by Kim Harrison
The elevator dinged, and I forced a smile for whoever might be in it. It faded fast when the doors opened to show only more brass, velvet, and mahogany. Taking a steadying breath, I stepped inside and hit the R button at the top of the panel. Maybe my unease was simply because I was alone. I’d been alone a lot this week while Jenks tried to do the work of five pixies in the garden and Ivy was in Flagstaff helping Glenn and Daryl move.
The lobby noise vanished as the doors closed, and I looked at myself in the mirrors, tucking away a strand that had escaped the elaborate braid Jenks’s youngest kids had put it in tonight. If Jenks were here, he’d tell me to snap out of it, and I pulled myself straighter when my ears popped. There were ley line symbols carved into the railing like a pattern but were really a mild euphoric charm, and I leaned backward into them. I could use all the euphoria I could get tonight.
My shoulders had eased by the time the doors opened and the light strains of live chamber music filtered in. It was just dinner, for God’s sake, and in a better mood thanks to the charms, I stepped to the reception desk, smiling at the young host, his hair slicked back and wearing his uniform well. Behind him, Cincinnati spread out in the dark, the lights glinting like souls in the night. The stink and noise of the city were far away, and only the beauty showed. Maybe that’s why Quen chose here.
“I’m meeting Quen Hanson,” I said, forcing my attention away from the view and back to the host. The few tables I could see were all full.
“Your booth isn’t ready yet, but he’s waiting for you at the bar,” the man said, and my eyes flicked up at the unexpected sound of respect in his voice. “May I take your shawl?”
Better and better, I thought as I turned to let him slip the thin silk from my shoulders. I felt him hesitate at my pack tattoo, and I straightened to my full height, proud of it.
“This way, please?” he said as he handed it to a woman and took the little plastic tag, handing it to me in turn.
I let a little sway into my hips as I fell into step behind him, making the shift to the revolving circle without pause. I’d been up here a couple of times; the bar was on the far side of the entry, and we strode through tables of upscale, wining-and-dining people. The couple that had come up ahead of me were already seated, wine being poured as they sat close together and enjoyed each other more than the view. It had been a while since I’d felt that, and a pang went through me. Shoving it down, I stepped again to the center, unmoving portion and the brass and mahogany bar.
Quen was the only one there apart from the bartender, his stance hinting at unease as he stood with a ramrod straightness in his suit coat and tie. He had the build to wear it well, but it probably hampered his movement more than he liked, and I smiled as he frowned and tugged at his sleeve, clearly not seeing me yet. The reflection in the glass behind the mirror showed the lights on the river and beyond it, the Hollows. Seeing him against them, I decided he looked tired—alert, but tired.
His eyes were everywhere, and his head cocked as he listened to the muted TV in the upper corner behind him. Catching the movement of our approach, he turned, smiling. Last year, I might have felt out of place and uncomfortable, but now, I smiled back, genuinely glad to see him. Somehow, he’d taken on the shades of a father figure in my mind. That we kept butting heads the first year we’d known each other might have something to do with it. That he could still lay me flat out on the floor with his magic was another. Saving his life once when I had failed saving my dad probably figured into it, too.
“Quen,” I said as he needlessly tugged his dress slacks and suit coat straight. “I have to say this is better than meeting you on the roof.”
He smiled, the hint of weariness in his eyes shifting to warmth as he took my offered hand in a firm grip to help me onto the perch of the bar stool. Tired or not, he looked good in a mature, trim, security sort of way. He was a little short for an elf, being dark where most were light, but it worked well for him, and I wondered if that was gray about his temples or a trick of the light. A new sensation of contentment and peace flowed from him, one I’d not seen before. Family life was agreeing with him, even if it was probably why he was tired. Lucy and Ray were thirteen and ten months respectively. As Trent’s security advisor, he was powerful in his magic, strong in his convictions . . . and he loved Ceri with all his soul.
