“You mean kill him.”
“No, no, I’d never let someone die who could still be useful. You might want to keep that in mind as you’re considering my job offer.”
“Vivian,” I said, hearing a pleading note creep into my voice, “I won’t force Johnny to go back to Arcadia, especially not without knowing the whole story. But I do need to see him. Just tell me where he is.”
“At the moment? I don’t know. Ask David.”
“But David doesn’t—”
Of course David knew. Everyone knew he knew. Everyone except me.
“David sent me to Regazo de Lujo,” I said, feeling suddenly tired. “David sent me to the train station.”
“Yes, well, we’re all just doing our best to keep that brat Caryl from destroying everything we’ve built.”
“I’m supposed to work for a man who looked me in the eye and lied to me?”
“If you’re on our side, he won’t need to lie to you anymore.”
“What’s to stop me from walking out right now and telling Caryl everything?”
“Be my guest,” said Vivian. “By the time Caryl shows up, we’ll have circled the wagons, and she’ll find nothing. And you’ll have a long, happy career fetching doughnuts. David will be so disappointed; he’s awfully fond of you. But go ahead, betray our trust. I lose nothing. You lose a job, and a friend, and most importantly, you lose my goodwill. I would think long and hard before you decide to do that.”
“None of this matters anyway,” I said. “We’re all dead. What happened at Union Station will start a war with Arcadia.”
“Not at all. The Accord specifies that a human spilling fey blood is cause for war. Fey merely get executed, and since Johnny had already earned that, he didn’t have anything left to lose. Tell Caryl whatever you like, but if you really want to help Johnny, the last thing you’ll do is let anyone find him.”
35
Vivian gave me twenty-four hours to make up my mind, and as much as she personally sickened me, she had also successfully confused and therefore tempted me. Doesn’t the devil always?
Poor Inaya. No wonder she’d been feeling out of the loop. But my sympathy for her only lasted until eight the next morning, when she sent her latte-swilling envoy to Residence Four again, this time with a manila envelope in one hand and a -couple of breakfast burritos in the other.
“Mild or spicy?” he said, holding out the two wrapped -bundles. They smelled tantalizingly of egg and salsa.
“Is ‘get the hell off my porch’ an option?” I glanced back over my shoulder at Gloria, who had been the one to come knocking on my bedroom door to inform me that there was “an African-American gentleman” at the door for me. When Gloria caught my eye, she immediately began fluffing couch pillows in a thin attempt to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Come,” said Ellis. “Let’s have a bite of breakfast and look at these photos. I took them just for you.”
“If they’re of your junk, let me save you some trouble.”
“You’re funny,” he said with the precise enunciation that people use when they’re trying not to strangle you. “Even if I had the remotest interest in you, I can’t see my husband agreeing to a ménage à trois. Your friend David, on the other hand . . .” He waved the envelope gently. I reached for it, but he held it away with a smile.
“Show me the pictures.”
“Can I come in?” he asked.
“You can show me on the porch.”
The look on his face as he contemplated the mildew--spotted love seat made this whole annoying encounter worthwhile. Finally he sat down as though the thing were covered in wet paint.
He handed me the burritos; they were warm, and I considered quickly snarfing both. But when he pulled three pictures out of the envelope, ink-jet printed on photo paper, I forgot about breakfast. They showed the front door of a salmon stucco house with a trio of people gathered at the doorway. It was either twilight or just before dawn, more likely the latter, to judge by the bathrobes.
In the first picture, a smartly dressed Berenbaum was -giving a hug to a blond man in a white robe who could have been anyone, but in the next photo Berenbaum was kissing his robed wife, and the blond man’s head was turned toward the camera.
It was, of course, Viscount Rivenholt. His hair was longer than in the file photo, and even just rolled out of bed, he was so beautiful I wanted to punch him.
“When did you take these?” I asked.
“About three hours ago.” Ellis furrowed his brow at me, a surprisingly cute expression on him. “You don’t seem all that shocked,” he said.