We stand there for a moment, looking at each other, the harbor behind him going pink and silver at the edges. It is the finest Tuesday evening I can remember having in forever.
That's when a flash goes off.
The flash is bright enough to catch me off-guard, a quick white pulse from my left, and I blink and turn toward it on instinct. A gnome man is standing at the pier entrance, not more than thirty feet away, a long-lens camera trained on us. He's short, wide-shouldered, with a massive pile of unruly dark curls on his head. His pointed ears are poking through his hair on each side of his head, and he's wearing a jacket too heavy for the weather.
My stomach churns as I meet his gaze without understanding. Who is this man and why is he taking pictures of us?
But Demetrius doesn't seem like he has any trouble understanding the situation. In fact, he is already facing the man and his camera, an expression like thunder on his face.
The man is already moving toward us, not running, but purposeful. His camera keeps going.
"Mr. Thornwood. Dale Murch, The Western Echo." His voice is flat and professional as he produces what appears to be acell phone with a mic on it, toward Demetrius's face. "Can you address the rumors that you're planning to cut half the Windemere Maritime workforce in your first year? Is the layoff part of your plan for the acquisition?"
Demetrius goes very still.
"Where did you get that information?" His voice has gone cold and deliberate.
The reporter doesn't flinch. He keeps walking toward us. By now, the naga couple is openly staring and the girl is lifting a cell phone in our direction. I don't need anyone to tell me she's recording this.
"Mr. Thornwood, the Windemere deal was reported to include workforce restructuring as early as..."
"Who told you about the Windemere deal?" Demetrius cuts with a tone sharp enough to draw blood.
The reporter doesn't answer. He raises the camera again.
Then he turns to me. The lens comes around and my entire body goes cold.
"And who is the woman, Mr. Thornwood? Is she your fiancée? How did you two meet each other?" The questions come fast and blunt, the practiced rapid-fire of someone who knows that some of them will hit. "Can we get a name?"
My pulse does something unhelpful behind my ears.
Then everything happens very fast. Demetrius steps in front of me, blocking my view of, well, everything. He's so large and tall, all I see is a solid block of his broad back.
And then something changes in him. The stillness goes out of him entirely.
"You point that thing at her again," he says, and his voice has dropped an entire register, gone rough at the edges in a way I've never heard from him, not once, "and I will take it apart with my bare hands and mail the pieces to your editor."
The reporter blinks. He did not expect that.
"Put it down." Demetrius takes one step forward and the reporter takes one step back, which is probably the correct instinct. "Now."
The reporter does not put the camera down. He does, however, stop moving.
Demetrius's jaw sets. He lets out a slow breath through his nose.
"You print her name," he says, and it's not controlled anymore, not calculated, it's something that has come up from somewhere much further down inside him, "or you run a single image with her in it, or you associate her with any speculation or scandal in any of your publication's output, in any format, in any medium, and I will spend a considerable amount of money making sure that you personally and that toilet paper you call a tabloid never recover from it. We're talking litigation on a scale that will outlast your grandchildren's careers. Think about that math before you answer."
The reporter stares at him. He lowers the camera.
It takes him about four seconds to decide this is not the story he came here for. He backs up two steps, then three, and then he's walking back toward the pier entrance with the fast, slightly sideways walk of someone who would prefer everyone forget he was here.
Demetrius watches him go.
He stands there until the man is gone from the pier entirely, out onto the cobblestone and around the corner. I crank my neck sideways to see past him.
I know what I just saw. I've known Demetrius could be formidable. I knew he was capable of this version of himself, in an abstract way.
But knowing a thing in the abstract and watching it happening are not the same thing.
