Disenchanted

by A. R. Miller

  Taking a deep breath, shaky fingers dial the number. It begins ringing and my thumb hesitates over the button to hang up.

  “Hello,” says a honey–smooth voice on the other end.

  Sweat breaks out on my upper lip as my thumb hovers.

  “Hello?” repeats the voice, “Miss Fey, is that you?”

  Too late to hang up now. He must have caller ID. I raise the receiver to my ear.

  “I know it’s you, Schattenkind.” The slightest edge of irritation taints the seductive cadence.

  “Huh?” I say without thinking. “I mean, yes, it’s me.”

  “What can I do for you, mien Schattenkind?”

  “I’m just curious—wait a minute, what’s a shatten kind?”

  His laughter reverberates through the phone and across my body. I grasp the edge of the sink as everything becomes fuzzy. Black and white and grey all over. Like my whole world is nothing, but shadows.

  “Is that why you called me? You are curious about a word?”

  I shiver, the kind of shiver you get when someone grazes their fingers seductively across your skin. Imagine what phone sex would be like with this guy. On second thought, don’t. I need all my wits, what little are left, around me.

  “No,” I say slowly.

  Robbed of not only color and definition, everything sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well, my own voice included. I shake my head, color and sound pop in and out.

  “Then what is it you are curious about?”

  I bite my lower lip, knees turning to jelly as heat flashes through my lower, suddenly not–so–private, parts.

  “Well, let’s start with Jacobs and then why you wanted me to have your number.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in person. I will send a car.”

  I lean against the wall and slide down, knees too weak to hold me up. Not exactly what I expected and before I can decline, the line is dead. The bastard hung up on me. Laying the phone on the floor I decide the steaming bath I ran is a bad idea. A cold shower would be far more appropriate.

  ***

  The girl in the mirror looks confident. She wants answers and is going to get them, even if it means finding a way to sneak out and meet with Var Royd. I just hope that thought seeps in and settles the wiggles in her stomach before she chews off all her lip–gloss.

  “You’ve made your decision, for better, or worse, now all you need to do is figure out how to get past the Wonder Twins.”

  Sure, I could ask them to go with me, but something tells me Royd won’t tell me shit if he has an audience. This has to be one–on–one. I need to know why he financed the loan on my shop than. A hair salon is hardly the type of investment someone like Var Royd would be making. And why me? Then there’s the German phrase, what’s that mean? If I knew how to spell it, I could plug it into an online translator, but that ain’t happening.

  Taking a deep breath I open the door and the scent of fresh, brewed coffee teases and tantalizes, pulling the willing straight to the source. He–who–will–not–be–ignored glares at the three measly pieces of kitty kibble in his bowl.

  “I thought you were going to feed the cat.”

  “The container’s empty.”

  “I...” Strangely, the little part of my brain that keeps me from saying something stupid kicks in. “Damn, that’s right. I forgot to get another bag.”

  Sitting at the table, Nyssa cradles her dented head in her hands and Rey clings to a mug for dear life. Inhaling the scent of my caffeinated addiction, I fill a cup and lean against the counter.

  “So, whose bright idea was it for Rey to spend the night in the hall?”

  Nyssa glares at me, but it’s difficult to take a bed-head raccoon seriously.

  Rey slurps the last of his coffee, then holds his cup out, grunting something to the effect of, “Who do you think?” His own appearance less distressed, probably due to spending part of the time as a fox, patrolling the building.

  “Dara’s orders?”

  “Of course,” pouts Nyssa, lifting her smeared face.

  Wish I had a camera so I could show people why you don’t sleep in makeup, as if the damage to your skin isn’t enough. I fill Rey’s cup and top off Nyssa’s, feeling guilty they had to put up with Dara. Only slightly, considering what I’m planning. Now all I have to do is ditch my houseguests. From the looks of them, it shouldn’t be too difficult.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  My second limo ride in as many days, too bad it’s because I’m infamous instead of famous. Sitting in the back of Royd’s limo, I feel the slightest twinge for slipping out. I never once promised to stay put while Nyssa showered, nor did Rey need to know that ‘forgotten’ bag of cat food I sent him after is actually in a higher cupboard. Can’t keep the bags where C.C. can reach them; he’ll just tear them open and feast until he bursts. It kind of amazed me Rey couldn’t smell it. Oh well, just makes things easier for me.

