The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy (Dearly Beloathed, #1)

by Brigitte Knightley

It wasn’t until Aurienne Fairhrim that Osric learned eye contact could hit like a knife.

“You asked us who could heal you—not who would.”

A brutally stupid question to which Osric replied, “Do you know how Fyren are retired?” “Er—no, sir.” “Death.” “Ah.” “Bit of a problem, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Parson, who was annoyingly sensible, said, “She’s a Haelan. She’d sooner walk into the Thames than help you. Perhaps we can equip you with a plan B. And a plan C.” “B for Blackmail, C for Coercion?” “Amusing, sir,” said Mrs. Parson, though she did not look amused.

“Very well,” said Osric. “Equip me. Do a spot of investigating on Aurienne Fairhrim. Find me a bit of leverage. Bribing, extortion, threats to life and limb—you know. The usual.”

Has Fairhrim got any family we can use? Any debts we can acquire? Kidnap? The situation is growing desperate.” “There is some family,” said Mrs. Parson. “Father from the Danelaw, mother from Tamazgha. Both presently in London. No debts to speak of; she’s rather well-off. Kidnap would, of course, always be an option.” “A classic,” said Osric.

But if you were to offer the amount, perhaps Haelan Fairhrim could be persuaded to set aside her natural antagonism to one of your Order.” “Bribery it is,” said Osric. “Good shout.” Mrs. Parson looked doubtful. “Do your coffers hold twenty million?” “I didn’t say we were actually paying her.”

Mrs. Parson nodded. “A bit of skulduggery wouldn’t go amiss.” “One of my specialties, as it happens.” “Quite.” “Right,” said Osric. “Where’s my cloak? I’m off to bribe. And if Fairhrim refuses, I shall proceed with kidnap.” “A classic, sir.”

“Haelan Fairhrim,” she said. “But you must call me Aurienne. Pleasure. Welcome to our hallowed halls, et cetera. I hope we won’t be sending too much business your way, but, well…the occasional loss is unavoidable. I know you’re inundated with the Pox cases. I’ll strive to keep my unit’s contributions to a minimum. And yes—I told the family that you lot hardly use onions anymore, but they were insistent. They hadn’t any other form of payment. Hopefully you can find some use for them. If nothing else, soup, I suppose.”

Osric was annoyed; the onions had spoiled his aura of menace. “I’m not here for onions,” said Osric. Fairhrim looked up, surprised, apparently, that he was still there. “No?” “No.” “Aren’t you the new undertaker?” asked Fairhrim.

“I’m not the new undertaker.” Fairhrim was only half listening; she was wrestling the squirming paper. “Oh? Are you sure? You rather look like an undertaker. Or is it embalmer? Mortician? You must tell me the preferred term.”

This felt, to Osric, like the right moment to begin to intrigue her. He pushed his hood back a little, so that she could see a bit of the Face. He tilted his head so that his cheekbone caught the light. His cleft chin clefted majestically. Who wouldn’t want to heal this? Fairhrim, as it transpired.

“Hang on—how did you get in here? I thought you’d been let in because you were the undertaker.” “I let myself in,” said Osric.

“Well, you can’t just barge in and expect a healing. We’re selective about who we take on at Swanstone. This isn’t a hospital. It’s a research institute. You’ve got to go through the proper channels.” “I won’t go through the proper channels,” said Osric,

He hit her with a grin (devilish) and a wink (suggestive). For the first time since she’d arrived, Fairhrim looked at Osric—really looked at him, you know, undistracted by onions and violent bits of paper.

“Right,” said Osric, slapping his knees. “On to plan B.” “Plan B?” asked Fairhrim.

“Don’t press the panic button, Haelan Fairhrim,” said Osric. “I’d rather things didn’t get messy.” Fairhrim stilled. “That sounds like a threat.” “It is.”

“Who are you and what do you want?” “We could’ve got to this point much sooner if you hadn’t mucked about with the onions,” said Osric.

Also if he hadn’t mucked about with attempting to flirt with her, but he preferred not to tak...

“I’ve been told I need your particular expertise.” “By who?” “Physickers-for-hire.” “Which ones?” “Fordyce and Shuttleworth.” Fairhrim gave a snobbish little tut. “That’s the best money can buy, is it?” “They came highly recommended.” “And what have they diagnosed you with?” asked Fairhrim. Her eyes swept over Osric in a once-over, as though she might work out his affliction by sight alone. “That’s for you to discover,” said Osric.

Osric sighed. “I’d rather not have to kidnap you. That would be a bother.” “Oh?” Fairhrim sat up, if it was possible, even straighter. “You’re going to kidnap me, are you?” “Yes. And not give you the money.” Fairhrim’s right hand twitched. On her palm, the tācn of the Haelan Order glowed: a white swan. “You’re rather bold if you think you can kidnap me.” “You’re rather stupid if you think I can’t.”

“I’m leaving with either an agreement between the two of us…or you, stuffed into the bag of onions. You decide.”

“Can I run some diagnostics?” asked Fairhrim. “No. Agreement first.” “It must be bad.” “It is.” “Fatal?” “For all intents and purposes.” “What if I can’t heal you?” asked Fairhrim. “I’ll die. And perhaps I’ll take you with me,” said Osric. “Wonderful.” “Am I persuading you?” “Persuasion would require an iota of something like charm.” This vexed Osric. “I’m not charming?”

His patience with the negotiations ran out. “Kidnap it is,” said Osric. He rose, poured the onions onto the floor, and flapped the empty sack at Fairhrim. “Get in.”

