Thankfully, most faerie lords rarely showed interest in anything outside of their realms. Occasionally, some truly desperate creature might summon one up with great ritual, begging for power. Even more rarely, the faerie lord in question might grant that power. The price — a warlock’s pact — was something akin to eternal servitude.
Simon Leclair had been a warlock to the Lady of Briars for years now. The significant power he had bargained away from her was admittedly less important than the understanding that her capricious wrath might fall directly upon anyone who dared to harm one of her most useful tools. Surely such a faux-pas would rate an even more terrible response than the selection of a wrong utensil at supper.
Vivienne’s flat black eyes considered Simon for a moment. She seemed to be carefully formulating a response. Before she could speak, however, the frosted glass door behind Zoe’s desk opened.
Monsieur Dorian Moreau was probably what most women would fancifully refer to as ‘tall, dark, and handsome.’ Piercing grey eyes and an uncommonly strong jawline marked him as a natural-born businessman. His straight-backed posture radiated a no-nonsense demeanor, and even his short, raven-black hair didn’t dare to fall into his face. For all of Dorian’s coldness, though, he had that slight duskiness to his skin that Zoe had found common in some francophone men… and she’d never met anyone else who could pull off a tie in quite the same way. Zoe would never be attracted to the man — he’d become far too much of a father figure for that, eww — but she could understand how a number of other women might find him attractive.
Dorian was indeed a sought-after lawyer within the environs of Montreal — but the rest of the supernatural world knew him as La Voûte, a ravenous collector of secrets both great and small. Anyone with a valuable tidbit of information could offer it up to him; if he decided it was worthwhile, he would trade something he considered equally valuable in return. For smaller offerings, Dorian would often reply with common money, or with other trinkets he had received from clients. But the most valuable thing he offered back — the true prize that many sought — was other information.
No one knew exactly how deep Dorian’s knowledge went… but everyone knew that witches, warlocks, and stranger things had stepped into his office at various times over the years. Zoe was personally certain that he knew at least a handful of powerful true names, useful for summoning and binding the creatures to whom they belonged. The rumors said that there was no question which La Voûte could not answer… as long as you were willing to pay the price.
There was absolutely no clue as to Dorian’s mood on his face as he considered the gathering before him. To Zoe’s enhanced, unending Witchsight, even supernatural creatures often disclosed some sense of their thoughts on the edges of their aura. But Dorian was an absolute blank slate, even to her. She had never once seen so much as a flicker of emotion escape his control. That was nice, sometimes — it meant that his presence never overwhelmed her in the same way that others did. But at times like this, she was reminded how truly unnerving his iron self-control could be.
“Madame Cloutier,” Dorian greeted Vivienne. His voice was cold but cordial. “You may come in.”
The vampiress smiled, pleased. Her previous displeasure seemed instantly forgotten, evaporated into thin air. “Monsieur Moreau,” she acknowledged sweetly. “What a pleasure. I believe we have much business ahead of us.”
Dorian’s face didn’t change. His tone remained devoid of emotion. “Perhaps so. Perhaps not. We shall see.”
As Vivienne sashayed into his office, he cast his eyes first to Zoe, and then to Simon. He nodded slightly toward the warlock. “I shall see to lunch with you as soon as this appointment ends, monsieur,” he informed Simon. “I appreciate your patience.”
Simon nodded back. “At your leisure,” he agreed. His voice was softer now; the worry had leaked from his aura, replaced again by that gentle kindness.
Zoe snapped herself away from the thought before she could drown in it, belatedly remembering the other half of her job for Dorian. She flicked on her phone beneath the desk, tapping away at a text message.
I think she killed someone recently, she noted. She’s probably well-fed, but her temper is unstable, and she’s got a crazy huge ego. Be careful.
Dorian’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it out to read her message. No frown crossed his face, but Zoe knew that he had taken her seriously. As overwhelming as her enhanced Witchsight sometimes was, there was no denying that it could be a powerful tool — especially given that no one knew she had it.