  The car is waiting outside and so far, everything has gone smoothly. I left a note on the table to give the others a clue as to where I am, in case things go south. Pulling a Lorelei, I’m able to slip out without revealing my features. The press and gawkers can only speculate it was me they saw.

  My rush to the car nearly halted by the sight of Brand and that giant dog standing across the street. Damn, I figured stalker boy would have lost interest after the NTF hauled me away. He gives me a slight nod as I climb into the backseat. The intensity of his gaze sears me like a flat iron set on high, squeezing the air from my lungs.

  I can’t help turning to watch him shrink and disappear as we head out of town. What is he still doing hanging around? The haircut wasn’t that good. Maybe it was the free regenerative service I performed and he wants longer hair.

  Fever flashes across my cheeks and spreads. Could it be the kiss? Yeah, it was pretty hot for me, but I bet he’s had better. Speaking of comparisons, one kiss leads to another. Wonder if he and his buddy have compared notes? I don’t know which bothers me more, them laughing at, or fighting over me. The fighting is a much better ego boost, so I guess laughing wins.

  Hold the hormones, babe. What if he’s The Collector and I’m on the collectibles list? My tummy takes a tumble that no amount of the pink stuff will help. How could I be so stupid?

  “Shake it off,” I whisper, “you have more important things to think about.”

  Like what comes next. Being so proud of myself for deciding to take charge and pulling off my slick getaway, I realize I haven’t thought this through. Confronting Royd was the plan, but how? I’m going to be on his turf.

  Doubt creeps its way along my spine as I stare at the window separating me from the driver. Have I planted my foot in a big old pile of shit? Is this really Royd’s driver? What if he’s The Collector? What if Royd is The Collector? I rest my hand on the door latch, breakfast wanting to make a repeat appearance. Coffee going down, good. Coffee coming back up, not so much.

  “Are you alright, Miss Fey?” an overly professional voice comes over the intercom.

  Either the glass between us isn’t one way, or touching the handle triggered something.

  “Just a little car sick, not used to riding in limos.”

  “There is bottled water in the mini fridge, or the bar may contain something that might settle your nerves.”

  Yeah, something to relax my nerves, I reach toward the bar, remembering Jacobs’s whiskey. My hand snaps away. What am I thinking? The last thing I need is to be that relaxed. Nervous and sober, Royd’s delicious voice played havoc with my hormones. Imagine what they would do relaxed and a little tipsy.

  I swear the driver’s shoulders shake with laughter.

  ***

  Talk about a taste of the Big Time. First, the driver helps me from the car. Now a doorman swings one of the double glass doors open, tipping his hat as I pass. I restrict myself to a quick smile and thank you, instead of the regal looking–down–the–nose nod my smart-ass side wants so desperately.

&nbs
p; Wards shimmy across my skin—not unpleasant, but a little too intimate for my liking—as I step across the threshold. I wish I knew what kind of wards just took liberties not offered on a first date. I find it difficult to imagine Royd using magic with the rumors about his anti–En beliefs. It’s even harder to wrap my head around the abundance of En employees.

  “Miss Fey.” A china doll blonde comes around the desk to greet me. I take the offered hand gingerly, fearing breaking the porcelain limb. No worries, she has the grip of someone who could probably bench–press me without breaking a sweat. “Mr. Royd is expecting you in the penthouse.”

  It’s a little more than difficult to refrain from snorting and rolling my eyes. The penthouse, of course. All the better to view his domain.

  She escorts me to the elevator manned by yet another livery–clothed hunk o’ burning love. I wonder if there is a screening process to eliminate the unattractive, or even average.

  “This is what Dorothy must have felt like.”

  “Miss Fey?” asks the tempting elevator attendant.

