My heart pounded, and I stared at Quen's quiet, poxscarred face. "You've had to be your own keeper for a long time," he said.
"Yeah." Lips pressed tight, I turned back to the mirror, my foot bobbing up and down.
"What doesn't kill you—"
"Hurts." I watched his reflection. "It hurts. It hurts a lot." My black eye throbbed under my higher blood pressure, and I reached to touch it. "I'm strong enough," I said bitterly. "I don't want to be any stronger. Piscary is a bastard, and if he gets out of prison, he's going to die twice." I thought of Skimmer, hoping she was as bad a lawyer as she was good a friend to Ivy.
Quen's feet shifted, but he didn't move. "Piscary?"
The question in his voice brought my gaze up. "He said he killed my dad. Did he lie to me?" Need to know. Did I finally "need to know" according to Quen?
"Yes and no." The elf's eyes flicked to the doorway.
I spun in the chair. He could tell me. I think he wanted to. "Well, which is it?"
Quen ducked his head and took a symbolic step back. "It's not my place."
Heart pounding, I stood, my hands clenched into fists. "What happened?" I demanded.
Again Quen looked toward the bathroom. A light flicked on and a beam spilled into the room to diffuse into nothing. An effeminate man's voice chattered seemingly to itself, filling the air with a bright presence. Jonathan answered back, and I looked at Quen in a panic, knowing he wouldn't say anything in front of him.
"It was my fault," Quen said softly. "They were working together. I should have been there, not your father. Piscary killed them as sure as if he had pulled the trigger."
Feeling unreal, I stepped close enough to see the sweat on him. It was obvious he had overstepped his bounds telling me even this much. Jonathan came in trailing a man dressed in tight black and shiny boots. "Oh!" the small man ex claimed, hustling to the vanity with his fishing-tackle boxes. "It's red! I adore red hair. And it's natural, too. I can tell from here. Come sit, dove. The things I can do for you! You won't recognize yourself."
I spun to Quen. Tired eyes haunted looking, he stepped away, leaving me breathless. I stood, staring, wanting more, knowing I wouldn't get it. Damn it, Quen's timing sucked, and I forced my hands to remain at my side instead of throttling him.
"Sit your fanny down!" the stylist exclaimed when Quen inclined his head at me and walked out. "I only have half an hour!"
Frowning, I gave Jonathan's mocking expression a tired look, then sat down in the chair and tried to explain to the man that I liked it the way it was, and could he just give it a quick brush through? But he hissed and shushed me, pulling out bottle after bottle of spray and odd-looking instruments whose use I couldn't even guess. I knew it was a battle already lost.
Twenty-five
I settled into the seat of Trent's limo, crossing my legs and arranging one of the narrow panels of my skirt to cover my knee. The shawl I was using instead of a coat slid down my back, and I let it stay there. It smelled like Ellasbeth, and my subtler perfume couldn't compete.
The shoes were a half size too small, but the dress fit perfectly: the bustier tight but not confining, and the skirt riding high on my waist. My thigh holster was as subtle as dandelion fluff, completely unseen. Randy had styled my shorter hair up off my neck, binding it with thick gold wire and vintage beads into an elaborate coiffure that had taken the man twenty minutes of unending prattle to fix. But he was right. I felt completely unlike myself and expe-e-e-e-ensive.
This was the second limo I'd been in that week. Maybe it was a trend. If so, I could handle that. Jittery, I glanced at Trent staring out at the huge trees as we approached the gatehouse, their black trunks standing out against the snow. He seemed a thousand miles away, not even aware I was sitting next to him. "Takata's car is nicer," I said, breaking the silence.
Trent twitched, recovering smoothly. The reaction made him look as young as he was. "Mine's not a rental," he said.
I shrugged, foot jiggling as I looked out the smoked window.
"Warm enough?" he asked.
"What? Oh. Yes, thank you."
Jonathan drove us past the guardhouse without slowing, the rising bar reaching its apex the second we passed under it. It closed equally fast. I fidgeted, checking my clutch purse for my charms, feeling for the press of my splat gun, and touching my hair. Trent was looking out the window again, lost in his own world, which had nothing to do with me.
"Hey, sorry about the window," I said, not liking the silence.
"I'll send you a bill if it can't be fixed." He turned to me. "You look nice."
"Thank you." I sent my eyes over his silk-lined wool suit. He wasn't wearing an overcoat, and it was tailored to show off every inch of him. His boutonniere was a tiny black bud rose, and I wondered if he had grown it himself. "You wash up good yourself."
He gave me one of his professional smiles, but there was a new glint to it, and I thought it might actually have a tinge of real warmth.
"The dress is beautiful," I added, wondering how I was going to get through tonight without resorting to talk about the weather. I leaned to tug my nylons straight.
"That reminds me." Trent twisted to dip a hand into a pocket. "These go with it." He held out his hand, dropping a heavy set of earrings into my palm. "There's a necklace, too."
"Thanks." I tilted my head to take out my simple hoops, dropping them into my clutch purse and snapping it closed. Trent's earrings were a series of interlocking circles, and heavy enough to be real gold. I worked them into place, feeling their unfamiliar weight.
"And the necklace…" Trent held it up, and my eyes widened. It was gorgeous, made of interlaced rings the size of my thumbnail and matching the earrings. They made a delicate lace panel, and I would have labeled it goth but for its richness. A wooden pendant in the shape of the Celtic rune for protection hung from the nadir, and I hesitated in my reach. It was beautiful, but I suspected its peekaboo lace would make me a veritable vampire slut.
And Celtic magic gave me the willies. It was a specialized art, much of it depending upon one's belief, not if you did the spell right or not. More of a religion than magic. I didn't like mixing religion and magic—it made for terribly strong forces when something unmeasurable mixed its will with that of the practitioner's intent, making the results not necessarily in line with what was expected. It was wild magic, and I preferred mine nicely scientific. If you invoke the help of a higher being, you can't complain when things don't go to your plan, but to its.
"Turn around," Trent said, and my eyes darted to his. "I'll put it on you. It has to be snug for it to look right."
I was not about to show Trent I was squeamish, and as protection charms were fairly reliable, I took the simple fake gold cord from around my neck and dropped it into my clutch bag with my earrings. I wondered if Trent knew what wearing this was saying, deciding he probably did and thought it was a big joke.
Tension tightened my shoulders as I gathered strands of hair that Randy had pulled for effect. The necklace settled about my neck in a heavy feeling of security, still warm from his pocket.