Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
“Do I have to do this?” I asked Martina for the hundredth time as we walked down a side-street in Fisherman’s Wharf, heading for the place where the mediation was being held.
“Yes, Your Highness. We do.” Martina stomped alongside me, conspicuous in her business outfit on a Saturday morning—white cotton shirt, masculine-tailored gray jacket and boxy knee-length skirt, and sensible loafers with low heels.
“It’s court ordered. If you want your ex-in-laws put in jail for what they did to you, we have to play ball until the feds get moving with their investigation.
As soon as they see that our civil suit has legs, they’ll run to catch up with it to save face. ”
I huffed out a breath. “It’s just the worst timing, that’s all.
” I had been brainstorming all morning with the rest of the company, coming up with plans to defeat Connor and take back the throne, and I felt like we were finally getting somewhere.
For every question I asked, I got a treasure-trove of information back.
It helped that I was looking at things from a fresh perspective.
This mediation was an interruption I didn’t need.
“I, for one, am looking forward to it.” Cecil trotted alongside me in his Golden Labrador form, happily waving his tail from side-to-side. “Steak and whiskey for breakfast, and I’m going to pee on their coats when they aren’t looking.”
“You need to take this seriously, Cecil,” I reminded him.
“I am taking it seriously, Chosen. Look at the outfit I gave you!”
Cecil had gone for an old money look today, dressing me in sharply tailored cream slacks, a periwinkle-blue shirt, with a white blazer slung casually over my shoulders.
My hair was combed with a sharp middle part, gathered into a low ponytail, and he’d spent an extra four seconds perfecting my makeup—fresh skin, strong brows, scarlet lips.
“I love it, thank you,” I said automatically. I felt ready for battle. “But when we’re in the meeting, don’t forget that Connor is on the attack, so we have to stay alert. You’re my only backup. Donovan and the boys can’t come in, so they’ll be watching on the rooftops.”
I could feel his eyes on me now, from somewhere up high. It made me feel safe. “I would feel a lot better if he could come in with me, but it was hard enough to settle on the details of this mediation in the first place.”
“The hardest thing about it was settling on the location,” Martina grumbled.
It was a fight that had raged for a few days, apparently.
Mindful of our security concerns, Martina had insisted on a public setting.
If any of Connor’s beasts tried to attack me while we were deep in discussions, they wouldn’t be able to do it magically.
It would take Purg out of the picture at the very least. Agarthon might still stomp in and try to stab me, but with all the tourists around, Connor would have to reconsider.
Besides, this was America. Someone packing would probably try and shoot him.
So, Martina suggested a cafe or a restaurant, preferably in the city, with lots of people wandering the sidewalks.
The Andresanos’ lawyer countered with a handful of suggestions of high-end restaurants with private rooms, which Martina had struck down, since they were regular stomping grounds for Delilah and Gordon.
They would know all the staff—who were trained to kiss ass—so it would give them the home advantage.
Instead, Martina suggested some mid-priced restaurants downtown, but they had no private rooms, and the Andresanos did not want to air any of their dirty laundry in public.
Then, their lawyer suggested a cheap steakhouse near Fisherman’s Wharf.
They were probably joking—the Andresanos wouldn’t be caught dead in a touristy, kitschy cut-price restaurant—and I guessed it was supposed to be an insult to us for daring to suggest anywhere less exclusive than Cloud or Romeo’s.
I asked Martina to accept anyway. I wasn’t too proud to argue with them in a faux log cabin decorated with hogs’ heads.
And once Martina accepted, it was too late for them to back out. They’d made the offer, after all. Rufus Stonnington made one more request—that the meeting be held at ten am, as soon as the restaurant opened, so there would be no witnesses to their humiliation.
Parking was a nightmare, though. I drove the Audi and slid it into a parking garage almost three blocks away, which meant we were forced to walk the rest of the way.
The steakhouse came into view. God, it was as bad as I imagined.
Tucked away down a side street near the pier, surrounded on all sides by bars and stores selling Americana tourist trinkets and plastic things made in China, the facade of the steakhouse was made up of huge round plastic logs, with a huge boar’s head mounted above the fake oak door.
We’d already checked the place out as much as we could, just to be safe.
There was one main entrance, and a little service door leading out of the kitchens that could be used in an emergency.
