Tristan inspected my friend. “Sister?”
Celeste narrowed her eyes, measuring Tristan right back. I was glad I hadn’t told her about his reputation, because she was far less trusting and forgiving than I was, and if she suspected Tristan of violence, she’d haul me away from the Court of Demons, Triple or no Triple.
“Yes, sister,” she said with a little growl. “You don’t see the resemblance?”
Tristan chuckled. “Now that you’ve opened your mouth, I do. Come on in, ladies.”
Amir’s lips shifted as though he were about to protest, but in the end, he simply squeezed them tight and went back to skimming the street and the endless line of people desirous to meet with his boss.
Chapter 20
Celeste’s neck rocked from side to side and back to front as we walked through the courtyard where ivy and roses the color of fresh snow scaled the trellises drilled into the limestone walls. Jarod’s home seemed somehow less forbidding drenched in sunlight, more pretty castle than haunted fortress.
Unlike La Cour des Démons, the stone angel appeared just as bleak in the light of day. Had Celeste noticed the chipped stone? From how fast her gaze whizzed off the statue and onto the grid of diamond-cut windows, I guessed the sliced wings had eluded her assessment.
Instead of going through the usual entrance, we entered through the set of French windows that gave onto the checkered marble foyer. The sight of the sweeping stairs made goose bumps burst over my skin. I rubbed my bare arms but stopped when Tristan’s eyes leveled on them before trailing to my nipples.
“Are you cold, Leigh? Would you like my jacket?”
“No,” I said quickly before adding an even brisker, “thank you, Tristan.”
His comment—or was it his stare?—drew Celeste nearer to me.
“Bonjour, Leigh.”
I spun around at the raspy yet feminine voice.
Reddened lips curving, Muriel stepped out from Jarod’s study, carrying a silver tray topped with a porcelain tea set. Her hair was swept back in another elaborate hairdo that glinted auburn in the sunlight bouncing off the crown moldings.
Celeste glanced up at me to ascertain if Muriel was friend or foe. When I smiled back at Muriel, Celeste’s taut shoulders relaxed.
A string of expletives had all of us turning toward Jarod’s study. The door swung open, almost unhooking from its shiny brass hinges. A thick man with sweat coating his flushed brow growled a particularly unsavory word as he yanked on the leash of a chihuahua whose tiny claws clicked nervously on the marble.
I pivoted toward Jarod, who was seated in one of his plush green armchairs, an arrogant smile tugging at his lips. I must’ve paled under the weight of his scrutiny, because Celeste stepped even closer, her shoulder brushing my arm.
Tristan gestured to the open door. “You ladies go on ahead. I’ll go collect the next candidate.”
As he plodded away, whistling, I swallowed, my throat alarmingly dry. I shot down my saliva a few more times but found no relief. It would probably only come once I left La Cour des Démons and its daunting owner.
I nudged Celeste into the high-ceilinged study. The patterned drapes on the two sets of French windows had been drawn open today, allowing light to bounce in. Where the room held fewer shadows, Jarod’s face did not. Even the ray of sun slashing across his dark irises and razor-sharp jawbone did little to brighten his features.
“How was your night, Feather?”
Again, I swallowed. Again, it did nothing to moisten my throat. “It was okay. And yours?”
“Lonely.”
“Feather?” Celeste piped in. “You call her Feather?”
He turned those unnerving eyes of his on Celeste. “She didn’t tell you about my little nickname?”
A supple groove appeared between her eyebrows. “Why do you call her Feather?”
“Because I’m soft and spineless, apparently.” I was glad to hear my voice grow a little sturdier.
Jarod’s smile broadened.
“Unicorn noodle,” Celeste muttered under her breath.
“Celeste!” I gasped, scouring the air around her skinny black jeans to make sure no purple feather drifted down.
“Pardon my French.”
Jarod chuckled. “I’d never heard that one.” He crossed his ankle over his opposite knee. When his steel-gray trouser leg rode up, I caught a hint of ochre-yellow.
