Now it was Ria’s turn to change the subject, and she did, asking Eric about his work at Juilliard. Eric answered readily enough—he had nothing to hide in that regard, at least from Ria, and the two of them continued sparring verbally all through the meal—appetizer, salad, entree, and dessert. Without being evasive, Ria didn’t talk about anything that really mattered—Eric gathered that she was essentially making a tour of her holdings, reconsolidating her position as head of LlewellCo after a long absence. But that hardly explained her appearance at Juilliard . . . or her dinner invitation.
“I was surprised to see you surface after so long,” she finally admitted over coffee. Ria’s half-human heritage saved her from the poisonous effects of caffeine on her system, and Eric had surprised her once again by ordering coffee himself. The hit of the unaccustomed caffeine made his heart race, giving him a feeling as if he were riding Lady Day down a very long straightaway.
“No reason I shouldn’t,” Eric said. That much was true: the Feds had always really been after Bethie, not him or Kory, and besides, the Eric Banyon they were looking for would be older than he was by enough years to fool a casual inspection, even if there were anyone working the case who still remembered him.
Not that he was completely convinced they’d been legitimate Feds in the first place. . . . “And as I said, I had some business here.”
“The music school.”
The next obvious question would have been why Eric, with Bardcraft at his command, would even bother with something so mundane as a Juilliard degree, but Ria didn’t ask it. She hadn’t asked any hard questions at all over the course of dinner, Eric realized. It was as if it were enough, from her point of view, simply to be in view, displaying herself.
And it very nearly was. Eric had almost forgotten how downright desirable Ria was, in a way that had nothing (well, almost nothing) to do with sex. It was almost as if she were somehow realer than everyone else. She drew the eye to her automatically, like the focus of a painting.
But what the hell does she WANT?
If she wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t be sitting here discussing mutual friends. If she wanted information, sooner or later she was going to have to ask some questions. If she wanted to use him in some way, well, those days were long past, and Eric was pretty sure that she knew it by now. But she hadn’t made an excuse and left, so that wasn’t it. She was still here, sitting across the table, regarding him with that steady gaze with a hint of challenge in it.
The waiter came with the check, and Ria pulled out her card to pay. Nothing as paltry as a platinum AmEx for Ria Llewellyn: what she placed on the server tray was an indigo-and-black Centurion AmEx. The user fees alone for the card were over ten thousand dollars a year, with all charges due in full at the end of each month.
Okay. Color me a little impressed. I knew back in L.A. that LlewellCo had money. I just didn’t think it was quite this much. And you know what they say: money will get you through times of no magic better than magic will get you through times of no money. . . .
“So I’m a corporate expense?” Eric asked, glancing at the card.
“You might be,” Ria answered enigmatically. The waiter returned with the charge slip in record time. Ria signed it, tucked her card back out of sight, and rose to her feet.
“I don’t feel we’ve quite said all we have to say to each other, Eric. Why not come back to my hotel and we can continue this conversation? I promise, no harm will come to you.”
That’s what you said the last time, Eric thought, the ghosts of old memory stirring. Just then inspiration struck.
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come back to my place?” he said, standing in his turn. “I’m sure you want to see it. And good burglars don’t come cheap these days.” Especially once they got a look at the building’s security system.
If he’d expected to embarrass her, Eric was disappointed. She threw back her head and laughed—a full-throated, joyous laugh—and smiled at him, eyes sparkling.
“Quite right. I’m not sure what market price for housebreaking is these days, but I’m sure there isn’t a line item in my budget to cover it. Lead on,” she added, almost gaily, laying her hand on his arm.
The sensation of the contact sent a thrill of heat up his arm and straight to his groin. He’d better stop kidding himself now: Ria Llewellyn was still an enormously attractive woman, and she used that beauty like a weapon. Once he would have been felled by its effects like a clubbed seal. He still felt its pull, tempting him.
But things, as they’d both said over the course of the evening, had changed.
