Quen ducked his head and stepped closer. "It's not a protection circle, it's a ward. Your aura and the aura of the person who set it up must resonate to a similar frequency."
His young features creased in worry, Trent squinted at it. An unshared thought passed through him, and his fingers twitched. I eyed the tell, knowing he thought it more than odd, and significant. It was a notion that solidified when Trent glanced at Quen and something of a security nature passed between them. Quen made a small shrug, and Trent took a slow breath.
"Have someone from maintenance look at it," Trent said. Tugging at his collar, he added loudly, "Lights revert." I froze when the glare vanished and my eyes tried to adjust.
"I don't agree with this," Trent said in the soothing dimness, and Jonathan smiled.
"Yes, Sa'han," Quen said softly. "But you will take Morgan or you will not be going."
Well, well, well, I thought, as the rims of Trent's ears went red. I hadn't known Quen had the authority to tell Trent what to do. Clearly, though, it was a right seldom invoked, and never without consequences. Beside me, Jonathan looked positively ill.
"Quen..." Trent started.
The security officer took a firm stance, looking over Trent's shoulder at nothing with his hands laced behind his back. "My vampire bite makes me unreliable, Sa'han," he said, and I winced at his obvious pain of openly admitting it. "I'm no longer sure of my effectiveness."
"Damn it, Quen," Trent exclaimed. "Morgan has been bitten, too. What makes her any more sure than you?"
"Ms. Morgan has been living with a vampire for seven months and hasn't succumbed," Quen said stiffly. "She has developed a series of defensive strategies for combating a vamp trying to bespell her. I haven't, yet, and so I'm no longer reliable in questionable situations."
His scarred face was tight with shame, and I wished Trent would shut up and just go with it. This confession was killing Quen.
"Sa'han," he said evenly. "Morgan can protect you. I cannot. Don't ask me to do this."
I fidgeted, wishing I was somewhere else. Jonathan glared at me as if it were my fault. Trent's face was pained and worried, and Quen flinched when he put a comforting hand upon his shoulder. With a reluctant slowness, Trent let his hand fall away. "Get her a corsage and see if there's something suitable for her to wear in the green suite. She looks about the same size."
The flash of relief that crossed Quen was replaced by a deeper self-doubt that looked wrong and worrisome. Quen appeared broken, and I wondered what he was going to do if he felt he couldn't protect Trent anymore. "Yes, Sa'han," he murmured. "Thank you."
Trent's gaze fell on me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and I felt cold and uneasy. The feeling strengthened when Trent nodded once to Quen and said, "Do you have a moment?"
"Of course, Sa'han."
The two of them headed into one of the unseen downstairs rooms to leave me with Jonathan. The unhappy man gave me a look rife with disgust. "Leave your dress here," he said. "Follow me."
"I have my own outfit, thanks," I said picking up my shoulder bag, coat, and my garment bag from where I had left them and following him to the stairs. At the foot of the stairs, Jonathan turned. His cold eyes traveled over me and my garment bag, and he sniffed patronizingly.
"It's a nice outfit," I said, warming when he snickered.
He took the steps quickly, forcing me to scramble to keep up. "You can look like a whore if you like," he said. "But Mr. Kalamack has a reputation." He eyed me over his shoulder as he reached the top. "Hurry up. You don't have much time to get presentable."
Seething, I took two steps for every one of his as he cut a sharp right into a large common room holding a comfortable, more normal-sized living room. There was an efficiency at the back, and what looked like a breakfast nook. One of Trent's live-shot video feeds showed a second view of the dim garden. Several heavy-looking doors opened up onto the area, and I was guessing this was where Trent did his "normal" living. I became sure of it when Jonathan opened the first one to show a small sitting room opening onto an extravagant bedroom. It was decorated entirely in shades of green and gold, managing to look wealthy without dipping into gaudy. Another fake window past the bed showed the forest, dusky and gray with twilight.
