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“What? That was damn fast.”
“You’d done most of the work already. You just don’t have enough patience.”
One side of his mouth curved. “You got that right.” Turning toward her, mug still in hand, he added, “Now tell me what happened, subject-changer. Why did you leave Grochaire?”
Lorelei called out that the food was ready.
Batya smiled. “Good-timing because I think the inquest is over for now. Get dressed.” She waved a hand over the towel wrapped around his waist, then left the room.
“I’ll be asking again,” he called out as she disappeared down the hall.
“Whatever.”
He set his mug down and drew his hair back, securing it in the traditional Guardsman’s woven clasp. He experienced a sudden and powerful need to get the hell out of Lebanon.
He didn’t like being away from Grochaire for any length of time. All his responsibilities were there, his commitments, his devotion. He would never understand the ex-pat mentality of those like Batya who turned their backs on the realm-world. And knowing the level of her power, that she could create an enthrallment shield strong enough to keep an ancient fae and uber-powerful wraith-pairs from busting through, meant that she could have been useful to their ongoing war against the Invictus.
Still, there was a story there and he liked enough about Batya to want to hear what she had to say to justify her decisions. Generally, as closed-minded as he was about ex-pats, he wrote them off.
But Batya broke the mold. She wasn’t into earth-based drugs, looking for a fix as many ex-pats were. She used her abilities for good and looked after the realm-community in Lebanon, she volunteered her powers, and she had a thriving business.
But what could have driven her out of Grochaire?
* * * * * * * * *
Batya didn’t go immediately to the oversized kitchen and dining area of her downstairs gallery rooms. Instead, she paused about ten feet down the hall and put a hand to her chest.
She realized suddenly that she felt oddly fatigued this afternoon and more than once her heart seemed to labor in her chest.
Maybe she was getting some weird version of a human virus, something that happened occasionally in her community, though rarely for her. She had a superb constitution, otherwise, and came from extremely long-lived stock. Her father was over two-thousand-years old, a famous troll in the Nine Realms, so she was a little surprised that she wasn’t in top form.
Of course, she hadn’t exactly gotten a lot of sleep over the past two nights and she’d donated quite a bit of blood to bring Quinlan back from the brink.
At least she wouldn’t be taking her usual appointments. As soon as Quinlan had been out of danger, she’d contacted their
sister clinic across town. She’d told the administrator about her supposed ‘burglary’, unwilling to upset her community until she better understood what needed to happen next. She could bring people in by extending her enthrallment shield, so food wouldn’t be an issue.
Lorelei, on the other hand, was strangely calm about all that was happening, which somehow didn’t seem right to Batya, as though Lorelei knew something she wasn’t sharing.
But as her heart continued to beat erratically, she tried to sort things out, to determine what if anything she could do about the ancient fae and the danger she presented.
Yet, as she rubbed her chest in a slow circle, she knew another kind of danger had invaded her gallery and it stood about six-six, had the body of a god, and smelled so incredible that the whole time she’d been brushing Quinlan’s hair, she’d wanted to sink her face in the mass, burrow through, then bite the back of his neck.
He just smelled so damn good, like wood smoke. Yes, that was what he smelled like, the burning of a rich bonfire.
She knew the rumors about his early life, that he’d killed his father. The Sidhe Council had exonerated him all those centuries ago, but the story still circulated and gave her pause. Quinlan had a darkness within, an almost tangible quality, maybe as a result of what he’d done, she didn’t know. She also didn’t know if she could trust him.
The level of attraction she felt for Quinlan mystified her. She’d known him since she could remember, but something must have changed recently to have brought him chasing her skirts. And why was the sudden attraction so mutual?
But if she was honest with herself, she’d always been drawn to him like most of the women she knew. However, until he’d begun this ridiculous pursuit, wanting to bed her, she’d always supposed her interest in him had its source in his obvious physical prowess. The man was built, gorgeous, and carried a kind of deadly air that got to her. If he became determined, she wouldn’t be able to fight him off, a thought that sent a shiver down her back and tightened things very deep.
Now, however, that she’d brought him back from the dead, shared a brief but lovely orgasm with him, and actually brushed out his really magnificent hair, she felt more in danger from him than ever before. He had the capacity to strip something vital from her, from her life, from her self-purpose as a troll-fae and as an ex-pat.
Quinlan threatened her way of life and he had to go, the sooner the better.
* * * * * * * * *
His temper on full throttle, Quinlan entered the dining room and glanced around the rectangular space. Batya sat with her back to the far wall at a long table decked with ten upholstered chairs in a dark purple fabric. She looked so serene, as she stared back at him, as though the joke she’d played didn’t exist at all. The clothes he’d been given to wear put a thunder cloud over his head, and he let the full range of his emotion fill his eyes as he glared at her.
She met his gaze and quickly pressed her lips into a tight line, no doubt biting the inside of her cheek.
She swallowed hard and with false admiration said, “How well that shirt becomes you. Do the pants fit?” Her gaze dropped to the cuffs that landed about six inches off the floor. “Oh, well, you are tall, but I see the tie I left you is holding them up.”
The white silk shirt had been made for a man of ample proportions who had a preference for red sequins patterned in a series of red rose buds. Oddly, the cut fit across the shoulders but from there the fabric ballooned out to a grotesque size.
Lorelei frowned at Batya and clucked her tongue. “How could you do that to him?” She turned her soft brown eyes on Quinlan. “That’s part of a Mardis Gras costume. I laid out a perfectly reasonable t-shirt and I can get it for you, if you want.” She even offered Batya a disapproving shake of her head.
