I yanked opened the door. "Thanks for the ride."
"Hey," the cop said. "Wheeler wasn’t always a hard-ass. Something attacked his brother a few months ago. It messed him up."
"What was it?"
The cop shrugged again. "A thing. That was all he would say. He’s been working with Handley trying to resolve the case."
Now it made sense why the memory spray didn’t stick and why Handley was being an interfering dickhead. Wheeler was dealing with an unresolved faerie-related trauma that his brain couldn’t explain. He’d seen something he couldn’t make sense of, and since we didn’t know about it, we didn’t wipe his memory right away, and ever since, he’d been jumping to conclusions trying to explain what he’d seen. Even if I’d hit him with memory spray at the arena, it would have been too late. The trauma was already in his long-term memory and he’d already decided the events at the arena were related. The spray only worked on the short-term memory; we had to catch the memories before they transferred to the long-term memory. To fix the long-term memory, he would have to be put into a coma.
"You know," I said before storming out of the car. "Your secrets are putting more people in danger and preventing us from doing our jobs."
He was still parked in the driveway when I drove away. Likely ordered to stay there all night, killing our agency's chance of getting back inside to get some answers.
I chilled at the memory of the fae woman grabbing me, and her plea for help.
An unsettled feeling sat with me all the way home.
Luke heard me in the hallway outside our penthouse and met me at the door. He leaned against the door frame, trying to look casual in his formal black suit with sky blue silk shirt and midnight blue tie. The sight of him made my heart start. I was one lucky gal.
Living a lie was better than exposing him to the truth. Any day.
A tight knot rolled over in my stomach. "Oh. You're all dressed up. Did I forget something?"
His face fell. "You didn't get my message."
Shit. "Dinner with your parents," I breathed. "I’m so sorry. I—I got called out to investigate a site. A pipe burst in the walls of an office building. You wouldn’t believe it could rain throughout the entire first floor of a building—I didn’t, until I saw it with my own eyes— "
"It’s okay. We don't have to go if you don't want. I'll make excuses."
He held his breath, waiting for a reply, and I could see it plain on his face: he didn't want to make excuses.
I didn't want to go to this dinner. After the day I'd had, I would much rather stay home. But there was some appeal in getting it out of the way. We saw Luke's parents only a few times a year. If we saw them now, it would be another four months before we saw them again. Besides, I didn’t want to disappoint him again.
"I'll be five minutes," I said. I peeled off my coat and hung it in the closet. Kicked off my boots and put them on the rack.
Luke relaxed and put his arms around me. I slipped my hands inside his jacket, melting into his warmth.
He jumped. "You're freezing."
"To the bone," I said, remembering what Simon had said about the Winter Court causing the dip in temperatures. Were they trying to freeze us all to death? What was their game?
"The heater's busted in your car again, isn't it? Please take the car I bought."
He knew I wouldn't. I made my own way in the world. Paid for my own things. Paid my own bills. We'd had this argument. Often.
"How about you warm me up, instead?" I said suggestively with a coy smile. I pushed up on my toes to brush his lips with mine.
He grinned. "You know I would, but my folks are waiting."
He bent his head and returned the kiss.
"It won't take long," I said, pulling my coffee-stained sweater over my head and unbuckling my jeans. I pressed my lips to his again.
He groaned. "I'm already dressed."
I wiggled out of my jeans and kicked them aside. "I'll help you get dressed. After I help you undress." I pulled my t-shirt over my head, down to nothing but my bra, socks, and underwear.
With a last lingering look, I sought the bathroom to warm up under the spray of hot water. I’d been able to distract him like this the night he proposed, but this time I showered alone. He must be anxious about dinner with his parents. Or mad about the car. Either way, he won this round.
We left behind the warm, comfortable condo to venture out in the freezing cold. It was more Luke's condo than mine; he’d bought it with his trust fund when he turned eighteen. From his father's rival developer. Years before I'd met him. Yet, for some reason his parents blamed me for Luke's "rebellious" streak.