I assumed that the other doors led to other such suites of rooms. All the wealth and privilege couldn't hide that the entire area was set up to be very defensible. There probably wasn't a real window in the place other than the one downstairs covered in ley line energy.
"Not that way," Jonathan all but barked as I took a step to the bedroom. "That's the bedroom. Stay out of it. The changing room is over here."
"Sorry," I said sarcastically, then hitched my garment bag higher atop my shoulder and followed him into a bathroom. At least I thought it was a bathroom. There were so many plants it was hard to tell. And it was the size of my kitchen. The multitude of mirrors reflected the lights that Jonathan flicked on until I was squinting. The glare seemed to bother him, too, since he worked the bank of switches until the multitude of bulbs reduced to one over the commode and one over the single sink and expansive counter. My shoulders eased in the dimmer light.
"This way," Jonathan said as he passed through an open archway. I followed, stopping short just inside. I suppose it was a closet, as there were clothes in it - expensive-looking women's clothes - but the room was huge. A rice-paper screen took up one corner with a vanity against the back of it. A small table with two chairs was tucked to the right of the door. To the left was a trifold mirror. All it needed was a wet bar. Damn. I was so in the wrong line of work.
"You can change here," Jonathan said through his nose. "Try not to touch anything."
Ticked, I dropped my coat on a chair and hung my garment bag on a convenient hook. Shoulders tight, I unzipped the bag and turned, knowing Jonathan was judging me. But my eyebrows rose at his surprised look while he took in the outfit Kisten had put together for me. Then his expression returned to its usual ice. "You aren't wearing that," he said flatly.
"Shove it up your ass, Jon," I snapped.
Movements stilted, he strode to a set of sliding mirror doors, opening them to pull out a black dress as if he knew exactly where it was. "You will wear this," he said, thrusting it at me.
"I'm not wearing that." I tried to make my voice cold, but the dress was exquisite, made of a soft fabric cut low down the back and flatteringly high in the front and around the neck. It would fall to my ankles to make me look tall and elegant. Swallowing back my envy, I said, "It's cut too low in back to hide my splat gun. And it's too tight to run in. That's a lousy dress."
His extended arm dropped, and it was all I could do to keep from wincing when the beautiful fabric puddled on the carpet. "You pick one out, then."
"Maybe I will." I stepped hesitantly to the closet.
"The evening dresses are in that one," Jonathan said, sounding patronizing.
"Duh..." I mocked, but my eyes widened and my hand went out to touch. God help me, they were all beautiful, each having an understated elegance. They were organized by color, and matching shoes and purses were carefully arranged underneath. Some had hats in the rack above them. My shoulders slumped when I touched a flaming red dress, but Jonathan's whispered, "whore" encouraged me to keep moving. My eyes left it reluctantly.
"So, Jon," I said as he watched me shuffle through the dresses. "Either Trent is a cross-dresser or he enjoys bringing size eight tall women to his house wearing evening gowns and sending them home in rags." I eyed him. "Or does he just knock them up and knock them off?"
Jonathan's jaw clenched and his face flushed. "These are for Miss Ellasbeth."
"Ellasbeth?" My hands fell from a purple dress that would cost me a month of runs. Trent had a girlfriend? "Oh, hell no! I'm not wearing another woman's dress without asking."
He snickered, his long face taking on a hint of annoyance. "They belong to Mr. Kalamack. If he says you can wear them, you can."
Not fully reassured, I turned back to my search. But all my apprehensions vanished when my hands touched a soft filmy gray. "Oh, look at this," I breathed, pulling the top and skirt from the closet and holding them triumphantly up, as if he gave a flying flip.
Jonathan looked from the cabinet of scarves, belts, and purses he had just opened. "I thought we threw that out," he said, and I made a face, knowing he was trying to make me feel like it was ugly. It wasn't. The tight bustier and matching skirt were elegant, the fabric soft to the touch and thick enough for winter without being binding. It was a shimmering black once I got it into the light. The skirt went to the floor, but was split in a multitude of narrow bands from the knees so it would flutter about my ankles. And with the slits that high, my splat gun in its thigh holster would be an easy reach. It was perfect.
