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I’d dropped in to pick up an order, and they’d invited me to share their meal because that’s the kind of people they were: James; his wife, Jean; and their two little girls, Janis—because James loved classic rock, and had wanted to keep the J thing going—and Lakshmi, because that had been the name of their grandmother, and some things are more important than alliteration.
Rufus’ wife had been gone six years now, and I strongly suspected that was why James and family visited so often. It was less about chores that needed doing and more about giving the old man voices around the place other than his own. And because that’s who James was, at least on his days off.
He couldn’t be that different at work.
So he was bluffing.
I knew he was.
But Fin . . . I didn’t think James understood about Fin. The forest trolls didn’t have a forest anymore. It had been burned out from under them, and the land used for new farms by the goddamned Svarestri, who didn’t have enough evil points racked up yet, so they’d had to steal the little guys’ home, too. And then kill anybody who didn’t get the hint.
Fin didn’t have anywhere to go back to.
But the law didn’t care about that, like it didn’t care about him.
But I did, and I couldn’t risk it.
Goddamn it.
“I don’t have him, but I’ll get him,” I told James roughly. “If I have Fin out to help me.”
“Dory—”
“He has more contacts in that world than I’ll ever have. He’s how I found him this time, remember? And he won’t help you, no matter what you threaten him with. He won’t rat out a fellow troll.”
James was silent for a long moment. “Forty-eight hours. Then I’m bringing him in. And I’m not bluffing.”
Fuck.
Chapter Forty
A short time later, I was facing the door to a sleek Manhattan apartment, feeling more than a little out of place. I had no makeup, my coiffure was a style I like to call drove-with-the-top-down, and I still had on the rumpled old sweats. Now paired with muddy gardening sandals because I’d swapped with Claire so she wouldn’t slip on the rocks.
None of which should have mattered, since Horatiu is blind as a bat.
But it wasn’t Horatiu who answered the door.
And promptly slammed it in my face.
Or, to be more precise, tried to. But while Kit Marlowe is fast, so am I. And I got a muddy Croc in the door before he could shut it entirely.
Angry brown eyes glared at me through the minuscule opening. “Go. Away.”
“Fuck. You.” I gave a little push.
And was gratified to note that Marlowe had to exert effort to keep me out. I also noticed that he was in a tux, which was unusual because he had almost as much fashion sense as me. But somebody, probably his long-suffering family, had wrangled him into a sleek black number anyway, trimmed the Elizabethan-era goatee he’d had since it was originally fashionable, and tried to do something with the dark brown ratty-looking curls.
The latter had been slicked down with some sort of pomade, but they didn’t behave any better than their master, and had sprung back up again. The result was wet ratty-looking curls, which wasn’t an improvement, but I couldn’t talk at the moment. Or do much of anything else, because he was really determined that I not get through that door.
Which was ridiculous, since I had more reason to be here than he did!
“This is my father’s apartment,” I reminded him. It was Mircea’s condo in the city, originally purchased, I suspected, for times when he couldn’t deal with the consul anymore. Being a diplomat includes knowing when to get away so you don’t strangle somebody to death, like Marlowe looked like he wanted to do to me.
“He isn’t here!”
“I’m not looking for him. I’m looking for Louis-Cesare—”
“He isn’t here, either.”
