The British Museum
“Are you noticing a
theme, here?” Christophe scanned the Great Court as they entered.
“Our relationship is built on museums.”
“We have a
relationship?”
He was quick with a
wolfish grin. “Oh, sweetheart. Are we ever having a
relationship.”
“We need to talk
about that diamond.”
“That was business.
It has nothing to do with us.”
“There’s an
us?”
He didn’t answer, at
least not in words, and she decided to ignore the implications of
his wicked smile and take refuge in lecturing him about their
surroundings. “The Great Court is the largest covered public square
in Europe, with approximately two acres of space. It was designed
by Lord Foster—well, redesigned, really—just in the late nineties
and opened by the Queen just after the turn of the
century.”
“Turn of the
millennium,” he pointed out.
“Well, yes, that,
too. You’ll notice the ceiling—”
“Oh, yes. I couldn’t
miss that ceiling.” He whistled, staring up at the glass-and-steel
canopy.
“They constructed it
out of more than three thousand panes of glass and, like
snowflakes, no two are alike.” She smiled. “I absolutely love it. I
feel a sort of peace in this light, airy space.”
He surprised her by
putting an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “That’s
great news. If you like this, you’re going to love the Great Dome of Atlantis.”
Fiona started to snap
out a retort, but the pleasure on his face as he looked up and
around at the wonderful space stopped her. Maybe there really was
an Atlantis. Maybe he really was from there. After all, it wasn’t
that long ago that they were all scoffing at the idea of vampires,
and now there were certain to be some in attendance here tonight.
Nothing, it seemed, was impossible anymore.
Not even Plato’s
mythical lost continent.
“Is it just a city?
Or a whole continent?” she whispered, and he jerked his gaze down
to stare at her in surprise.
“You believe
me?”
“Maybe. Maybe a
little.” She laughed. “I don’t know what to believe
anymore.”
“If you—” He paused
and his eyes narrowed. “Who’s the dandy on his way over here? He’s
staring at you like you’re on the dessert menu.”
“As did you,
earlier,” she pointed out.
“That doesn’t mean
any other man can do it,” he growled.
“Lord Nicklesby,” she
called out. “What a delight to see you here.”
“Fiona, my dear,” he
said, taking her hands in an overly effusive handshake. Now that
she thought about it, Christophe was right. Nicklesby was a bit of
a dandy. He had more gel in his hair than she did. “I was rather
unpleasantly surprised to see you on the telly this afternoon. Bit
of a strange situation, hmm?”
“Are you calling me
strange?” Christophe’s smile was all the more deadly for its veneer
of politeness.
Nicklesby blinked.
She’d bet he hadn’t had much experience with Christophe’s form of
directness. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from
laughing.
“Certainly not,
certainly not,” Nicklesby blustered. “Just—ah, well. Quite right. I
see Foster’s new partner—vampire, don’t you know. I’ll just go over
and say hello. Lovely to see you.”
Before she could say
anything, he was gone, practically jogging in his haste to be away
from them. She finally released the laugh she’d been holding
in.
“How do you do that?
Make me laugh when my world is turned upside down?”
“When
better?”
He flagged down a
passing server with a tray of champagne. “When does the ale come
through?”
The man shook his
head. “Sorry, sir. I’m fond of a pint myself, but this is strictly
a champagne kind of event.”
Christophe pulled out
a crumpled handful of euros. “This purple one is for you if you
find me a pint. Find one for yourself, too.”
The waiter’s eyes
grew huge. “Sir, I can tell you’re not familiar with our currency.
That’s five hundred euros. I can’t accept that.”
Christophe grinned.
“I like an honest man. Take it, and see what you can do.” He tossed
the bill on the waiter’s tray and turned to Fiona. “Would you like
a glass of champagne?”
She took a flute off
the tray. “No, but I think I’m going to need a glass of champagne. Let’s just put it that
way.”
She drained the glass
in three swallows, and the server traded her empty glass for
another and then took off, presumably in search of
ale.