It was rising eleven when they left the restaurant. Ria’s limousine waited patiently at the corner. When he spotted them, the chauffeur jumped out from behind the wheel to open the passenger door for them.
The luxury of Underhill was exotic, often strange beyond his imagination, and certainly beyond his achievement here in the World Above. Bardic magic and Elven magic fit together like gloved hands, touching, but separate. Eric could reweave the fabric of Reality, open gates between worlds. But much of Elven magic was species-specific, far beyond his ability and his understanding.
This was different.
The door of the car closed behind them with the solidity of a bank vault. Eric could smell the leather of the seats, the better-than-new-car scent of the fine materials, the engineering and craftsmanship that had gone into the car’s construction. And there was nothing magical about it. All of it was a creation of human hands and minds. It was certainly the most decadent thing he’d experienced since he’d come back to human lands. The inside of the Rolls was almost like walking into a small room: there were fresh flowers in matching crystal vases on the cabin walls, a table, and a sleek bulkhead panelled in mahogany burl, from which jumpseats could be folded down. There was enough floor space for two people to lie full-length—though as he settled into the deep bench seat, Eric thought there was plenty of room here, too, for the kind of things Ria’s presence made him think about.
Ria settled into her seat and leaned forward to tap at the black glass partition separating them from the driver as soon as Eric was settled. They’d picked up their coats at the door, though in Ria’s case the coat was a deep-hooded evening cloak, lined in satin the color of the dawn. As she moved, it fell open. The movement did interesting things to that portrait neckline. The car moved off, sleek and powerful. Eric could feel the vibration of the engine in his bones.
“Shall I tell him the address, or would you like to?” Ria asked mischievously. “The intercom button is right there, in the wall.”
Eric pressed the button and gave his address. The powerful car swept uptown through the rain-slicked streets.
The clouds had broken by the time they arrived at Guardian House, and the temperature had dropped several degrees, promising snow before morning, though at this time of year the flurries should melt by noon. Eric shivered as he got out of the car. He watched as Ria looked around, mentally assessing the desirability of the neighborhood with a cold realtor’s gaze. Whatever answer she came up with, it seemed to please her.
“You’ve moved up in the world, Eric.”
“Yeah, well, nothing ever stays the same. What about your car?”
She turned back to the chauffeur, still standing alertly beside the car. “He’ll wait.”
She turned back to Eric. He only hoped Ria wasn’t going to be back on the street again in the next ten seconds. He had no real idea of how Guardian House would respond to one of the half-elven, especially one of Ria’s ambiguous loyalties.
But isn’t that what you brought her here to find out?
It was, of course, but it had just now occurred to him that anything that would rouse Greystone would probably land the Guardians in his lap as well, and with all they had to worry about right now, they probably wouldn’t be grateful for the interruption. He wasn’t looking forward to the explanations he’d have to make if it came to that. Still, it’s always easier to get forg
iveness than permission.
He tapped out the entry code on the front door and ushered Ria through the lobby.
She was silent on the ride up, but it didn’t take Bardic magic to see that Ria was thinking furiously. Eric wondered if he’d ever know the real reason she’d wanted to track him down, and thought he wouldn’t. They had one new thing in common, though. Each of them was having to adjust to a world they’d been away from for several years. He wondered if the new millennium was as much of a shock to Ria as it sometimes was to him.
“Very nice,” Ria said, looking around the hushed and carpeted corridor that led to Eric’s apartment. “No wonder Claire thought you must be some kind of Mafia drug lord.”
“I like it,” Eric said, refusing to take the bait she so temptingly dangled. He punched the keycode to unlock his door. “Enter freely and of your own will.”
In the living room, Ria swirled off her cloak with a practiced gesture and laid it over the back of the couch, making Eric glad he’d gone to the trouble of cleaning the place up before he left. He was really going to have to see about that house-brownie, though.