Did I mention I wasn't looking forward to this dinner? I'd far rather comb the frozen streets for Flint and Hammond than dine with Luke's parents.
Luke had about as much use for his parents as I did, but where I would rather never see them again, as I did with my own mother, he preferred to "take the high road" and not only see them and have dinner with them several times year, but also pretend like there was nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Maybe I was being petty. Maybe it was easier for him because he was a doctor and his parents respected that. Maybe his sense of family was much stronger than mine. It was hard to say—I'd never known my biological parents. Maybe if I'd been raised by people with whom I shared a blood bond, I would feel differently.
The taxi let us out in front of the fancy-pants restaurant, Terrace Rouge. We hadn't even gone inside yet and I already had a headache. This was the kind of place where they parcelled out your meal in tiny pieces arranged with fancy decoration and brought palate cleansers between courses.
I sighed, looking up at the three-story restaurant. All I wanted in the world was my soft, warm bed, and instead I had to look forward to three hours of playing future Mrs. Dr. Lucas Thomas, the insurance agent who stole away his parents' only son and heir to the family business that he wanted no part of. Oh, joy.
"I don't relish it either. But I promise I'll make it up to you," he murmured against my ear in the way that made me go weak in the knees.
"You'd better," I answered. "And there'd better be wine with this dinner." We went inside.
He laughed. "Knowing my parents, it'll be champagne. The good stuff."
"Perhaps your folks aren't so bad after all," I said wryly.
The restaurant boasted "hearthside dining" on a sign out front, and sure enough, there was a huge, three-story, fieldstone fireplace in the centre of the dining room. On the main floor, it was surrounded by tables for two. Indoor balcony dining wrapped around the two upper levels. Hearthside dining certainly was no exaggeration.
The host led us to the first balcony level. As we took our seats, the delightful Mr. and Mrs. Thomas quickly delivered their congratulations, and then started with the questions: would I be quitting my job soon, when could they expect grandchildren? They both made no effort to hide their belief that a wife's place was in the home.
I smiled as pleasantly as possible and downed an entire glass of champagne. It was going to be a long night.
Luke was right. It was good stuff. But it did nothing for the percussion line moving across my forehead.
Luke's parents had already ordered for us: steak au poivre and lobster au beurre with pommes de terre parisiennes, petit pois, asparagus and salade frisée. There was even fresh baguette and fragrant herbed butter. The bread was a house specialty; they baked it every day in their stone ovens.
I would have loved every bite, but I was put off by someone having placed my order for me.
Marjorie made a smile that was more of a sneer, her eyes conveying her disapproval even behind the dark, thick-rimmed glasses. Her hair was black, though not naturally so. Both of Luke's parents were in their late sixties. Fresh from their vacation house near Bordeaux, France, and having spent the last two weeks of their winter vacation in the south of Spain, they were both tanned and more relaxed than when they’d left last November.
"How was the weather in Spain?" I
asked, stabbing my fork into the big bowl of greens. I could play this catty game, too. After years of playing it with my own mother, I was good at it.
"Warmer than it is here," she said with a frown. She shivered despite the warmth from the natural wood-burning flames rising up behind her, and the black wool sweater she wore topped with a scarf. I smiled inwardly and refilled my champagne glass as she woefully reminisced about the warm weather and good food of Europe.
"How is your mother, chère?" she asked abruptly, and I nearly spit out a mouthful of champagne.
There was something about the way she said it that grabbed my attention. There was an undertone, a hidden current pushing the conversation toward an expected outcome, as if she knew something I didn't. Her expression was unreadable, for she focused her attention on pushing around the tiny peas on her plate while she waited for my response.
