Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Now, what has been the response to our donation toward the rebuilding of the National Archives?”
Grateful for the change in subject, Laura placed her hand on the folder with the information. As a druid, she didn’t need to read from her notes. Her innate memory retention filed away data for instant recall later. All she had to do was focus on whatever she wanted to recall, and the information would start to flow. “It moved public perception of the Guild slightly upward, but has had no impact on the overall negative impression of the fey. Do you want specific numbers?”
Rhys grunted. “Not now.”
“Was the money not enough?” Resha asked.
Laura didn’t answer. If Resha weren’t so prone to cluelessness in front of everyone, including the Guildmaster, she would have been embarrassed for him. But Resha was Resha, and his naïveté came with the territory. Over the years, Laura had taken to pretending to be fixed on her files or notes when Resha made his off comments.
Ever since the fey folk from Faerie appeared in the modern world a century earlier, the majority of humans feared them and their power. Someone like Laura, a druid with no discernible physical characteristics to distinguish her from humans, enjoyed the benefit of social acceptance. Someone like Resha, with his skin tone and forehead peak and sharp, predatory teeth, had no hope of blending in. Yet, despite having told her once of his personal discomfort with prejudice, he didn’t understand that money did not always buy acceptance.
Rhys made a dismissive gesture. “The important point is humans are making a distinction between the Guild and the fey as a whole. That works to our political advantage. The human politicians can safely support our initiatives without undermining their voter bases.”
Resha repositioned his chair to face Rhys. “In some quarters, there are calls for the Guild to fund the entire renovation.”
Rhys frowned. “I’ve heard the rumblings. Who are these Legacy people?”
Laura masked any reaction that might indicate she knew about Legacy. The Legacy Foundation sought an end to the fey monarchies in Ireland and Germany. Until recently, they acted primarily as a think tank, better funded than most, whose primary focus was to convince the U.S. government to sever diplomatic ties with the monarchies. Recent information indicated they might be radicalizing, which was why she and Sinclair had started infiltrating it for firsthand data. She wasn’t aware of any specific news items or press releases from Legacy regarding the incident at the National Archives. “They’re a coalition of fey and humans who think the monarchies are dangerous. They do a lot of humanitarian work for people affected by the fey. For instance, I know they run medical clinics for humans who have essence-related injuries.”
Rhys smiled. “Perhaps we should offer our support.”
With a serious and considering look, Resha bobbed his head. “Perhaps funding for one of those clinics would show them we care about such things, too.”
Laura met Rhys’s eyes for the briefest of moments. Resha had a tendency to be either dense or clueless. Rhys smirked back. “That’s an excellent idea, Resha. In fact, I think it would look less heavy-handed if you made the call.”
Pleased, he bowed his head. “I’d be happy to.”
A satisfied smile flashed across Rhys’s face. Having a joke at Resha’s expense felt petty. Rhys underestimated Resha and, although often justified, the merrow was astute enough to take advantage of the perception. “I’ll send you what information I can find, Resha. When you’re ready, we can pull a press release together,” she said.
Rhys waved a dismissive hand toward Resha. “Laura and I need to work out some details on the Draigen macCullen reception, Resha. Send me a budget recommendation and let me know as soon as Legacy catches wind of things.”
Resha stood and bowed his head. “I will keep you apprised, sir.”
Laura shuffled the files on her lap as Resha left the room.
“He’s useful occasionally,” Rhys said.
Laura’s smile was practiced detachment. She wondered what Rhys said when she left a room. She sensed he liked her, liked her work; but she had irritated him on more than one occasion. He made no effort to hide his displeasure then, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Still, he was her boss, and she played things carefully with him—distant enough to keep things professional, familiar enough for him to view her as an ally. “With all the strong personalities in the Guildhouse, he can be quite a disarming advantage for you.”
Rhys grunted. “We’re going to need all the strong personalities we can get in the next few weeks.”
Laura retrieved a folder and pulled out several papers stapled together. “Senator Hornbeck wants to speak last at the Archive memorial service.”
She handed him the schedule. The terrorist attack at the National Archives had resulted in the deaths of twenty-nine people and millions of dollars in damage. The Guild had plenty of cash to fix the building. The loss of life wasn’t a problem solvable with money. Rhys skimmed the schedule. “That’s fine. I’ll take whatever criticism he wants to throw at us after I speak. We can spin it later in the media outlets.”
He dropped the schedule. “Speaking of which, from now on I want every document relating to the attack to refer to ‘Inverni terrorists.’ ”
Laura folded her hands on top of the folders and pursed her lips. The fey were, in truth, refugees in the world. Faerie existed, or at least had at one time, and was ruled by fairies of the Danann clan. In the early 1900s, the event known as Convergence occurred, the puncturing of the veil between Faerie and the modern era, and the fey found themselves trapped. Their common struggle to find acceptance among the human populace did not mean that the fey forgot their own internal animosities.
“You want to argue with me again,” Rhys said.