“Here, let me hang that up for you,” Eric said, picking it up. He walked through to the bedroom to hang up her cloak and his coat. The unmade bed, still rumpled from his nightmare, invited his thoughts down pathways he’d rather not take just now, thank you very much. He realized he was tense, waiting for Guardian House to sound an alarm, though surely if it had been going to, it would have done it already. Ria’s presence didn’t seem to even be a blip on its psychic radar.
Figures. If I can’t figure out what she’s up to, what chance does a building have?
He came back out to find Ria inspecting his CD collection.
“You must have bought out the store,” she commented, turning to him.
“Pretty much,” Eric agreed. “I’ve got to say, these things are a lot easier to store than vinyl.”
“Cheaper to produce, too,” Ria agreed. “And when the cost comes down, a lot of music that was marginal before has the chance to get out there and find its audience.”
Trust Ria to find a way to think of everything in economic terms, Eric thought with an inward grin.
“I promised you coffee. Will espresso do? I’ve got one of those fancy machines. It was a housewarming present. It even works most of the time.”
Ria smiled with what seemed like genuine warmth. “Then you’re more technologically advanced than I am. If I didn’t have Jonathan to make the coffee, I’d go into caffeine withdrawal.”
She followed him into the tiny kitchen, where Eric navigated the intricacies of the bright-orange Italian espresso maker Caity had given him without too much difficulty. Ria’s presence—her warmth, her perfume—were even more distracting in this small intimate space.
Is she coming on to me? Unbidden tactile memories rose up strongly in Eric’s mind. He controlled his blush with an effort. Or is she just trying to get me so aroused I’ll stop thinking? To cover his momentary confusion, he grabbed a tray from the shelf and arranged a box of assorted biscotti on a plate. When the espresso had brewed, he drew off two cups and carried the tray back out into the living room.
“So why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here?” Eric said bluntly, once they were both seated. He didn’t expect her to tell him, but his question should bring the answers to the surface of her mind for Greystone to read.
“You invited me,” Ria pointed out, sipping her espresso. She nibbled delicately at a biscotti with sharp white teeth. “And frankly, isn’t that question the least bit insulting? Next you’ll be offering to leave the money on the dresser.”
Eric grinned in spite of himself at her bold words. The best defense is always a good attack. “I don’t think it’s an unreasonable question, given who we both are,” Eric responded. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“That was my fault, I suppose,” Ria said graciously. “I’m not the most trusting person in the world. And you frightened me. It doesn’t hurt to admit that. My father has—had—many powerful enemies. I thought you might be one of them.”
“But Perenor’s dead.”
Ria inclined her head. “But the elvenkind has long memories. I sought you out because I was certain it was only a matter of time before you did the same to me. I have no interest in taking up my late father’s feuds . . . but I will defend myself.”
Was that a warning or a threat?
“I haven’t got any quarrel with you, Ria.” As he said the words, Eric knew they were true. “I came back to finish at Juilliard. That’s all. So I’m still asking: why are you here?”
She wasn’t convinced—he could see that in her expression. But would he have been convinced if he was the one who’d been raised amid a Sidhe Lord’s intrigues? Ria’s entire existence, her magical training, had been shaped to one end, to make her into a living battery from which Perenor could draw power at will. That didn’t make for a trusting nature.
“Tell me who trained you in Bardcraft. Tell me he didn’t send you back into the world of Men to kill me,” Ria said in a low intense voice.
“Dharinel?” Eric said in surprise. Dharinel disliked humans and despised the half-blood, it was true, but his contempt was meted out with a fine evenhandedness. It would be completely beneath his dignity as Magus Major and Elven Bard of Elfhame Misthold to acknowledge any particular human enough to want to destroy them.
Ria was about to reply when there was a scrabbling on the fire escape. She set down her cup quickly, and glanced from Eric to the window behind her.
The sash raised, and Greystone climbed down into the room. Ria got slowly to her feet, staring at the gargoyle.
“She’s okay, boyo,” Greystone said to Eric. “I admit I had me doubts about you bringing her here an’ all, but ’tis copacetic. She’s levelling with you, laddybuck.”