Jarod seemed to have a thing for colorful socks, the same way I had a thing for bright accessories. And here I’d thought it impossible to have anything in common with this man.
“Will your friend be observing the interviews?”
“Would you mind if she did?”
His eyebrows shifted, vanishing behind a wayward chocolate-brown lock. Was he surprised I’d asked for his permission? His composure returned swiftly, and he shrugged. “Just don’t hover.”
I nodded and started toward the back of the room when Jarod called out my name—well, the name he’d given me. “Feather, sit next to me.”
I startled.
Celeste pushed onto her tiptoes to align her mouth with my ear. “I’ll go stand by the window. This way, I’ll have your back. Literally.” Soon, her lithe form melted into the shadowed recess between the mahogany bookcase and a small varnished game table topped with a chessboard.
As I folded myself into the seat nearest Jarod, he said, “Here are my rules. Don’t interfere with the interviews. Just listen. You get one joker. In other words, one person will benefit from my help thanks to you. Choose wisely.”
At the loud knock, Jarod perched his chin on a closed fist. “Come in.”
His transformation from lively to blasé was startling. I blinked, wondering if I was imagining the hardening jaw or dimming gaze, but the mask he’d worn the night we met—and I wasn’t referring to the masquerade one—was firmly back on.
I turned toward the study’s entrance.
The woman who’d elbowed me when I’d gone ahead of her in line strutted inside, glittery sneakers casting tinsels over the mahogany paneling. “I’m sorry. I thought you were done. Would you like me to wait outside?” Her tone was so syrupy I wrinkled my nose.
Jarod disregarded her question. “What brings you here, Mademoiselle . . .”
She frowned at me but must’ve understood I wasn’t a supplicant. “Guanod,” she finally answered. “Can I sit?”
She started to lower herself into a chair when Jarod said, “No.”
She popped back up. After recovering from the shock of Jarod’s ban, she jutted her pointy chin toward me. “She’s sitting.”
“She’s not here for my help.”
“What is she here for then?”
Jarod flicked his gaze toward Tristan, who pushed away from the wall, his crisp blue dress shirt glinting silver as he threaded himself around the furniture.
“Mademoiselle Guanod, I’ll ask you one last time before my employee escorts you back out . . . how may I be of service to you today?”
Her eyes twitched, as though annoyed she was being treated so unsympathetically.
“I’m making her uncomfortable, Jarod.” I was already scooting to the edge of my seat, ready to join Celeste in the back of the room, when his voice rang out sharply.
“Leigh, sit.”
I wasn’t sure what shocked me more—the use of my real name or the inflexibility with which he gave me the order.
I balanced on the edge of the seat cushion a couple of seconds before scooting back, afraid he’d cancel my joker if I didn’t abide by his rules. His eyes didn’t stray once toward me. They stayed glued to the woman whose forehead was scrunched in confusion.
“Next!” Jarod said.
“What?” When she saw Tristan closing in on her, she barked, “I didn’t even—”
“Do you know how much my time is worth, Mademoiselle Guanod?”
“But I’ve been waiting—”
“Come back next month,” Jarod said.
Tristan took ahold of her elbow,
but she whipped it out of his grasp. “My ex-husband is refusing to pay the alimony he owes me!”
Jarod inspected his cuticles, perfectly and utterly uninterested.
“He put all our money into offshore accounts before filing for bankruptcy so he wouldn’t have to share with me. All I want is for you to talk some sense into him.”
Jarod didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at her.
Tristan, on the other hand, said, “Men can be such bastards. Now, please, follow me.”
When he placed his hand on her, she batted it away. “Don’t touch me.” Tears sprang to her eyes, glistening like the hefty diamonds fastened to her earlobes. “Can you please just talk to him, Monsieur Adler? Threaten him a little?”
“What do you think, Feather?”
I jerked my attention toward Jarod. “Um.” Between being put on the spot and the way his inky eyes lingered on mine, the air became pinned to my lungs.
