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Chapter 4
Cory
Matt and I walked to a bank of elevators, and he jabbed the call button. As we waited, I glanced at his tiny entourage.
Raziel seemed to prefer to float just above Matt’s shoulder, keeping himself in place with gentle motions of his impressive wings. Andras was winged, too, and he could clearly use them, but his default was apparently to park his ass on Matt’s shoulder or collarbone. I wondered if Matt could feel the weight of the demon or the movements of the angel’s wings. The wings did flutter his hair a little, so… maybe?
But I didn’t ask. I was curious about the whole setup, but Matt had bigger things to think about right now.
The elevator opened, and we stepped inside. Matt glared at the buttons, pushed out a resigned breath, and requested the twelfth floor.
As the elevator lurched into motion, I cautiously said, “Not looking forward to this?”
“Not particularly.” He tilted his head to one side, then the other, cracking his neck as Raziel darted out of the way and Andras ducked. Either unaware or unfazed, Matt stared up at the numbers above the doors and muttered, “She wasn’t my easiest client. I’m not looking forward to being on the other side of the negotiation table.”
Whoa. That was… ominous. I didn’t get the impression he was intimidated. I doubted there was anyone alive who could intimidate Matt Russo. But I could buy that he didn’t think this was going to be pleasant or easy. Never was when you were opposing a trickster. Ask me how I know.
On the twelfth floor, we got out and walked down a bland, corporate hallway. The whole building was bland and corporate, honestly—pastel colors, etched names on windowed doors, block letter directories, potted plants with leaves the size of my thigh, ugly carpet that was somehow simultaneously pink, brown, and gray.
One of my clients theorized that the more chaotic fae—the ones who really loved to cause trouble and screw with people—often worked in environments like this. It looked official and non-threatening. It caused people to let their guards down. I’d long suspected it was true, and that might’ve been the cause of the hair on my neck standing on end right now. Good thing I didn’t have an annoyingly observant angel on my shoulder to point that out to anyone.
At the end of the bland and non-threatening hallway, Matt indicated a door on our left. Two names were etched across the glass:Rhiannon Mair Cadwallader and Bridget Breathnach.Below that:Matchmakers.
I was pretty sure I’d heard both of those names before from my own clients. That didn’t bode well.
I kept that to myself as we walked into their office.
The waiting room was set up like a doctor’s office—a high desk, chairs around a coffee table, and a door leading to what I assumed were more rooms beyond. This room had quite a bit more life and character than the rest of the building, though. Some sort of climbing plant had vines rising out of a clay pot and branching across the walls and ceiling, colorful flowers blooming amidst leaves and tendrils. And I didn’t think I’d ever seen so many rocks. The coffee table was covered with them, apart from a couple of pamphlet holders and three cork coasters wedged in between geodes, crystals, plain but oddly shaped stones, and a chunk of obsidian. Shelves on the walls held more of the same alongside climbing vines. Somewhere, birds were chirping. I genuinely couldn’t tell if they were real or recorded.
The mismatched chairs weren’t the most attractive furniture in the world, but they were comfortable. We sat in the nearest two, and steadfastly avoided eye contact with the other two people in the room. There was often a hint of shame among people consulting with fae, and it wasn’t unusual to see people wearing hoodies and sunglasses (like the person across from me) or obvious wigs and makeup (like the woman to Matt’s left). People really, really didn’t want to be seen in a place like this.
The other two clients eyed Matt—or, more likely, Andras and Raziel—but quickly averted their eyes to their phones. They weren’t exactly in a position to judge.
Matt exchanged texts with someone. Then he lowered his phone and spoke just loud enough for me to hear, “She said it’s going to be a while. She’s fitting us in between clients. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” I whispered back. “I’m here to help. If it takes a while, it takes a while.”
He met my eyes, his brow pinched with a degree of uncertainty I seriously wasn’t used to seeing in him. “You probably had plans today.”
“Yeah, well, when a friend needs help…” I waved a hand. “That becomes my plans.”
His expression turned apologetic. “I owe you.”
“Nah, don’t worry about that.” I nudged his elbow with mine. “I’m not fae. I’m your friend.”
He studied me, and a smile slowly came to life. “Still. I’ll make it up to you.”
I shrugged but said nothing more.
His client wasn’t kidding about this taking a while. I’d been to the ends of the internet and back on my phone, and boredom drove me to pick up one of the pamphlets about the matchmaking practice.
I had no idea if we were here to see Bridget or Rhiannon, so I read both their bios. They certainly did break up the boredom, too, because almost without fail, the lives fae led were fascinating.
Over the course of a handful of paragraphs, I’d learned that Bridget was descended from Ireland’s Tuatha de Danann, and over the centuries, she’d wandered the earth, endlessly curious about mortals. With time, she’d begun to understand how love and relationships worked, and she’d helped guide countless mortals to love. She claimed to be responsible for an impressive list of famous lovers, from Richard II and Anne of Bohemia to Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart.
Christ. Next to this, my Linkedin was looking about as dull as the pink-brown-gray carpet in the hallway outside.
I turned over the pamphlet, and Rhiannon’s profile made Bridget’s look as dull as mine. She was of the Gwragedd Annwn from a Welsh lake called Llyn Barfog. Like many lake maidens, she’d married a mortal man at some point. The Gwragedd Annwn were well known for leaving men who crossed them, especially those who used violence, but Rhiannon had instead taken vengeance on her husband. First she’d convinced the Bwbachod—the house goblins—to make his life miserable. Then, when he’d decided to flee to another town, she’d enlisted the Gwyllion in the mountains to lure him off his path and get him lost in the woods. He was never seen or heard from again.
