Chapter 2
At first glance, Hugh Blacke could have been almost any human man Gwen knew. Any man who’d been awakened out of a sound sleep, anyway.
His thick brown hair stuck up in spiky patches on one side of his head, and the shadows beneath his heavy-lidded eyes betrayed his fatigue. He was still wearing his pajama pants and a pair of comfy-looking socks.
Small horns peeked out from his rumpled hair, though.
Also, he lived in a damn penthouse, and even a plebe like Gwen could spot the expensive fabric and impeccable fit of those pants and his Henley.
And while he might look tired, his scrutiny of her as she stood in his apartment’s foyer was just as sharp and thorough as she remembered from twenty years before.
Then, of course, there was the gargantuan self-portrait. It took up almost an entire wall of the anteroom. Most human men didn’t have one of those either.
Despite the urgency of her task, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at it.
“Wow.” She regarded the oversized, spotlit painting. “That’s really…something.”
Above the slicked-back hair of Hugh Blacke’s massive painted head, two flapping ravens held an unfurled, curling-edged banner aloft. It read SEMPER RECTIOR.
Semper meant “always.” She knew that much. But what could rectior be?
Always…rectums? Was that his motto?
Plastering a hand over her mouth, she covered an inappropriate giggle with a fake cough.
Faint color burnished the actual, in-person demon’s angular cheekbones. After clearing his throat, he nodded at the portrait and offered a seemingly reluctant explanation.
“The Blacke family motto is ‘Always more right.’ ” He paused. “Rectior can also be interpreted as ‘more proper’ or ‘more honest.’ ”
Clearly more humble wasn’t another alternate meaning.
When she stepped closer, the painting’s other details struck her eye. The slim-fitting black suit, with jet—or onyx—buttons, over a glowing-white shirt. The mirror-shined black Oxfords. The razor-sharp tips of his horns, which didn’t actually match the blunt-edged reality.
In one hand he gripped a thick book. Something about laws. In the other…
“Are you holding a scepter?” Tipping her head, she considered the item. “Like, a symbol of monarchical rule?”
Because that would be quite a statement. Yikes.
“Yes,” he brusquely confirmed, even as she spotted a bizarro iteration of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco on the lofty ceiling overhead. One featuring an unrealistically ripped iteration of Hugh Blacke instead of Adam.
When she slipped off her sunglasses and took a step closer, squinting to make out all the details, the councilor loudly cleared his throat. “Ms. Wexloff.”
Oh, yeah. Her mission.
“Councilor Blacke.” She swiveled to face him once more, tucked her sunglasses in her pocket, and offered a nod of acknowledgment. Then had to nudge her wig back in place. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Hugh, please.” Despite the pretty manners, it was an order. Not a suggestion. “Tell me what brought you here.”
Normally, she’d never, ever confront anyone like this.
Especially not someone who’d hurt her feelings and watched her utterly humiliate herself.
But fear and frustration had pushed her past her normal reticence, and she was too tired to be embarrassed, so she licked her cold, chapped lips and got to work.
“According to the best, most reliable information you’ve been given,” she asked, “what do you believe is currently happening in the Containment Zone?”
He rocked back on his socked heels, his dark brows furrowed. “The Zone entry gate malfunctioned several days ago, and various telecommunications systems are currently offline too due to maintenance issues. That’s all I know.”
She raised her brows, willing him to see the oddness of it all.
“An entire population of people—common humans, Enhanced humans, and Supernaturals alike—has been incommunicado for days. Why hasn’t there been a full-scale response?
Helicopters doing surveillance or carrying volunteers to check on residents? Supply and medication drops?”
“We were told that the situation didn’t constitute an immediate emergency.” His mouth had compressed into a troubled line. “Most employees who’d normally coordinate our response are off for the holidays, but last I heard, both common human and SERC response teams were working on the problem.”
With effort, she kept her voice firm. “Who told you that?”
He plucked his cell from the foyer’s sleek console table, tapped the screen a few times, and scrolled through his messages. “The common human government’s Zone admin department issued a bulletin.”
“You should have made further inquiries. You’re a Council representative, and you have constituents in the Zone.
” Including me, she added silently. “To be fair, though, even people in Zone C, where I live, assumed at first that the main gate had malfunctioned, because that happens all the time. Which it shouldn’t, since we pay our taxes like everyone else.
We might be poor, but we’re still citizens. We still matter.”
“If you live inside the Zone and the gate isn’t working, how did you—” He cut himself off as the rest of her words registered. “Wait. You assumed at first? Is the official understanding of the situation incorrect or incomplete in some fashion?”
She couldn’t help it. She began laughing hysterically, because yes. Oh, yes, his official understanding of the situation was very, very incomplete.
“Ms. Wexloff.” He reached out a hand. Let it drop again. “Ms. Wexloff, are you well?”
“Gwen,” she corrected once she could speak intelligibly again. “And forgive me, but saying that the official account of what’s happened in the Containment Zone over the last several days is incomplete is a vast understatement. So vast it could curb-stomp our entire solar system.”
That intent stare landed on her again. Lingered, as if he were painstakingly evaluating her very soul and determining its worth.
And honestly? She got why he might hesitate to encourage the breathless rantings of a low-rent oracle in Guy Fieri drag whom he’d personally witnessed lying like the world’s cheapest, most cheese-obsessed rug.
“Listen, I know you have no reason to believe me,” she began, “but—”
He held up a hand, palm out, and she fell silent.
In a single, controlled movement, he twisted to set aside his cell.
Then he turned back to her and stepped nearer.
Less than an arm’s length away. This time, when the weight of his undivided attention settled upon her, she had to brace herself under its impact with a hand against his winter-white wall.
