3. Factually Correct
Factually Correct
Valerie
Sigurd Eiriksson is massive. I saw his photograph before coming here, but it did nothing to prepare me for the sheer scale of him in person.
I’ve spent my life around monsters on the docks, so size alone shouldn’t impress me this much. Sigurd still manages it.
His skin is a bruised gray-blue, and faint bioluminescent markings pulse along the hard line of his jaw. Thick tentacles move freely through the tailored openings at the back of his suit jacket, curling and settling with a slow restlessness of their own.
And what I wasn’t prepared for was the cold. It reaches me through my wet jeans and cardigan, raising gooseflesh along my arms.
None of that changes why I’m here. Sigurd controls global shipping lanes and possesses more money than I can comfortably imagine, but his company is still trying to take my home.
I tighten my arms around the damp folder. Inside are the property records, Eiriksson notices, and photographs I packed before leaving Saltweather. They can’t do much against a shipping empire, but they’re the only weapon I have.
Sigurd watches me from across the office while the silence stretches between us. Floor-to-ceiling windows hide behind blackout blinds, leaving most of the room in shadow.
His reinforced steel desk is easier to make out, especially the sprawling dent warped into its surface beside the control panel. He reaches across the desk and presses a button.
A mechanical hum passes through the floor as the blinds retract into the ceiling. Flat gray afternoon light floods the office, and I squint until my eyes adjust.
“My eyes prefer the shadows,” he tells me. “I assume yours require the light. Please, sit.”
He gestures toward one of the guest chairs facing the desk. It’s an oversized monstrosity of tufted leather and brass tacks, clearly built for visitors much larger than I am.
If I sit in it, my feet will dangle above the floor. I’ll also have to crane my neck every time I look at him, and I have no intention of conducting this conversation from the bottom of an armchair.
“I prefer to stand.” I shift the folder more securely against my chest. “It makes it easier to leave once you realize I’m not taking a buyout.”
Sigurd lowers his hand without any visible reaction. Somehow, his calm irritates me more than anger probably would.
He steps out from behind the dented desk and closes some of the distance between us. The scent of brine and something faintly metallic follows him, while one tentacle twitches behind his shoulder before settling again.
“I haven’t offered you a buyout, Miss Priest.” He stops several feet away. “I haven’t offered anything except a comfortable armchair you refused.”
The deadpan answer sends a fresh flare of irritation through me. My neighbors are standing on a concrete pier in the rain while his people lock down the quay, and he wants to discuss the furniture.
“I don’t need your manners.” I cross to the desk and open the folder. “Your crew certainly wasn’t polite when they locked down the quay and put an isolation bubble over half the harbor.”
The papers inside survived the trip well enough. I spread out several property records and municipal documents, then place a handful of photographs beside them.
“These records go back generations,” I tell him. “Saltweather didn’t appear yesterday because somebody at Eiriksson Maritime noticed a convenient piece of coastline.”
Sigurd comes closer, and his attention shifts to what I’ve brought. Marta’s fish stand sits beside a photograph of the library, with the crowded quay visible in another.
“This is what your people are boarding up right now. We have gargoyles working those docks, merrow fishermen feeding their families. We have humans running businesses, centaurs hauling nets before sunrise.”
I look from the photographs to him. “People have built their entire lives around that harbor.”
He studies the spread in silence before answering. “Yes, I can see that. Eiriksson Maritime employs humans as well. Mixed-species workplaces aren’t unusual.”
For a second, I can only stare at him. “That is spectacularly not the point.”
One corner of his mouth shifts so slightly I almost miss it. “Then explain the point.”
“The point is that Saltweather works because people there have spent generations figuring out how to live beside one another. These aren’t empty buildings on a parcel map.”
I draw one of the municipal records closer, more for emphasis than because he needs to see it again. “There are property claims, businesses, families, and a town that existed long before your company decided it wanted our home.”
His attention moves from the paperwork back to me. I still can’t tell whether I’m getting through to him, but at least he isn’t dismissing me.
“Coexistence takes compromise,” I continue. “It means you don’t bulldoze a functioning community simply because you have enough money and lawyers to make everyone else move.”
I brace my hands against the desk. The steel is unpleasantly cold beneath my palms, but I leave them there.
