When she pushed through the front door to Elfie’s bar, she had begun to feel like she was wearing half the dirt in the city. She felt grubby and hollowed out, emotionally drained and physically hungry. Stress had clogged her throat for days and she hadn’t been able to choke down much food.
Elfie’s was open for lunch during the day. Lunch, served from eleven to three, was a supplemental part of the business, as Elfie’s came alive at night. Quentin, the owner, could have turned it into one of New York’s premiere clubs if he had wanted to. He had the charisma and style for it.
Instead Quentin kept a lid on the business getting too big. Elfie’s was known as a good neighborhood club with a steady, loyal clientele of mixed breeds from all three races. They were the city’s very own Island of Misfit Toys, the flotsam and jetsam of societies, not being fully Wyr, Fae, Elven or human and thus not fully belonging anywhere. Some were open about their mixed-breed nature and argued the benefits of living out of the closet. Many, like Pia, hid what they were and pretended to fit in somewhere.
She had worked at Elfie’s since she was twenty-one, when she had pushed through those same front doors and asked Quentin for a job. It was the only place she had found after her mom had died that came close to feeling like home.
She pushed her way to the servers’ end of the bar and sagged against it. The current bartender on duty, Rupert, paused in slinging drinks and looked at her in surprise. He lifted his chin, silently asking if she wanted him to get her a drink.
She shook her head and mouthed at him, “Where’s Quentin?” The bartender shrugged. She nodded, waved at him, and he went back to work.
Air-conditioning licked her overheated skin. Her eyes threatened to water again as she looked around familiar surroundings. She liked bartending at Elfie’s. She liked working for Quentin. She hoped Captain Fantastic and his hyenas rotted in hell.
The after-work crowd cluttered the large trendy space and lined up three deep for drinks. Low-level magic items and Power sparkled through the constant buzz of conversation. Sports channels played on huge HDTVs on the other side of the bar. Most people watched the wide-screen mounted high in one corner of the bar. She looked up to a CNN newscast.
“. . . and in local news, reports continue to roll in on the extent of the damage from this afternoon’s mysterious event. Meanwhile, speculation continues to run rampant as to the cause.” A blonde lacquered woman, one of CNN’s regulars, gave the camera a professional smile. The reporter stood in front of a sidewalk where crews of workmen were sweeping up mountains of broken glass.
The barfly next to Pia said in a voice that sounded like tumbling rocks, “Hey, gorgeous. Weren’t you taking a week of vacation? What are you doing here on your time off?”
She glanced at the hulking, squat half troll perched on a custom-made steel stool. On his feet, he slouched at eight feet tall with pale gray skin and a thatch of black hair that refused to lie down. “Hey, Preston,” she said. “Yeah, I’m still off. I just need to talk to Quentin for a minute.”
Preston was one of Elfie’s regulars. He declared he lived life on his own terms. A freelance computer programmer, he worked from home during the day and warmed the bar stool at Elfie’s at nights. He drank like a fish and occasionally acted as volunteer bouncer when things got dicey. “You know it’s a bad sign when you can’t leave work at work, honey,” he grunted as he slurped down a tall Coke glass filled with scotch.
“It’s a curse,” she agreed. Pulled by an invisible string, her gaze drifted back up to the overhead screen. She watched in equal parts fascination and horror.
“Quentin went somewhere about twenty minutes ago,” the half-breed troll told her. “Said he’d be right back.”
She nodded as the CNN reporter continued. “. . . Meanwhile public officials confirm that the origin of the event occurred some distance from Cuelebre Tower on Fifth Avenue, in a local park near Penn Station. Cuelebre Enterprises has released a press statement claiming responsibility for the unfortunate ‘research and development accident.’ We now go to Thistle Periwinkle, PR director for Cuelebre Enterprises and one of the more famous spokespersons from the Elder Races.” The scene cut to a small figure surrounded by reporters in front of Cuelebre Tower’s polished chrome and marble veneer.