Laura let out a tired chuckle. Rhys was a Danann, as was High Queen Maeve. The Danann had a long-standing rivalry with the Inverni, who were the only clan strong enough to challenge Maeve’s rule. When Convergence happened, Maeve made a secret deal with the United States and Great Britain. In return for her aid in time of war, the two human governments agreed to defend Maeve against any threat to her sovereignty. Including the Inverni. Specifically the Inverni.
“I don’t argue, Orrin. I advise. You decide your course of action.” She used his first name purposely to indicate her comment was more personal and off-the-record. It was a conversational trick she used often with Rhys, a way of gaining his confidence by showing him she was comfortable being honest with him.
He smiled. “We have to deflect blame for the attack from the High Queen.”
“It’s a mistake to imply all Inverni are terrorists, Orrin. You will end up protecting Maeve’s standing with the human government at the expense of unity among the Celtic fey.”
His smile became more predatory. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
With amused disbelief, Laura leaned her head back and ran her hand through her blond hair. “Guildmaster, you were the target of an assassination attempt, and that was before the world knew your part in the drafting of the Treaty of London. Unless you have a death wish, I do not see the benefit of this course of action.”
Laura had always thought the Treaty of London was the greatest political accomplishment the fey folk had achieved when they arrived from Faerie. The Danann clan had ruled the Seelie Court securely ever since. She had no idea that success had come at a steep price. What no one knew for a century was that the Treaty contained a secret clause in which the U.S. and Great Britain agreed to defend Maeve against any challenge to her rule. Only the Inverni clan, which was currently led by Draigen macCullen, had the power to make that challenge. By default, the clause made the Inverni instant criminals subject to imprisonment if they protested Maeve’s rule in any way.
“I am in contact with the High Queen,” he said, which meant, in effect, the end of the conversation. If Rhys was acting on Maeve’s authority, nothing Laura said would have an impact.
&nb
sp; “Am I to draw any inference between the use of ‘Inverni terrorists’ and the visit from Draigen macCullen?” she asked. Draigen was the leader of the Inverni clan in Ireland and, by coincidence, sister to Terryn macCullen, Laura’s supervisor at InterSec. When the Treaty clause had been made public for the first time, Draigen announced she would be visiting the U.S. to discuss business relationships with the president of the United States. Everyone knew that was a cover. Draigen was coming to put pressure on the U.S. to denounce the century-old Treaty.
Rhys closed one eye. “An unfortunate intersection of events, Laura, let me assure you.”
He was lying, she knew. The expression on his face told her so as much as her truth-sensing ability. Laura didn’t mind working the politics between humans and fey. Politics between fey and fey were another matter. Deep, centuries-long animosities simmered between the various races. Some of the issues made no sense post-Convergence. Laura sighed. “Where will the reception for Draigen be held?”
“Here. In the ballroom,” he said.
High Queen Maeve couldn’t forbid Draigen’s visit without making the situation between the Inverni and the Dananns worse, and the U.S. president couldn’t appear to snub one of the most important fey leaders in the world. “We’re covering for the president, aren’t we?” Laura asked.
Rhys shrugged. “We can’t let it appear that the president is endorsing Draigen. He’ll meet with her privately, but a White House reception is out of the question.”
Laura chuckled again. “And Draigen cornered you into the Guildhouse venue instead at the risk of inflaming the situation by refusing her.”
“I don’t think it’s funny,” he said.
“No, it’s not. It’s deft, though. You’ll have to tread carefully with her, Orrin. She doesn’t sound like a pushover,” Laura said.
He opened a folder on the desk. “Now, that is advice I can take. I’m going to put Resha on this, but I don’t want the solitaries getting too cozy with the Inverni. I want you to watch him.”
Laura stood. “As you like. Do you need anything else?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “If you can think of a way to make Draigen disappear, I would appreciate it.”
She let herself out the door. “You’ll be the first to hear it.”
As she waited for the elevator, anger pressed against her chest. As director of public relations for the Guild, she had a job to do. That meant doing as she was told. But Rhys was playing a dangerous game with the Inverni. It was wrong, and he knew it. The world had changed in a hundred years. The Inverni were not the rulers of the Celtic fey, but they had become powerful political players. Labeling them terrorists simply because they disagreed with Maeve wasn’t something the human governments would approve. By slandering the Inverni, Rhys might very well provoke them.
What made it all the worse was that she had to decide whether to share what she knew with InterSec.
“How angry is he?” Resha asked her.
Between her limited sensing ability and the essence-dampening wards in the hallway, Laura hadn’t sensed him come up behind her. “It’ll pass, Resha. I think he’s more annoyed that he didn’t know a leanansidhe works for InterSec. If he can feel like he is doing something about it, he’ll let it go.”
Resha agreed, his peaked forehead looming toward Laura with a disconcerting movement. “I should warn Cress.”
“Cress? You know her?”
Resha’s sharp teeth slashed in a smile. “I know every solitary in this building.”
“You lied to Rhys?” Laura asked. And to her. She hadn’t sensed it at all.
Resha shook his head. “Not at all. I said InterSec isn’t obligated to tell me anything. That’s not the same thing as knowing something regardless.”
