She held her folder down out of DeWinter’s view. “It’s my nature.”
When the doors opened, DeWinter held them to let her exit first. “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement of how compelling my writing is.”
She smiled back. “You’re compelling in other ways.”
Sinclair walked toward them from the opposite end of the corridor. He passed without making eye contact, brushing against Laura. She slipped him DeWinter’s keycard. Picking pockets was an old skill, made easier by the intimate relationship Moor had with DeWinter. He didn’t think twice about the contrived physical contact.
In the conference room, DeWinter continued to the front of the room while Laura sat near the rear. People ignored her—or at least pretended to. She sensed more than a little tension from several people who came near her. She didn’t know if Fallon Moor was liked, but she was clearly feared. She placed the folder on her lap. DeWinter opened his laptop, and a PowerPoint presentation flashed onto the room screen as the lights dimmed. He launched into the first set of bullets points. Laura checked her watch. By then Sinclair should have been a few floors away duplicating DeWinter’s ID card. She wasn’t sure how long it would take.
A chart flashed on the screen. “Year to date, 117 deaths are directly related to the fey,” DeWinter said. “With the terrorist attack at the National Archives, the total went to 144, and we’re not even close to the end of the calendar year. Of these cases, half remain under investigation and a third are tied up in jurisdictional issues regarding the citizenship of the fey perpetrators.”
Laura didn’t want to dismiss the numbers, but if someone divided murders by any one criterion—skin color, religion, geography, and, yes, species—the tallied number would look significant. Crime wasn’t a trait unique to the fey.
Another slide appeared, listing a series of federal statutes. “The fey, even those considered American citizens, enjoy unprecedented rights and privileges that no other social class enjoys. These rights, in turn, are directly related to undue influence of the fey monarchies in Ireland and Germany.”
Laura skimmed the list off her printout of the presentation. DeWinter’s argument sounded credible, but he was taking select issues out of context. The politics between the U.S. and the fey monarchies were more complicated than a few statutes that seemed to provide unfair advantages to the fey. It wasn’t that he—or Legacy—didn’t have a point. Laura wasn’t naïve. But the U.S., like any other government, balanced advantages against disadvantages. They wanted to have the fey as allies, both for commercial and military reasons. Sometimes that meant certain leniencies.
“The U.S. government has allowed itself to be seduced by the power of the beneficent fey and nostalgic notions of heroism and chivalry in old tales. These are lies that have no place in modern democracies. The root of the problem is the monarchy system, a dictatorship by another name. If we sever our ties to these monarchies, they will fail. Only when they fail can we hope to negotiate with them on a level playing field. These monarchies must end if humans are to have any chance at a safe future.”
Laura surveyed the room. The people in attendance were staffers, rank and file. They weren’t the people she was interested in—yet. Some of them might become radicalized, and that was exactly what meetings like this were for. DeWinter used them to garner support for Legacy’s goals. Those who believed they could be achieved through government became mouthpieces for Legacy. Those who believed in more violent means were shuttled into Legacy’s more covert operations. She had seen the evolution play out in a number of organizations that rallied around radical ideas.
Legacy wanted an end to the monarchies. Given what she had seen of its secret backers, it was about money and power. The more unstable the fey monarchies became, the more opportunities arose for others to take their place. The people in the room might think they were being patriots. Instead, they were becoming pawns to another power structure.
Time dragged as DeWinter droned on about legal initiatives Legacy was involved in. As planned, Laura’s cell phone rang. People shifted and heads turned, craning to see who had left a ringer on. Laura hopped up with the phone to her ear, taking her time to ensure that everyone knew it was her causing the interruption as she left the room. Once in the hall, she stayed near the conference room’s glass door, fully visible to DeWinter.
Sinclair arrived, but stayed out of view of the conference room. Laura held her hand against the doorjamb as if she were casually leaning on it. Unseen from inside the room, Sinclair slipped two keycards into her hand. He gave her a wink and walked off.
