Chapter 2 #6
I nodded. He rose, offered me his hand, and helped me up. The room spun briefly, and pain stabbed through my brain, dragging tears to my eyes. I really had overdone it this time.
“Did you uncover anything?” Ruadhán said from the doorway.
I squinted at him. “The thief unveiled himself in the vault but was covered from head to foot in bulky black clothing. He did take off his left glove to spell, which revealed dark skin. He pocketed the contents of Box 369. The rest he simply threw onto the floor.”
“Any identifying features aside from dark skin?”
I shook my head and winced. “I did get the impression he was young though.”
“Define young?”
“Looked to be in his twenties rather than fifties. It was impossible to tell if he was human or not.”
“Most of those who are magically gifted tend to be,” Marjorlaine commented from behind me.
“The Myrkálfar can spell,” I replied. “It’s part of the reason they guard the Annwfyn gateways.”
“I doubt the Myrkálfar would stoop so low as to raid a bank,” she said, “especially when a good portion of them use it.”
“If you think that,” Mathi murmured, “then you do not know the Myrkálfar.”
Ruadhán cast him a warning look before returning his gaze to me. “And our thief left through the rear wall, as you said?”
I nodded, though I hadn’t actually seen that thanks to the plunge back into darkness. “Can I go now? Because unless you want me to vomit all over your pristine crime scene...”
Ruadhán immediately stepped back. Mathi wrapped an arm around my waist and helped me out of the vault, but once we reached the stairs, swept me into his arms and carried me up. He didn’t set me back on my feet once we reached the street, but continued on.
I leaned my head against his chest and wished I could let go, but there were lots of little questions buzzing around my brain and I just had to ask a couple of them.
“Tell me,” I said, “was there any particular reason the council meeting was attended by so few people?”
His amusement swum around me. “Is there any particular reason you ask that question?”
“Given the hawk shifter—”
“Marlan Nash.”
“—said they were ratifying some decisions, I’d have thought they’d want more people there. They didn’t even have a quorum—or doesn’t that matter?”
“Only for major decisions, and having seen the agenda for today’s meeting last night, there was only routine issues to be dealt with. I dare say a good portion of the absenteeism was because they were attending Jarvil Maehdon’s funeral.”
“Who’s he when he’s home?”
“A long-term councilor and a dark elf of some importance.”
“Did you know him at all?”
“I didn’t like him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You never liked Cynwrig, but that hasn’t stopped the two of you working together.”
“Because we now have something—someone—in common,” he drawled. “Besides, while I might not have liked him in times past, I did always respect him. There is a difference.”
Meaning if I did want to know more about Jarvil, I’d have to ask Cynwrig.
While their rules of grieving meant he couldn’t socially interact with anyone outside his own people during the set three-month period of mourning, I did have a means of talking to him without him risking a face-to-face meeting.
But up until now I hadn’t had the courage or indeed a proper reason to use the Bruadar bracelet he’d gifted me.
Missing him was not a proper reason, no matter how much my stupid hormones might attempt to convince me otherwise, especially when I had another lover in my life deserving attention.
“What time was the funeral?”
“Eleven, but it was being held at Dorcha Dearg, and there are formalities that must be followed before any outsiders can enter that place.”
Dorcha Dearg was the main Myrkálfar encampment in the area, and was situated on—and in—the Peckfort Ridges to the west of Deva.
Though I’d never been there—and never would go there—I’d seen plenty of photos of the weighty but wondrously exotic buildings that ran the length of the ridge.
It had become something of a tourist attraction over the centuries, although most folk were constrained to viewing platforms some distance away.
And, of course, tourists also needed facilities like public conveniences, cafés, and souvenir shops, all of which the Myrkálfar ran and which, by all accounts, were making serious coin.
“I take it,” he continued, as he moved out of the building and turned toward Eastgate Street, “that you believe there is a connection between Jarvil’s death and today’s events?”
“The timing of it all just seems suspicious.”
“And the vision? Did that provide any gravitas to support said suspicion?”