  I feel my cheeks grow hot. Did I just say that out loud? Damn. I shake my head. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

  The pretty, pretty nods and gives me an even prettier smile. “If you’d like to have a seat, we’ll arrive at your destination momentarily.” He waves his hand to a settee along the wall.

  Seating in an elevator? What next, a fridge in the bathroom? Gods, the man just has too much money. I decline and stand gripping the rail so hard my fingers start to throb and knuckles turn translucent. The combination of the waiting room feel, harp music and the chimes at each floor, I wonder if there will be pearly gates at the end of my journey.

  When those chimes sound for the last time, the flipity–flop in my stomach, that the pretty sparklies distracted me from, returns. A creepy little kid’s voice sounds in the back of my mind, we’re here. The doors open and I realize the only escape is this elevator. I swallow back a nervous giggle when the elevator boy takes a step back, motioning me forward. My feet become magnets as I shuffle ahead, the desire for information barely outweighing that of flight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After the elevator, I expected something more ostentatious, 24k gilding everywhere, chandeliers, maybe Louis XVI furnishings. Not to say the place isn’t posh, just more along the lines of minimalist. Soft blues and white, giving the effect of floating in midair, nothing that hints to the owner’s personality, or maybe the room does give a hint. Cold. Impersonal.

  “Miss Fey, welcome to my home.”

  That smooth–as–silk voice sends my pulse racing. I berate myself for my lack of focus, letting him sneak up on me. Others have pointed out that I’m easily distracted and this proves their point.

  He motions to the rounded seating area surrounding a fire pit. It dawns on me that he’s waiting for me to sit first. Raising my chin I take the three steps down into the living space. He follows close enough I feel the brush of warmth along my neck and want to scream, ’Back Off.’ I doubt yelling at my host will get me very far so I bite my tongue and perch on the edge of the sofa.

  His knee brushes my thigh as he sits and my hands ball into fists. It’s obvious he delights in pushing the boundaries of personal space. The raised brow and curl of his lips challenge me to say, or do something. I fight the urge to slide over, or better yet move to the opposite side.

  “Has any of your curiosity been sated, Schattenkind?” The corners of his lushly–kissable lips curl.

  I shake my head. Foolishly staring into his eyes, a summer sky swirl of blues and gold. Hel no, it hasn’t and the list just keeps getting longer.

  What’s up with being turned on by virtually every male who crosses my path? With the exception of a few—I repress a shudder picturing Frick and Frack. I’ve had my share of indiscretions. In gentle terms, I’m not hanging on to a wilting flower waiting for Mr. Right, but I also don’t get it on with every Mr. Right Now. I don’t like my hormones running in overdrive. It doesn’t make a bad situation any easier.

  He tips his head forward, his gaze somewhere between seductive and menacing. Licking my lips, I look down, trying to focus on why I’m here and not asking for a tour of his bedroom. What this guy does to my baser instincts is beyond comprehension. I mean he’s smoking hot—Johnny Depp, with golden blue eyes and sandy hair, hot—still, no one’s ever had the effect he does on me. Multiply the lust radiated by the elves by a thousand and add the desire to bow down and worship at his feet.

  Shake it off, get down to business.

  “Why did you buy the note on my business, Mr. Royd? Why did you put Mr. Jacobs on retainer for me? How about the offer of a place to stay? Oh yeah, what does that German stuff you keep calling me mean?” Like a waterfall, it all tumbles out, but man it feels good. I can breathe again, the weight lifted from my chest. Relief doesn’t last. He actually has the nerve to laugh at me.

  “Shall we start with, you calling me Var? Mr. Royd is so formal, far too formal for friends. And I do hope we will become friends, Keely.”

  My name comes across like a caress and I shake it off. “Call me cautious, but I think I’ll stick with Mr. Royd.”

  “As you wish.” He stands, deliberately brushing against my arm as he unfolds himself. “I am a terrible host, forgive me. Would you care for some refreshment? I think something stronger than tea is called for with the questions you pose.”