Still pretending to be on a cell call, Laura pushed open the door and resumed her seat. She slipped DeWinter’s keycard and a plain white duplicate into her folder. After a brief applause, the lights went up, and the room broke into conversation. As the attendees left, Laura lingered, again making sure to remain in DeWinter’s line of sight at all times. If he had noticed his card missing, she didn’t want him to think she had gone anywhere with it. When the room emptied, she joined him at the podium, where he packed his materials into folders.
“You were excellent,” she said.
He shrugged. “The facts speak for themselves.”
She reached out and tugged at his lapel, slipping the keycard back in the inside pocket without him noticing. “You really were good.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Careful. You might make me fall for you.”
“You might be worth catching.” She let her hand slide seductively down the lapel of his jacket, then left the room. He was good, she thought. Three layers of security good. She held the folder so that the duplicate keycard didn’t slip out.
She was better.
CHAPTER 16
OVERLOOKING THE WHITE House, the Hay-Adams Hotel had an address that demanded high prices of its guests and the envy of those who wished they could afford it. Laura had lived undercover at the hotel several times over the years, and she had never regretted it. While it never felt like home, the service and atmosphere more than made up for it. For its location, it could have gone the lazy route, jacked up its prices, and let the tourists in; but all in all, it had kept its standards. The restaurants were good, not always spectacular, but at a place like the Hay-Adams, good was not something to be disappointed in.
When Genda Boone suggested lunch at the Lafayette Room to Mariel Tate, Laura almost asked to go elsewhere but changed her mind. After a week of undercover work as Fallon Moor, juggling plans at the Guild for Draigen’s reception, and worrying about Sinclair, she wanted to have a break that did not involve sleeping in her hidden room at the Guildhouse. The calm, pale colors of the hotel’s restaurant would be a perfect antidote to her chaotic schedule.
Or so she thought until Genda arrived in a flaming red dress that moved as much as her undulating wings. As a Danann fairy, she generated an essence field that drew its power from the air around her. Genda let some of her natural body essence emit a static glow that moved her white hair with a languid, mesmerizing motion.
By subtle signs in body language, Laura knew Genda saw her as soon as she entered but pretended to search for her. Otherwise, the turned heads in the room might have missed her entrance. She let her eyes settle on Laura and held her hand out as she crossed the room to the table. “Mariel, sweet, how are you?”
Laura smiled as she half rose from the chair to exchange air kisses. “Perfect, Genda. I love that dress.”
Genda’s vanity was notorious, and she liked it reinforced. Now that Laura saw the dress—which she did like—she realized the reason for the location. Genda’s vibrant slash of color against the pale décor of the Lafayette Room drew stares from all corners. Genda sat with a swirl of material. “Do you? It’s a Paul Carroll. Boutique designer out of New York. He dyed this red to perfection for me. You must call him.”
Laura sipped some white wine. “You’ll have to give me his number.” Her Mariel persona liked clothes as much as Laura, though Mariel tended toward more streaml
ined looks than Laura’s feminine tastes. She liked Mariel to project competence with an edge of intimidation. With Mariel’s long dark hair, that meant snug business suits in dark shades. It didn’t mean dull, though, as she touched her jacket sleeve, dark gray satin with ribbed black pinstripes. The three-quarter-length skirt showed off a sufficient curve of leg. Mariel more than held her own against Genda in the attraction department.
Genda sighed and flicked an imperious hand for the waiter. “I have been swamped this morning. The markets are going insane”—she broke off as the waiter arrived—“springwater, two glasses of the Grüner Veltliner from last week’s tasting menu, and have Thomas put together a pâté sampler—tell him it’s Genda. Thanks”—she dismissed the waiter with a turn of the head—“you will love this Grüner. Have it with the fish and the asparagus . . . Did you get a chance to see the news?”
Laura twitched her lips to keep from chuckling. “Which?”
