny. A destiny we in the Unseelie Court would be more than happy to help him shape."

"You want me to bring him to you," I stated, the words tasting like poison.

"I want you to give him a better option than becoming his mother's political tool," he corrected smoothly. "Do this for us, and the rewards will make Elara's 'retainer' look like beggar's scraps. We can offer you protection. Power. A place. Refuse," he paused, letting the threat hang in the air, thick and heavy as the club's perfumed smoke, "and you remain a man in the middle, with a Seelie Queen who wants to silence her loose end, and an Unseelie Court that wants what you are looking for. A very, very short-lived position to be in."

I was trapped. A target for the beautiful, silver-haired monster who hired me, and a potential tool for the handsome, dark-eyed monster sitting in front of me. I had stumbled out of the rain and into the heart of a looming Fae civil war, with the casus belli tucked away in my pocket.

The hypnotic music of the club swelled, but it no longer sounded seductive. It sounded like a countdown.