"Is it suitable?" I asked as I took it to the hanger and hung it over my outfit. I looked up when he was silent, finding his face twisted.
"It will do." He raised his watchband to his wrist, pushing a button and speaking into the spiffy-keen communicator I remembered was there. "Make the corsage black and gold," he muttered. Glancing at the door, he added to me, "I'll get the matching jewelry from the safe."
"I have my own jewelry," I said, then hesitated, not wanting to see what my imitation stuff would look like against fabric such as this. "But okay," I amended, unable to meet his eyes.
Jonathan harrumphed. "I'll send someone to do your makeup," he added as he walked out.
That was downright insulting. "I can touch up my own makeup, thank you," I said loudly after him. I was wearing mundane makeup atop the complexion spell that hid the remnants of my still healing black eye, and I didn't want anyone to touch it.
"Then I only have to get the stylist to do something with your hair," came echoing back.
"My hair is fine!" I shouted. I looked in one of the mirrors, touching the loose curls starting to frizz. "It's fine," I added, softer. "I just had it done." But all that I heard was Jonathan's sniggering laughter and the sound of a door opening.
"I'm not going to leave her alone in Ellasbeth's room," came Quen's gravely voice in answer to Jonathan's mutter. "She'd kill her."
My eyebrows rose. Did he mean I would kill Ellasbeth, or Ellasbeth would kill me? That kind of detail was important.
I turned when Quen's silhouette took up the doorway to the bathroom. "You baby-sitting me?" I said as I grabbed my slip and nylons and took the black dress behind the screen.
"Miss Ellasbeth isn't aware you're on the grounds," he said. "I didn't think it necessary to tell her, as she's returning home, but she's been known to change her plans without notice."
I eyed the rice paper between Quen and me, then kicked off my sneakers. Feeling vulnerable and short, I shimmied out of my clothes, folding them instead of letting them sit in a crumpled heap as I usually did. "You're really big on that need-to-know kick, aren't you?" I said, and I heard him speak softly to someone who had just come in. "What is it you aren't telling me?"
The second, unseen person left. "Nothing," Quen said shortly.
Yeah, right.
The dress was lined in silk, and I stifled a moan as it eased over me. I looked down at the hem, deciding that it would fall right when I put my boots on. Brow pinching, I hesitated. My boots weren't going to work. I'd have to hope Ellasbeth was a size eight shoe and that tonight's butt kicking could be accomplished in heels. The bustier gave me a smidgen of trouble, and I finally gave up trying to zip it the last inch.
I gave myself one last look, tucking my complexion amulet between me and my waistband. Splat gun in my thigh holster, I came round the screen. "Zip me up, honey?" I said lightly, earning what I thought was a seldom-given smile from Quen. He nodded, and I showed him my back. "Thanks," I said when he finished.
He turned to the table and chairs, stooping to pick up a corsage that hadn't been there when I went behind the screen. It was a black orchid bound with a gold and green ribbon. Straightening, he took the pin from it, hesitating as he looked at the narrow strap. Right off I knew his dilemma, and I wasn't going to help him a bit.
Quen's scarred face pinched. Eyes on my dress, his lips pressed together. "Excuse me," he said, reaching forward. I froze, knowing he wouldn't touch me unless he had to. There was enough fabric to attach it, but he would have to put his fingers between that pin and me. I exhaled, collapsing my lungs to give him a smidgen more room.
"Thank you," he said softly.
The back of his hand was cold, and I stifled a shiver. Trying not to fidget, I sent my attention to the ceiling. A faint smile crossed me, growing as he got the orchid fastened and stepped away with an exhalation of relief.
"Something funny, Morgan?" he said sourly.
I dropped my head, watching him from around my drooping bangs. "Not really. You reminded me of my dad - for a minute there."