The crowd at the bar broke into two-fingered whistles, scattered stamping and applause. “WOOT!” “Faerie Barbie—yes!” “My GIRL!”
The petite figure wore a pale pink business suit that accentuated an hourglass figure with a tiny waist. Standing close to five foot ten, Pia always felt like a galumphing horse when she saw the faerie on television. Cuelebre’s famous public mouthpiece wore her fluffy lavender hair in a chic flipped-up bob. She wrinkled her tilted nose with a sympathetic smile as a dozen microphones were thrust in her face.
“God, she’s hot.” Preston heaved a sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a chance at that.”
Pia gave the huge craggy male a quick glance and scratched at the back of her head. The fact that the cutesy faerie was Cuelebre Enterprises’ PR spokesperson always seemed manipulative to her. Look at how nice and friendly and safe we are, oh my.
The faerie held up a delicate hand. As soon as the shouting quieted, she began to speak. “This will be just a brief statement today. We’ll follow up later with more details as we better understand the situation. Cuelebre Enterprises regrets any inconvenience this incident has caused the good people of New York and promises a prompt resolution to any and all property damage claims.” The faerie’s gamine smile died. She looked dead-on into the lens of the camera, her normally merry expression grim. “Rest assured that Cuelebre is using every resource available to conduct a full investigation. He gives you his personal guarantee that what caused today’s incident will be taken care of swiftly and decisively. There will never be another occurrence.”
So much for cutesy. The crowd of reporters around the faerie stilled. In the bar the constant burr of noise died. Even Rupert stopped serving drinks.
Someone nearby said, “Damn. Did that twee little chick just pull off scary?”
On the wide-screen the scene erupted into chaos again before it cut back to the main newsroom at CNN where the blonde reporter said in an urgent tone, “And there you have it, Cuelebre’s public statement, and didn’t it sound like a loaded one, folks.”
The news show went on to do a brief biographical sketch on Cuelebre. There wasn’t much documented about the reclusive multibillionaire. He was universally acknowledged as one of the oldest Powers in the Elder Races and recognized as the iron-fisted ruler of the New York Wyrkind demesne. He was also a major, if shadowy, power player in the Washington political scene.
Close photographs and film segments of him always blurred. The most detail cameras had been able to capture of him was from pictures taken at a distance. The network showed a couple of snapshots of a group of tough-looking, powerful males. In the midst of them towered a massive, dominant figure caught in aggressive midmotion, dark head turned away.
Cuelebre had never made a public acknowledgment of what he was, but news shows loved to speculate. They avoided claiming anything but made much of how his first name, Dragos, really meant “dragon” and Cuelebre was a mythological giant winged serpent.
Even the most marginalized half-breed that crept around the edges of the Elder Races’ politics and society knew what and who Cuelebre was. Every one of them would have felt in their bones the dragon’s roar that had shaken the city to its foundations.
Pia groped for Preston’s scotch. The troll handed the glass to her and she gulped at it. The liquid slid down her parched throat and exploded into a burning fireball in the pit of her stomach. She gasped and handed it back to him.
“I feel you,” said the troll. “They’ve been playing stuff like that all afternoon. Apparently the ‘incident’ ”—he made finger quotes in the air—“broke windows in buildings as far as a mile away and cracked one brownstone down the middle. I heard it myself, and I’m man enough to admit
the sound made my stones shrink.”
Panic pulsed through her again. She dropped her hands below the bar to hide how they shook. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I heard it too.”
“Whoever made him that mad?” Preston shook his head. “I can’t imagine, but it’s gonna make Judgment Day look like a picnic.”
A deep voice said by her ear, “You look like shit.”
Pia almost leaped out of her skin. Then she pressed the heel of her hands against her eyelids until she saw stars before turning to face Quentin.
“That’s my boss,” she said over her shoulder to Preston. “A compliment a minute.”
The troll snorted.
