by Caris Roane
Quinlan threatened her way of life and he had to go, the sooner the better.
* * * * * * * * *
His temper on full throttle, Quinlan entered the dining room and glanced around the rectangular space. Batya sat with her back to the far wall at a long table decked with ten upholstered chairs in a dark purple fabric. She looked so serene, as she stared back at him, as though the joke she’d played didn’t exist at all. The clothes he’d been given to wear put a thunder cloud over his head, and he let the full range of his emotion fill his eyes as he glared at her.
She met his gaze and quickly pressed her lips into a tight line, no doubt biting the inside of her cheek.
She swallowed hard and with false admiration said, “How well that shirt becomes you. Do the pants fit?” Her gaze dropped to the cuffs that landed about six inches off the floor. “Oh, well, you are tall, but I see the tie I left you is holding them up.”
The white silk shirt had been made for a man of ample proportions who had a preference for red sequins patterned in a series of red rose buds. Oddly, the cut fit across the shoulders but from there the fabric ballooned out to a grotesque size.
Lorelei frowned at Batya and clucked her tongue. “How could you do that to him?” She turned her soft brown eyes on Quinlan. “That’s part of a Mardis Gras costume. I laid out a perfectly reasonable t-shirt and I can get it for you, if you want.” She even offered Batya a disapproving shake of her head.
“No,” he said, feeling stubborn, eyeing Batya once more. “This will do nicely.”
Batya pathed, Sure you don’t want the tee because that deep voice of yours has an edge.
I’ll give you an edge.
Batya sipped her coffee and met his gaze over the rim. Promises, promises. She gestured for him to take the seat at the head of the table.
He growled softly in what he hoped sounded menacing. Lorelei’s eyes widened but Batya laughed. He experienced a sudden, strong desire to teach her that whoever she thought she was in this absurd little world of hers in Lebanon, he was the Mastyr of Grochaire Realm and could take her apart if he wanted to.
When he sat down, however, a strange odor met his nose. He looked around first, wondering where it was coming from, maybe something rotting in the basement, then realized that it came from a soupy-looking bowl of what had to be an attempt at scrambled eggs.
Sweet Goddess, was this his meal?
He met Batya’s gaze but she stared back as though not understanding, daring him, probably. “Lorelei was kind enough to cook for us.”
He glanced at Lorelei. A flame of pink suddenly covered her cheeks. He took the ladle and scooped the eggs onto his plate. Seasonings floated in the lumpy, watery mixture. His nose twitched.
Using his fork, he took a bite and only with the strongest effort stopped from spitting it out.
Batya’s voice pierced his head as she pathed, I should have warned you. Lorelei isn’t the best cook, but she tries very hard.
Okay.
She ladled out her own eggs, took a bite and washed it down with a swift gulp of coffee. He should have brought his mug with him.
If you intend to eat this, I’ll follow your lead.
It’ll be a kindness. Lorelei has issues.
Got it.
That’s when he noticed that Batya’s color was high, almost feverish. Was she ill?
Are you all right?
Her gaze shot to his. Why do you ask? She even frowned slightly.
Your coloring. You don’t look so good.
I’m fine.
A little too hasty, Cha.
We’re being rude to Lorelei, conversing like this in front of her. And by the way, she may be a gentle spirit but she’s got some power I haven’t yet figured out.
He glanced at the ex-pat, who also pushed her eggs around on her plate.
Lorelei lifted her gaze to his. “It’s okay. You can keep pathing with each other. I don’t mind and I’m sorry about these blasted eggs. How about I make some toast?” She rose as she spoke, grabbing up the bowl before either of them could protest. “I’ll cut up some apples and cheese as well. I don’t think I can screw those up too badly.” Her smile faltered.
“Thank you,” he said.
When she left the room, his gaze followed her. Something wasn’t right about Lorelei, beyond her ‘issues’, but he couldn’t quite figure out what bugged him about the woman. She was tall like Batya, almost the same height, maybe an inch shorter.
She had beautiful dark brown hair, layered past her shoulders. Her brown eyes had a large fae look, yet she wasn’t fae, though Quinlan had no idea how he even knew that.
“What is it?”
“What species is Lorelei?” he asked quietly.
Batya shrugged. “I think she’s part fae, but I never asked. It’s a rule in the ex-pat community here. You can volunteer all the information you want, but no one is going to interrogate you about why you’re here, where you’ve come from, or what you might have done that brought you to the States.”
He grunted. He had issues with the existence of an ex-patriot community period, but he ignored his disapproval and stuck to his current curiosity. “The thing is, I can always tell a realm-folk’s lineage. Like with you, I sense fae and troll, although somewhere in your DNA is a small piece of witch. I get that big-time.”
“Witch. You are so funny,” she said sarcastically, shaking her head. “I’m just dying of laughter.” The concept of ‘witch’ belonged only in fables, although some of the more powerful fae did work with potions and spells.
But the response pleased Quinlan. “Just tell me I’m right. Fae and troll.”
“You’re right, but that’s common knowledge. Everyone knows who my father is.”
