I clench my fists beneath the desk. It’s with great effort that I manage to keep my glamour in place when all I want to do is let my claws burst free and slash everything in my fucking sight into bloody ribbons.
Especiallythe snot-nosed toddler masquerading as a real estate developer sitting across from me.
He snaps the leather folio shut and tosses it onto the desk. “Impressive presentation, Mr. Caldwell. But as I said in my email, your proposal was already rejected.”
“No less than ten minutes after I sent it, Mr. Teague.”
His smile doesn’t dim. “Why prolong the inevitable? The Marchande Hotel had its fifteen minutes of fame over a century ago. It’s—”
“Preserving this city’s history is worth a bit more discussion than an email rejection.” I steeple my fingers and lean back in my chair, returning his award-winning grin. “I’d love for you to take another look.”
The Marchande is a decrepit hotel we’re trying to buy on the city’s Upper West Side—a onetime favorite of old Hollywood celebrities and a stunning example of neo-gothic architecture that’s been featured in everything from postcards to travel shows.
More importantly, it’s home to fourteen gargoyles under my protection. Gargoyles that—if Mr. Teague’s ambition has its way—will soon be demolished, their souls cursed to an eternal purgatory.
Relocating them is not an option; the dark fae made certain of that. If they’re moved, they’ll instantly crumble to dust, their souls suffering the same horrific fate.
“We’re prepared to go another thirty percent on the offer,” I tell him, irritated it’s even come to negotiating. That’s another thing I despise about this latest crop of developers, city officials, federal agents, and yes, even the fire inspector I had to threaten earlier this evening to ensure faulty wiring would be the official determined cause of the Forsythe blaze.
They don’t know Blackmoor Capital Group the way their fathers and grandfathers knew us.
They don’t understand that inourcity, corruption is a two-way street. We all must do our part to keep it running smoothly.
In the end, they always figure it out. But I’m growing tired of having to remind them.
Especially when I’d rather be home looking after that reckless, incorrigible little mortal…
“Thirty percent?” He sighs, his mouth sagging into a condescending frown. “I realize your firm specializes in historical preservation, and I’m typically a fan, but—”
“A fan?”
“But,” he continues, “the Marchande was built on a weak foundation. To bring it up to code would cost millions of dollars and years of lost revenues the city simply can’t afford. It’s a relic, Mr. Caldwell. The land is worth more with it gone.”
“More to whom? So-calleddeveloperswho develop nothing but their profits while they suck all the color out of this city and homogenize the architecture to within an inch of its life—”
“Gregor Perrault has already—”
“GregorPerrault,” I practically spit. “The man wouldn’t know a good opportunity if it bit him in the pompous white arse.”
“He’s already purchased most of the surrounding buildings. The Marchande is the last holdout on the block.”
“If thirty percent isn’t enough, double it.”
“It’s not just the money. Perrault’s firm makes a compelling case all the way around. Not just for the land, but for what his new condominium project will bring to this city. Jobs, affordable housing—”
“Since when is three million dollars for a studio apartment considered affordable housing?”
“Jobs,” he says again. “Not to mention—”
“Traffic congestion, noise pollution, overcrowded schools and subways, and let’s not forget the environmental impact.”
He shrugs as if none of this matters. “That’s just the cost of progress. Out with the old, in with the new. It’s the way it’s always been, Mr. Caldwell.”
I glare at him, wishing I could shove all thatprogressright up his arse.
“I’m sorry,” he says, clearly not. “I know this was a pet project for you, but the deal is done. The demolition is scheduled for next Thursday. You’re welcome to attend if you’d like. They bring it down with controlled explosions from the inside—it’s quite something.”
I’m sure it is.