“Under the bulky coat, I think he was wearing a suit. He was certainly wearing dress pants and shoes. Maybe we’re dealing with a fashion-conscious thief, but I think it worth looking at the funeral’s guest list and checking backgrounds.”
“You should have mentioned this to my father.”
“I wasn’t sure if I could mention the council connection. I mean, you’ve all sworn an oath not to discuss business with anyone not on the council.”
“We have,” he drawled. “You haven’t.”
I sighed dramatically. “Then I am forced to admit it was my insane desire to get the hell out of his presence as soon as possible.”
“He does not hate you, Bethany, no matter what you think.”
“Hmm,” was all I said to that. We turned into Eastgate and headed down toward the tavern. I took a deeper breath that didn’t help ease the continuing ache in my head, then said, “You can put me down. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“You lie, Bethany Aodhán.”
“And you, Mathi Dhār-Val, have an exciting date with the latest prospect to get to. You don’t need to be babysitting me.”
“Pixie sitting would be a more apt description,” he mused. “But let’s be honest here, you have developed an alarming tendency of late of getting kidnapped, so it behooves me to ensure you get home safely.”
“No one has any reason to kidnap me right now. Besides, it’s not like you can’t find me when it happens. You did last time.”
“Cynwrig found you, and I can assure you, that journey underground is not an experience I wish to repeat. We Ljósálfar are not meant to be in such realms for long.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything as we arrived at the tavern.
Ye Olde Pixie Boots—the name Mom had given it when she’d taken over the business from Gran umpteen decades ago—had stood here for hundreds of years and, aside from a few changes here and there, was basically the same late medieval building that had been rebuilt on this spot after fires destroyed it and much of the old city in the late 1400s.
Like the other buildings that made up Deva’s famous row, it was listed, and consisted of a small bar in the undercroft at street level, another at row level, and my living area on the top floor.
Mathi stopped to the side of the time-worn front door and finally placed me on my feet, though he kept hold of my elbow until he was sure I wasn’t going to collapse before handing me my purse.
“Thank you. Enjoy your date.” I paused, but curiosity got the better of me. “Is this woman the statuesque blonde with largish breasts—for an elf—that was hanging off your arm at the memorial?”
“No, but she is in consideration.”
“How many have you got in consideration right now?”
“Three, though one has a voice that could shatter glass, which is a shame because she is rather delightful in bed.”
I laughed and shook my head. “And you, of course, are perfection. She’d have nothing to complain about to her friends now, would she?”
“Nothing at all,” he said solemnly, though his eyes twinkled. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow morning about our next step.”
“Make that the evening,” I called after him. “I intend to sleep well into the afternoon.”
He waved an acknowledgement over his shoulder.
I turned and opened the old door, letting my fingers run across its stained wood, listening to its joyous song and briefly losing myself in the network of gold that enveloped the whole building, then stepped inside.
The main tavern area was intimate—no surprise there, given that, like many along the row, it was long and narrow—with five larger tables in the front half of the room, and the bar and four small tables on the far side of the stairs.
Stairs to the upper floor divided the two areas, and bright pixie boots of various sizes hung from the exposed floor joists and beams, some of them real, some of them not, but all of them a nod to tourist expectations that a tavern bearing the name “Pixie Boots” would have said boots displayed.
Beyond the door at the far end of the bar was a warren of rooms that included the kitchen, a furniture store, fridges, stock stores, staff changing rooms, and toilets.
It wasn’t yet five o’clock, so the evening rush hadn’t started—though to be honest, during the winter months, the so-called “rush” generally consisted of nothing more than a half dozen regulars and a couple of hardy tourists willing to brave the often harsh weather.
Right now, aside from Kitty and Jonnie, who were polishing glasses down near the bar, there was only one other person here.
That person was not a stranger, and she certainly wasn’t a customer, even if she did enjoy a good glass or two of our whisky every time she came here.
It said a lot about my current state of fitness that I hadn’t felt her presence before now.
I certainly should have, given the thunderous energy that surrounded her.
She was also absolutely the last person I needed or wanted to see right now.
Especially when, yet again, she looked fucking furious.