Quentin leaned against the wall by the swinging doors that led to the back. He regarded her with a frown. He was six feet two inches of lean tensile strength and spare graceful features, one of those scary-gorgeous guys that could make the cover of GQ if he had been a model. His dark blond hair, when loose, would fall past broad shoulders, but he normally kept it pulled back in a queue. The severe style emphasized the long bones of his face and piercing blue eyes.
Pia’s emotions took another wild swing. Her lips tightened and she looked down to tug at a backpack strap. “I need to talk to you,” she told him.
“Figured as much.” He straightened from the wall and turned to push open one swinging door.
Pia wiggled her fingers at Preston and walked to the back, Quentin behind her. The door swung into place, muting the bar noise.
She continued through the stockroom and stepped into his spacious office. She stopped in the middle of the room, dropped her backpack and just stood there, her tired mind a blank.
A beautifully proportioned hand came over her shoulder and hooked under her chin. She allowed him to turn her around, though she could only meet his intent gaze for a moment before her own drifted to an area somewhere over his right shoulder. Her chest hurt. She could feel his scrutiny travel down her body.
“I’m leaving town,” she told the area over his shoulder. Her voice sounded choked. “I came to say good-bye.”
Silence stretched and grew thin. Then Quentin put a hand on her forehead and wrapped the other around the back of her neck. Her gaze flew to him, and the concern she saw in his expression almost did her in. He said, “You have a headache.”
Golden warmth began to flow from his hands, infusing her head and spreading through her body, easing pain away. “Oh God, I had no idea you could do that,” she said with a sigh. “That feels so good.”
When her knees sagged, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the heartache.”
Pia’s mouth trembled. He must have read misery on her face like a road map. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to yell at me for not giving you two weeks’ notice?”
“How about I don’t and we’ll just say I did.” He rubbed her back. “Deal?”
She sniffed and nodded, wrapped her arms around his waist.
Quentin’s age was indeterminate. He could have been anywhere from 35 to 135. There was something stern and ageless about him in repose and his aura carried a hint of violent secrets, so Pia had always put her money on older. She’d had a flaming crush on him for years. Usually she enjoyed it. It was a comfortable indulgence, made all the more so because she knew she would never act on it.
There had been a frisson of awareness the moment they laid eyes on each other. Quentin bore a low-level hum of Power that pulled at her bones. She recognized what it was. He carried a glamour that helped him pass for human, which was very similar to hers and the other half-breeds who camouflaged themselves. She wasn’t sure what he was but she guessed part Elven.
She knew he had no idea what she was either, and because he didn’t pry she had tolerated the speculative glances he had given her at the beginning of their acquaintance. One of the things she appreciated most about her relationship with Quentin was that they didn’t ask each other questions that were too personal.
After the first couple of months of wariness, they had relaxed in each other’s company, having come to a tacit understanding. They both knew they had things that were better left hidden in the shadows. They were both content to leave them there.
He began to untangle her ponytail, combing through the strands with long fingers. “Did Keith have anything to do with this? You haven’t seen him since you broke up with him, have you?”
She was shocked at how good it felt to have Quentin stroke her hair. Going boneless, she turned her face into his shirt. He smelled like warm, virile male and green growing places. It felt so good to be held by a strong, steady man. For a few moments she allowed it to banish her chill as she pretended she belonged in his arms and that she was safe. What a dangerous, stupid pretense.
She stiffened and pulled out of his arms. “Yes, I have seen him, and no, it wasn’t romantic. Keith has contributed to this,” she admitted, not willing to lie, not only because she cared for Quentin but also because she had never been able to figure how much truthsense he had. “But it’s complicated.”
Quentin strolled to close his office door. He leaned against it and folded his arms. “Okay, so I’ll get it uncomplicated. Just tell me where he lives.”
Alarm flared. “No! You’ve got to swear to leave him alone.”
Quentin cocked his head, regarding her with far too much acuity for her comfort. “Why? You don’t still care for him, do you?”
