Disenchanted (14 page)

I swear the driver’s shoulders shake with laughter.

***

Talk about a taste of the Big Time. First, the driver helps me from the car. Now a doorman swings one of the double glass doors open, tipping his hat as I pass. I restrict myself to a quick smile and thank you, instead of the regal looking
–
down
–
the
–
nose nod my smart-ass side wants so desperately.

Wards shimmy across my skin—not unpleasant, but a little too intimate for my liking—as I step across the threshold. I wish I knew what kind of wards just took liberties not offered on a first date. I find it difficult to imagine Royd using magic with the rumors about his anti–En beliefs. It’s even harder to wrap my head around the abundance of En employees.

“Miss Fey.” A china doll blonde comes around the desk to greet me. I take the offered hand gingerly, fearing breaking the porcelain limb. No worries, she has the grip of someone who could probably bench–press me without breaking a sweat. “Mr. Royd is expecting you in the penthouse.”

It’s a little more than difficult to refrain from snorting and rolling my eyes. The penthouse, of course. All the better to view his domain.

She escorts me to the elevator manned by yet another livery–clothed hunk o’ burning love. I wonder if there is a screening process to eliminate the unattractive, or even average.

“This is what Dorothy must have felt like.”

“Miss Fey?” asks the tempting elevator attendant.

I feel my cheeks grow hot. Did I just say that out loud? Damn. I shake my head. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

The pretty, pretty nods and gives me an even prettier smile. “If you’d like to have a seat, we’ll arrive at your destination momentarily.” He waves his hand to a settee along the wall.

Seating in an elevator? What next, a fridge in the bathroom? Gods, the man just has too much money. I decline and stand gripping the rail so hard my fingers start to throb and knuckles turn translucent. The combination of the waiting room feel, harp music and the chimes at each floor, I wonder if there will be pearly gates at the end of my journey.

When those chimes sound for the last time, the flipity–flop in my stomach, that the pretty sparklies distracted me from, returns. A creepy little kid’s voice sounds in the back of my mind,
we’re here
. The doors open and I realize the only escape is this elevator. I swallow back a nervous giggle when the elevator boy takes a step back, motioning me forward. My feet become magnets as I shuffle ahead, the desire for information barely outweighing that of flight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After the elevator, I expected something more ostentatious, 24k gilding everywhere, chandeliers, maybe Louis XVI furnishings. Not to say the place isn’t posh, just more along the lines of minimalist. Soft blues and white, giving the effect of floating in midair, nothing that hints to the owner’s personality, or maybe the room does give a hint. Cold. Impersonal.

“Miss Fey, welcome to my home.”

That smooth–as–silk voice sends my pulse racing. I berate myself for my lack of focus, letting him sneak up on me. Others have pointed out that I’m easily distracted and this proves their point.

He motions to the rounded seating area surrounding a fire pit. It dawns on me that he’s waiting for me to sit first. Raising my chin I take the three steps down into the living space. He follows close enough I feel the brush of warmth along my neck and want to scream, ’Back Off.’ I doubt yelling at my host will get me very far so I bite my tongue and perch on the edge of the sofa.

His knee brushes my thigh as he sits and my hands ball into fists. It’s obvious he delights in pushing the boundaries of personal space. The raised brow and curl of his lips challenge me to say, or do something. I fight the urge to slide over, or better yet move to the opposite side.

“Has any of your curiosity been sated, Schattenkind?” The corners of his lushly–kissable lips curl.

I shake my head. Foolishly staring into his eyes, a summer sky swirl of blues and gold. Hel no, it hasn’t and the list just keeps getting longer.

What’s up with being turned on by virtually every male who crosses my path? With the exception of a few—I repress a shudder picturing Frick and Frack. I’ve had my share of indiscretions. In gentle terms, I’m not hanging on to a wilting flower waiting for Mr. Right, but I also don’t get it on with every Mr. Right Now. I don’t like my hormones running in overdrive. It doesn’t make a bad situation any easier.

He tips his head forward, his gaze somewhere between seductive and menacing. Licking my lips, I look down, trying to focus on why I’m here and not asking for a tour of his bedroom. What this guy does to my baser instincts is beyond comprehension. I mean he’s smoking hot—
Johnny Depp
, with golden blue eyes and sandy hair, hot—still, no one’s ever had the effect he does on me. Multiply the lust radiated by the elves by a thousand and add the desire to bow down and worship at his feet.

Shake it off, get down to business.

“Why did you buy the note on my business, Mr. Royd? Why did you put Mr. Jacobs on retainer for me? How about the offer of a place to stay? Oh yeah, what does that German stuff you keep calling me mean?” Like a waterfall, it all tumbles out, but man it feels good. I can breathe again, the weight lifted from my chest. Relief doesn’t last. He actually has the nerve to laugh at me.

“Shall we start with, you calling me Var? Mr. Royd is so formal, far too formal for friends. And I do hope we will become friends, Keely.”

My name comes across like a caress and I shake it off. “Call me cautious, but I think I’ll stick with Mr. Royd.”

“As you wish.” He stands, deliberately brushing against my arm as he unfolds himself. “I am a terrible host, forgive me. Would you care for some refreshment? I think something stronger than tea is called for with the questions you pose.”

Without waiting for my answer, he moves to the bar, grabbing two glasses and a fancy crystal decanter. I’m betting the amber liquid inside costs as much as the bottle, if not more.

I’m getting the feeling he’s never going to answer me as he pours two fingers worth into each glass, handing me one. Nice hands, long fingers, nicely shaped nails. Good grief, of all the stupid things to be distracted by, what am I thinking? Wondering who does his manicure should be the last thing on my mind.

