“It does.”
“Then why are you scowling?”
“Because I dislike what you represent here.”
“So the truth comes out. Yet, you’ve been seducing me, so what does that say about you?”
His smile quirked. “That I like beautiful women.”
She rolled her eyes, not buying it, so he grabbed her hand. “And I like you. I may not approve of your life choices, but I approve of you, how you conduct yourself.”
She batted her eyelashes. “How you flatter me.”
Rather than putting him off, her un-impressed response struck a chord, that she wasn’t the least moved by his rank in the Nine Realms, or his power, or anything else. If he wanted to win her, he’d actually have to make an effort and that was new to him. Besides, he loved a challenge, maybe more than anything, and Batya had challenge written all over her.
So, what would impress her?
He looked away from her and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t need an answer to that question. Batya couldn’t be anything important in his life and finding a way to gain her respect and approval had no meaning for him. All he’d wanted before the attack was to take her to bed a few times and slake his lust.
After that, he would have moved on to his next conquest, but here he was sitting at a table next to her, wearing a mardis-gras shirt and saying provocative things to her.
When Lorelei returned with a fresh pot of coffee, mugs, and a heaping platter of chunks of cheese and fruit, he breathed a sigh of relief. She whisked away their plates of now-congealing eggs, then poured out more coffee
“Sorry, but I burned the toast.”
He repressed his laughter. “This will do nicely and thank you.”
Curious all over again, he focused his identifying ability on her, even adding a slight vibration, but he got nothing in response. For a split-second Lorelei paused in pouring Batya’s coffee, as though she knew what he was doing, but continued without so much as a flick of her doe-eyes in his direction.
He still had no clue what she was.
Just as he bit into a slice of red apple, a strange, very realm, sensation crept over him, something he’d experienced only a few times in his life. Fate lingered at this table, hovering over the platter, the coffee, and three unlikely people. They were meant to be here tonight, like this, the three of them.
Mentally, he uttered a string of curses, one after the other.
This wasn’t good.
* * * * * * * * *
Before Batya had finished half her coffee, she received a phone call from the jack-of-all trades service she used that had done initial clean-up and now returned ready to install the plate glass window that had already been delivered. She excused herself and while keeping her enthrallment shield strong but manipulating one section, she let them in the back door, something Batya could do at will.
They were three powerful shifters, working in demolition, clean-up, and repair work and seemed well-suited to the work.
None were as tall as Quinlan who made a show of standing at the doorway between the hall and the dining room, arms folded over his chest in part probably to hide the sequins, and nodding to the men as they passed by. He eyed them closely, his lips compressed in a hard line.
“Mastyr.” Each offered a half-bow as he moved by.
When the last worker disappeared into her gallery, she glared at him. “Would you lighten up?”
His upper lip curled as he turned back into the dining room.
She rolled her eyes wondering just how soon she could get rid of him and get on with her life. Reality, however, seemed to indicate she’d be stuck with him for a while. For one thing, she couldn’t let her enthrallment shield down completely without inviting another attack and for another, if the ancient fae was really after her, then what was she going to do long-term? She couldn’t sustain her gallery or the free-clinic with a shield intact and she really wasn’t sure just how long she’d be able to support it. She felt fine now, but what about in another twenty-four hours or even a week?
Besides, she didn’t feel like herself. Even Quinlan had picked up on her complexion. She felt overheated in a way that spoke of ‘virus’, but she’d always been so healthy.
As the shifters went about their business, Batya took some time to assess the damage to several of her canvases. One of them, a more modern piece made up of an island of trees and a flame-like wind, would have to be tossed. At least three would require repair and might even sell better among the wealthier ex-pat customers because of the provenance of having been involved in a battle between Mastyr Quinlan, two extraordinarily powerful Invictus wraith-pairs and an ancient fae.
The rest, especially a series of four along the brick north wall, were untouched. She glanced at them now and felt a shiver go through her, of fate or some kind of fae-recognition unfamiliar to her. The first was called, The Leap, a picture of a lovely fae woman, looking a lot like Lorelei, who stood on a precipice, the wind whipping her hair wildly. Her expression of uncertainty yet excitement had prompted many gallery conversations.
The second was a meadow with a river and a stream, the third a golden forest that rose high into a mountain range, and the last a painting she called, ‘Snowfields’, depicting a vast stretch of snow, distant lavender hills, and the sun barely cresting the horizon. Just looking at all four paintings brought something from her realm-soul rising to the surface and tears rushing to her eyes.
“I saw these.” Quinlan’s voice rumbled next to her. She jumped a little, because she hadn’t known he was there, but he put a hand on her shoulder and murmured an apology. His gaze remained fixed, however, on the paintings.
“You mean when you first came into the gallery about two months ago?”
“No, I mean when both wraith-pairs attacked in unison with that final blow and sent me through the window. I saw these paintings in slow-motion, one after the other. These feel like some kind of story to me.”
She glanced up at him. “I know what you mean.”
“So you didn’t write it as a story?”
She shook her head. “Not at all, and I didn’t paint them in this order, but this sequence just feels inexplicably right to me.”
“Was this a vision then?”
She shook her head, looking back at the paintings. “No, no vision. Images, like I told you before. I’ve had dozens of offers, mostly for them as a set. But I won’t sell. I can’t explain it but they mean something to me.”
“I’m tempted to make you an offer myself. I’d put them in my mountain home.” Most of the mastyrs had more than one home for security reasons.