Allistair did not speak. We said nothing to each other for a very long moment, long enough those five minutes were most definitely up. We simply stared.
It was not a staring contest in the sense that he was waiting for me to break and look away, but in that he was searching for something in me and I think he found it.
I think we both did.
“Consider the legal side of things handled. We still need to discuss what you want to do with the house and Blue Ruby, but I will try to make the transition as smooth as possible.” He turned on his heel and made to leave. “And Ruby?” He paused with his hand on the knob.
“Yes?” I asked. A single word never felt so exhausting.
“Your father would have been proud.”
I opened my mouth, but fell short of finding any kind of intelligible response to that. Allistair didn’t wait for one and the door clicked shut behind him.
Given that my father was the devil, I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Knowing Allistair, it was probably a bit of both, and I was best not to dwell on it too much.
I still had to survive the week. And it was only Tuesday.
**Allistair**
She’s so close and yet so far.
Julian is trying to keep us at a distance ever since she branded War. That fucker has been sporting it about, how he was chosen first. Of course, now that it’s happened once, she’s even more careful, holding me at arm’s length because she’s scared it will happen again.
I blamed him.
What none of them know is how close her and I have come to that, but I put her first and stopped it from happening. War is an idiot if he doesn’t realize that he’s fucking lucky Julian showed up and stopped them. We can’t afford for her to enter the transition right now. Not with the imp out there sending the fucking Seelie her way.
I don’t even know how she managed to brand him without entering it. Not only is it unheard of, but it lends more credence to Pestilence’s theory. Something happened, and like her feeding, she is holding off.
The problem is that eventually something will happen again, and she will blow.
We’re handling a hair trigger that could go off at any moment, over anything.
But at least she thought to forge the girl’s signature before I went and paid off the cops and the judge. Funny how little the law was enforced when money was flowing.
I had to praise the forethought she used, and I meant what I said.
Her father would have been proud. She will make a great queen.
Fair and ruthless. I couldn’t ask for more in a she-demon that will one day rule.
Which is exactly why I will be standing at her side.
Rysten is hell-bent on being claimed next, but not if I have anything to say about it.
Chapter 15
We hurried down the well-lit street, our shoes softly slapping against the wet pavement. A subtle mist permeated the air, making the freezing temperatures downright icy. I shoved my hands in my armpits and ambled towards my favorite restaurant, The Alley Cat. Next to me, Rysten let out a soft laugh.
“You won’t be laughing when your balls freeze and you can’t make any little pests,” Moira snapped, storming ahead of me. I smiled at her back as she tugged her hood tighter and shoved past the drunken group of college kids. A chorus of, ‘Hey! Watch it!’ followed her as one of the boys fell over sideways into a trash can.
Talk about getting wasted. I sniggered at my own pun.
Moira didn’t spare them a single glance as she plowed on, diving into a side alley. I followed after her, ignoring the shouts behind us. They may yell, but no one would dare cause trouble with Rysten standing beside me. Easy-going nature aside, he had a strict no bullshit policy where I was concerned. Only Moira and Bandit were exempt.
It was reassuring, but also a bit patronizing. He was at least considerate in his duties, unlike the other three, who were all their own unique forms of overbearing. Rysten made it feel more like the three of us were just getting dinner. The reality was it was me and Moira, and he had to come along because I can’t go anywhere alone. Not anymore.
I treaded carefully across the cobbled street. It wasn’t pavement like most of Portland, but instead a layer of rocks imbedded on top of a cement finish. The stones were smooth and slick in the misting weather. Rysten saddled up to me, gently cupping my arm at the elbow to help me keep my balance.
“Thanks,” I breathed, pulling my arm away as soon as we reached the steps. Rysten didn’t say anything, but I could feel the pleasant warmth that radiated from him. Did he know his hand was like a hot iron against my skin? Could he feel the way my body reacted underneath three layers of clothes?