He tapped his fingers on the table and shook his head. “I can always tell. It’s one of my powers, I can identify the species in anyone, but not Lorelei.”
At that, Batya leaned back in her chair. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know, only that whatever realm species she is, she’s hiding it from the rest of the world. Take that one step further and it means she also has the power to hide it. So, what exactly has she shared with you about who she is? Anything?”
She shifted her gaze to the chair that Lorelei had just vacated, then frowned. “You know, Lorelei and I chat all the time, but we’ve never talked about the past, not specifically, only that she said she grew up in the mountains, but not which mountains.”
“And we have at least five realms with big mountains.”
“Exactly, including Grochaire, but you and I would have known her, or at least of her, if she’d grown up in your realm.”
He nodded. “You’re right about that.” He searched Batya’s eyes. “And you were never curious?”
“Oh, I wanted to ask. Remember, I’m part troll so it’s often hard to control the gossip-loving bent to my genetics, but it is one of my rules, so I stick by it.”
He nodded slowly, trying to make her out. He still didn’t know what could have driven her out of Grochaire. She had an excellent father as well, a revered troll considered by many to be a sage. Another mystery. But he respected that she stuck by her rules.
“We have ex-pats from all Nine Realms here. Did you know that the three eastern tribes have even worse problems than Grochaire?”
“Yes, I know.”
“You would do well to take some time to talk to our people here.”
“You seem to have built a community around your gallery.”
She shook her head. “It’s the free-clinic. We have a big drug problem here, homelessness, lots of stuff to deal with. Which I must say is part of my beef with you and Grochaire”
“You’re going to blame our realm for drug-addiction?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I mean that we all aren’t like you. We all don’t just fit in. You’ve had your role laid out for you in Grochaire and you seem really happy about it like it suits you perfectly.”
“It does.”<
br />
“Then why are you scowling?”
“Because I dislike what you represent here.”
“So the truth comes out. Yet, you’ve been seducing me, so what does that say about you?”
His smile quirked. “That I like beautiful women.”
She rolled her eyes, not buying it, so he grabbed her hand. “And I like you. I may not approve of your life choices, but I approve of you, how you conduct yourself.”
She batted her eyelashes. “How you flatter me.”
Rather than putting him off, her un-impressed response struck a chord, that she wasn’t the least moved by his rank in the Nine Realms, or his power, or anything else. If he wanted to win her, he’d actually have to make an effort and that was new to him. Besides, he loved a challenge, maybe more than anything, and Batya had challenge written all over her.
So, what would impress her?
He looked away from her and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t need an answer to that question. Batya couldn’t be anything important in his life and finding a way to gain her respect and approval had no meaning for him. All he’d wanted before the attack was to take her to bed a few times and slake his lust.
After that, he would have moved on to his next conquest, but here he was sitting at a table next to her, wearing a mardis-gras shirt and saying provocative things to her.
When Lorelei returned with a fresh pot of coffee, mugs, and a heaping platter of chunks of cheese and fruit, he breathed a sigh of relief. She whisked away their plates of now-congealing eggs, then poured out more coffee
“Sorry, but I burned the toast.”
He repressed his laughter. “This will do nicely and thank you.”
Curious all over again, he focused his identifying ability on her, even adding a slight vibration, but he got nothing in response. For a split-second Lorelei paused in pouring Batya’s coffee, as though she knew what he was doing, but continued without so much as a flick of her doe-eyes in his direction.
He still had no clue what she was.
Just as he bit into a slice of red apple, a strange, very realm, sensation crept over him, something he’d experienced only a few times in his life. Fate lingered at this table, hovering over the platter, the coffee, and three unlikely people. They were meant to be here tonight, like this, the three of them.
Mentally, he uttered a string of curses, one after the other.
This wasn’t good.
* * * * * * * * *
Before Batya had finished half her coffee, she received a phone call from the jack-of-all trades service she used that had done initial clean-up and now returned ready to install the plate glass window that had already been delivered. She excused herself and while keeping her enthrallment shield strong but manipulating one section, she let them in the back door, something Batya could do at will.
They were three powerful shifters, working in demolition, clean-up, and repair work and seemed well-suited to the work.
None were as tall as Quinlan who made a show of standing at the doorway between the hall and the dining room, arms folded over his chest in part probably to hide the sequins, and nodding to the men as they passed by. He eyed them closely, his lips compressed in a hard line.
“Mastyr.” Each offered a half-bow as he moved by.
When the last worker disappeared into her gallery, she glared at him. “Would you lighten up?”
His upper lip curled as he turned back into the dining room.
She rolled her eyes wondering just how soon she could get rid of him and get on with her life. Reality, however, seemed to indicate she’d be stuck with him for a while. For one thing, she couldn’t let her enthrallment shield down completely without inviting another attack and for another, if the ancient fae was really after her, then what was she going to do long-term? She couldn’t sustain her gallery or the free-clinic with a shield intact and she really wasn’t sure just how long she’d be able to support it. She felt fine now, but what about in another twenty-four hours or even a week?
Besides, she didn’t feel like herself. Even Quinlan had picked up on her complexion. She felt overheated in a way that spoke of ‘virus’, but she’d always been so healthy.