The windows were high, letting in enough light, but you couldn’t see the diners from the street, which made Donovan nervous because he wouldn’t be able to watch.
The company had a vigorous discussion about using their magic to make see-all charms and secret sound-shells so they could hear us.
Eventually, I interrupted, gave Donovan a spare phone, and taught him how to use FaceTime.
My own phone was already on a call with his, peeking out of the breast pocket of my casual blazer.
We’d done a quick tutorial about keeping himself on mute so the Andresanos couldn’t hear him during the meeting.
I hoped he remembered not to hit any of the buttons.
We approached the front doors. I felt Donovan’s eyes on me and straightened my shoulders.
Eryk would be stationed at the service door out back, and Donovan would stake out the front. Cress and Nate were on the roof. We weren’t taking any chances. Even though the Andresanos were mundane, human and harmless, once I stepped off Violet’s roots, I was vulnerable, and we all knew it.
I checked my watch. “Right on time.” For me, anyway. We were twenty minutes early, and it was deliberate. My ex-in laws weren’t tardy people, but they would probably arrive no less than ten minutes early. I wanted to be settled and comfortable.
We walked in.
The inside was even worse, fake logs everywhere and a long bar on one side with tap beer and cheap wine in refrigerators. The concrete floor was slightly sticky under my feet.
A tall, gaunt man with long black hair tied back in a low ponytail stared at us from behind the bar. “Kitchen’s not open yet.”
“That’s okay. We’re only here to drink, anyway,” I quipped.
“Yessssruff.” Cecil managed to turn his celebration into a dog-appropriate noise at the last minute.
The bartender pointed. “No mutts allowed. Tie him up outside.”
Martina squared her shoulders. “As you can see, he’s a service animal. Legally?—”
“I don’t need your life story, lady,” the man said, putting both hands on the bar. “Keep him under the table and quiet, or the rest of our clientele will complain.”
I deliberately swiveled my head around, looking at the empty tables. There was nobody else in here.
“What will you have?” The bartender turned away to grab some glasses.
I opened my mouth to request a glass of sparkling water, but Cecil, putting on a decent impersonation of my voice, beat me to it. “Whiskey sour.”
“Whiskey it is,” the bartender said, pouring two fingers into a glass and sliding it over. “I already forgot the sour part.”
Martina, bless her, ordered a bottle of mineral water.
“Okay, big spender,” the bartender curled his lip.
“Sit anywhere you like. Kitchen usually opens in half an hour, but our new chef is already here, so if you want some hot wings or something, he can probably start getting them ready. We got a ton of hot wings.” He let out a derisive snort.
“We’re a steakhouse with eighty pounds of chicken wings in barrels out in the kitchen. ”
I opened my mouth to decline but saw Martina’s eyes light up.
“Really?” I asked her. “Hot wings?”
Her expression turned sheepish. “My Achilles heel,” she admitted in a whisper.
“We don’t have chickens in Faerie. Well, we do, but they breathe fire.
And if you tried to eat them, they’d claw your eyes out with their razor-sharp talons.
Hot wings were the first food I ate when I came here, and I never got sick of them.
Buffalo wings, adobo sauce, hot honey glaze, sticky miso… I just can’t get enough.”
I turned back to the bartender. “Hot wings at ten in the morning sounds divine.”
“You got it,” he grunted.
“Lovely guy,” I murmured under my breath. The place wasn’t very big, only a handful of tables, so we chose one at the back near the wall, where we could see the whole room. Cecil scampered under the table. Two furry paws shot up, grabbed the glass of whiskey, and disappeared.
Martina got her laptop and files out and started flicking through them. “You can relax. This should go really quick. It’s just a formality.”
“Unless the Andresanos have something to tell me.” I gnawed on my lip. “Which, I have a feeling they do. Do you know the mediator the court assigned?”
She nodded. “His name is Jared Lock. He’s not very interesting; he’s a hands-off kind of mediator. He won’t bother us too much.” The doorbell jingled; we looked up. “Here he comes now.”
A sleepy-looking bald man wearing slacks and a polo shirt walked in.
We listened as the bartender gave him the same speech about the hot wings.
Jared Lock declined the wings and ordered an orange juice.
The bartender, obviously a little petty, filled the glass up to the brim, and Jared had to walk slowly and balance his drink carefully to avoid spilling it.