“Should I help her?”
The woman’s soul didn’t strike me as pure. Hurting, perhaps, but not in dire need of help. “Do you still have a roof over your head, Mademoiselle Guanod?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“My advisor asked you a question.” Jarod drilled the woman with a glare. “Have the decency to answer.”
Her teeth clenched. “Yes. I have a home.”
“And do you feel safe in your home?”
Her green eyes, a shade darker than mine, rippled with hesitation. “No.”
“She’s lying, Leigh.” Celeste’s voice was low.
The woman jolted. “Who the hell’s that? Another one of your counselors?”
“Would you like to cash in your joker, Feather?”
Wringing my fingers in my lap, I shook my head. Although I didn’t doubt this woman feared for the quality of her life, she didn’t fear for her life, and I wanted Jarod to help someone who did.
“Very well.” Jarod flicked his fingers.
The woman growled as she trounced across the jewel-patterned rug ahead of a cheery Tristan. As she wrenched the door open, she fired out, “Since when do you employ whores to counsel you, Monsieur Adler?”
I blinked, and then a blush mottled my skin. I tugged on the spaghetti straps of my clingy gray dress, trying to heave the fabric higher. I thought it was conservative, but if I came across as—
“Tristan.” Jarod didn’t utter anything more than his second’s name, and yet I sensed a loaded command attached to it.
Especially when Tristan nodded.
Once the door shut, I spun on the seat cushion. Before I could open my mouth, Jarod said, “No one gets away with insulting one of my guests.”
“Except you.” Celeste’s voice made the tendons in my neck strain against my still flushed skin.
A nerve ticked at his temple. “Except me.”
“She was just mad, Jarod. People say mean things when they’re mad.”
“Is your sister always this charitable, Celeste?”
“Always. It’s her only flaw.”
I was too anxious about the woman’s fate to roll my eyes at their side conversation. “Please, Jarod. Don’t do anything to her.”
He cocked his head and fixed me with eyes that sparked with mischief. Except he wasn’t a child, so his idea of mischief wouldn’t be sticking itching powder in her bed. “I won’t do anything to her.”
My heart banged. “And Tristan?”
“I’m not his keeper.”
“You might not be his keeper, but you’re his boss.” Fingers still toying with my dress straps, I worried my bottom lip.
Jarod’s expression flattened. “You shouldn’t let people get away with insulting you.”
I should’ve worn a loose T-shirt. Or a turtleneck. Or—
“And stop doing that.”
My hands froze on my dress’s straps.
“You don’t look like a whore.” Jarod glared at the oil portrait of the bay horse on the wall between the French windows. “I’ve been around enough of them to know.”
My exhale rushed out of me. For some reason, even though I wanted to thank him for his reassurance, the last part of his proclamation bothered me. “Why do you hang around that type of woman, Jarod?”
“Because I could never subject an innocent girl to the sort of life I live . . . to the sort of people who keep me company.”
I was about to point out that changing his way of life would allow him to open his heart to the type of woman who’d desire nothing from him besides his love but was interrupted by a sharp knock.
Chapter 21
A gangly man with undereye circles so purple they resembled bruises walked in behind one of Jarod’s guards. Upon not seeing Tristan, I fretted for the woman with the diamond studs.
“Your name?” Jarod’s question redirected my attention to the hunched newcomer.
“Sasha.”
“What can I do for you, Sasha?”
The man didn’t look at me or question my presence. Then again, he barely looked away from the carpet beneath his scuffed sneakers. “I run a small restaurant with my wife, and these men . . . they”—he rubbed at the collar of a plain black T-shirt—“they come in every night and demand a consequent portion of our earnings. They say it’s to pay for their services. They claim they’re neighborhood vigils.” Sasha’s voice was so soft it barely carried over to me. “I’m not sure if they’re in your employ”—he flicked his eyes up to Jarod, then back down to the carpet—“but my wife doesn’t feel safe around them, so we were hoping you could maybe tell them that we don’t require their services.” The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, scrawny throat.