“Who is this
delicious hunk of man, where have you been hiding him, and does he
have a brother?” The voice was instantly familiar, and Fiona
whirled around, delighted.
“Maeve! I didn’t know
you’d be here.”
Maeve, dressed in a
scarlet gown that set off her dark-haired beauty to perfection,
tossed her head. “Saving whales is my life, don’t you know? Or is
it dolphins? What marine life are we saving tonight? And, I repeat,
who is this lovely man?”
Beside Fiona,
Christophe stiffened and his eyes flared a hot green for a split
second before he bowed to Maeve.
“This is Christophe,”
Fiona said, not sure what to do about the no-last-name
thing.
“I am delighted you
brought your new man, Fee. Now where have you been hiding
him?”
“He’s not my
new man,” she said. “He’s more
my—”
“Her partner,”
Christophe said.
“Yes. Yes, my
partner,” she said, grasping the suggestion.
“And her lover,” he
said, ruining everything.
Maeve made an O with
her perfectly red, shiny lips. “Oh, he is a rogue, isn’t he? Lucky,
lucky Fee. Shall we go and have a girly chat? I’ll bring her right
back, I promise.”
With that, she pulled
Fiona off, tightly holding her arm, leaving Christophe staring
after them.
“Maeve, slow down.
What on earth are you dragging me across the floor for? For Saint
George’s sake, this had better be good.”
Maeve glanced back at
Christophe, now a good twenty feet behind them. “Your boy toy there
isn’t human. Did you know that?”
Christophe carefully
unclenched his hands, firmly suppressing his instinctive reaction
to fight to protect his woman. They were in the middle of a very
public place, surrounded by other humans. Fiona would be perfectly
safe talking to her friend, at least for a few minutes, even though
Maeve was not human.
Maeve was Unseelie
Court Fae.
Powerful, too. Her
magic had the feel of ice and darkness. It reminded him of someone
he’d met before. Someone he hadn’t liked much. It was right there,
on the edge of his brain, if he could only think of it. He felt
someone approaching him from behind and whirled, hand under his
jacket on his dagger.
“Your pint, sir.” The
man was beaming. “And two more, besides, back in the kitchen. Plus
one for me.”
Christophe took the
pint. “You are an exceptionally fine human being,” he said with
feeling.
The server, not
realizing how literally Christophe had meant the expression,
grinned. “Thanks. I still want you to take some change,
though.”
Christophe drank a
long draft of the fine ale and then shook his head. “Not a chance.
You earned it.”
“Never thought I’d
enjoy one of these events,” the man said. “I’ll be around. Let me
know when you’re ready for another.”
“If I can get away
with it, I’ll be out of here by the time I finish this one,”
Christophe muttered.
“Lucky bloke.” With a
deep sigh, the server was off to foist more of the champagne on
other guests.
Christophe returned
his gaze to where Fiona was talking to Maeve, and nearly choked on
his ale. She was gone. They were both gone. If that damn Fae harmed
a hair on her head, he was going to murder her, peace treaty or no.
He slammed his half-empty mug down on a table and set off to find
her, walking fast.
A man swung into his
path, moving so quickly that Christophe nearly ran him down. Only
Atlantean reflexes saved them both.
“My apologies,” the
man said smoothly, extending a hand. “Gideon Fairsby.”
“Lord Fairsby?”
Christophe said slowly, recognizing him from the press conference.
He did not want to shake the man’s hand, but it would have drawn
notice not to do so, especially since they were obviously the
center of attention for quite a few groups of
partygoers.
He focused on masking
his own magic, but the faint, tell-tale giveaway of Fae magic
stripped away his attempt.
“As I thought,”
Fairsby said. “What are you?”
“A friend of the
whales,” Christophe said, waving a hand at the crowd. “Aren’t we
all?”
“Don’t be obtuse,”
Fairsby replied in a measured tone. “I know you’re not human, but
you’re not Fae, either. What are you? Not a shifter, to be
sure.”