I shook my head to clear away those thoughts as I gripped the wrought iron railing and ascended the steps. Inside, Moira waved an arm in our direction, beckoning us toward a booth in the back.
“This is your favorite restaurant?” Rysten asked skeptically, his eyes swinging from the very plain wooden booths that lined the space to the moving tables that traversed the room. Each one oversaw an aspect in pizza making: dough boy, the sauce guy, toppings, and finally to the oven where it baked into delicious goodness that waitresses would then serve out. The moving tables shifted and turned without managing to hit each other as they created pizza so heavenly, the owner must have been an Italian grandmother in his past life. I smiled fondly at the young man spinning dough high in the air before tossing it onto the next table.
“Yep, and the main event hasn’t even started,” Moira answered gleefully, a low chuckle escaping her lips. Rysten gave me a sideways glance as I slid into the booth next to her and shrugged innocently.
“Main event?”
“You’ll see.”
She and I shared a smirk at the scowl on Rysten’s face. For once it was us who was in on the joke. Oh, how the tables have turned. Quite literally, as the dough boy moved his station in front of us.
“What’ll it be this evenin,’ ladies and gent?” he asked in a strong New York accent.
“Two large house specials and a pitcher of whatever seasonal draft you’re carrying,” Moira answered for all of us. His hands were already kneading the dough.
“Got some ID on ya?” he asked. I blanched. Did Rysten even have an ID? I mean, he made my birth certificate and all when I was a child, but what about now? I fumbled with my mini-backpack, giving him a sideways glance out of the corner of my eye. He flipped open his wallet and flashed it at the dough boy who nodded while I dug out my own ID.
“Alrighty then, food will be up shortly,” the boy said with a wink in Moira’s and my direction. He moved the cart to another table, and in the process, sent the pizza dough spinning onto the sauce cart while calling out our order. You had to admire the organized chaos that The Alley Cat thrived in. When I was thirteen, I wanted to work here. Then I hit puberty and well…c’est la vie. That’s what happens when you’re half-succubus. A secluded job was my only prospect after that.
“I didn’t know you had an ID.” I eyed the wallet he was quickly closing.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, love.” He winked as he slid it in his back pocket. “How do you expect us to get around on earth without the documentation humans are so fond of?”
“Well,” I drawled. “I kind of assumed you operated around the law and just came and went as you pleased.” Our conversation paused when a young woman came up carrying a pitcher in one hand and three frosty mugs in the other. She poured our glasses one at a time and left the remaining half pitcher on the table without a word.
“As nice as that would be”—he paused to take a swig of the frothy ale—“we can’t do everything around the law. Allistair couldn’t handle your legal trouble if not for the fabricated scores on the bar that made him a certified lawyer.”
Instead of replying, I took a drink of the seasonal draft. Rich and malty, the pleasant notes of vanilla finished with a hint of peppermint as a faint warmth built in my chest.
&nb
sp; Much better.
“Should I be concerned about this case with Kendall?” I asked in all seriousness. If Allistair never took the bar…I guess it was safe to assume he probably never went to college either.
“Concerned? Really, love? We started the firm some hundred years ago. If anyone can get you out of your legal troubles, it’s him.” Rysten assured me, using his hands to gesture. I wasn’t the only one the alcohol was loosening up tonight.
“When you say the firm”—Moira cut in—“do you mean that all of you own it?”
“Yes, but Allistair handles the actual lawyer business. Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he gets a power trip from it. Certainly wouldn’t surprise me,” he scoffed. I snorted and choked on a bit of my beer. Moira clapped me on the back harder than necessary, all the while eyeing Rysten with interest.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“That he gets a power trip from it?” She nodded and Rysten let out a dark chuckle. “Because Famine and my brother have been at odds for control for a very long time. Him being the lawyer meant he was providing for Ruby, and Julian wasn’t. I suspect that’s half the reason he does it without complaint.” He took another long drink of his beer, draining the mug. Moira was more than happy to pour him another one.