  Without waiting for my answer, he moves to the bar, grabbing two glasses and a fancy crystal decanter. I’m betting the amber liquid inside costs as much as the bottle, if not more.

  I’m getting the feeling he’s never going to answer me as he pours two fingers worth into each glass, handing me one. Nice hands, long fingers, nicely shaped nails. Good grief, of all the stupid things to be distracted by, what am I thinking? Wondering who does his manicure should be the last thing on my mind.

  “Now, where were we?” He makes a point of brushing against me yet again as he sits back down.

  My skin feels tighter than one of Nyssa’s dresses and as hot as a curling iron. If he’s using touch to distract me, it’s working, but I can’t let him know that.

  “Oh, yes, your questions. I placed Mr. Jacobs in charge of your legal defense to protect my investment.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “My offer of a place to stay was also a way of protecting my investment, both actions stemming from my purchase of your note. I still feel my offer would be far more protection than what your friends and the First Arrow can give.”

  “But why did you buy it? Wait—First Arrow? Who, or what is that?”

  He swirls the liquid—I discover its scotch by sniffing while pretending to drink—in his glass. I wait for him to elaborate, but I’m starting to think Hel’s Realm would thaw before I get an explanation, or the other hell will freeze over. Doesn’t matter which you believe in. The likelihood of either isn’t going to happen in my lifetime. Not that I have the inside scoop, but I doubt either possibility.

  “It was a good investment,” he pauses, taking a sip. “The First Arrow is a person and you know her quite well. I believe she resides with you.”

  “You mean Dara?”

  He nods.

  “What’s with you and the weird nicknames?”

  “Perhaps you should ask her.”

  He’s not about to tell me and from his almost shit–eating–grin my asking her will probably cause havoc. Havoc, I get the feeling he would enjoy a little too much.

  “Will do, but back to you owning me...I mean, my business.” More laughter at my expense, but I deserve it for the slip up. “Supposedly, you hate Ens, why would you finance one?”

  “Quite to the contrary, mein Schattenkind, I love Ens.”

  The moment the words leave his lips, I know he loves Ens. Warmth wraps itself around me. He loves me. If I could remember my parents holding me, this is what it would’ve been like. I want nothing more than to bask in the moment, to tell him anything he wants
to know and probably things he doesn’t. Looking down I see my arms wrapped around myself and I can imagine the idiotic grin as my facial muscles pull tight. What in Hel’s Realm is he? Definitely not Un, but not En either.

  “What are you?” I whisper, peeling my arms from around myself.

  There’s a musical tone to his laughter and a pull to join in, but I fight against it.

  “A man, Keely, just a man.”

  The way he says my name sends shivers of desire deeper than skin and I see my hand reach toward him. I yank it back, digging my nails into my palm, holding it close at my side. Physical appearance aside, he is definitely not a man in the true sense of the word.

  “As for the name, perhaps you should ask your guardians what it means.” He toys with his glass.

  “My guardians?”

  “Yes. I believe you call them The Sisters.”

  “So you know my grandmother and aunts? What do they have to do with this and why should they explain this word to me?”

  “I know them.” There is a slight tightening around his eyes and jaw line. Displeasure? Anger? “Not as well as I thought. This meeting between us should have happened many years ago.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know what Ørlög is Keely?”

  “Yeah, it’s another word for wyrd.”

  He shakes his head. “No, they are very different. Ørlög is the collective, Wyrd is the individual.”

  “You mean like the world versus one person?”

  “Exactly.” He stands and moves to the window. “Ørlög cannot be changed, no matter how we deviate from the path of our wyrd. We may extend the time before an event happens, or how it happens,” he looks over his shoulder, “but it will happen.”

  A chill slinks over me and the room fades to a foggy gloom as he speaks. When he turns, quietly delivering that last line, he goes all Vincent Price on me. Ominous shadows cling to his face, a deviant sparkle in his eyes. All I can do is sit there, mouth gaping, until instinct kicks in and I slide a little closer to the edge of the couch, eyeing the door.