“Do you actually hear what I’m saying?” I ask. “Or are you waiting for me to finish so security can drag me back downstairs?”
Sigurd goes quiet long enough that I start assembling my next argument. I have zoning notes in the folder, treaty references, and enough questions about Eiriksson’s claim to keep a corporate attorney occupied for hours.
Instead, he looks over the records once more. “You are factually correct.”
The rest of my argument dies before it reaches my mouth. I stare at him, certain I’ve misunderstood.
“What?”
“Bulldozing a functioning community is inefficient and rude.” His delivery remains perfectly matter-of-fact. “I didn’t order the evacuation, but I have the authority to stop it.”
That knocks me further off balance than any threat could have. I came here prepared for lawyers, intimidation, and several hours of being told why centuries of local history mattered less than whatever Eiriksson Maritime had signed.
I did not prepare for him to simply agree with me. “You agree?”
“I do.” He reaches for the photograph of the library and lifts it carefully between two large fingers. “Displacing that many residents would create unnecessary disruption, and there are less destructive ways to resolve the territorial issue.”
My little brick library looks absurdly small in his hand. The sight does something strange to the anger that’s been carrying me since Saltweather, though I don’t trust the relief trying to replace it yet.
Sigurd puts the photograph back among the papers and looks at me. His expression remains controlled, but his attention has sharpened in a way I can’t quite read.
“I’ll ensure Saltweather is protected, Ms. Priest,” he says. “In exchange, you’ll accompany me to a wedding this weekend. As my date.”
The edges of my papers have started to curl as they dry on Sigurd’s desk. I’ve had enough time to recover from his proposal, but not enough for it to sound any less absurd.
“You want to trade a town for a plus-one?” I ask. “Because I keep turning that sentence over in my head, and it isn’t improving.”
Sigurd has returned to his chair, looking far too composed for a man who just proposed a fake relationship to a stranger. “You came here because you need me to stop the evacuation. I can do that, and I need your help with something in return.”
“That sounds suspiciously like trading a town for a plus-one.” I glance at the records between us. “You’re just making it sound more respectable.”
“I’m making it accurate.” The faintest hint of amusement touches his expression. “I’d call that a perfect compromise. And you do so love that word, don’t you, Ms. Priest?”
The teasing edge is subtle, but it’s there. I hadn’t expected Sigurd Eiriksson to listen closely enough to throw my own argument back at me.
“You were listening,” I say. “That’s almost reassuring.”
“I generally listen when someone storms into my office and lectures me.” His expression remains controlled, but the amusement underneath it remains unmistakable.
“I was defending my town. The lecture was a bonus.”
“Of course,” Sigurd replies with a serious nod. “And I love bonuses almost as much as you love compromises.”
Monster moguls are impossible. A part of me wants to punch that handsome face of his. Another can’t help but think this may be an actual solution.
“What exactly are you asking for?” I make myself ask. “One evening? The whole weekend?”
“One wedding weekend,” Sigurd says. “There will be public appearances, and people will need to believe you’re there with me willingly.”
That sounds considerably more involved than putting on a dress and standing beside him for photographs. Before I can ask what willingly entails, he reaches toward the console built into his desk and types a short message.
I watch his fingers move across the screen. “Do you have something more important to do? Or are you just catching up with your emails while we’re talking?”
“I’m messaging my attorney.” He sends the message and looks back at me. “If we reach an agreement, I want the terms prepared properly.”
The fact that he’s already involving a lawyer should probably irritate me. Instead, the possibility of having everything in writing makes the proposal feel slightly less reckless.
“I’d read every word,” I tell him. “Probably twice.”
“I would expect you to.” There’s no mockery in the answer, and that catches me more than another joke would have.
I spent hours buried in records before I was willing to confront him at all. Apparently he noticed more about me during that argument than I realized.
“You still haven’t explained why you need me,” I say. “You must know hundreds of women who could attend a wedding with you.”
“My mother intends to trap me in a political match with my siren ex,” he answers, now as serious as he was in the photo. “I refuse to be maneuvered.”
That makes considerably more sense than anything I had imagined. It also raises several questions I’m not sure I have any business asking yet.