“No,” answered Osric. “I am not the bloody undertaker. You’re interrupting a negotiation session, Gran-gran, so if you wouldn’t mind—” “A negotiation? For what?” Xanthe turned to Fairhrim. “Did this man just call me Gran-gran?” Fairhrim looked, if you please, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. No idea who he is. He’s got in somehow. He tried to bribe me for a healing. And now he’s threatening kidnap with, honestly, grotesque ineptitude. The Wardens will make short work of him.”

matters over their imminent deaths. “Hello? Hi? I’m still here,” said Osric, waving at Fairhrim over Xanthe’s shoulder. “Still going to kidnap you, too. And now I’ll have to kill this old dear for what she’s witnessed. I hope you’re happy.” “Kill me?” said Xanthe. Xanthe threw her head back and cackled. Fairhrim stared at Osric with her eyebrows at her hairline. “Bit of an idiot, is he?” asked Xanthe. “So I’ve gathered from our brief acquaintance,” said Fairhrim.

“Pleased to have this sorted,” said Osric. “Get out,” said Fairhrim. “Don’t be so angry. You’re doing it for the Poxies.” “I’m doing it because Haelan Xanthe told me to,” said Fairhrim.

Mrs. Parson nodded, but her eyes remained wide. “Twenty million. This is…this is a sizable portion of your fortune.” “We will, obviously, be stealing it back.” Mrs. Parson looked relieved. “Oh! Very good, sir.”

It was hard, being perfect in an imperfect world, but Aurienne managed.

Midnight came round. Aurienne, tired and irritated (she had not had the nap),

“You’re punctual,” came the voice of the Fyren. “Good.” Yes: there he was. Lurking. That was what his sort did. Lurk, and murder innocents for money.

“Make do,” said Mordaunt. “I thought you were meant to be exceptional.” “In normal working conditions,” said Aurienne. “Not in a derelict barn, in a blizzard, at midnight.”

His hood fell back, exposing silver-white hair, winsomely tousled, and pale skin. His features, Aurienne decided, suited him: insolent (the grey eyes) and sardonic (the cut of the eyebrows, the mouth).

She could feel the tension in him—a desire to recoil, a disgust. He didn’t want to be touched by her as much as she didn’t want to touch him. Aurienne was pleased that they were jointly suffering in this regard.

Are you seriously telling me you’d subject yourself to an unproven course of treatment informed by the worst parts of folk medicine and wishful thinking?”

A person of moderate intelligence would say no in response to this dire assessment. An imbecile would say yes. “Yes,” said Mordaunt.

Mordaunt ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Too late? I’m just going to die? What can I do?” “Put your affairs in order,” said Aurienne. “Your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Something about being coerced into healing a Fyren erodes my sympathy,”

“Do it.” “I practise evidence-based healing. You’re asking me to attempt something on the basis of misplaced hope.” “And your research.” Aurienne, with additional slowness given that Mordaunt was so thick, repeated: “It wasn’t research. It wasn’t a hypothesis. It was a young Haelan’s daydream.” “Apply your daydream to me, then.” “It won’t work.” “Have you tried it?” asked Mordaunt. “No,” said Aurienne. “So you haven’t any evidence that it won’t work.”

Perhaps the most painful part of this ordeal would be dealing with the man’s stupidity. “Fine,” said Aurienne. “Fine?” repeated Mordaunt. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Your argument was so thoughtful. So well reflected.” Mordaunt tapped a gloved finger against a thigh. “Was that sarcasm?”

“It won’t be shortly,” said Aurienne. “You’ve asked me to apply a hypothesis that doesn’t exist to cure a condition that can’t be cured. I’m going to spend hours sorting through archival material to piece together whatever I preserved of that project, and even more hours preparing some sort of treatment protocol based entirely on fairy stories. You’ll hear from me when you hear from me.” Mordaunt made no indication that he had been chastened. Instead, he gave Aurienne a bow, and said, “I await your deofol at your pleasure, then.”

“I can assure you there is no pleasure involved,” said Aurienne. “I do agree with you there,” said Mordaunt.

Aurienne’s next meeting with Xanthe began with a request for an update on Mordaunt, whom Xanthe had taken to calling Onion Boy.

“The man is bonkers.” Xanthe’s mouth, so wrinkled that it almost disappeared into itself, widened as she cackled. “He’s drowning and he’s clutching at straws,” said Aurienne. “Onion Boy, the Eternal Optimist.”

“But—but the research ethics boards exist for a reason—” “He’s a desperate Fyren, and you’ve just said you’re going to let him die. Are research ethics really a part of the equation?”

“My client wished to send a message,” said Osric. “Was the message I don’t know where the jugular is and had to stab him twelve times to find it?” asked the deofol. So Fairhrim’s deofol was as irritating as she was. No surprises there.

“When I want a—a cat-weasel’s opinion on my work, I’ll ask for it,” said Osric. “I’m a genet,” said the cat-weasel.

“Also,” said Osric, removing his own cloak, “I’m not at your beck and call. Don’t summon me like this again.” Fairhrim grew rigid. She turned to him and spoke with a false sort of brightness. “Oh? And I’m at yours, am I? You can impose meetings on me, in abandoned barns, at midnight, without offering me any kind of alternative, but meeting during perfectly normal hours under a perfectly well-thought-out pretext in a perfectly suitable location presents difficulties, does it? I showed your schedule the same respect you showed mine; didn’t you like it?”

He felt, once again, that Fairhrim was taking the piss. No one took the piss out of Osric Mordaunt with this level of frequency and nonchalance.