"It must have cost a fortune," I said, wondering how they got the usual red haze of ever-after out of it. Beyond it was a stunning vista of Trent's private, snow-slumped gardens. A crag of stone rose almost as high as the roof, a waterfall cascading over it to leave thickening bands of ice to glint in the last of the day's light. The water pooled into a natural-looking basin that I would have bet wasn't, turning into a stream that meandered through the well-established evergreens and shrubs until it vanished.
A deck gray with age and swept clear of snow stretched between the window and the landscaping. As I slowly descended to the lower level, I decided the round disk of cedar flush with the deck and leaking steam was probably a hot tub. Nearby was a sunken area with seating for backyard parties. I had always thought Ivy's grill with its gleaming chrome and huge burners was over the top, but whatever Trent had was probably obscene.
My feet found the first floor, and my gaze dropped to my feet as it suddenly seemed I was walking on loam instead of carpet. "Nice," I breathed, and Quen indicated that I should wait at the nearest gathering of chairs.
"I'll tell him," the security officer said. He shot Jonathan what I thought was a warning look before he retraced his steps to the second floor to vanish into an unseen area of the house.
I laid my coat and garment bag on a leather couch and made a slow spin on my heel. Now that I was downstairs, the fireplace looked even bigger. It wasn't lit, and I thought I could probably stand up in the hearth without stooping. At the opposite end of the room was a low stage with built-in amps and a light display. A nice-sized dance floor spread before it, surrounded by cocktail tables.
Hidden and cozy under the shelter of the second-story overhang was a long bar, the well-oiled wood and chrome gleaming. There were more tables here, bigger and lower. Huge planters full of dark green foliage that could flourish in the dimmer light surrounded them to give a measure of privacy that the large open floor plan lacked.
The noise from the waterfall had quickly retreated into an unnoticed background babble, and the stillness of the room soaked into me. There were no attendants, no one moving through the room on other business, not even one holiday candle or dish of sweets. It was as if the room was caught under a storybook spell, waiting to be woken. I didn't think the room had been used for what it was designed for since Trent's father died. Eleven years was a long time to be silent.
Feeling peace in the quiet of the room, I took a slow breath and turned to find Jonathan eyeing me with obvious distaste. The faint tension in his jaw sent my eyes to where Quen had vanished. A faint smile quirked the corner of my mouth. "Trent doesn't know you two cooked this up, does he?" I said. "He thinks Quen is going with him tonight."
Jonathan said nothing, the twitch in his eye telling me I was right. Smirking, I dropped my shoulder bag to the floor beside the couch. "I bet Trent could throw a hell of a party," I prompted, hoping for something. Jonathan was silent, and I wove past a low coffee table to stand with my hands on my hips to look out the "window."
My breath made the sheet of ever-after ripple. Unable to resist, I touched it. Gasping, I jerked my hand back. An odd, drawing sensation pulled through me, and I clutched my hand within the other as if I'd been burned. It was cold. The sheet of energy was so cold that it burned. I looked behind me to Jonathan, expecting to see him smirking, but he was staring at the window, his long face slack in surprise.
My gaze followed his, my stomach tightening as I realized the window wasn't clear anymore, but swirling with amber shades of gold. Damn. It had taken on the color of my aura. Clearly Jonathan hadn't expected this. My hand ran through my short hair. "Ah…Oops."
"What did you do to the window?" he exclaimed.
"Nothing." I took a guilty step back. "I just touched it, that's all. Sorry."
Jonathan's hawklike features took on more ugliness. Steps long and jerky, he strode to me. "You hack. Look what you did to the window! I will not allow Quen to entrust Mr. Kalamack's safety to you tonight."
My face warmed, and finding an easy outlet for my embarrassment, I let it turn to anger. "This wasn't my idea," I snapped. "And I said I was sorry about the window. You should be lucky I'm not suing for pain and suffering."
Jonathan took a loud breath. "If he comes to any harm because of you, I'll—"
Anger flashed through me, fed by the memory of three days in hell as he tormented me. "Shut up," I hissed. Ticked that he was taller than me, I stepped up onto a nearby coffee table. "I'm not in a cage anymore," I said, keeping enough presence of mind not to poke him in the chest with a finger. His face went startled, then cloric. "The only thing between your head and my foot becoming real close and personal right now is my questionable professionalism. And if you ever threaten me again, I'll slam you halfway across the room before you can say number-two pencil. Got it, you tall freak of nature?"
Frustrated, he clenched his long thin hands tight.
"Go ahead, elf-boy," I seethed, feeling the line energy I had spindled in my head earlier almost spill over to fill my body. "Give me a reason."
The sound of a closing door jerked our attentions to the second-story walkway. Jonathan visibly hid his anger and took a step back. Suddenly I felt really stupid on top of the table. Trent came to a startled halt above us in a dress shirt and pants, blinking. "Rachel Morgan?" he said softly to Quen, standing beside and a little behind him. "No. This isn't acceptable."
Trying to scrape something from the situation, I threw one hand extravagantly into the air. Putting the other on my hip, I posed like a prop girl showing off a new car. "Ta-da!" I said brightly, very conscious of my jeans, sweatshirt, and the new haircut I wasn't particularly fond of. "Hi, Trent. I'm your baby-sitter tonight. Where do your folks hide the good booze?"
Trent's brow furrowed. "I don't want her there. Put on your suit. We leave in an hour."
"No, Sa'han."
Trent had turned to walk away, but he jerked to a stop. "Can I speak to you for a moment," he said softly.
"Yes, Sa'han," the smaller man murmured deferentially, not moving.
I hopped off the table. Did I know how to make a good first impression or what?
Trent frowned, his attention going from an unrepentant Quen to Jonathan's nervous stance. "You're both in on this," he said.
Jonathan laced his hands behind his back, subtly shifting himself another step from me. "I trust Quen's judgment, Sa'han," he said, his low voice rising clear in the empty room. "I do not, however, trust Ms. Morgan's."
Affronted, I huffed at him. "Go suck on a dandelion, Jon."
The man's lips twitched. I knew he hated the shortened name. Trent, too, wasn't happy. Glancing at Quen, he started down the stairway with a fast, even pace, half dressed in his dark designer suit and looking like a cover model for GQ. His wispy blond hair had been slicked back, and his shirt pulled slightly across his shoulders as he descended to the lower floor. The spring in his step and the glint in his eye told me more clearly than anything that elves were at their best the four hours around sunup and sundown. A deep green tie was draped casually across the back of his neck, not yet fastened into place. God help me, but he looked good, everything anything of the female persuasion could ever want: young, handsome, powerful, confident. I wasn't pleased that I liked the way he looked, but there it was.
Question high in his expression, Trent shook his sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs with a preoccupied quickness as he came down the stairs. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, making an intriguing sight. His head came up as he reached the lower landing, and he paused for a heartbeat when he saw the window.