“I know what I’m good at,” he said in a low whiskey voice, “and I know how to coax a thrill out of even the most buttoned-up individuals. Which she most certainly is not. I’ll give her the ride of her life, and I don’t mind the slow game we’re playing leading up to it. It increases the anticipation until the inevitable explosion.”
Sebastian had to hand it to the guy—he did seem in tune with Nessa’s vibe. He was dark and wicked and dangerous, all the things she loved, while still being good-humored and fun, both things she enjoyed. Sebastian guessed that Tristan, unlike anyone else they’d met, had the ability to sweep her away to a place she wouldn’t want to come back from. A place where she might expose all the things that haunted and hurt her. But that would give him the ability to rip her apart, and Sebastian suspected she would never take that risk. She was already so damaged.
Broken Sue was safer for her. He was focused more on himself than on her, reaching for a branch to pull himself out of his turmoil. She was that branch, happily so. It was easier to help someone else
than to let someone see your demons. At least, he knew that she thought so. And when Broken Sue was mended, he’d realize the darkest parts of her life were too dark, and she would be free. She would walk away unscathed.
With Tristan, she might never want to walk away at all. And Tristan didn’t seem like the sort of guy who ever planned to settle down. He had too many secrets…and possibly a past that still chased him.
Or maybe Sebastian was just reading too far into things. He was great at judging people, but who knew—he could have it all wrong.
“My shadow needs a good leader to keep her safe,” Edgar said, pulling Sebastian out of his reverie. “I won’t be around forever, you know. Sooner rather than later, I think Jessie is going to retire me.”
“She should, for those gnomes,” Niamh grumbled. “Ye’ve really stepped in it there, boyo.”
“Yes,” Edgar replied.
Tristan pointed ahead at a rusty sign down the strip that might’ve started as bright blue but had slowly lost its coloring to the elements. “That bar, there. The guys originating from Kingsley’s pack said it’s the best, though I’ve heard it’s not the nicest. I wouldn’t mind a bar with seats I didn’t stick to.”
“Would ye schtop?” Niamh said. “Had fancy bars in the Forgotten Wood, did they? Swank clubs and cheese and wine?”
Tristan had only joined the world of the gargoyles some fifteen years ago. Before that, his origins were mostly a mystery. Their only clues were his knowledge about dark places and seedy creatures and his strange orange blood. Old-world blood, containing magic of its own.
“We all know you don’t care about seats,” Tristan replied, “so long as you have a drink in front of you.”
“Right ye are,” she responded.
“So on the off chance that one of Momar’s people is in that bar right when we come in, we will…” Sebastian let the sentence linger.
“Grab him,” Niamh said.
“In front of a bunch of witnesses?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Because they might tell the enemy agent who comes looking for their missing guy?”
“Kid, yer not connecting the dots.” Niamh slowed a little, probably to chastise him before they got to the bar. “This is a shifter town. They get the shifters who want a little fun away from Kingsley’s uptight rules. To keep their welcome, they don’t cause trouble and they don’t raise a fuss. The people here will be loyal to the pack. Their livelihood depends on it. If we tell them we’re helping the pack, they’ll hold their tongues.”
“I agree,” Tristan said.
Sebastian just sighed. He’d been outvoted, so he’d go along with it, but there was one thing he was sure of—everyone had their price, and Momar’s mages had the money to pay.
FOUR
Niamh
“IS THERE A SIGNAL, at least, if you see someone with an invisibility potion?” Sebastian asked Tristan.
The weird mage was too worried about plans and setups and the like. He needed to learn to go with the flow. Tristan had proven excellent at that. Niamh had told him the plan after she’d had her shower, and his only question had been “Where’d you get the cape?”
“Say something,” Tristan replied. “Or nod, maybe. Jerk my head? You’ll get the idea.”
“That’s if Edgar doesn’t accidentally find them first,” Niamh said. “Always count on Edgar’s extreme creepiness. He wanders into corners and then gets a baytin by whatever is there.”