Angular features and intelligent brown eyes. A faint, pleasant smoky smell. The quiet soughs of his breathing. Bone-melting demonic warmth radiating from his body, noticeable even at a slight distance.
He filled her senses entirely, and his close presence seemed to envelop and cocoon her, shutting out their surroundings and the distant clamor of her many worries.
She blinked at him, dizzied. Rapt.
The past twenty years had changed him, further sharpening the angles of his face and transforming his youthful slightness and elfin-prince looks into something more dangerous.
His narrow frame now held the lean austerity and unforgiving power of a whip.
His mane of straight, sleep-mussed hair contained a few glints of silver.
As his thick, neat beard and the squint lines at the corners of his eyes demonstrated, he was no longer a smooth-faced boy.
Even if she’d met him on a crowded city street, though, rather than in his own foyer, those changes wouldn’t have stopped her from recognizing him immediately.
Maybe because demons aged somewhat more slowly than humans, so his outer transformation had been more superficial than hers.
Or maybe because his presence during the worst moment of her life had marked her so indelibly, she’d be able to identify him until her last breath.
There were some things she hadn’t fully appreciated back then, however.
The exact shade of his irises, for example.
Amber, the same rich hue as the smoked honey she’d always imagined drizzling over a lavender-infused wheel of goat cheese.
And his scent…well, she’d known that he smelled like smoke, of course.
But twenty years ago, a single whiff hadn’t reminded her of s’mores over a campfire.
Hadn’t transported her back to the lone camping trip she’d ever taken with her Maryland friends before she’d been transferred to Delphi Academy.
She leaned harder against the wall, the welcome heat of his proximity and his apartment draining the strength from her weary limbs.
“Gwen.” A pause. “Gwen, are you well?”
Vaguely, she understood that this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get her attention. And he was still speaking, but concentrating on his actual words was impossible.
He said something about sitting down. His light, startlingly hot grip on her cold elbow stung her skin even through her oversized bowling shirt and lumpy sweater, and she didn’t care.
All she wanted to do was snuggle closer and rest against his walking, talking, fancy-pajama-pants-wearing heating pad of a body until her energy returned.
“I’m fine. Just really tired,” she murmured. “You’re so warm. Feels nice.”
Their progress toward…somewhere…halted for a moment before resuming.
When cushions nudged against the backs of her thighs, her weak knees gave way, and she collapsed into his sofa’s overly firm embrace. With a flick of his hands, he settled a velvety throw over her, and she closed her eyes for just one moment.
By the time she opened them again, a steaming cup of tea and an ornate plate of crackers had appeared on the marble-topped table at her side, and she could think clearly again.
“I’m so sorry.” Dread coiling in her gut, she forced herself to sit upright. “How long did I rest?”
Several weeks ago, for the first time in her life, she’d begun taking regular micro-naps. But in this case, it was more like the micro-nap had taken her. At the worst possible time too.
“Not long. Less than ten minutes.” He was seated in a nearby chair, waiting silently, without any obvious sign of impatience. “Are you feeling better?”
From the flaming heat of her face, it’d probably turned redder than her hair, which was great.
Just absolutely fantastic. Nothing said you can trust me, I’m a competent human who totally knows what critical, possibly illegal activities of worldwide import need to happen next more than randomly falling asleep on a guy, then becoming a human beefsteak tomato.
“Um…yes. I’m good.” She smothered a yawn with her palm and tipped her head toward the side table. “Thank you for the snack.”
His assessing gaze scanned her from wig to booted toes. “I wasn’t certain what else to do. If you’d remained asleep much longer, I’d have called for medical assistance.”
An understandable, responsible instinct, but thank the gods and goddesses he hadn’t drawn that kind of attention to her and her compatriots.
Avoiding his eyes, she tucked the blanket more tightly around herself and took a polite sip of tea. Herbal. Gingery. Perfect. Next, she nibbled on the corner of a cracker. Rosemary. Crunchy little flecks of sea salt. Also perfect.
All that perfection was frankly aggravating, given the way her entire life continued to unravel around her, skein by skein.
But she had no more time to wallow in mortification, so she met that smoked-honey gaze and got on with things.
“Thank you for helping me. I apologize for my lack of decorum in the vicinity of…”
No, that would be rude. Her brain-to-mouth filter really needed to stop malfunctioning in his presence before her carelessness scuttled her entire mission.
Even though, above the room’s marble fireplace, an actual freaking coat of arms graced the wall. The plaque was enormous and intricate and featured a smug-looking inky-hued raven toward the top, because apparently his family took the whole “Blacke” thing very literally.
The raven wore a top hat and monocle. Of course.
“Your lack of decorum in the vicinity of…what?” His expression was oddly knowing. “Go on, Gwen. Whatever you were thinking, I won’t take offense.”
Dammit. He’d realized she was going to say something disrespectful?
Sadly, she was a terrible liar, as he already knew. There was no point in prevarication.
“In the vicinity of the bougiest pajama pants imaginable.” The words were so hurried they were barely intelligible. “But I need to explain—”
“The bougiest…?” His head immediately dipped, and he frowned down at his pants. “They’re plain gray.”
That was a total dodge. “If they’re not cashmere, I’ll eat my boots.”
Which was saying something. She needed those boots. Had gotten them resoled twice in exchange for free prophetic sessions, because buying a decent-quality new pair would wipe out far too much of her rainy-day savings.
The demon didn’t argue her point, so yep. Cashmere pajama pants. Non-eaten boots.
“We’ve veered off topic.” Straightening in her seat, she braced herself. “Please let me explain what’s happening in the Zone. Why I’m here.”
There was no more time to fritter away. She needed to plead her case—and she could only hope his reputation for shrewdness and discretion was well-earned, because his response to her story would likely determine the rest of her life.
Including its length.