Quen adopted a look both disbelieving and questioning. Shaking my head, I grabbed my shoulder bag from the table and went to sit at the vanity against the screen. "See, we had this big seventh-grade dance, and I had a strapless dress," I said as I brought out my makeup. "My dad wouldn't let my date pin the flower on, so he did it himself." My focus blurred, and I crossed my legs. "He missed my prom."
Quen remained standing. I couldn't help but notice he had put himself where he could see me and the door both. "Your father was a good man. He'd be proud of you tonight."
Quick and painful, my breath caught. Slowly I let it out, my hands resuming their primping. I really wasn't surprised Quen had known him - they were the same age - but it hurt nonetheless. "You knew him?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.
The look he gave me through the mirror was unreadable. "He died well."
Died well? God, what was it with these people?
Angry, I turned in my seat to see him directly. "He died in a cruddy little hospital room with dirt in the corners," I said tightly. "He was supposed to stay alive, damn it." My voice was even, but I knew it wouldn't stay that way. "He was supposed to be there when I got my first job, then lost it three days later after I slugged the boss's son when he tried to feel me up. He was supposed to be there when I graduated from high school and then college. He was supposed to be there to scare my dates into behaving so I wouldn't have to find my own way home from wherever the prick dumped me when he found I'd fight back. But he wasn't, was he? No. He died doing something with Trent's father, and no one has the balls to tell me what great thing it was that was worth screwing up my life for."
My heart pounded, and I stared at Quen's quiet, poxscarred face. "You've had to be your own keeper for a long time," he said.
"Yeah." Lips pressed tight, I turned back to the mirror, my foot bobbing up and down.
"What doesn't kill you - "
"Hurts." I watched his reflection. "It hurts. It hurts a lot." My black eye throbbed under my higher blood pressure, and I reached to touch it. "I'm strong enough," I said bitterly. "I don't want to be any stronger. Piscary is a bastard, and if he gets out of prison, he's going to die twice." I thought of Skimmer, hoping she was as bad a lawyer as she was good a friend to Ivy.
Quen's feet shifted, but he didn't move. "Piscary?"
The question in his voice brought my gaze up. "He said he killed my dad. Did he lie to me?" Need to know. Did I finally "need to know" according to Quen?
"Yes and no." The elf's eyes flicked to the doorway.
I spun in the chair. He could tell me. I think he wanted to. "Well, which is it?"
Quen ducked his head and took a symbolic step back. "It's not my place."
Heart pounding, I stood, my hands clenched into fists. "What happened?" I demanded.
Again Quen looked toward the bathroom. A light flicked on and a beam spilled into the room to diffuse into nothing. An effeminate man's voice chattered seemingly to itself, filling the air with a bright presence. Jonathan answered back, and I looked at Quen in a panic, knowing he wouldn't say anything in front of him.
"It was my fault," Quen said softly. "They were working together. I should have been there, not your father. Piscary killed them as sure as if he had pulled the trigger."
Feeling unreal, I stepped close enough to see the sweat on him. It was obvious he had overstepped his bounds telling me even this much. Jonathan came in trailing a man dressed in tight black and shiny boots. "Oh!" the small man ex claimed, hustling to the vanity with his fishing-tackle boxes. "It's red! I adore red hair. And it's natural, too. I can tell from here. Come sit, dove. The things I can do for you! You won't recognize yourself."
I spun to Quen. Tired eyes haunted looking, he stepped away, leaving me breathless. I stood, staring, wanting more, knowing I wouldn't get it. Damn it, Quen's timing sucked, and I forced my hands to remain at my side instead of throttling him.
"Sit your fanny down!" the stylist exclaimed when Quen inclined his head at me and walked out. "I only have half an hour!"
Frowning, I gave Jonathan's mocking expression a tired look, then sat down in the chair and tried to explain to the man that I liked it the way it was, and could he just give it a quick brush through? But he hissed and shushed me, pulling out bottle after bottle of spray and odd-looking instruments whose use I couldn't even guess. I knew it was a battle already lost.