Jarod brushed the scruff darkening his jaw. “In which neighborhood is your restaurant?”
“The Twentieth. Just off Belleville. On Rue Levert.”
Jarod kept rubbing his stubble. “Feather, what do you think?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. But perhaps, I should’ve hesitated . . . I should’ve waited to see if he would’ve helped Sasha without me cashing in my joker.
I took in Jarod’s profile, the strong, even lines of his face, his lips that parted to say, “Today’s your lucky day, Sasha.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into the room, Sasha straightened his head and stared at Jarod with such shock I didn’t care if I’d used up my joker for nothing. The medley of gratitude, hope, and joy that washed over the man made everything which had come to pass in the last few days suddenly worth it.
“I-I don’t know how to thank you.” Gratitude glimmered in his eyes. “Both of you.” He looked at me, then back at Jarod.
Jarod lowered his hand from his face and looked toward me. “Around what time do these men drop by?”
“Ten. Every night at ten.”
“Give my guard the address of your restaurant before leaving. My advisor and I will stop by around nine thirty so we’re there to greet these vigils.” The way Jarod pronounced the word made me realize these men mustn’t be in his employ, which reassured me more than anything.
Sasha performed spasmodic bows before spinning around and grappling for the door handle. He pumped it jerkily, then stepped out, but stuck his head back in to proclaim his gratitude a second time.
As soon he was gone, Jarod muttered, “You’re not about to cry, are you now, Feather?”
A tear had curved down my cheek. I palmed it away. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For volunteering to fix his problem yourself . . . And in person.”
His eyebrows arched. “You make it sound like it’s the first time in my life I’ve done something nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
His palm connected with the arm of his chair—noiseless, yet I felt the impact. “My reputation is truly abysmal.”
I blinked, stunned he was trying to make himself pass as a benevolent person. Sure, he conducted these monthly open houses, but if he gave away favors for nothing in return, then his scor
e would’ve dropped. The fact that it hadn’t wavered since he’d been ranked a Triple told me he must either demand compensation in return for his generosity or send emissaries to help.
Unless he did handle these situations himself, but in that case, it would mean he committed such heinous crimes the rest of the month that they steamrolled all the good he did.
I glanced over my shoulder at Celeste. My friend was outspoken and rarely kept quiet, so the fact that she hadn’t made a peep confounded me a little.
“Will you hold Sasha to an IOU?” Celeste finally asked, her mind operating on the same wavelength as mine.
He frowned. “An IOU?”
“Will you call in a favor at a later date?”
“I never expect anything in return from these people.”
“Because they have nothing to offer?”
“Because that isn’t the reason I help them.”
“Why do you help them?” Celeste continued. “To better your conscience?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I help them because I can.”
I stroked the armrest, leaving dark tracks in the velvet before brushing the fibers back. “Jarod?”
“Yes?”
“Would you have helped him if I hadn’t cashed in my joker?”
His eyes flashed. “You’ll never know.”
And yet, I knew. Or at least, I sensed I knew. “Can I stay and listen to more, or do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t think having you stay would be very wise. You’d have me save everyone and their mothers.”
I shot him a rueful smile. “I’d certainly try.”
“A shame you’re all out of jokers.”
Would he have given me another if I’d asked? I’d settled for one because that was all I needed, but Jarod would need to help more than one person to bring his score down. And no, it wasn’t one life for one point—some acts could win him dozens of points, just as some acts could lose him a handful.
The Ranking System was like a scale that weighed kindness and maliciousness, then established a sum. Even though its inner workings remained a mystery to everyone besides the archangels and the Ishim, who were in charge of it, the way we’d been taught about it was that it was comparable to weight loss. At the start of a diet, the pounds slipped off fast, but then the numbers on the scale dropped slower as the body habituated itself to the new regimen.
Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1) Page 12