“God, no!” She scratched at her head with both hands and then rubbed her face. “That isn’t it at all. Look, you don’t understand because you don’t know anything, I get that. And I can’t explain it to you. I shouldn’t have even come to say good-bye. This was a big mistake.”
She gestured at him to move from the door. He didn’t budge. Only then did she realize his position at the door had been deliberate. She huffed, angrier at herself than she was at him. She had to start getting smarter real fast, or she was going to be barbeque.
Quentin caught and held her gaze, his eyes going stormy. “Just tell me what kind of trouble you’re in,” he said slowly and deliberately. “And I will take care of it. I won’t ask questions you either can’t or don’t want to answer. All you’ve got to do is tell me what’s wrong.”
Just like that her panic was back, only this time it was for him. She leaped forward and grabbed him by the shoulders. “You listen to me.” She tried to shake him but he was too big. The stubbornness in his face made her snarl. “I mean it. You have got to take me seriously. Shit’s happened, and I’m not telling you about it. I’m leaving and that’s that.”
Still watching her, he took her hands from his shoulders, wrapped them together and held them against his lean chest. “Pia, we’ve known each other for four years, and we’ve respected each other’s privacy very well up until now. Whatever else you are, I know you’re a smart cookie—”
“You say that to me with a straight face after I fell for Keith. What a joke,” she said. She tried to jerk her hands away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“You made a stupid mistake. That doesn’t make you stupid,” he said, crushing her hands against his chest until she felt them throb. “I’ve seen you watching how things work around here. Do you think I don’t have contacts or influence? Let me help you.”
She stopped struggling since she wasn’t able to get loose anyway. “I know you have influence. There’s got to be lots of reasons why Elfie’s has such a large loyal clientele of half-breeds and why you talk with so many of them back here in your office. And I’m sure there’s got to be a lot of interesting conversations during your Monday night poker games. Judging from other visits and back door deliveries, I’m also quite sure you have contacts from the Elven demesne, and God only knows who else.”
“Then you should know I can help you,” he said. He seemed to realize he was hurting her and loosened his hold. “All you have to do is let me.”
She rolled her eyes. She knew he was stubborn, but this was ridiculous
. “You are still not listening to me. You. Can’t. Help. Me.” She turned her hands over and clasped his. “We’re still not going to talk about it, but just think for a minute, will you? Dragon?” She curled her hands into claws. “Rowr? Me leaving town?”
He whitened as he stared at her. “What did you do?”
She shook her head. At least he was taking her seriously now. “All you need to know is my kind of trouble has got you outclassed and outgunned. Do nothing. Even better—don’t even think of doing anything. And God, Quentin, whatever you do, don’t go after Keith. There’s something really bad and scary out there that thinks it can mess with Cuelebre and get away with it.” Leaning forward, she let her forehead chunk on his chest. “After telling you just that much, now I’m going to have to kill you. Please, listen to me. You’ve come to mean a lot to me and I don’t want to hear you’ve been hurt or killed. Especially when there’s nothing you can do, anyway.”
His arms came around her again and he squeezed her so hard she lost her breath. Then he put his lips next to her ear. “I am not,” he said, “going to let you go on the run without helping you. Deal with it.”
She groaned and pushed against him but he wouldn’t let her go. “What is the matter with you, moron? Do you have a death wish?”
“Oh, shut up. Of course I don’t. I just look after my own,” Quentin said. He let her go and strode to his desk. Surprised, she staggered and pivoted to track him. His mouth thinned into stern lines. She saw again the shadow of something scary darken his face. He flashed her an ironic glance. “Even if she does incomprehensible stupid things and squeals like a girl.”
“Fuck you. You’re not the boss of me. Anymore, anyway,” she muttered. She watched him open his wall safe with swift efficiency.
He pulled out an envelope and handed it to her. “You’re going to go here,” he told her. “To a little place I own.”
His autocratic attitude caused a brief impulse of anger to sputter like an engine ticking over, but she was losing the energy to fight with him. She opened the envelope, pulled out two house keys on a plain metal ring and just looked at him.