Quen made a sour, amused face at the reminder of our first meeting at Carew Tower. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said, his low, melodious voice reminding me of Trent’s. It wasn’t an accent as much as his controlled grace extending even to his speach. He looked up as the bartender approached and topped off his glass of white wine. “Rachel, what would you like while we wait?”
The TV was just over his head behind him, and I looked away from the stock prices scrolling under the latest national scandal. My back was to the city, and I could see a hint of the Hollows beyond the river through the bar’s mirror. “Anything with bubbles in it,” I said, and Quen’s eyes widened. “It doesn’t have to be champagne,” I said, warming. “A sparkling wine won’t have sulfates.”
The bartender nodded knowingly, and I smiled. It was nice when I didn’t have to explain.
Quen leaned in close, and I caught my breath at the scent of cinnamon, dark and laced with moss. “I thought you were going to order a soft drink,” he said, and I set my purse on the bar beside me.
“Pop? No way. You dragged me all the way into Cincy for a meeting at a five-star restaurant; I’m getting the quail.” He chuckled, but it faded too fast for my liking. “Usually,” I said slowly, fishing for why I was here, “when a man invites me somewhere nice, it’s because he wants to break up with me and doesn’t want me to make a scene.”
Silent, he tightened his jaw. My pulse quickened. The bartender came back with my drink, and I pushed it around in a little circle waiting. Quen just sat there. “What does Trent want me to do that I’m not going to like?” I finally prompted, and he actually winced.
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” he said, and the slight unease he had been hiding took on an entirely new meaning.
Dude . . . The last time I’d met Quen without Trent knowing about it . . . “Holy crap, did you get Ceri pregnant again? Congratulations! You old dog! But what do you need me for? Babies are good things!” Unless you happen to be a demon, that is.
He frowned, hunching over the bar to sip his drink and shooting me a look to lower my voice. “Ceri is not pregnant, but the children do touch on what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Suddenly concerned, I leaned closer. “What is it?” I said, a flicker of anger passing through me. Trent could be a dick sometimes, taking his “saving his race” quest to unfair extremes. “Is it about the girls? Is he pressuring you about something? Ray is your daughter!” I said hotly. “She and Lucy being raised together as sisters is a great idea, but if he thinks I’m going to sit here while he shoves you out of their life—”
“No, that’s far from the truth of it.” Quen set his drink aside to put his hand on mine in warning, imprisoning it on the bar. My words cut off as he gave my hand a squeeze, and when I grimaced, he pulled away. I could knock him flat on his ass with a curse, but I wouldn’t. It had nothing to do with the fancy restaurant and everything to do with respect. If I knocked him down, he’d knock me down, and Quen made up for his lack of power with a spell lexicon that put mine to shame.
“Ray and Lucy are being raised with two fathers and one mother. It’s working beautifully, but that’s what I wanted to discuss,” he said, confusing me even more.
I drew my hands back to my lap, slightly huffy for him trying to manhandle me. So I jumped to conclusions. I knew Trent too well, and pushing Quen out of the picture to further the professional image of a happy, traditional family wasn’t beyond him. “So discuss. I’m listening.”
Avoiding me, Quen downed a swallow of wine as if needing the support. “Trent is a fine young man,” he said, watching the remaining wine swirl.
“Yes . . .
” I drawled, cautiously. “If you can call a drug lord and outlawed-medicine manufacturer a fine young man.” Both were true, but I’d lost any fire behind the accusations awhile ago. I think it was when Trent slugged the man trying to abduct me into a lifetime of degradation.
Quen’s flash of irritation vanished when he realized I was joking—sort of. “I have no issue in taking a secondary public roll in the girls’ lives,” he said defensively. “Trent takes great pains to see that I have sufficient time with them.”
Midnight rides on horseback and reading before bed, I imagined, but not a public show of parenthood. Still, I managed not to say anything but a tart, “He gives you time to be a dad. Bully for Trent.” I took a sip of bubbly wine, blinking the fizz away before it made me sneeze.
“You are the devil to talk to, Rachel,” he said curtly. “Will you shut up and listen?”