“Now, where were we?” He makes a point of brushing against me yet again as he sits back down.

My skin feels tighter than one of Nyssa’s dresses and as hot as a curling iron. If he’s using touch to distract me, it’s working, but I can’t let him know that.

“Oh, yes, your questions. I placed Mr. Jacobs in charge of your legal defense to protect my investment.”

“That’s what he said.”

“My offer of a place to stay was also a way of protecting my investment, both actions stemming from my purchase of your note. I still feel my offer would be far more protection than what your friends and the First Arrow can give.”

“But why did you buy it? Wait—First Arrow? Who, or what is that?”

He swirls the liquid—I discover its scotch by sniffing while pretending to drink—in his glass. I wait for him to elaborate, but I’m starting to think Hel’s Realm would thaw before I get an explanation, or the other hell will freeze over. Doesn’t matter which you believe in. The likelihood of either isn’t going to happen in my lifetime. Not that I have the inside scoop, but I doubt either possibility.

“It was a good investment,” he pauses, taking a sip. “The First Arrow is a person and you know her quite well. I believe she resides with you.”

“You mean Dara?”

He nods.

“What’s with you and the weird nicknames?”

“Perhaps you should ask her.”

He’s not about to tell me and from his almost shit–eating–grin my asking her will probably cause havoc. Havoc, I get the feeling he would enjoy a little too much.

“Will do, but back to you owning me...I mean, my business.” More laughter at my expense, but I deserve it for the slip up. “Supposedly, you hate Ens, why would you finance one?”

“Quite to the contrary, mein Schattenkind, I love Ens.”

The moment the words leave his lips, I
know
he loves Ens. Warmth wraps itself around me. He loves me. If I could remember my parents holding me,
this
is what it would’ve been like. I want nothing more than to bask in the moment, to tell him anything he wants to know and probably things he doesn’t. Looking down I see my arms wrapped around myself and I can imagine the idiotic grin as my facial muscles pull tight. What in Hel’s Realm is he? Definitely not Un, but not En either.

“What are you?” I whisper, peeling my arms from around myself.

There’s a musical tone to his laughter and a pull to join in, but I fight against it.

“A man, Keely, just a man.”

The way he says my name sends shivers of desire deeper than skin and I see my hand reach toward him. I yank it back, digging my nails into my palm, holding it close at my side. Physical appearance aside, he is definitely not a man in the true sense of the word.

“As for the name, perhaps you should ask your guardians what it means.” He toys with his glass.

“My guardians?”

“Yes. I believe you call them The Sisters.”

“So you know my grandmother and aunts? What do they have to do with this and why should they
explain
this word to me?”

“I know them.” There is a slight tightening around his eyes and jaw line. Displeasure? Anger? “Not as well as I thought. This meeting between us should have happened many years ago.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know what Ørlög is Keely?”

“Yeah, it’s another word for wyrd.”

He shakes his head. “No, they are very different. Ørlög is the collective, Wyrd is the individual.”

“You mean like the world versus one person?”

“Exactly.” He stands and moves to the window. “Ørlög cannot be changed, no matter how we deviate from the path of our wyrd. We may extend the time before an event happens, or how it happens,” he looks over his shoulder, “but it will happen.”

A chill slinks over me and the room fades to a foggy gloom as he speaks. When he turns, quietly delivering that last line, he goes all
Vincent Price
on me. Ominous shadows cling to his face, a deviant sparkle in his eyes. All I can do is sit there, mouth gaping, until instinct kicks in and I slide a little closer to the edge of the couch, eyeing the door.

His laughter pulls my attention back, his face its normal beauty. The room lightens and I feel the warmth of summer. No matter how warm and comforting it appears, I can’t contain the shiver riding along my spine.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to alarm you.”

Scrubbing my palms against my jeans, I clear my throat.

“This ørlög has what to do with me?”

“Your guardians should have better prepared you for what is to come in your future.”

What can The Sisters tell me about my future? Sure, they have
visions
, but always told me they are never that simple, or clear, just flashes really. He’s making it sound like they know all. As a kid, I thought they did when they caught me doing something I wasn’t supposed to, but found out later most parents have that ability. One mother told us it was called,
been there, done that
. Not that I ever wanted to picture any adult—especially my grandmother and great aunts—doing some of the things we did.

“I can see you do not believe me.”

“Sorry, but I think they prepared me pretty damn well for the future, considering my parents just dumped me on them. They fed and clothed me, sent me to school and taught me right from wrong. They are good women, who devoted themselves to protecting and supporting me.” I’m on my feet, invading his personal space, just a fraction away from sticking my finger in his face.

Perfect features turn to ice and stone. Summer sky eyes cloud over becoming winter grey. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

My skin feels two sizes too small, hot and itchy. Like a tight, wool sweater. How dare he get all pissy with me after insulting my family? “What?”

He doesn’t acknowledge my question, simply turns and leaves the room. On cue, the elevator door opens, revealing a sad smile on the pretty face of its keeper. Having been dismissed like a disobedient child, the last thing I want is pity from an ornament.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

With a little smooth talking—something I’m rarely known for—I convince the driver to leave me just outside of town. We both agree that the limo showing up at the salon again would just fuel the imagination of the paparazzi and gawkers, blowing my cover.

I trade my slipping out disguise for an old baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt, pushing the scarf and coat into my duffle bag before slinging it across my back. I wonder if this is how Lorelei felt in the hay days of old Hollywood, switching one disguise for another, always hiding from the press and her fans. Tucking my hair under the cap, I flip the hood over the top. Yeah, I know it’s June, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.