“You are most welcome to this office, Monsieur Leclair,” Dorian said, without turning his eyes from his phone. It was the closest thing to a thank you to ever cross his lips during business hours.
Simon blinked, momentarily confused — but he wasn’t a faerie warlock for nothing. He quickly caught on to the implication: thank you for intervening.
“I am always glad to see you, Monsieur Moreau,” Simon replied warmly.
Translation: It was no bother.
Zoe tried not to let her irritation show on her face. I had it handled before you and your crazy aura showed up, she thought furiously.
Dorian turned into his office. As he closed the door behind him, Simon’s leaf-green eyes came to rest on Zoe. She ducked her gaze from his, more keenly aware than ever of all the bewitching qualities he carried with him. A flush rose to her cheeks. She was going to act like a fool in front of him again, wasn’t she? Well. At least it would be business as usual. Simon surely must have been convinced by now that she was some brain-damaged charity case that Dorian had taken on for unknown reasons.
“Are you all right, Miss Zoe?” Simon asked softly. Concern flickered across his aura again, and Zoe sighed heavily as she felt her frustration drain away. It was hard to stay irritated with the warlock when his good intentions were written so clearly across his being. If Dorian was a blank slate of emotion, Simon was his opposite in every way; he wore his heart on his sleeve, metaphysically speaking. Zoe wasn’t sure whether he knew it or not — whether he even cared. What did he have to hide, after all?
Simon reached out to touch her hand. His fingers were still slightly chilled, but she imagined that the sense of comfort he exuded had soaked into her skin where their hands made contact. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, trying to hold onto her wits. “I’m — fine,” she managed again. “Thank you. I doubt she would have really done anything.”
The warlock frowned. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But I dislike how much your employer seems to rely on his reputation to keep you safe. Not everyone observes the rules of hospitality equally. Many vampires in particular might see you as… of lesser importance. And therefore expendable.” He hesitated on the last part, as though grieved to bring it up in front of her.
Zoe didn’t flinch at the blatant observation. She’d gone to great lengths to ensure that no one considered her of any consequence, after all. That, too, came with its own set of dangers. Even Simon had never ferreted out her secret, for all that she acted like a moron in front of him. It spoke worlds about his character that he still concerned himself with her well-being.
“Dorian has other safeguards in place,” she replied carefully. “But I appreciate your concern, Simon. Thank you.” She ought to know, after all — she was one of those other safeguards, herself.
Simon squeezed Zoe’s hand once and let it go. He glanced back toward the door through which he had entered. “I did notice the office wards,” he admitted. “They’re quite something. A witch’s wards, I would guess… though they’re certainly more intricate than anything I’ve ever done myself.” A ripple of worry flitted through his aura. “Er, perhaps I wasn’t supposed to notice them, now that I think on it.”
A number of reactions hit Zoe at the same time. Her hazy brain struggled to interpret them.
Gratification. Pleasure. He thinks my wards are impressive?
Panic. Shit. He’s sharp. He’s gonna figure me out any day now.
&
nbsp; Interest. He has Witchsight. He’s a witch too, underneath the warlock’s bond. I wonder what sort.
Zoe gritted her teeth against the flurry of emotion. Somehow, she managed to drag her mind back to the moment at hand. “I try not to discuss that sort of thing with Dorian,” she said. It was true — they had both carefully avoided the subject of Zoe’s magic, her origins, and her peculiar sense for people. As long as she never confirmed any of it, Dorian couldn’t sell the information to the wrong person. As with most lawyers, he was a master of technicalities.
Simon considered this for a moment. “He’s a man of many secrets,” the warlock observed finally. “I suppose I can’t blame him. It’s why so many people come to him, after all. Myself included.”
Zoe dared to glance up at Simon’s face directly. A thin thread of pitch-black grief wavered through his aura, curling around his heart. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. She’d wondered about it for years.