The unusual, sharp rebuke brought me up short. Yes, I was being rude, but Trent irritated me. “Sorry,” I said as I focused on him. The TV behind him was distracting.
Seeing my attention, he dropped his head. “Trent is conscientiously making sure I have time to be with both Ray and Lucy, but it’s becoming increasingly evident that it’s caused an unwise reduction to his own personal safety.”
Reduction to his own personal safety? I snorted and reached for my wine. “He’s not getting his fair share of daddy time?”
“No, he’s scheduling things when I’m not available and using the excuse to go out alone. It has to stop.”
“Ohhhh!” I said in understanding. Quen had been keeping Trent safe since his father had died, leaving him alone in the world. Quen practically raised him, and letting the billionaire idiot savant out of his sight to chat with businessmen on the golf course probably didn’t sit well. Especially with Trent’s new mindset that he could do magic, too.
Then I followed that thought as to why I might be sitting here, and my eyes got even wider. “Oh, hell no!” I said, grabbing my purse and shifting forward to get off the stool. “I am not going to do your job, Quen. There isn’t enough money in the world. Not in two worlds.”
Well, maybe in two worlds, but that wasn’t the point.
“Rachel, please,” he pleaded, taking my shoulder before I could find the floor. It wasn’t the strength of his grip that stopped me cold, but the worry in his voice. “I’m not asking you to do my job.”
“Good, because I won’t!” I said, my voice hushed but intense. “I will not work for Trent. Ever. He’s a . . . a . . .” I hesitated, finding all my usual insults no longer holding force. “He never listens to me,” I said instead, and Quen’s hand fell from my shoulder, a faint smile on his face. “And gets himself in trouble because of it. I got him to the West Coast for you, and look what happened!”
Quen turned to the bar, his voice flat as he said, “His actions resulted in a bar burning down and the collapse of a U.S. monument.”
“It wasn’t just a bar, it was Margaretville, and I’m still getting hate mail. It was his fault, and I got blamed for it. And let’s not forget San Francisco getting toasted. Oh! And how about me ending up in a baby bottle waiting for my aura to solidify up enough that I could survive? You think I enjoyed that?”
Okay, the kiss needed to break the elven spell had been nice, but I still felt tricked.
Upset, I turned back to the bar’s mirror. My face was red, and I forced myself to relax. Maybe Quen was right to bring me here. If we had been at Juniors, I probably would be halfway out the door looking for my car. Angry as I was, I looked like I belonged here with my hair up and my elegant dress that made me look svelte, not skinny. But it was all show. I didn’t belong here. I was not wealthy, especially smart, or talented. I was good at staying alive—that’s it—and every last person up here save Quen would be the first to go if there was trouble. Except maybe the cook. Cooks were good with knives.
Quen lifted his head, the wrinkle line in his forehead deeper. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he said softly. “The man needs someone to watch him. Someone who can survive what he gets himself into and is sensitive to his particular . . . quirks.”
“Quirks?” Frustrated, I let go of my clutch purse and downed another swallow of wine. “Dude, I hear you. I understand,” I said, and Quen blinked at my word choice. “I even sympathize, but I can’t do it. I’d end up killing him. He’s too pigheaded and unwilling to consider anyone else’s opinion, especially in a tight situation.”
Quen chuckled, relaxing his tight grip on his emotions. “Sounds familiar.”
“We are talking about Trent, not me. And besides, the man does not need a babysitter. He’s all grown up, and you—” I pointed at Quen, “ . . . don’t give him enough credit. He stole Lucy okay, and they were waiting for him.” I turned back to the bar and the reflection of the Hollows. “He can handle whatever Cincinnati can dish out,” I said softly, going over my short list of trouble. “It’s been quiet lately.”
Quen sighed, slumping aside with both arms around his drink to look depressed. I wasn’t going to fall for it. “I will admit that Trent has a knack for devising a plan and following through with it. But he’s lousy at improvisation, and that’s where you excel. I wish you would reconsider.”