Genda leaned forward. “The markets, dear. Chicago is a mess. Commodities are for gamblers, but between you and me, there’s a scandal brewing there that is going to embarrass the Teuts, and I can’t wait. Interesting times, I tell you, interesting times.”
Genda lived and breathed finance. Few people at InterSec understood what she was talking about half the time, but no one rivaled the sharpness of her assessments. In a global economy, the financial ramifications of world events often had an impact on political stability, and InterSec factored that information into whatever missions it undertook. “Teutonic fey? Does it reach to the Elvenking?”
She flipped a dismissive hand. “Oh, Donor is beside the point on this one. No, it’ll shake up both U.S. political parties when the money trail is found . . .” Two waiters appeared, one with the water and the appetizer plate and the other with the wine. Genda eyed the bottle label. “Yes, that’s the one”—she pointed to the appetizers—“try that crisped foie gras. It’s scandalous and delicious.” She paused to sip the wine, nodded with a smile to the waiter, and lowered her glass. “Nothing will come of it, of course. The humans will have their hearings and their protestations, and the real money will be avoided so everyone can enjoy St. Bart’s this year.”
“It’s delicious,” Laura said.
Genda tapped her hand. “Isn’t it? As long as it doesn’t affect the equity markets, it will be very entertaining.”
Laura smiled and shook her head. “I meant the foie gras.”
Genda’s eyebrows shot up, then she let out a short, high laugh. “Oh! Gods, listen to me. I have such a one-track mind. Isn’t it, though? Thomas is a marvel. So, tell me, dear, where have you been?”
She craned her neck to see beyond Laura and waved to someone. Laura felt herself begin to relax. She liked Genda. As Mariel, they had shared an office suite together for years. The nature of their responsibilities often kept their conversation on mundane and superficial matters, but that was precisely one of the things Laura liked about it. No InterSec or Guild politics. No guns under the table. Just two office colleagues who shared a similar lifestyle getting together for lunch or dinner. Despite the big personality and need for attention, Genda was a nice contrast to the stoic Terryn and quiet Cress.
She wondered if that was where her attraction for Sinclair was coming from. They had office politics for certain. They’d even had guns under the table a time or two. But Sinclair managed to push all of that aside with an attractive smile, an outgoing personality, and a desire to date. Laura noted how often Sinclair slipped his way into her thoughts. Was she focused on him because she was interested? Intrigued? Or bored by the people around her? Was her recent ambivalence about her job looking for something to pin itself on?
She let Genda interrupt her story about a visit to Paris to tell her own tale about pursuing a German businessman to the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower without using the elevator. Laura laughed. It was a good story.
Genda ran her fingers through her hair. “So, let me be serious and nosy for a moment. Is InterSec looking into the bombing of Kendrick’s, or were you there for PR?”
“Kendrick?” Laura asked.
“Hello? The Welsh herbalist? Such a shame about him. He had a flair and a talent. I have some of his hand cream in the office that you must try.”
“Oh, um . . .” Laura began, taken off guard. Genda never asked about assignments.
Genda draped a hand on her chest. “I have flustered Mariel Tate! I am sorry. Forget I mentioned it.”
Laura tilted her head to the side. She hadn’t known the name of the bombing victim. She tried to excuse herself that there hadn’t been time, but she knew she hadn’t thought to ask. “No, it’s okay. You surprised me.”
Genda bowed her head and gave her a confidential look. “I know the rules, dear. The written and the unwritten ones, but I saw you on CNN, for Danu’s sake. I’m curious because I knew Kendrick through a friend of a friend of a friend. His family must be devastated. I hope you squash whoever is responsible like a bug.”
“I do not squash people!” she said. It wasn’t true, she thought. She had squashed a few, but she didn’t want Genda to know that—or assume it.
Genda let out a burst of her high, fruity laugh. “I never meant to imply! ’Struth!” She leaned in again and winked. “But I’m saying someone should squash whoever did it. Kendrick never hurt a soul that I ever heard.”