What is it you want from Dorian? she wanted to ask him. What is that misery you’re carrying around with you whenever you come here?
But of course, she didn’t actually ask Simon that. Whatever a client discussed behind that office door was sacrosanct. The question wasn’t merely impolite; it could be enough to shift the delicate appearance of neutrality that Dorian worked so hard to maintain. Information was never given out for free in this office; it was always purchased, and always expensive.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, before she could stop herself.
Simon blinked, behind his glasses. His brows knitted. “Sorry?” he said. “For… what?”
Zoe floundered. Oh. Damn my big mouth. Uh. “You just… look very sad sometimes,” she stammered. “And I wish I could help. Um.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. She’d meant to say something far more eloquent, but her brain and her mouth seemed to have disconnected.
Simon’s eyes softened anyway. That black line of grief faded a bit, down to a more distant grey. At least her fumbling around had accomplished something.
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Zoe,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve waited a few years now for answers. I can wait a few more, if I have to.”
The door to Dorian’s office opened again, cutting their conversation short. Vivienne stormed out, a few of her escaped blood red tresses curling behind her. She no longer looked quite so pleased. The threat of violence was clear upon her face this time.
Simon stiffened just before she passed. Zoe’s Witchsight caught the beginnings of a spell, as phantom summer winds kicked up around him; he didn’t loose them, but she could tell that he was prepared to do so, if necessary.
Zoe bit back a gasped warning, barely stifling it in time. He’d seen the wards — he had to know that there would be consequences if he used his magic in here. The subtle red web around him flared in expectation, preparing to tighten like a noose—
Thankfully, Vivienne held her temper long enough to reach the door. She snarled as she yanked it open. “Il est clair que nous ne voyons pas la même valeur des choses, monsieur!”
Vivienne’s accent had become garbled in her rage. It took Zoe a good few seconds to guess at what she’d said. Something about differences in values, she thought.
“Madame!” Simon snapped at her, suddenly far less pleasant in attitude. “Surveillez vos manières!" Zoe had no problems understanding him; his accent was crisp and precise. Mind your manners.
Vivienne’s eyes flashed from pitch black to deep crimson. The red glare she shot at Simon might have made a lesser man faint on the spot. Amazingly, the warlock’s aura didn’t waver with fear, even for a moment.
“Parles-en avec ta pute!” Vivienne hissed at Simon. Her voice rippled with the sound of the monster she carried within her.
Zoe blanched. Oh my god. Did she just say what I think she said? She turned wide eyes on Simon, her breath caught in her throat.
The warlock was cold and utterly calm. She hadn’t been expecting that. “If you leave now and do not say another word,” Simon told Vivienne, very slowly, “I shall not convey your opinion of my lady’s chastity to her ears. You are angry, and not thinking. You had better change that in the next few seconds, madame.”
Something of his words must have penetrated even Vivienne’s impressive fury. The red drained abruptly from her eyes. Zoe saw the vampiress exert an extreme effort of will, forcing the beast inside her back down into the black depths of her soul.
Vivienne clenched her jaw, and swept through the door without speaking again. She made certain to slam the door behind her.
A low whistle carried through the silent office. Dorian, leaned against the door frame of his office, shook his head slowly. “She won’t last long,” he observed. His grey eyes flickered toward Simon. “That was an act of incredible mercy. I doubt she deserved it.”
Simon let out a long breath. “I do not fancy dealing with the Lady in a fury again,” he said. “I was tied up for weeks the last time. Besides… faerie lords are not terribly discriminating in their anger. I like this city.”
Zoe cringed. Some people speculated that the Lady of Briars had been behind a certain legendary curse and a great castle of thorns, on account of not having been invited to a royal christening. She had a sudden vision of Montreal’s citizens asleep in the middle of the streets, vines clambering over their unconscious bodies.
“Good luck finding a prince to kiss me awake in this era,” she muttered to herself.
