Nigel raised a brow. She was a bit too quick for her own good sometimes. But he answered only, “Maybe.”
“Of course,” she continued, “it’s a great work of magic, even if it’s Green Magic. And he’s obviously keen on sorcerous things and not unwilling to dabble outside the law. Enchanted face creams! The cheek!”
“You won’t breathe a word about it to anyone?” Nigel said suddenly, lowering his cup to the saucer. “To any, erm, wardsmen, I mean?”
Luna sniffed and crossed her arms. “I haven’t seenanywardsmen in weeks. So you needn’t worry about that.”
Nigel couldn’t quite suppress the little warm glow that burst to life in his chest. He’d noticed the distinct lack of Officer Ward about the premises and couldn’t claim to be sorry for it. But he tried to assume a regretful sort of face. For her sake.
“You won’t let your brother find Garden, will you?” Luna continued, earnestly. “Something tells me it wouldn’t be best if he discovered it. I’m sorry, Mr. Grimm, I realize he’s your family and all. But I know trouble when I smell it.”
“Fabian is one great stinking pile of . . . trouble,” Nigel acknowledged. Luna snickered and Nigel offered a not-quite mirthless grin in response. He rose from his seat then and handed her his empty teacup. “Don’t worry, Miss Talbot,” he said. “I won’t let him anywhere near Garden. Or Debbie. Or you either, for that matter.”
“Me?” Luna blinked at him, her eyes rounding slightly. “Why should he be concerned with me?”
“Oh, I . . . I don’t know that he is,” Nigel hastened to assure her. “I only meant that . . . that I’ll take care of you. That is, everything I care about . . . That is, you are always under my . . .”He stopped, drew a breath, and tried again. “You needn’t worry about a thing, Miss Talbot. That’s all.”
She bit her lips, her brow tightening softly. “Of course, Mr. Grimm,” she said at last. “Of course.” Taking his teacup, she pulled back the curtain and began to step away. She paused a moment, however, looking back at him. “And thank you.”
The next moment, she was gone. Slipped back to the kitchen to wash up before the next wave of customers arrived. Leaving Nigel to squeeze his mostly un-numbed fingers, trying to recall the sensation of her hands gripping his. A sensation he’d not enjoyed since the day of the Saint Jollify festival, weeks ago.
“I’ll take care of you, Miss Talbot,” he whispered.
Even as he said it, his jaw hardened. Fabian’s presence in Ballycastle could only mean trouble. What form that trouble would take, he couldn’t begin to guess. But trouble was coming, that much he knew for sure.
Which meant, before he kept his appointment at The King’s Crown Hotel tonight, he had better take precautions.
The bottle was tucked innocuously among the shampoos, soaps, and tonics in his shower caddy. It had struck Nigel as the best place for it—a hidden-in-plain-sight sort of thing. One wouldn’t notice it at all if one didn’t have a degree of sorcerous perception, and even those who knew what they were looking for might pass it by altogether. With the stopper popped open, a strong aroma of sandalwood and cinnamon emanated from the extremely thin neck, a perfectly harmless cologne.
But underneath that scent, lurking in the bottle’s round potbelly, lay a tincture of distilled Dire Matter. Very dangerous, very corrosive.
It probably wasn’t wise to keep distilled Dire Matter in his shower caddy, Nigel considered, as he fished a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. If some wardsman, on the hunt for contraband sorcery, were to discover it, Nigel would find himself in a bit of a pickle. But it was much more subtle than summoning fresh Dire Matter directly. For one thing, the energy tradeoff had been paid ages ago and required no new sacrifice. The magic wasn’t asfresh,perhaps, but it was potent. And the use of it wouldn’t set off any wardsman’s sorcery sensors, which were programmed to track energy transfers, not magic itself.
Nigel didn’t want to go into this meeting with Fabian unprepared. His brother was no great and powerful sorcerer. He was barely a sorcerer at all, in fact. But sometimes, men whothoughtthey knew sorcery were more dangerous than those who did.
Nigel wasn’t about to be taken unawares.
So he turned the bottle over his open handkerchief and allowed seven drops of concentrated anti-glitter to spill out onto the white fabric. No more than seven—he counted them cautiously. Then he folded the handkerchief up, careful to cradle those drops inside the white cotton folds, and placed them in his front jacket pocket. Stoppering the bottle, he slid it back into the shower caddy, pulled the rubber shower curtain round, and turned to face himself in the glass.
Quite a put-together reflection looked him in the eye. In the cold light of the bathroom, he looked older to himself. Paler, more worn. Harder. He touched his smooth jaw. Back when last he saw Fabian, Nigel had still had his sorcerer’s beard, which had lent him an air of gravitas, but that was long gone. Little trace remained in this sad-eyed visage of the powerful figure he once was.
But that was a good thing. He couldn’t be that man anymore. And if that meant his elder brother despised him, well . . . what else was new? Fabian despised him as a child, despised him again as an undergrad, and continued to despise him even at the very height of his powers. Nigel had long since given up trying to win his older brother’s admiration or regard.
He smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead, straightened the set of his tie, and nodded. “Right, Grimm,” he said. “Time to face the wolves.”
The shop was very quiet when he descended the stairs. The flowers weren’t used to him going out at night, and he sensed afaint air of resentment. “Don’t worry,” he reassured them. “I’ll be back soon enough.”
Then his gaze landed on the mistletoe. It hung in a little clumped ball on the end of a vine, dangling right in the center of the shop. Bold as brass.
“What areyoudoing here?” Nigel growled. “There aren’t any customers and certainly no mustachioed great aunts on the premises. Who exactly do you expect to torment?”
As the mistletoe offered no response, Nigel reached behind the counter for his long-handled pruning shears. Perhaps it was sleeping. Perhaps this was his chance. He crept across the floor, between display tables, opened the shears slowly . . .
The hinge squeaked.
Instantly, the mistletoe sprang awake. Before Nigel could do anything, it rolled up its vine and disappeared among the ceiling beams, leaving nothing but a single leaf drifting down in its wake.
“Never mind!”Debbie called from her skull-pot and proceeded to burst into cackling laughter.