It was moments like this that made Laura admire Resha. Although she often found him irritating, he had flashes of cunning that made her cautious around him. Because Rhys underestimated him didn’t mean she should lull herself into doing the same. “One of these days, Resha, Orrin is going to catch on to you.”
He blinked several times, obviously affecting confusion. “Not if I can help it.”
As she boarded the elevator, she thought she knew exactly what he meant.
CHAPTER 3
THE MORNING INTERSEC operation, like so many others, had left Laura keyed up and jangled. Getting shot at—even on purpose—did that to her. The afternoon volume of work in public relations had slowed to a trickle. She was used to shifting gears between jobs, but sometimes coming off an adrenaline rush needed more transition. She needed to clear her mind, and the best way to do that was exercise. As she gathered her gym bag, the cell phone she used for InterSec contact vibrated. She confirmed with a glance that her office door was closed before she answered the phone.
“Do you miss me?” Sinclair asked.
The sound of his voice relieved and pleased her. Despite Sinclair’s tendency to make light of, well, everything, she doubted he would joke if he was in trouble. She kept her tone purposefully neutral, teasing him with indifference. “I haven’t thought about you at all since you shot me in the head. Busy day.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, mine, too. Spent the morning running away from InterSec agents only to end up in a bunker to answer lots of questions from Legacy.”
“They bought your story?” she asked.
“I had a witness to my heroics. Thanks for leaving at least one of them alive, by the way.” His voice went dry on the last comment.
“Not my fault. They spooked. Our guys spooked. I wasn’t happy about it,” she said.
“Well, they’re cutting me loose for the night. Want to get together?”
“Sure, I’ll meet you in Stafford,” she said.
He made an audible groan on the other end. “Do we have to?”
“I can use a workout,” she said.
“How about in an hour?” he asked.
“Perfect. See you there.” She closed the phone.
InterSec’s training academy and research facility in Stafford, Virginia, was an easy ride south of Washington on I-95. Easy, as long as it wasn’t rush hour or something wasn’t going on at Quantico. Once she was able to replace her shot-up car from the morning mission, Laura made it within normal drive time before the end-of-day commute started. Sinclair was there before her, leaning against a beat-up Silverado truck. He had a few minor scratches on his face from his run through the woods, but other than that didn’t seem any the worse for wear.
Despite his strenuous day, Laura cut him no slack in the exercise rooms. White lightning streaked in a fan pattern as Laura scattered a burst of essence from her fingers. Sinclair ducked, one leg bent, the other thrown sideways, almost flat to the floor. He grunted as a finger of essence skimmed over his back, the glass particles embedded in the fabric of his safety vest dissipating the force of the hit. The instant the barrage passed, he was on his feet in a defensive posture. He grinned as they circled each other in the glass-lined training room.
Laura didn’t change her expression but continued analyzing his moves, forcing him to react as quickly as possible. Essence could kill. She could restrain only so much of its intensity. Despite Sinclair’s safety clothing, a slight hit in an unprotected area carried the risk of crippling him. Which was why they were in the box of glass, one of many rooms like it at the training facility. Thick sheets of glass lined every surface. Glass dissipated essence, rendering it inert, so no one outside the room was endangered.
She had avoided talking about the morning operation, preferring to lose herself in the workout. They had been at it for two hours before she brought up the subject. “They didn’t find your escape suspicious?”
He shook his head but remained focused on her movements. “Not with an eyewitness to my killing an InterSec agent.”
Still not registering any visible reaction, Laura noted with satisfaction that Sinclair was finally sweating and breathing heavier. His stamina didn’t surprise her, considering his grandfather was a jotunn, one o
f the Teutonic fire giants. His speed and agility, however, impressed her. His giant heritage showed in his height, not so tall to be mistaken for fey but well over six feet. To see someone that size twist, leap, and turn to avoid essence strikes impressed her.
“Do you know what the rocket launchers were for? I thought we were expecting guns,” she asked.
They circled each other, Sinclair not letting his guard down because she was speaking. “No, but they’re pissed about losing them. The guns were picked up by another team.”
She shot a burst of essence at him, which he easily avoided. She was getting tired, too. “Have you gotten any more names?”
“They’re using a pretty tight organizational cell structure. I’ve only met my team unit of ten. We’re down a few guys after this morning. I got a promotion, though. I’m hoping it’ll get me closer to the people in charge.”
When Sinclair had worked for the D.C. SWAT team, he discovered Laura was working as an undercover InterSec agent. Terryn macCullen, Laura’s superior, forced him to make a choice—join InterSec or face incarceration to protect the agency. The fact that Sinclair joined willingly didn’t make it a fair choice. Laura felt an obligation to give him whatever skills she could to protect himself. It was only fair. His joining the agency had been forced in order to protect her as well.
“Well, don’t be so proud of yourself. They’re the bad guys.” She decided to hit him with essence, one high shot, one low, to see how he would handle it. In midthought, she changed her mind and shot a spray of essence across the floor. Sinclair leaped sideways, pulling his arms in as he spun in the air, then landed in a push-up position. Laura paused. It seemed like an unusual move for a ground-level attack. She narrowed her eyes. But it was a perfect move if she had hit him high and low.
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