As they rode the elevator, the men chatted to each other with the ease of long friendship. Pia fell silent as she considered her upcoming lunch meeting with Tricks. She turned to face the mirrored back wall of the elevator car. Like her pink robe, her jeans were from Target and she had trimmed her own hair.
Tricks’s silk pantsuit had the classic lines of a famous designer, like Ralph Lauren or Dior, and her chic gladiator-style sandals probably cost as much as a good used car. And how crazy was it to go talk to the faerie about such a relentlessly famous public job? Even if the position were offered to her, she couldn’t take it. Funny, how she hadn’t noticed things like that before when she had been talking to Tricks. Self-conscious, she tugged at the waist of her jeans and smoothed back her hair as she tried to think of graceful ways to back out of the upcoming conversation.
She turned to face the front again along with the two gryphons as they neared the seventy-ninth floor. The doors slid open to reveal Tricks sprinting toward them, her small fists clenched and sweet pixie face transformed with fury. The faerie leaped around a corner and pressed back against the wall, her attention clearly focused on the hall behind her.
Pia slid an uncertain glance from Rune to Graydon. The two gryphons exchanged a look. In a casual-seeming movement Rune took hold of her arm, silently urging her into a corner while he pressed the door-open button to hold the elevator. Graydon laid a hand on his sidearm.
Hard on the faerie’s heels stormed the gigantic American Indian male Pia had noticed in the group of sentinels greeting Dragos’s return to New York. At six foot four and 250 pounds, with barbed-wire tattoos circling thick, muscled biceps and swirls shaven into short black hair, the Wyr male was no less a frightening sight in broad daylight than he had been at night. His face looked like it had been hewn with a hatchet.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Graydon’s eyebrows rose. Either not noticing or not caring about their presence, the male charged around the corner. Tricks stepped out behind him and smacked him flat-handed in the back of his head.
The American Indian spun on one heel with blinding speed. He grabbed Tricks by the shoulders and hauled her up so she was nose to nose with him.
Pia made an involuntary noise. Instinct took over and she tried to move forward, to do something to help the delicate faerie. Rune’s hand tightened on her arm, anchoring her in place. He whispered, “Not when there’s thunder in the air.”
What the hell did that mean?
Tricks shouted point-blank into the Wyr male’s angry face, “I’ve had it up to here with your mulish bad-tempered crap, Tiago! I’ll thank you to remember my name is not ‘Tricks goddammit’ or ‘God damn you, Tricks.’ Henceforth those phrases are against the law—when you yell at me again the next one out of your mouth better be ‘Goddammit, ma’am’!”
For one throbbing moment they stared at each other. Then the rage in Tiago’s face splintered. “‘Henceforth?’ ” he said. He started to chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?”
She kicked him in the shin. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!”
He laughed harder, and the ruthless hatchet-faced assassin transformed into a handsome man. “But you’re so damn cute when you’re mad. Look at you. The tips of your ears turned pink.”
As the Wyr male’s anger dissipated the faerie seemed to compress, even vibrate, with deeper fury. “Wrong thing to say, moron,” she snapped. She drew back her fist and planted it in his eye.
Tiago’s laughter hiccupped. “Ow.” He put a hand over his eye and glared at her. “Have all the hissy fit you like—you’re still not leaving New York without a Wyr security detail.”
At some unspoken signal she didn’t catch, Rune and Graydon relaxed. Graydon’s hand fell from his sidearm as Rune let go of Pia’s arm. She glared at him and rubbed the spot, even though he had been quite careful not to cause her discomfort. She followed the gryphons as they stepped out of the elevator.
“Tiago,” Tricks said, sounding severely tried. “First of all, Urien isn’t dead yet.”
“I give it a week,” said Tiago.
“Second,” the faerie continued, “after he’s dead, Dragos and I have already decided there will be no Wyr allowed when I leave. The Dark Fae would never accept the presence of a Wyr force, and if any of the other demesnes even suspect that the Wyr are trying to control the Dark Fae succession, shit would really hit the fan.”
“That’s suicidal,” said Tiago flatly. He crossed his arms, thick muscles bunching. “And it’s not happening.”
“Third,” Tricks continued through clenched teeth, “I’m going to be Queen. It’s the scissors-paper-rock game. Queen trumps Wyr warlord asshole. I get that you’re used to commanding your own army, running around and killing things and doing whatever the hell you want. That doesn’t happen in New York, and it doesn’t happen around me. Get over it or go home. If you have a home. If you even live in a house.”
Tiago scowled. “I live in a house when I have time.”