She’s so thoughtful that way.
The nosy banshee was well aware of what was making his lips loose—and for once, it wasn’t me. Right then, a waitress came carrying two ginormous pizzas, and when I say ginormous, I mean literally two feet in diameter. They barely fit on the table around the pitcher and mugs. Rysten drained his again, refilled it, and topped mine off before handing the girl the empty pitcher. We all echoed our thanks as she retreated, looking slightly skeptical we could eat it all. She didn’t know the appetite banshees have. They’re notorious for eating ungodly amounts of food, and judging by the size of Rysten, I had a feeling she wasn’t the only one.
“So, if Allistair is the only one doing lawyer business, what do the rest of you lazy fucks do?” Moira asked, pulling a square off the tray and biting in while it was still piping hot. She let out a freakishly loud moan and the next table over threw us dirty looks. I held up my hands, like I had no part in it—not that it mattered when Moira flipped them off. The woman picked up her toddler and covered the boy’s eyes while the baby clapped.
It almost reminded me of Bandit.
“Really?” I asked her. Moira flipped me off, too, shrugging her slender shoulders. For fuck’s sake, let’s at least pretend to be grown ass adults.
“Well, us lazy fucks, as you so nicely put it, do all of the work outside of the courtroom.” Rysten replied, watching me with amusement as I dug into the pizza. I folded it like a sandwich before plopping it into my mouth.
“Such as?” I asked around a mouthful of food. Moira sniggered, arching an eyebrow. I glared back as I swallowed the rest of the slice whole and grinned like a motherfucking champ.
Succubus without a gag reflex for the win.
“Nothing all that terribly interesting,” he said vaguely.
“You forged my birth certificate and I’m willing to bet you’re the one that forged Allistair’s bar results,” I replied, much soberer than he was in that moment. His hand halted mid-bite, and his sage colored eyes flicked up to mine. Bingo. “So that’s your thing? You forge stuff? Documents?”
His lips twitched as a grin fought its way through. “Amongst other things.”
“Hmm.” I took another slice of pizza, savoring the zesty tomato sauce and hot red peppers. With the winter beer and warm atmosphere, I was right at home here.
“What about Laran? What’s he do?” Moira asked, drawing our attention back to her. She’d only been silent because she was too busy eating. Half of the pizza before her was already gone.
“War isn’t really one for politics or computers…” Rysten trailed off, picking up his beer right at that moment. The smirk of his lips told me he clearly found that amusing.
“Figures. He’s probably the one that beats people up in alleys,” Moira shrugged.
Rysten choked on his beer and put the mug down with enough force to muster a thunk from the impact.
Well, well, now…if that isn’t interesting.
“That’s what he does, isn’t it? He beats people up?” I asked him.
“Not so much anymore,” Rysten supplied.
“Anymore?”
“Should I be scared to ask what Julian does?” Moira piped up with too much enthusiasm. Rysten threw her a glare as if to say, don’t you dare.
“Look, love, we built ourselves a name on mostly honest work. We had a few mobsters back in the early days, a drug lord here and there to keep the money flowing. What do you expect though? We’re not exactly guardian angels.” With that, he drained the last of his mug and helped me finish off our pizza.
Nothing like a last supper before we leave town for you to figure out who you’re moving in with. Although, if I’m being honest, it’s wasn’t all that surprising. They dealt with the Josh scenario too efficiently for it to be the first time. I mean, they’re the Four Horsemen—and I burn people alive. It’s not like I have any room to judge.
“Ladies and gents, boys and girls, now is the time we’ve all been waitin’ for.” The charismatic voice of the young dough boy drew my attention to the center of the room where workers were clearing away tables. He stood on a lone chair, overlooking the lot of us. He wore a Cheshire smile like the grandest of kings. How fitting for what came next.
