So that’s what Rune did, while Bob and the images in his head kept him company at night. He was supposed to coax Carling into letting him do something for her that was quick, huh? Maybe he could ask if he could take out her trash or do her dishes. He wondered how well that would go over.
Did the Wicked Witch have a sense of humor? Rune had seen her at many inter-demesne affairs over the last couple centuries. While once or twice he might have heard her say something that seemed laden with a double entendre, or he might have thought he’d seen a sparkle lurking at the back of those fabulous dark eyes, it seemed highly doubtful.
On Thursday, the sixth day, his iPhone pinged. He dragged it out of his jeans pocket and checked it. It was an email from Duncan Turner at Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law, headquartered in San Francisco.
Who the hell?
Oh riiight, Duncan Turner was Duncan the Vampyre. He had been one of Carling’s entourage as she traveled to Adriyel for Niniane’s coronation. Carling had been in her position as Councillor of the Elder tribunal. The tribunal acted as a sort of United Nations for the Elder Races. It was made up of seven Councillors that represented the seven Elder demesnes in the continental United States, and it had certain legal and judicial powers over inter-demesne affairs. Their main charter was to keep the current balance of Power stable and work to prevent war.
Among other things, the Councillors had the authority to command the attendance of residents of their demesne when they were called to act in their official capacity as representative of the Elder tribunal. Rune wondered how many billable hours Duncan had lost for the privilege of attending Carling at Adriyel. Not only had the Vampyre proven to be an asset on the trip, he never showed a hint of frustration or resentment.
Rune clicked the email open and read through it.
RE: Per verbal contract enacted 23.4.3205, Adriyel date.
Dear Rune:
As payment for services rendered by Councillor Carling Severan, please present yourself at sundown tomorrow to my office at Suite 7500, 500 Market Street, San Francisco, CA 94105. Further instructions will be given to you at that time.
I hope you have had a good week and look forward to seeing you in due course.
Best regards,
Duncan Turner
Senior Partner
Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law
Rune rubbed his mouth as he read through it again, and his already grim mood darkened. Ask Carling if he could do something quick, huh? Take out the trash. Do the dishes.
Bloody hell.
He said his good-byes, packed a duffle and fought a nasty, short battle with the pride of Wyr-lions, Cuelebre Enterprises’s army of attorneys, for the use of the corporate jet. Despite their vociferous objections, the argument was over the moment he pulled rank. He sent the group of pissed-off cats scrambling to book first-class tickets for their corporate meeting in Brussels.
He could have flown in his gryphon form from New York to San Francisco, but that would mean he would arrive at the law offices tired and hungry, which did not seem to be the best strategic option. Besides, as he told the cats, he had some important things he had to take care of during the flight.
And he did. Soon as the Learjet had left the tarmac, he stretched out on a couch with pillows propped at his back and a pile of beef sandwiches at his elbow. He punched a button that opened shutters that concealed a fifty-two-inch plasma widescreen, settled a wireless keyboard on his upraised knees and a wireless mouse on the back of the couch, and logged into the game World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King via the jet’s satellite connection.
After all, he didn’t know when he was going to get the chance to play again. And it was damn important to do his bit to save all life on Azeroth while he could. Booyah.
He played WoW, ate and napped while the Learjet shot westward through the sky.
Then the pilot’s voice overrode the game on the Lear’s sound system. “Sir, we’ve begun our descent. It should be a smooth one. We’ll reach SFO within the half hour, and we’re already cleared for landing. San Francisco is currently at a balmy seventy-four degrees, and the skies are clear. It looks like we’re in for a beautiful sunset.”
Rune rolled his eyes at the travelogue, logged out of his game, stretched and stood. He stepped into the luxuriously appointed bathroom, shaved and took a five-minute shower, dressed again in his favorite jeans, Jerry Garcia T-shirt and steel-toed boots, and went to check out the scenic action in the cockpit.
Pilot and copilot were a mated Wyr pair of ravens. They sat relaxed and chatting, a slender, dark-haired, quick-witted couple who straightened in their seats as he appeared. “Dudes,” he said in a mild tone, resting one elbow on the back of the copilot’s chair. “Chill.”