Emile and Marjorie Thomas had been familiar with my mother for years by virtue of using the same marina, and then the same massage therapist, and most recently, the same insurance agent. They weren't friends, not even acquaintances. My mother came from old money; the Thomases were practically self-made, Emile having taken over his father's small general contracting business and turning it into a condo-building empire. My mother didn't give the time of day to new money. They wouldn't register on her radar until they'd put in their time in the social circles, which couldn't happen when one was building an empire.
By the same logic, my mother didn't give the time of day to the young heiresses, either. That she used to be one didn't sway her. "It's survival of the fittest," she would say. "If they can't hack it at a charity dinner or an afternoon tea, they don't deserve the title 'heiress.'" You can imagine she was a tad disappointed when, as a teenager, I refused to get dressed up in fancy dresses, go to dinner, or drink tea.
I knew Marjorie wouldn't have been at the Conservatory's AGM today, because Luke told me they weren't members of that organization. But Marjorie's cryptic question had come from somewhere. The desk clerk or the mechanic at the marina? The massage therapist? I tried to make it a personal policy to stay out of my mother's business affairs and social life as much as possible.
"Ran into her today, actually," I said.
My left cheek still stung from "running into" Mother.
I glanced at Luke. I hadn't been planning to tell him about my reunion with Mother. He was going to have questions I didn't want to answer.
"I told Luke this squabble with your mother could be easily resolved," she said. "You can always go home."
Luke leaned forward. "Mother, Julia lives with me. You know that."
"It's a metaphor, Luke. Mothers will always welcome home their children, no matter how far they've strayed."
Luke sawed his knife through his steak. "I'm just saying, I don't think this is any of our business."
"Nonsense, dear. With the upcoming wedding, this is exactly our business. We're all about to become one big happy family, aren't we?" She turned to me. "Unless you're telling me your mother is banned from the wedding?"
I tried to picture my mother being present for what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
Yeah, there was no way in hell my mother was going to be invited.
"I haven't made any decisions about the wedding yet." I shoved a forkful of potatoes in my mouth and watched Marjorie carefully.
Her microbladed eyebrows rose briefly, almost as brief as her solemn nod. I expected to hear some kind of comment, some remark, something.
She turned to Luke and said, "Dessert is the clafoutis and truffles."
Then she excused herself, dropped her linen napkin on the table, and sashayed off to the washroom.
Well. The term 'ice queen' often comes to mind when I think of Marjorie, but this was different. Marjorie never missed an opportunity to get in a dig about my relationship with my mother. She never just let the conversation drop, never took the high road when she could sneak along a short cut.
Wait a minute...
Could she know something about my mother? Why didn't she just say so? Why not share it with everyone at the table? Why not take a perfect opportunity to make me look like a fool? What was she hiding?
I wondered briefly if I should call my mother. At the very least to thank her for the behind-the-scenes tour of the police station today, but more so to push for an explanation about her bodyguards.
Maybe Marjorie had only heard rumours and didn't want to say anything unsubstantiated.
Luke looked like he was about apologize for his mother to me, but his father started talking about some yacht he was thinking of buying. They discussed boats between themselves until Marjorie returned to the table.
"Mother, I must say your time in the sun has made you look younger and more beautiful," Luke said. He'd jumped to his feet to pull out her chair.
"Oh, Luke. I have missed you." She laughed as the waiter placed the truffles on the table.
My fiancé settled into his chair and reached under the table. He found my hand and gave a gentle, assuring squeeze.
Other than the boat talk, Luke's father hadn't said much all night. Then he suddenly let out with, "Did you hear the news tonight about the rise in insurance rates? Don't insurance companies absorb the cost of anything anymore?"
His questions were aimed at me, but my mind froze.
"Well—"
"Dad," Luke interjected. "Julia reports and files claims. She's one of the good guys."
"Tell that to a buddy of mine. He was rear-ended and rammed into an SUV. Crumpled up both the front and back ends. And the insurance adjuster wasn't going to write off the car! She wanted to have the dings banged out of the panels. I'd like to see her straighten an accordion!"
