18. Quinn #3
“Rafe Virelli,” he said.
Rafe stopped, and when he did, the air changed.
The air changed.
Olden Folk power was usually something I felt through context more than sensation. Rafe’s power was heat and presence. It gave off the sense that the world had become more attentive. Dimitris’s was different. Dry. Bright. Like sunlight on bone.
He smiled at me first. “And the resourceful Ms. Bradley.”
I didn’t like that he knew my name.
Rafe stepped slightly forward. Not in front of me, but enough that the line of sight between Dimitris and me changed.
“Dimitris.”
“I had wondered when your family would begin collecting its ghosts in earnest.”
“They aren’t ghosts.”
“No? That mirror has passed through five collections and three estates. It has acquired lives since leaving yours.”
“It was taken from people who didn’t survive well enough to object.”
Dimitris’s smile didn’t move. “History is rarely tidy.”
“That’s a convenient view for men who profit from mess.”
The words were calm.
I stayed very still, trying to shrink into the background.
Dimitris looked amused. “You sound like your father.”
“Good.”
“And your mother.”
“Even better.”
For the first time, Dimitris’s expression thinned.
There was a lot I didn’t know. The Winged War lived under this conversation like a fault line, old and active. I understood only enough to recognize when not to speak.
Dimitris turned his gaze back to me. “You did well, Ms. Bradley. Crude, perhaps, but effective.”
“Thank you,” I said.
His smile sharpened. “Do be careful. Dragons make compelling causes. They also tend to believe anything beautiful in their orbit must eventually become part of their hoard.”
Rafe’s voice dropped. “Enough.”
The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
Dimitris dipped his head. “Until next time.”
“There needn’t be a next time,” I said before I could stop myself.
Both men looked at me.
Excellent. Love that for me.
Dimitris laughed softly. “Optimism. How nostalgic.”
Then he walked away, cane tapping against the floor before the crowd swallowed him.
I exhaled only after the front doors closed behind us.
“Well,” I said. “I hope we never have to deal with that guy again.”
Rafe looked down at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You bribed an auctioneer.”
“He accepted the bribe. That’s an important distinction.”
“You impersonated staff.”
“Borrowed a jacket.”
“You changed the lot order.”
“Efficiently.”
“You conducted a private antiquities auction.”
“Only briefly.”
He stared at me for another second. Then he laughed. A real laugh. Full and startled and bright enough that several people on the sidewalk turned to look.
I gaped at him.
Before I could process what was happening, his hands were at my waist, and he was lifting me off the ground.
I made a noise that didn’t belong in any professional setting. “Rafe.”
He spun me around, right there on the sidewalk outside an auction house full of people who probably had lawyers on speed dial.
My hands landed on his shoulders, gripping hard, and for one dizzy second, the city tilted around us, Rafe’s face tipped up toward mine with joy breaking through every severe line.
The mirror was his.
The third relic was going home.
And Rafe was holding me as if I had personally given him the sky.
He set me down slowly. My hands stayed on his shoulders. His stayed at my waist. His laughter had quieted, but the joy remained, turning into something warmer, closer, far more difficult to explain away as professional enthusiasm.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Mine had already gone to his.
A horn blared.
“Move it!” someone shouted from the curb. “Some of us are trying to get divorced before dinner!”
I jerked back, and Rafe released me at once. He looked toward the street with an expression that suggested honking at him was unwise but not currently worth a public incident.
I pressed both palms to my cheeks. “Nothing like New York City traffic to restore perspective.”
Rafe looked back at me, still smiling. “You were extraordinary.”
This time, I didn’t deflect fast enough.
The words went in. All the way in.
“Thank you,” I said.
A car honked again.
Rafe offered me his arm. “We should go.”
“Before someone else brings up divorce?”
“Preferably.”
I took his arm, because after everything else I had done that night, pretending I didn’t want to touch him was ridiculous.
As we walked toward the waiting car, I glanced back at the auction house.
Luke Gildstein stood near the entrance, looking annoyed at everyone and no one in particular.
Inside, the auction would continue. Money would move.
Objects would change hands. People would keep pretending history was only valuable when it had a lot number.
But the shrine mirror was going home.
Rafe opened the car door for me.
I slid inside, still flushed, still trembling slightly from the faint pressure of his hands at my waist like a secret my body had decided to keep.
Client first, I reminded myself as he got in beside me.
Future first.
Professional reputation first.
The car pulled away from the curb, and Rafe looked down at the signed buyer’s copy in his hands with such joy on his face that my heart twisted.
Zero dragons stealing my heart, I added.
But even I knew my mantras had become aspirational at best.