“It doesn’t have to be a prince,” Simon told her automatically, though she’d kept her voice low. “True love’s kiss will break most faerie curses, even if you’re a pauper.” He flushed in embarrassment as he realized he’d corrected her. “Oh, I am… so sorry. I still teach sometimes. It’s force of habit.”
Zoe’s eyebrows inched upward, though she didn’t dare express the thought that had come to mind. If Simon Leclair had been my teacher, I never would have skipped a class. She cleared her throat quickly. “No… no problem. It was just a joke.”
Dorian shrugged away from the doorframe, straightening his posture. “I owe you lunch, monsieur,” he said. “And perhaps a bit more, given the day’s events.” He strolled for the office exit, looking for all the world as though a terrifying vampire hadn’t just yelled deprecations in his place of business. Quietly, Dorian took his long, tailored coat from the rack, pulling it around his shoulders. “Lock up behind me,” he ordered Zoe shortly. Close the wards, and don’t let anyone in, his tone implied.
“Yes sir,” she murmured back.
Simon wound his bright green scarf back around his neck; but he gave Zoe one last concerned look as Dorian exited.
She smiled politely in his direction. “Bonne journée, Simon,” she said, by way of farewell. The words came out a bit more shyly than she’d intended.
Simon relaxed slightly, reassured by her calm. “Bonne journée, Miss Zoe,” he replied.
For just a moment, the grey thread in his aura disappeared. Zoe knitted her brow at that. I wonder what it was that cheered him up.
Chapter 2
Six in the evening, and the sun was already down. It was depressing, is what it was.
Well. That’s what Indian food and bad soap operas were for.
“That’s totally not even his baby, is it?” Zoe observed flatly. She peeked over the edge of her novel briefly, taking in the dramatic scene currently playing out over the large flat-screen television in Dorian’s condo. Once upon a time, they’d both been poor enough that Zoe had more-or-less lived on his tiny apartment couch. Since better days had arrived, Dorian had bought himself a building and expanded into a more spacious condo — but Zoe still considered his couch to be shared property, if she was going to be honest with herself. She often ended up there, though she’d taken to renting the place beneath his at an admittedly far-too-reasonable rate. She consoled herself with the understanding that what she lacked in funds, she more than made up with monthly wards.
La Voûte himself took up an e
ntire corner of the expensive L-shaped sofa, plucking at a piece of hot, fresh naan bread. His face remained perfectly neutral, but he blinked once in clear displeasure. “It’s inelegant to spoil the plot for others,” he said evenly.
Zoe’s mouth twitched. “You’ve got some lamb korma right there,” she said, pointing at a mirrored spot on her own chin. She looked back down at her book. “It’s not a spoiler. I’m barely watching, and even I figured it out.”
“You haven’t turned the page once in the last hour,” Dorian replied. He loosened his tie. The man might have had perfect control of his facial expressions and his aura, but that didn’t mean he was completely free of tells. When he got grumpy, he started loosening the tie early. He narrowed his eyes at the book in Zoe’s hands. “And how is Le Petit Prince this evening? Are the children’s pictures that engrossing?”
Zoe flushed bright red. She looked away. The book in her hands was indeed the sort of thing that a primary schooler might read. Her French was relatively abominable, and Dorian knew it. It was why they’d taken to the habit of watching French soap operas twice a week. Still, she’d read Le Petit Prince cover to cover more than once now — for sentimental reasons, rather than educational ones.
“My apologies,” Dorian said. He allowed a bit of chagrin into his voice, though it didn’t touch his aura. “That was inelegant of me.”
Zoe sighed. “I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything,” she said. “Didn’t this afternoon bother you? That lady was pissed. I don’t know what you said to her, but she doesn’t seem the sort to just take it and move on.”
Dorian sighed. “She thought she would haggle me into a better price, because she believes herself important. I don’t haggle.”
Zoe tossed set the book aside, and reached out to poke her fork at a piece of butter chicken. “She’s part of the Cloutier bloodline, and the seneschal to the latest seigneur. She is important.”
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