“Obtuse. Isn’t that a
triangle? How can a person be a triangle?” Christophe smiled in
mock sympathy. “Too many glasses of that champagne, I bet. Right,
old chap?”
The Fae’s eyes flared
a hot, molten gold and the monster inside him showed through
Fairsby’s affable mask. “I saw you at the press conference,” he
said, suddenly changing the subject. “Why? What is your interest in
Vanquish?”
“In what? Aston
Martin had a press conference? That Vanquish is a sweet car,”
Christophe said, beginning to enjoy tying the Fae’s guts into
knots.
“Not the car, the
sword, as you well know. Let me give you a little warning, fool.
Stay out of matters that are none of your concern, and leave Fae
matters to Fae hands. Do you understand me?”
Christophe glanced
around and, seeing that nobody was within hearing distance, leaned
in toward Fairsby, smiling as if offering friendly advice. Which,
in a way, he was. “If any Fae hands so
much as touch Lady Fiona Campbell or anyone she cares about, I will
come for you first. I will rip out your lungs and feed your kidneys
to the hounds of the nine hells. Do you understand
me?”
Fairsby’s eyes iced
over, but he laughed. “I have been threatened by far better than
you.”
“Yeah,” Christophe
said. “I get that a lot. But usually only once.”
Maeve’s tinkling bell
of a voice broke in before Fairsby could reply. “Boys, boys, boys,
what are you talking about?” She put her hand on Fairsby’s arm. “Is
my dear cousin giving you a boring lecture on British crime,
Christophe?”
“Cousin?” He studied
them both. He was fair to her dark, but yes, he could see a slight
resemblance, and it was true their power felt similar. Of course,
with the Fae, anyone born to the same Court could claim kin right.
Cousin, aunt, uncle, whatever. The Fae couldn’t lie, but they could
stretch the truth out of all recognition.
“Where is Fiona? If
you’ve harmed her—”
He sensed her before
he heard her, coming from the opposite direction than that from
which Maeve had approached. The quality of the light actually
changed for him—became brighter.
He frowned. If he was
having thoughts about Fiona making the world a brighter place, he’d
better go see Alaric and get his brain checked out. Maybe it was a
tumor.
He crossed the ten
paces between them in three strides and caught her arm. “Please do
not go off on your own again until we get this situation resolved.
I do not wish to worry for your safety.”
She smiled up at him,
her eyes sparkling. “You were worried for me? That’s—”
“Unbearably sweet.”
Fairsby’s dry voice interrupted. He’d followed Christophe. Maeve
was right behind him.
“I see you met Lord
Fairsby,” Fiona said.
“We chatted for a
moment,” Fairsby said. “On a matter of little
importance.”
“It seemed quite
important from a distance,” Maeve said, staring avidly at
Christophe. “Everyone was watching, too. I’ve warned you about
that, you bad thing.” She playfully swatted at Fairsby’s arm, but
he only tightened his lips instead of crushing her, so Christophe
figured the two Unseelie had some sort of friendship
going.
As much as the Fae
could have friends. Mostly they only had rivals for power,
cutthroat enemies, or former enemies they’d graciously decided to
ignore. The occasional ally. Not really known for
friendship.
Maeve pouted her red,
red lips. “Don’t keep secrets. It’s so boring.”
“No secrets here.
Everything is out in the open,” Christophe said. “Fiona and I are
planning to dance. If either of you come near her, I will remove
your immortal heads from your immortal bodies, which will be an
extremely unpleasant way to spend eternity. Say hi to Rhys na
Garanwyn for me, won’t you? If you ever happen to socialize with
Seelie Court Fae. Tell him he still owes me from our last poker
game.”
He inclined his head
to them and, betting they wouldn’t kill him in the middle of the
museum, put an arm around Fiona’s shoulders and turned his back on
them, grinning at the hissing sound of rage coming from
Fairsby.
“Shall we
dance?”