“Sure.”
“There’s a village inside the walls. Black on Tarry. The people there have shunned modernity and chosen to keep the old ways.”
“Yes.” She was nodding her head even though nobody else was around. “I’ve never seen it, but Elora has told me a lot about it. She says it’s a real life version of Brigadoon.”
Ram snorted. “Brigadoon was about Scotia fae if I remember correctly.”
“It is,” Rosie said carefully. “Aren’t you good with them now?”
Rosie got the impression Ram was grinding his teeth. “Right. All good,” he said tightly. Some things are so ingrained they’re resistant to change. “Anyway. The twins. Just might be what you’re lookin’ for.”
“Okay. Tell me about them.”
“First, let me add a disclaimer. I have no way of knowin’ if they’d be interested. But here’s what I do know. The two of them are athletes and archers, who prowled about the Forest like feral children. ‘Tis no’ that their parents approved so much as that the girls were, em, hard to manage.”
Rosie laughed out loud. “Hard to manage sounds like they could be Black Swan material.”
“Ironic. You’re deliberately gatherin’ hard-to-manage types even though you know you’re the one who’ll be pullin’ her hair out later on.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called crazy.”
“That’s my girl.”
“So tell me more about the hard-to-manage twins.”
“I used to run into them from time to time in the Forest. I think they’d stay away from home for weeks on end. They’d hunt and gather and rely on each other and, while the New Forest is the most special place on Earth to me, it can be… inhospitable.”
“Put this in context of how old they were.”
“Startin’ around ten maybe. I have no’ seen them since they were sixteen or so. Just have no’ run into them.”
“And what makes you think they might be interested in what we hope to accomplish here?”
“I remembered that, when they were young, like I said ten, twelve maybe, I ran into them in the woods. I told them they had my permission to hunt in my forest. They said they didn’t ask.” He chuckled at the memory of the belligerence proffered by commoner children. “I questioned them about where they slept and such. Ended up askin’ them what they planned to be when they grew up. Damned if they did no’ say they were never goin’ to mate or do anything ordinary because they were destined to save the world.
“I laughed on the inside. Did no’ want to wound their pride by makin’ a show of how silly ‘twas. The joke might be on me if it turns out they were right.”
He had Rosie’s interest. “Sounds just crazy enough and promising enough to be worth a trip up there. How do I get in?”
“If you want to talk to them, I’ll go pave the way. Feel them out. Just the prospect of leavin’ Black on Tarry, since they’ve ne’er seen the outside world, is a consideration. If I think they’re interested and would pass the commitment test, I’ll call and meet you. But you’ll need to enter the traditional way, through the gate.”
“Gotcha. Let me know.”
“Hasta la vista.”
Rosie chuckled as she hung up thinking that, if Ram knew how ridiculous he sounded saying hasta la vista with his accent, he wouldn’t do it. She turned back to the stack of folders on her desk with prospects.
She didn’t really know what she was doing staffing a unit from scratch, but intuition was one of her strengths. So she relied on it. She lifted her tea cup and, finding it cold, decided it was a good time to take a break.
Simon was hunched over his keyboard staring at the monitor on his desk.
“Knock. Knock.”
“Go away,” Simon said.
“Now is that nice?”
“I don’t have time to be nice. Go away.”
She flopped down in the Chesterfield chair and let her skinny-jeans-covered legs dangle over the arms.
“Young lady,” Simon began, “that is no way to sit. Even if you’d been invited to come in. Which you weren’t. And invited to sit. Which you weren’t. What you have been invited to do is leave.”
“Stop being such a pissy pants and listen for a second. I’m in over my head here. There are things I can do and things that make me feel like I’m either inadequate or bored. Those might be the same thing. I’m not sure. Anyway, I need somebody who’s good at organization. We need stuff like a mission statement. A handbook. Guidelines. You know. Crap like that.”
Simon stopped what he was doing, sat back, and stared at Rosie. “Point taken. Anyone who thinks mission statements and handbooks are crap shouldn’t be working on them.”
“Exactly!” she reaffirmed.
“Do you want to interview for an assistant who might be more suited to administrative duties?”
“Oh, gods.” She sounded like she might swoon. “I could kiss you right now.”
“Stay away from me. Will you sit up straight? You’re seriously compromising the decorum of this establishment. You’re supposed to be helping bring order to The, ah, Order.” He winced a little at the awkwardness of his word choice, but Rosie was enough to fluster a marble statue.
“Geez, Sims.” She swung her legs off the arms and sat up. “A little less coffee maybe. By the way, have you decided what my title is going to be?”
“No.” That was as abrupt as a monosyllabic response could be. “Go to lunch. When you come back, I’ll have three candidates for you to talk to.”
Rosie brightened. “Really?”
“Really,” he said drily. “Because I didn’t have anything else to do today.”
“Sarcasm looks good on you, Simon. Suits you perfectly.”
“Get out.”
“Going. When should I be back?”
“Two hours. Male or female?”
“Male or female what?”
Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you want to interview males or females for the assistant position?”
“Gosh. I never expected to be asked that. And I think that’s probably because there’s something sexist about asking that.”
“Why?”
“Because… never mind. I want the best person for the job.”
“Very well. There’s the door.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t like me.”
“Rosie!”
“Okay. Going.” She left, but not through the door.
“Sovereign. Your wife is here.”
Glen’s man of the day was on the intercom. The man of the day was actually a seventeen-year-old, but was named by tradition and Glen never quibbled with tradition if he could help it.
“Thanks, Pap. You might as well let her in. She does what she wants anyway.”
“I heard that,” Rosie said as she came through the door, for once, carrying something that smelled heavenly in a to-go box.
“You were meant to. What is that?” Glen’s eyes were on the box.
“Heard about this taco truck in Houston.”
“From where?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why I asked. I’m not ingesting strange taco truck food, no matter how good it smells, without knowing who recommended the fine establishment.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Alright. Tell me who it is and how you know him.”
She licked a finger after setting a taco on a napkin for Glen. “Well, he’s a demon. Like I said, you don’t know him. Eat your breakfast taco. It’s good.”
Glen didn’t reach for his taco. “I thought you’re supposed to be ridding the world of demons. Not hanging out.”
“I wasn’t ‘hanging out’.” She put hanging out in air quotes before her pretty bow-shaped mouth spread into an evil smile. “Jealous?”
“Of course not. What kind of demon is he? Music demon? Wait, let me guess. A food truck demon.”
“Don’t be silly.” Rosie sat dow
n and crunched into a crispy corn tortilla shell that held an incredible yummy mixture of Mexican delight. “He’s a pleasure demon,” she said with her mouth half full, oblivious to Glen’s rising displeasure. “But now that you mention it, they can be found around food trucks pretty often.”
“A pleasure demon,” Glen repeated, feeling werewolf hackles rising involuntarily. “What kind of pleasure does that cover?”
“Oh. All kinds. That’s what makes them so powerful. Anything sensory or sensual that gives pleasure attracts them like flies and their presence magnifies whatever people are feeling.” She shrugged. “I don’t care if they hang around in our world ‘cause they’re harmless. They just make good times better.”
“How do they make good times better, Rosie?”
“Well, take rock concerts for example. There may be this moment during a performance when there’s an inexplicable surge in energy. People who aren’t standing get on their feet. People who don’t dance start moving around and having a good time.”
“I would have thought that would be the purview of music demons.”
“It is. They work together all the time. It’s a hierarchy. You know that.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Sure you do. Don’t you?” Rosie glanced over and saw that Glen hadn’t touched his taco. Normally he would have eaten three during that space of time. Her eyes flicked up to his face and she gasped, taking in most of the room. “Glen… what?”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
She pulled up her messenger satchel and fished around for her blush compact. She didn’t need the blush, but she liked the little mirror to check for arugula or poppy seeds in her teeth. She walked over to his side of the desk and held out the little mirror with hands that were slightly shaking.
Glen’s werewolf ears picked up that her heartbeat was accelerated. He noted the tremor of her hand and had an almost uncontrollable urge to grab her. And chase if she fled.
He took the mirror and looked. His canine teeth had descended so that they were no longer canine teeth, but fangs. His eyes had also taken on the hue of light amber and appeared lit from within. His voice box rumbled with a low growl that sounded more approving than surprised.
“Has this ever happened before?” she whispered. He shook his head. “Why now?”
Faster than she thought possible, Glen had risen, lifted her from the ground, and put her back against the wall. Being Rosie, she had a confidence unique in all the world to know she couldn’t be hurt physically. So she remained perfectly still to allow whatever had sparked the manifestation in Glen to play out without being aggravated by her resistance.
“Jealous. Yes,” was all he said in his rumbly werewolf voice.
“You’re jealous because I talked to a pleasure demon,” she said quietly.
Holding her wrists against the wall, Glen nuzzled her from collarbone to ear as he rocked the fullness of a raging erection into her pelvis. She was beginning to pant from excitement, when there was a knock on the door.
Glen snarled loudly over his shoulder. “Mine,” he said.
“Yeah, baby, I’m all yours,” Rosie reassured him in a soothing voice. To the person on the other side of the door she shouted, “He’s not here.” Then she transported the two of them to their bedroom upstairs where Glen proceeded to demonstrate that he was part human and part animal.
Rosie returned from lunch with a happy glow and a couple of faint claw marks on her buttocks to find an odd little fae sitting with rod-straight back in her as yet unoccupied outer office. He was middle aged and wore a three-piece pinstripe suit with a watch chain no less.
“Hey. Who are you?” she said.
“Your new assistant. Haversfil Grieve.”
“There’s some mistake. I’m supposed to interview people for the job.”
“’Tis contrary to information received from Director Tvelgar.”
“Hmmm,” Rosie said. “I’ll be back.”
She breezed past Simon’s secretary and entered his office. Uninvited. Again.