"Okay, Dad. But that wasn't Julia. She's smarter than that."
I squeezed Luke's hand. "And I don't work in vehicle insurance." There was a reason my cover identity was adjusting building and corporate insurance. These kinds of conversations drove me crazy. Most people don't want to talk about insurance because it's boring, so it made for a good cover. Most of the time.
"Well, the whole system is corrupted," Emile said. "It's time someone did something about it. Too many people just turn the other way. All it takes is one insider to stand up and do the right thing, no matter how hard it is."
Was he asking me to take on the entire insurance industry?
"I think we can all agree to that," Marjorie said, taking another truffle. "Everything is corrupted, Emile. The car industry, the government. It's everywhere."
Emile grunted and leaned back in his chair with his glass of cognac in hand.
I felt their gazes seeping into me, probing me for secrets—and I had a lot of secrets. So I donned my best sympathetic, most professional smile, and hoped for a change in subject.
Was it hot in here?
"I'm sure there's a politician or two that needs funding for an election campaign," Marjorie suggested sweetly. "Politicians. Now that's the way to get things done."
Emile harrumphed, picked up his fork, and dug into his cherry tart. Luke tried to direct the conversation back to their vacation.
Marjorie picked up her glass and turned to me. "Tell me, Julia. When will we be getting together with your mother to plan this wedding?"
I nearly spit out a mouthful of water. "Excuse me?"
"You weren't going to do it on your own, were you? The mother of the bride must be involved with every aspect of the wedding."
"Um—"
"Of course, Emile is more than happy to give you away since your own father is—"
"Mother!" Luke's eyes bulged.
Marjorie shrugged. "I'm only trying to help."
While Luke tried to lecture his parents on their lack of manners, I picked up my purse and excused myself to go to the washroom, my head throbbing like Toronto's annual drumming festival.
As I descended the stairs, I immediately detected his presence. Seated at a table right next to the fireplace. The curling dark hair and pr
ominent nose. Feral eyes. Hammond.
The fire faerie was here.
17
The restaurant was packed, every table occupied. And the worst part was that Hammond wasn't alone.
It wasn't so much seeing a woman with him that sent shivers down my spine as it was the memories of the glossy photos of his recent victims: humans reduced to misshapen, charcoal skeletons identifiable only through dental records.
At least now I knew why I had a headache. Hammond should have hit my fae-dar as an electric pulse, similar to every encounter I'd had with fae. Somehow his presence had bypassed the radar and went straight to pounding my frontal lobe like a bass drum.
Maybe it was the champagne. Or the future in-laws.
At this point, Hammond didn't know who I was or that I knew who he was, so I decided the best thing to do until Magnusson showed up was to keep an eye on him. Three-inch heels and a cocktail dress didn't exactly constitute the uniform for fae hunting. Not to mention that I really didn't want to have to explain to my fiancé and his parents why an insurance agent was arresting someone.
I pulled my cell phone out of my purse, grasping for a quiet place to make a call, when I felt compelled to go to the front entrance.
Compelled.
There was no other word to describe it. I just knew I had to get to the front door. Immediately.
Silverware clinked on plates and conversation floated up from tables as I made my way there.
A strong cold draught filled the foyer. My heels clattered on ceramic tiles. Through the glass doors, I could see a large man. My fingertips pressed against the cold glass.
He was more than six feet tall and wore a fur coat long enough that it swept the ground. The skull of an animal with antlers adorned his head, and despite the streetlights and the lights from the restaurant, his face was in shadow.
Who was he? And why did I feel compelled to be here?
I had the distinct feeling I was being weighed and measured as he stared at me through the glass.
And then the feeling was gone.
He raised his head slightly, but just when I thought I might get a glimpse of his face, he faded away. Not walked away. Faded. Like the image of him dissolved into the background, except that he had been real. Not an image. I shivered.
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