Given the nature of the conversation, Genda was throwing off vibrations of falsity, but she was also exposing to Laura that she hadn’t thought about the dead fairy in any other context than as a case victim. “The Guild will take the case. We have a potential terrorist group under surveillance that Rhys should be concerned about,” she said.
Genda’s hair fluttered on soft currents of essence. “Well, I hope so. The last thing the fey need is bigger businesses becoming targets. We’re capitalized better, but that doesn’t mean we don’t compete with some formidable human firms. Do you like sorbet? The sorbet here is fabulous.”
“Sorbet it is,” she said.
Laura tried to remain focused as Genda launched into a monologue about vacation spots. Not knowing the bombing victim’s name bothered her. “Human” had two meanings in the world—a noun and an adjective. Had she become so self-involved that she was forgetting the human element of what she did? Fey or not, people died, and that meant something. It should. Once upon a time, it had been a primary motivation for her work with InterSec. Maybe that was the attraction to Sinclair. He never seemed to lose sight of the human element.
Sinclair again. She smiled, both at the thought of him and Genda’s joke about beaches in Scotland. He was never far from her thoughts these days. She sipped her wine and considered that maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in her life.
CHAPTER 17
RETURNING TO THE Guildhouse, Laura and Genda went their separate ways in the suite they shared two flights up from the investigative units. The lunch had had its desired effect, a brief time-out for Laura from the dramas of InterSec and the Guild. It felt normal, something everyone did, catching up with an acquaintance, not getting into the gruesome or tedious details of their lives or feeling obligated to do something out of a sense of duty.
Laura’s sense of respite, though, evaporated as she settled behind the desk in the Mariel Tate office. A sealed envelope addressed to her in Terryn’s handwriting was centered on her glass-topped desk. The message asked her to meet him on one of the upper floors of the Guildhouse. Terryn rarely left notes. Sending the hard-copy message meant the meeting was about a security issue he didn’t want detected by an electronic trail. She swiped a mild charge of essence across the page and obliterated the writing.
The elevator opened on the hushed quiet of a residential floor that Terryn had directed her to. Laura checked her outfit in a large hall mirror as Inverni security guards stationed there examined her ID. Their uniforms—the royal blue tunics with high collars of the Inverni Guardians—confirmed her suspicions. The Guardians were the macCullen clan’s official security forc
e, probably Draigen’s advance team.
The Guards’ sharp, ebony wings glittered with indigo and green spots of essence, a sign of alertness but not alarm. They passed her through without comment. More guards lined the corridor leading to the suite that Draigen macCullen would be occupying the next day. Despite Guildhouse security, it was not unusual for the Guild to allow important public figures to bring their own security with them as long as they remained courteous and cooperative with building staff. By the presence of the Inverni advance staff, Laura assumed Terryn wanted to brief her on last-minute security details.
Laura waited outside the doors to the suite while the guards checked her credentials again. The review was a formality since she had been requested to appear by Terryn, but she didn’t object. Rules provided structure, and structure often provided safety to high-level officials exposed to constant death threats.
The doors were opened from within, and Laura entered a large living-room suite. With their backs to the room, Terryn waited with a woman by the large shielded windows that framed a partial view of the Mall. Terryn didn’t turn from his position at the window as Laura crossed to the room. “Draigen, let me introduce Mariel Tate, one of my most trusted agents.”
The woman shifted toward her, and Laura paused in surprise at her first look at Draigen macCullen in person. Pictures of the Inverni regent didn’t do justice to the woman. Most Inverni tended to be shorter in height and stockier than their Danann cousins, but the macCullen clan members were tall. Draigen had her brother’s height and dark hair. Her coloring, though, was paler than his, blue tones shadowing the planes of her face. She tilted her head to acknowledge Laura. “Agent Tate, I have heard much about you.”
Since Terryn introduced her as an agent, she didn’t bow. InterSec agents gave courtesy to everyone but were not required to adhere to royal protocols that appeared to show subservience. “Lady Regent, it is my pleasure. I did not expect you until tomorrow.”
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