“It’s not quite that simple, but under certain circumstances, yes. The Silvers are one of the Unseelie Hallows. Most believe the first Dark Hallow the King created was a single mirror. A few of us know it was actually a vast network of mirrors, linking dimensions and connecting realms. The Silvers were the Tuatha Dé’s first method of locomotion between dimensions, before they evolved to the point where they could travel by thought alone, although some say they were created for a more personal purpose of the dark king’s that history failed to record. At some point in the Fae timeline, this Cruce we keep hearing about cursed the Silvers.”
When I regarded him expectantly, he shook his head. “I don’t know what curse, nor do I know who Cruce was or why he cursed them. I only know that not even the Fae dared to enter the Silvers, under the direst of circumstances, after he’d done it. Once they started to turn dark, the Seelie Queen banished the glasses from Faery, not trusting them in their realms, for fear of what they were becoming.”
I felt that way about myself lately; turning dark and afraid of what I was becoming. At that moment, I had no idea how light I still was. But then we so rarely understand the value of what we possess until it’s gone.
I shook off the spell of Barrons’ story. I needed some sunshine in my life, and soon. In the interim, a lighter topic would do. “Let’s get back to the amulet.”
“In a nutshell, Ms. Lane, it’s rumored to amplify human will.”
“If you visualize it, it will come to pass,” I said.
“Something like that.”
“Well, it certainly seems to work. You saw the list.”
“I also saw the long gaps between ownership. I suspect only a handful of people possess a will strong enough to make it work.”
“You mean you have to be epic already, for it to make you more epic?” I was supposed to be epic, wasn’t I?
“Perhaps. We’ll know soon enough.”
“He’s dying, you know.” I meant the old man. He wanted the amulet to live. When we took it from him, it would be one more inadvertent death on my conscience.
“Good for him.”
I don’t always get Barrons’ sense of humor, and sometimes I don’t bother trying. Since he was being so voluntarily informative, I broached another line of inquiry. “Who were you fighting when I called you?”
“Ryodan.”
“Why?”
“For talking about me to people he shouldn’t be talking to.”
“Who’s Ryodan?”
“The man I was fighting.”
I took a detour around the dead end. “Did you kill the inspector?”
“If I were the type of person to kill O’Duffy, I would also be the type of person to lie about it.”
“So, did you, or didn’t you?”
“The answer would be ‘no’ in either case. You ask absurd questions. Listen to your gut, Ms. Lane. It may save your life one day.”
“I heard there are no male sidhe-seers.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Around.”
“And which one of those are you in doubt about, Ms. Lane?”
“Which one of what?”
“Whether I see the Fae, or whether I’m a man. I believe I’ve laid your mind to rest on the former; shall I relieve it on the latter?” He reached for his belt.
“Oh, please.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re a leftie, Barrons.”
“Touché, Ms. Lane,” he murmured.
Tonight I didn’t know the name of our unwitting victim, and I didn’t want to. If I didn’t know his name, I couldn’t scribe it on my list of sins, and perhaps one day the old Welshman I’d robbed of his last hope for life would disappear from my memory and cease to trouble my conscience.
We rented a car at the airport, drove through gently rolling hills, and parked down a forested lane. I parted reluctantly with my raincoat and we hiked from there. When we crested a ridge and I got my first glimpse of the place we were planning to rob, I gaped. I’d known he was rich, but knowing was one thing, seeing another.
The old man’s house was palatial, surrounded by elegant outbuildings and illuminated gardens. It soared, a gilded ivory city, above the dark Welsh countryside, lit from all directions. Its focal point was a tall, domed entry; the rest of the house unfolded from there, wing to turret, terrace to terrace. It was topped by a brilliantly mosaicked rooftop pool surrounded by sculptures displayed on pedestals of marble. Four-story windows framed glittering chandeliers in elaborate panes. Amid the lush foliage of manicured gardens, fountains splashed from one exquisitely inlaid basin to the next and pools shimmered the color of tropical surf, steaming the cool night air. For a moment I indulged in the fantasy of being the pampered princess that got to sunbathe in this fairy-tale world. I quickly exchanged that fantasy for another: being the princess that got to shop with the old man’s credit card.
“Sale price of one hundred and thirty-two million dollars, Ms. Lane,” Barrons said. “The estate was originally built for an Arab oil prince who died before it was completed. At forty-eight thousand square feet, it’s larger than the private residence at Buckingham Palace. It has thirteen en-suite bedrooms, an athletic center, four guesthouses, five pools, a floor of inlaid gold, an underground garage, and a helipad.”
“How many people live here?”
“One.”