As the shifters went about their business, Batya took some time to assess the damage to several of her canvases. One of them, a more modern piece made up of an island of trees and a flame-like wind, would have to be tossed. At least three would require repair and might even sell better among the wealthier ex-pat customers because of the provenance of having been involved in a battle between Mastyr Quinlan, two extraordinarily powerful Invictus wraith-pairs and an ancient fae.
The rest, especially a series of four along the brick north wall, were untouched. She glanced at them now and felt a shiver go through her, of fate or some kind of fae-recognition unfamiliar to her. The first was called, The Leap, a picture of a lovely fae woman, looking a lot like Lorelei, who stood on a precipice, the wind whipping her hair wildly. Her expression of uncertainty yet excitement had prompted many gallery conversations.
The second was a meadow with a river and a stream, the third a golden forest that rose high into a mountain range, and the last a painting she called, ‘Snowfields’, depicting a vast stretch of snow, distant lavender hills, and the sun barely cresting the horizon. Just looking at all four paintings brought something from her realm-soul rising to the surface and tears rushing to her eyes.
“I saw these.” Quinlan’s voice rumbled next to her. She jumped a little, because she hadn’t known he was there, but he put a hand on her shoulder and murmured an apology. His gaze remained fixed, however, on the paintings.
“You mean when you first came into the gallery about two months ago?”
“No, I mean when both wraith-pairs attacked in unison with that final blow and sent me through the window. I saw these paintings in slow-motion, one after the other. These feel like some kind of story to me.”
She glanced up at him. “I know what you mean.”
“So you didn’t write it as a story?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, and I didn’t paint them in this order, but this sequence just feels inexplicably right to me.”
“Was this a vision then?”
She shook her head, looking back at the paintings. “No, no vision. Images, like I told you before. I’ve had dozens of offers, mostly for them as a set. But I won’t sell. I can’t explain it but they mean something to me.”
“I’m tempted to make you an offer myself. I’d put them in my mountain home.” Most of the mastyrs had more than one home for security reasons.
“Really?” She pivoted toward him slightly. “You are a complete enigma to me.”
His smile curved on one side, something she’d begun to associate with him. “You think that because I’m a Guardsman, and I battle the Invictus for a living, that I couldn’t appreciate fine art?”
“I guess that’s a bit of a stereotype.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Huh.” He was so damn handsome and she loved that he could meet her gaze and not look away. She knew she had something of a dominating presence and frequently the men she met couldn’t always look her in the eye.
Quinlan had no such problem, another reason he was a dilemma for her.
She was about to turn away, to shift her attention anywhere but at him, when a familiar and oh-so-welcome voice ran the length of her gallery.
“What happened here, most beloved daughter of mine?”
“Papa,” she called out, whirling.
Davido stood at the top of the room, near the entrance to the back hall, his arms wide, waiting for an embrace. He was an ancient troll and had more power than Batya would ever understand that he could have passed through her enthrallment shield so easily.
She crossed the gallery quickly, and though she stood several inches taller and had to lean down to hug him, somehow she felt like the little girl he’d loved and raised all those centuries ago.
He didn’t release he
r but looked at her with strong affection glowing in his light blue eyes. “How is my favorite one, my most beloved of all?”
She giggled. She must have lost at least a century of her real-age hearing that comment. “Papa, you say that to all of us.” Because he was over two thousand years old, Davido had several dozen children, grand-children, and innumerable ‘greats’. But he loved his offspring more than life itself and it showed.
“My sweet love, I feel that way about all of you, so why shouldn’t I be able to say each is the most beloved? And how could I feel anything less?”
“It makes no sense.” She grinned so hard, her cheeks hurt. She hadn’t seen him since Bernice’s birth nine months ago. “And how is your new most-favorite daughter?”
“Beyond splendid, growing into her third little baby troll ridge. But how are you, my darling dove?”
She rose up and quickly looked around. “Papa, how did you get past my enthrallment shield?”
He chuckled. “I closed my eyes.”
She shook her head at his dismissive response. However, she now feared that the ancient fae could do the same. “I just need to know if we’re at risk from the enemy. We’re holding a very powerful woman at bay with my shield. If you could get in, maybe she could as well.”
“Trust me, daughter, you have nothing to fear. Your shield will do its job.”
As secretive as he was, he rarely answered questions pertaining to any of his powers. So, from long experience she chose to trust him and let the subject drop. “Fine. I don’t care how you got in, but I’m so glad you’re here. You know Mastyr Quinlan, of course.” She gestured with a sweep of her hand toward him.
Davido pretended to block a strong light by holding up his hand. “Is that Quinlan? I thought it might be a bonfire. What the deuce are you wearing, my good man?”
“What your daughter provided for me.”
Batya didn’t know why it was that Quinlan’s voice always surprised her. Davido had an excellent resonant voice, a nice baritone. But Quinlan’s timbre sank into the deepest registers, which in turn affected the ability of her knees to hold her upright.
Davido lifted his brows and met Batya’s gaze. “Indeed? You gave him this shirt?”