“These two lovely young ladies will be coming around with pails of spoiled compost for sale. Five dollars a bucket, to crown the fool!” He clapped his hands and a young girl appeared, probably no more than sixteen, pushing a cart loaded with old vegetables and fruits. The eggs always made for a particularly fun show.
“How many?” the girl asked, blushing at the sight of Rysten.
“We’ll take four,” Moira said, drawing her attention away from the male across from us. The girl pulled the empty trays from our table and moved the buckets while Moira counted out her cash.
“You got a five?” she asked me and I reached for my wallet.
“I’ve got it,” Rysten said, waving us off. He handed the girl a fifty, told her to keep the change, and gave her a wink. The girl’s porcelain skin blushed a deep shade of scarlet while she murmured her thanks and moved to the next table.
“How dashing,” Moira muttered. I snorted in agreement.
“So what are we going to do with all of this”—his nose wrinkled in disgust—“garbage.”
“You’ll see,” I replied cryptically. Moira cackled, and a tenor of her banshee rang through, making the buckets warble. I clapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes grew wide.
“Did that just…” she said around my hand. I pulled it back for her to speak freely.
“Yep.” I took a sweeping glance around the restaurant, but no one noticed. No one apart from Rysten, who watched us silently with his brows drawn together, a slight pucker formed between them as he ran his fingers over his jaw.
“Interesting…” he murmured. I opened my mouth to ask him what he was talking about, but the dough boy chose that moment to get started.
“Alrighty, listen up!” the young man projected, his voice gravitating over us as he called the room to silence. “It’s time for the main event. The one night a month that we come together to crown the King of Fools. This. Is. Bad Poetry Night!”
The room let out a thunderous applause as people slammed the buckets of slop up and down. Moira and I let out a woot, pumping our fists in the air. Rysten stared at us like crazy women.
“This is what you dragged us out here for?” he whispered in disbelief. I shushed him with a wave of my hand as the boy—now known as the marshal since bad poetry night was well underway—called up the first volunteer.
“State your name and poison, if you wish to be the King of Fools!” the marshal called out, stepping down from the chair. His coffee colored hair reflected the so
ft lights coming from the ceiling, and his chocolate eyes sparkled with mischief, making him look younger than before.
“I’m Standing Willow,” said the man that walked forward. His rainbow beanie slouched sideways, only covering half of his long, greasy hair. He wore a baggy t-shirt with a peace sign on it that did nothing for his thin frame, and his gypsy pants bunched at the waist, poofing out around his legs and cuffing at the ankles. I was also pretty sure I owned that same pair of Chacos he had on, except I only wore them when it was above freezing.
“Welcome, Standing Willow,” the marshal said. His lips twitched like he was having trouble saying that in all seriousness. The beanie man took up his spot on the chair, clearing his throat obnoxiously before starting.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” the man started.
“Boooo!” Moira yelled. Rysten turned, stricken, which for a drunk demon, was quite amusing.
“Shhh!” he scolded her. “Can you keep your voice down? That’s quite rude.”
No sooner than he said it did a chorus of boos rain down from around the room. I wasn’t sure if I should be amused or feel bad for the guy. On one hand, the idea was to bring the worst poetry to the table, so maybe he was making a joke of dear old Shakespeare. On the other hand, he looked the type that might take this to heart.
“Thou art more lovely—” And that ended right there as Moira arched around me to throw half of a tomato at him. It flew all ten feet, straight and true, right into his mouth. His eyes went wide and he looked down his nose, mortified at the chunk of tomato half hanging out of his mouth.
The marshal stepped up and circled around the beanie man. “First pie hole of the night. What’s he going to do?”
The guy doubled over and threw up, spewing not only the tomato, but a good portion of his dinner. He toppled sideways out of the chair where his friends who put him up to this were waiting. They caught him, smiling through their tear-stained eyes, clearly laughing so hard they cried. He righted himself and looked around, pink tinging his cheeks. Standing Willow, it seemed, did not realize what kind of poetry night this would be.
Wicked Games Page 11