“There’s a little fae in my office,” she said.
“I know.” Simon leveled a look. “Sit down.”
She did.
“I changed my mind,” he said.
“About what?”
“About granting you the privilege of choosing an assistant. It makes sense for you to choose the hunters who will make up your unit because that sort of thing is somewhat in your wheelhouse. But as you said, organization and administration are not your forte. So it does not make sense for you to choose the best person to get your affairs in order.”
“My affairs,” she repeated.
He ignored her and continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Haversfil Grieve is the ideal candidate. After you left I remembered that something had been said about him looking for a new situation. He’s spent the last twenty years working just over there in the palace for the royal family, the prince to be exact. He’s a master of keeping things moving at the same time he’s keeping them straight. It’s not easy to find somebody like that who also won’t be intimidated or manipulated by hunter-type personalities.”
Rosie grunted. “What makes you think we’ll get along?”
“The point is not to be besties with your assistant, Elora Rose. The point is for your operation to run smoothly.”
She cocked her head and said grudgingly, “You might have a point.”
He gave her a look that said he recognized the word humor, but wasn’t amused enough to laugh out loud.
“Has he worked for The Order before?”
“Not per se, but he’s been aware that we are more than a non-profit charity for a very long time. He’s taken the oath and will be an invaluable part of your team, if you let him.
“Now I suggest you trot on back to your own office, begin getting acquainted with Mr. Grieve, and make him feel welcome.” Rosie turned to go. “Rosie.” She stopped. “Word to the wise. The right assistant can make your job so much easier.”
“I get it. I’m giving Havershmeld Greaves a chance.”
“Good. Let’s start with getting his name right.”
The afternoon was spent acquainting Haversfil Grieve with the purpose of the new unit along with the problems Simon intended for them to identify and address along with hashing out how to make all that happen. When Grieve had really gotten down to work, he’d switched to his version of office casual, which meant that he removed his coat jacket so that he was dressed in a crisp white pointed collar shirt, pinstripe vest, and plaid tie.
Rosie had to admit that he was attentive to detail. He not only took a lot of notes, but he asked a lot of questions. Good questions. The sort she hadn’t yet thought of herself. He made copious lists regarding her stated preferences on this and that and helped her outline his job description. By the time that was done, the scope of his responsibility sounded superhuman even to her. But Haversfil didn’t look the slightest daunted or deterred. If anything, he looked pleased with their talk, ready for the challenge, and eager to begin setting things right.
At least he looked pleased for Haversfil Grieve.
Grieve was not a sour or cynical personality by any means. He was simply serious. About everything.
Far from feeling judgmental about that, Rosie came to the conclusion that the sort of person who attended to little things, making sure nothing was overlooked, may not also be the life of the party. She was feeling especially generous about the differences between herself and Grieve when she began to realize how crucial he was going to be to the success of the operation.
Before Rosie left for the day she stopped by Simon’s office. “Okay,” she said. “I can see you’re good at this director thing. You’re right. He’s odd, but perfect.”
Simon smiled. “The prince tells me the man likes yellow flowers. If you want to show your appreciation, have the palace florist deliver an arrangement of yellow flowers once a week. And make sure you keep his office stocked with Dragon Pearls b
lack tea. It’s expensive, but I think you’ll find he’s worth it.”
“Okay. Thanks for the tip. Is he, um, going to live here?”
“Yes. One of you should be on site. Since it’s not you, it’s him. He’ll move in as soon as an apartment has been outfitted to his specifications.”
She snorted. “He’s that picky, is he?”
“You don’t have preferences regarding where you live?”
“Well… when you put it that way.”
“Extremely detail-oriented people usually are picky, as you say. Have a good night.”
“Right then. See ya.”
Rosie and Glen lay facing each other on their bed dimly lit by moonlight streaming through the courtpark window of their bedroom. Rosie’s hand cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking as if she was petting.
“So what do you think it means?” she asked.
“The transformation?”
“Yeah.”
It had gone as quickly as it had come. As soon as Glen’s lupine spirit was satisfied that his mate was his alone, the werewolf manifestations disappeared.
He moved a bare shoulder in a shrug that was a mere few centimeters of movement. “I guess the wolf part of me felt… threatened.”
“By the idea of me talking to a demon.”
“A pleasure demon,” he corrected.
“Do you need reassurance that you’re it for me?”
“Not at the moment.” He gave her a lazy crooked grin as he pulled her naked body closer, put his nose in her neck, and inhaled deeply. He knew that would make her giggle because it always had. From the time she was a toddler.
She laughed softly. “You’re not worried then?”
“Worried? About what?”
“About the full moon or anything?”
A sharp laugh was forced out. “I’m not worried.” He gave her a smile that could have been seductive or menacing, depending on how she chose to read it. “But maybe you should be.”
“Nah. I kind of like your wild side. I was thinking more about what would happen if you revealed that in, um, other situations.”
“Like what?”
Finngarick (Order of the Black Swan, D.I.T. Book 2) Page 4
