Resha crossed his legs, the hem of his pants riding up to reveal a strip of blue-gray skin. On a day-to-day basis, Laura tended not to notice Resha’s appearance. As a merrow, his pale skin was normal for one of the sea folk, and Laura was used to working with fey whose appearance did not fit into mainstream sensibilities.
“Well?” asked Rhys.
Resha fidgeted. “InterSec is not obligated to inform me about its staff, Orrin.”
Rhys turned, anger glinting in his eye. “Not obligated? We’re talking about a leanansidhe, Dunne. Not some inconsequential water sprite.”
Cress, thought Laura. They were talking about Cress, her InterSec colleague. Not some dangerous being with no moral qualms about killing people. Cress had rejected that role for herself, finding alternative means to survive. They weren’t talking about one of the most feared fey in existence. They were talking about her friend.
“This leanansidhe seems different,” Laura said.
Rhys stalked to his desk, his gossamer-thin wings sweeping back with the motion of his body. “It’s dangerous. We can’t trust it.”
With a nervous flick of his short-clawed fingers, Resha brushed at his knee, not looking up at Rhys. “She saved our lives, Orrin.”
Many lives, thought Laura. Cress had thwarted a major terrorist attack at the National Archives and almost died in the process. Even Rhys had a personal debt to her. Not that it mattered, apparently.
“Are you two defending it?” Rhys asked.
Laura wet her lips. Rhys didn’t know about her undercover work for InterSec. Part of the delicate balance of her life was maintaining that secrecy. “I think, sir, that things may not be as they appear. Perhaps we need more information.”
Rhys startled them with a slap of his hand on the desk. “I need no more information. I know what this thing is, and I want it out of my Guildhouse.”
Even sitting, Resha appeared to cower. “I will look into it.”
Frustration burned within Laura. As the Guild’s public-relations director, it was not her place to argue with him about it. Worse, she couldn’t argue without revealing why she knew what she was talking about. It chafed to watch Resha capitulate despite the fact that he had a duty to stand up for the rights of the solitary fey. Even if it was a leanansidhe .
Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Now, what has been the response to our donation toward the rebuilding of the National Archives?”
Grateful for the change in subject, Laura placed her hand on the folder with the information. As a druid, she didn’t need to read from her notes. Her innate memory retention filed away data for instant recall later. All she had to do was focus on whatever she wanted to recall, and the information would start to flow. “It moved public perception of the Guild slightly upward, but has had no impact on the overall negative impression of the fey. Do you want specific numbers?”
Rhys grunted. “Not now.”
“Was the money not enough?” Resha asked.
Laura didn’t answer. If Resha weren’t so prone to cluelessness in front of everyone, including the Guildmaster, she would have been embarrassed for him. But Resha was Resha, and his naïveté came with the territory. Over the years, Laura had taken to pretending to be fixed on her files or notes when Resha made his off comments.
Ever since the fey folk from Faerie appeared in the modern world a century earlier, the majority of humans feared them and their power. Someone like Laura, a druid with no discernible physical characteristics to distinguish her from humans, enjoyed the benefit of social acceptance. Someone like Resha, with his skin tone and forehead peak and sharp, predatory teeth, had no hope of blending in. Yet, despite having told her once of his personal discomfort with prejudice, he didn’t understand that money did not always buy acceptance.
Rhys made a dismissive gesture. “The important point is humans are making a distinction between the Guild and the fey as a whole. That works to our political advantage. The human politicians can safely support our initiatives without undermining their voter bases.”
Resha repositioned his chair to face Rhys. “In some quarters, there are calls for the Guild to fund the entire renovation.”
Rhys frowned. “I’ve heard the rumblings. Who are these Legacy people?”
Laura masked any reaction that might indicate she knew about Legacy. The Legacy Foundation sought an end to the fey monarchies in Ireland and Germany. Until recently, they acted primarily as a think tank, better funded than most, whose primary focus was to convince the U.S. government to sever diplomatic ties with the monarchies. Recent information indicated they might be radicalizing, which was why she and Sinclair had started infiltrating it for firsthand data. She wasn’t aware of any specific news items or press releases from Legacy regarding the incident at the National Archives. “They’re a coalition of fey and humans who think the monarchies are dangerous. They do a lot of humanitarian work for people affected by the fey. For instance, I know they run medical clinics for humans who have essence-related injuries.”
Rhys smiled. “Perhaps we should offer our support.”
With a serious and considering look, Resha bobbed his head. “Perhaps funding for one of those clinics would show them we care about such things, too.”
Laura met Rhys’s eyes for the briefest of moments. Resha had a tendency to be either dense or clueless. Rhys smirked back. “That’s an excellent idea, Resha. In fact, I think it would look less heavy-handed if you made the call.”
Pleased, he bowed his head. “I’d be happy to.”
A satisfied smile flashed across Rhys’s face. Having a joke at Resha’s expense felt petty. Rhys underestimated Resha and, although often justified, the merrow was astute enough to take advantage of the perception. “I’ll send you what information I can find, Resha. When you’re ready, we can pull a press release together,” she said.
Rhys waved a dismissive hand toward Resha. “Laura and I need to work out some details on the Draigen macCullen reception, Resha. Send me a budget recommendation and let me know as soon as Legacy catches wind of things.”
Resha stood and bowed his head. “I will keep you apprised, sir.”
Laura shuffled the files on her lap as Resha left the room.
“He’s useful occasionally,” Rhys said.
Laura’s smile was practiced detachment. She wondered what Rhys said when she left a room. She sensed he liked her, liked her work; but she had irritated him on more than one occasion. He made no effort to hide his displeasure then, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Still, he was her boss, and she played things carefully with him—distant enough to keep things professional, familiar enough for him to view her as an ally. “With all the strong personalities in the Guildhouse, he can be quite a disarming advantage for you.”
Rhys grunted. “We’re going to need all the strong personalities we can get in the next few weeks.”
Laura retrieved a folder and pulled out several papers stapled together. “Senator Hornbeck wants to speak last at the Archive memorial service.”
She handed him the schedule. The terrorist attack at the National Archives had resulted in the deaths of twenty-nine people and millions of dollars in damage. The Guild had plenty of cash to fix the building. The loss of life wasn’t a problem solvable with money. Rhys skimmed the schedule. “That’s fine. I’ll take whatever criticism he wants to throw at us after I speak. We can spin it later in the media outlets.”
He dropped the schedule. “Speaking of which, from now on I want every document relating to the attack to refer to ‘Inverni terrorists.’ ”
Laura folded her hands on top of the folders and pursed her lips. The fey were, in truth, refugees in the world. Faerie existed, or at least had at one time, and was ruled by fairies of the Danann clan. In the early 1900s, the event known as Convergence occurred, the puncturing of the veil between Faerie and the modern era, and the fey found themselves trapped. Their common struggle to find acceptance among the human populace did not mean that the fey forgot their own internal animosities.