Hearing the truth of it, I looked up and Quen lifted his drink in salute. Trent could plan his way out of a demon’s contract, but that wouldn’t keep him alive against a sniper spell, and that’s where the real danger was. My jaw clenched and I shoved the thought away. What did I care?
“I left the I.S. because I couldn’t stomach working for anyone,” I grumbled. “That hasn’t changed.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he said, and I frowned at him. “You work with Ivy and Jenks all the time.”
My eyebrows rose in disbelief. “That’s just it. I work with Jenks and Ivy. Not for them. They don’t always do what I think is best, either, but they always at least listen to me.” I didn’t do what they thought was best, either, so we got along tolerably well. Trent, though, was another story. He needed to listen—the business man made more mistakes than . . . me.
“He’s doing much better,” Quen said, and I couldn’t stop my chuckle.
“He is not.”
“He worked with Jenks,” Quen offered, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.
“Yes, he worked with Jenks,” I said, the wine bitter as it slipped down. “And Jenks said it was like pulling the wings off a fairy to get Trent to include him on even the smallest detail of his plan. No.”
Quen’s jaw was clenched again, and the worry line in his brow was deepening. “Quen, I understand your concern,” I said, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. It was tense, and I pulled back, feeling like I shouldn’t have touched him. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”
“Could you maybe just try?” he said, shocking me. “There’s an elven heritage exhibit at the museum next Friday. Trent has a few items on display and will be putting in an appearance. You’ll love it.”
“No.” I faced the mirror and watched myself take a drink.
“Free food,” he said, and I eyed him in disbelief through the reflection. I wasn’t that desperate. “Lots of contacts with people with too much money,” he added. “You need to get out and network. Let Cincy know you’re the same Rachel Morgan who captured a banshee and saved San Francisco, and not just the witch who was really a demon.”
I flushed, setting the glass down and looking around for a clock. I usually didn’t wear a watch because Jenks was more accurate than one. I finally found one on the TV. Jeez, had I only been here ten minutes?
“I bet you would pick up a few legit jobs,” he said, and I stiffened. I wasn’t out of money, but the only people who wanted to hire me wanted me because I could twist demon curses. I wasn’t that kind of a girl, even if I had the potential to be, and it bothered me that Quen knew who had been knocking on my door. Working a couple of easy chaperoning jobs for Cincinnati’s elite would do wonders for my esteem.
Isn’t
that what Quen is offering me?
“There would be a clothing allowance,” Quen wielded. My pulse quickened, not at the thought of a new pair of boots but me being dumb enough to consider this. “Rachel, I’m asking this as a personal favor for me,” he added, sensing me waver. “And Ceri.”
Groaning, I dropped my head into my hand, and my dress pinched as I shifted to turn away from him. Ceri. Though she had agreed to having a public image with Trent, she loved Quen. Quen loved her back with all the fierceness of someone who never expected to find anything beautiful in the world. Hell, if it was nothing more than being a security escort I could stomach Trent’s demands for a few hours. How much trouble could the man get into at the museum, anyway?
“You fight dirty,” I said sourly to his reflection, and he toasted me, smiling wickedly.
“It’s my nature. So will you do it?”
I rubbed the back of my neck as I turned to him, guilt and duty pulling at me. Avoiding him, I sent my eyes to the TV. It was showing the Cincy skyline, which was odd since it was a national station. The banner THIRD INFANT ABDUCTED flashed up, then vanished behind an insurance commercial. Act as Trent’s security? I thought, remembering his savage, protective expression under the city when he downed that man trying to abduct me. And then how he looked on my front steps when he found Wayde carting me out of the church over his shoulder. Trent had spun a charm to knock the Were out cold with the ease of picking a flower, his coat furling and his hand outstretched in wide-eyed demand. True, it hadn’t been needed, but Trent hadn’t known that.
My fingers spinning the footing of my glass slowed as I recalled Trent opening up to me and telling me about the person he wanted to be. It was as if I was the only person who might really understand. And Quen wanted me to be the one to deny him it?
“No,” I whispered, knowing that Trent would count my presence as his failure. He didn’t deserve that. “I’m not going to be his babysitter.”