Thea Harrison - Dragon Bound

She froze in midtoss. “South Carolina, Charleston? The seat of the Elven Court Charleston, smack in the middle of their demesne?”

Quentin smiled. “That’s the one. The one Cuelebre can’t enter without the Elven High Lord’s permission, or he breaks all kinds of treaties and things get really fucked-up for him.” His smile faded and he searched her gaze. “I don’t know what happens after you get there or what your next step is. This may do nothing more than leverage some Elder politics to buy you some breathing room. But it’s a first step.”

“Yes, it is,” she breathed, staring at the keys. She stuffed them into her pocket and threw her arms around Quentin.

Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for her after all.

Quentin pushed another set of keys on her and walked her out the back to the small parking lot adjacent to the back of the bar. He stopped by an unassuming blue 2003 Honda Civic. “Take it,” he said.

“This is too generous,” she said, her throat clogged. “And you’re too involved as it is.”

He refused to take the keys back. “Look, the car can’t be traced to you, or back to me. I keep half a dozen of these. It’s no big deal. Shut up and get in.”

“I’m going to miss you,” she said.

He gave her a fierce hug. “This isn’t good-bye.”

“Sure it isn’t.” She wrapped her arms around his long waist and held him tight.

“I mean it, Pia. Find a way to keep in touch to let me know you’re okay, or I will come after you.”

She could only hope that something would happen to keep him from making good on that promise. He had to stay out of this mess. She couldn’t bear to think she might have gotten her boss and friend killed because she couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.

He pressed his lips to her forehead and stepped back. “Go on, get out of here.”

She pushed the unlock button on the key ring, threw her backpack in the passenger’s seat and climbed in the car. When she pulled to a stop at the end of the block, she looked in the rearview mirror.

Quentin stood at the edge of the parking lot watching her, his hands on his hips. He waved at her.

There was a break in the traffic. She pulled onto the street and he was gone.

Quentin had said the drive took more or less twelve hours, depending on traffic, from New York to Charleston, most of it on I-95. She wanted to get as much distance between herself and the New York Wyr demesne as she could. After forty minutes, she stopped at a Starbucks and bought a tofu salad sandwich and a large coffee so strong it could have scoured her bathtub clean. Then she drove until she couldn’t see straight.

The demesnes of the Elder Races lay superimposed over the human geographical map. There were seven Elder demesnes in the United States, including the Wyr demesne seated in New York, and the Elven Court that was seated in Charleston.

Each demesne had its own lord or lady who enforced its laws. Some Elder rulers preferred to live at a distance from humankind. They kept their Courts in Other spaces where only those with magical aptitude could discern and cross dimensional boundaries. Others, like Dragos, lived in the human realm.

She wasn’t clear where the Wyr-Elven border was so she drove until she was sure she had crossed over. Sensible or not, she felt a little of the fear peel away. Finally around 3:00 A.M., the exhaustion she had been fighting wouldn’t take no for an answer. She pulled into a motel and got a room with one of her fake IDs. She put the door chain on, dropped her backpack onto a chair and sank onto the bed. The room spun as she toed off first one shoe, then the other.

I could sleep for a month, she thought as she got sucked down a whirling drain into black.

She wasn’t that lucky.

Dragos stood at the edge of his penthouse balcony atop Cuelebre Tower. He looked out over his city as the sun approached the horizon. This late in the day the deepening sunlight was a heavy golden weight with the richness and complexity of a rare, aged white-burgundy wine. His feet were planted wide apart, hands clasped behind his back.

The balcony was one of his favorite places to meditate. There was no railing. It was a large ledge that ran the circumference of the building, which took up a city block. The balcony was a handy, more private place to launch or land when he didn’t feel like going to the roof, which was used by his sentinels and certain other privileged members of his Court. He could enter or exit the penthouse from any number of large French-style doors.

Cuelebre Enterprises was the umbrella for any number of businesses, and it consistently ranked in the top ten of the world’s largest corporations. Casinos, hotels and resorts, stock trading, shipping, international risk assessment (private army for hire), banking. He employed thousands of Fae, Elves, Wyr and humans worldwide, although the majority of Wyrkind preferred to live in New York State so that they could live within the law and protection of his demesne.

Those Wyr who clustered in Dragos’s Court and occupied key positions in his companies tended to be predators of some sort, the type of shapeshifter that thrived in a competitive, volatile, sometimes violent environment, although there were a few tough-minded exceptions like Cuelebre Enterprises PR faerie Thistle Periwinkle, known to her friends as Tricks.

Like Rune, his First, all seven of his sentinels were immortal creatures strong in Power. They were also raptors of some sort. There were the four gryphons, Rune, Constantine, Graydon and Bayne, each responsible for keeping the peace in one of the four sectors of his demesne. The gargoyle Grym was in charge of corporate security for Cuelebre Enterprises. Tiago, one of the three known thunderbirds in existence, headed Dragos’s private army.

Last but not least was the harpy Aryal, who was in charge of investigations. She had not taken well to giving over the investigative reins on this theft to Rune. She was not known for having a serene temperament. There was a reason she had risen to such preeminence in his Court. Dragos’s smile was grim. The harpy was one hell-spawned bitch when she lost her temper.

He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew the scrap of paper left by his thief. The message was scribbled on the back of a 7-Eleven receipt. The thin paper was already getting dogeared from his handling. He opened it and read what the thief had bought yesterday. A pack of Twizzlers and a large cherry Coke Slurpee.

Rune , he said telepathically.

His First’s response was immediate. My lord.

You will go to —he squinted at the faded lettering on the receipt— the Forty-second Street 7-Eleven store and retrieve all of their security footage for the last twenty-four hours. There is a good chance our thief may be caught on it.

Re-eally, drawled Rune, his hunter instincts engaged. Leaving now. Back within the hour.

Oh, and Rune?

Bring back Twizzlers and a cherry Coke Slurpee. He wanted to know what these things were.

Sure. You got it, said his First, clearly taken aback. Dragos?

What. He squinted and stretched, basking in the last of the sunlight.

Any idea what size Slurpee you want? His First’s mental voice sounded odd.

They had known each other and worked together for several hundred years now. Dragos said, You know my tastes well enough. Will I like it?

Now that Dragos was back in control of his temper, Rune fell into their normal friendly informality. Uh, I don’t think so, buddy. I’ve never known you to do junk food before.

Make it a small, then. Dragos held the receipt up, sniffed and frowned. Even to his sensitive nose the receipt was starting to lose that delicate feminine scent and smell like him.