Cuelebre had never made a public acknowledgment of what he was, but news shows loved to speculate. They avoided claiming anything but made much of how his first name, Dragos, really meant “dragon” and Cuelebre was a mythological giant winged serpent.
Even the most marginalized half-breed that crept around the edges of the Elder Races’ politics and society knew what and who Cuelebre was. Every one of them would have felt in their bones the dragon’s roar that had shaken the city to its foundations.
Pia groped for Preston’s scotch. The troll handed the glass to her and she gulped at it. The liquid slid down her parched throat and exploded into a burning fireball in the pit of her stomach. She gasped and handed it back to him.
“I feel you,” said the troll. “They’ve been playing stuff like that all afternoon. Apparently the ‘incident’ ”—he made finger quotes in the air—“broke windows in buildings as far as a mile away and cracked one brownstone down the middle. I heard it myself, and I’m man enough to admit the sound made my stones shrink.”
Panic pulsed through her again. She dropped her hands below the bar to hide how they shook. She cleared her throat. “Yeah, I heard it too.”
“Whoever made him that mad?” Preston shook his head. “I can’t imagine, but it’s gonna make Judgment Day look like a picnic.”
A deep voice said by her ear, “You look like shit.”
Pia almost leaped out of her skin. Then she pressed the heel of her hands against her eyelids until she saw stars before turning to face Quentin.
“That’s my boss,” she said over her shoulder to Preston. “A compliment a minute.”
The troll snorted.
Quentin leaned against the wall by the swinging doors that led to the back. He regarded her with a frown. He was six feet two inches of lean tensile strength and spare graceful features, one of those scary-gorgeous guys that could make the cover of GQ if he had been a model. His dark blond hair, when loose, would fall past broad shoulders, but he normally kept it pulled back in a queue. The severe style emphasized the long bones of his face and piercing blue eyes.
Pia’s emotions took another wild swing. Her lips tightened and she looked down to tug at a backpack strap. “I need to talk to you,” she told him.
“Figured as much.” He straightened from the wall and turned to push open one swinging door.
Pia wiggled her fingers at Preston and walked to the back, Quentin behind her. The door swung into place, muting the bar noise.
She continued through the stockroom and stepped into his spacious office. She stopped in the middle of the room, dropped her backpack and just stood there, her tired mind a blank.
A beautifully proportioned hand came over her shoulder and hooked under her chin. She allowed him to turn her around, though she could only meet his intent gaze for a moment before her own drifted to an area somewhere over his right shoulder. Her chest hurt. She could feel his scrutiny travel down her body.
“I’m leaving town,” she told the area over his shoulder. Her voice sounded choked. “I came to say good-bye.”
Silence stretched and grew thin. Then Quentin put a hand on her forehead and wrapped the other around the back of her neck. Her gaze flew to him, and the concern she saw in his expression almost did her in. He said, “You have a headache.”
Golden warmth began to flow from his hands, infusing her head and spreading through her body, easing pain away. “Oh God, I had no idea you could do that,” she said with a sigh. “That feels so good.”
When her knees sagged, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about the heartache.”
Pia’s mouth trembled. He must have read misery on her face like a road map. She rested her head on his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to yell at me for not giving you two weeks’ notice?”
“How about I don’t and we’ll just say I did.” He rubbed her back. “Deal?”
She sniffed and nodded, wrapped her arms around his waist.
Quentin’s age was indeterminate. He could have been anywhere from 35 to 135. There was something stern and ageless about him in repose and his aura carried a hint of violent secrets, so Pia had always put her money on older. She’d had a flaming crush on him for years. Usually she enjoyed it. It was a comfortable indulgence, made all the more so because she knew she would never act on it.
There had been a frisson of awareness the moment they laid eyes on each other. Quentin bore a low-level hum of Power that pulled at her bones. She recognized what it was. He carried a glamour that helped him pass for human, which was very similar to hers and the other half-breeds who camouflaged themselves. She wasn’t sure what he was but she guessed part Elven.