Ria stared down at the squat, misshapen creature in speechless shock. It had a fanged doglike face and curling horns. Its arms were long and apelike, and its hindquarters like a satyr’s, right down to the cloven hooves. Great bat wings lay against its back like furled umbrellas. And despite the fact that it lived and moved and talked, it seemed to be made of solid stone.
“So,” she heard it say, “how’d your night out go? Or should I say going? Any o’ that high-powered coffee left? It’s a cold night out, and no mistake. I could use a wee bit of a jolt.”
“Sure,” Eric answered easily. “I’ll get you a cup. Ria, this is Greystone. Greystone, meet Ria Llewellyn. I’ve told you about her.”
With a distant part of her mind, Ria registered that Eric seemed to be on very good terms with this creature—and that he had brought her to it as a sort of test. She found it hard to be angry with Eric for showing such caution. She’d been wary herself.
She stood perfectly still as the gargoyle waddled up to her. Though if it could stand completely upright it might be as tall as she was, its crouched position made it several inches shorter.
“You’ve nothin’ to fear from me, Blondie. As for meself, there’s more things in heaven an’ earth, as I’m sure you know,” Greystone said, and winked at her.
“I’m finding that out,” Ria said levelly.
Eric returned from the kitchen with a mug of espresso and handed it to Greystone. The gargoyle slurped it down with evident relish, then reached out a long simian arm to grab a handful of biscotti. The talons on its fingertips would have done credit to an eagle with their sharpness, for all that they seemed to be made of stone. It set the empty cup down on the table, and, still clutching the handful of cookies, headed for the window once more.
“Well, I’ve gotta be going. No rest for the wicked, an’ all that. You kids behave yourselves, now.” He favored both of them with one last toothy grin and made his exit, closing the window carefully behind him.
Eric was looking at her, obviously waiting for her reaction.
“Well,” Ria finally managed. “I see you still have interesting friends.”
>
Eric laughed. “I seem to have a knack for that.”
Cautiously they both sat down once more.
“So . . .” Ria said finally, returning to the earlier conversation. “Master Dharinel trained you?”
“Even he had to admit that everybody was better off if I knew how to use what I had. But he didn’t send me after you, Ria. I swear it. I don’t think most of the elves really care one way or the other about you now that Perenor’s dead.”
“I hope you’re right. But I do know that your friends blame me for a lot of what happened at Sun-Descending and the Fairegrove . . . Beth Kentraine, for example?”
She knew she was fishing now, but if Claire MacLaren’s PI report hadn’t mentioned talking gargoyles, it was even less likely to have included mention of elves and their friends. Beth Kentraine was not somebody she wanted to have appear unexpectedly in her life. From what Ria remembered, Kentraine had a fiery temper and a wicked right cross.
“Oh, you won’t be seeing her. She and Kory mostly live Underhill these days. It’s not like they’d be dropping by unexpectedly. We’re still close, but it’s . . . not like it was.”
When to scratch one of the three of you made the other two bleed, Ria finished silently. The way Eric spoke of them—as a couple—made Ria cheer inwardly. So little Bethie had thrown her lot in with the elven lover, had she? That was the best news Ria’d had in a long time.
“I suppose I ought to offer my condolences,” Ria said politely. “Or . . . not?”
“Not,” Eric said cheerfully. “Things just worked out the way they had to. The only thing is . . . I’d like to be able to think of some way to help them out. Because they want kids, and—with elves and humans—it’s hard to arrange. I don’t know if I ought to be asking you this, but . . . do you know anything that could help? Some kind of spell or magic, I mean. I mean, you’re here.”
Half-Blood children were incredibly rare occurrences between Sidhe and mortalkin. In most cases the unfortunate children were ostracized by their father’s and mother’s people both, so perhaps it was a blessing that such half-Blood children rarely inherited the immortality of their elven parent. Immortality had been the bribe Perenor had held out to his half-breed daughter, but lately Ria had come to wonder if he had meant to give it to her as a blessing . . . or as a curse? She shook her head slowly.
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 21
