"I know what I mean." I staggered under the weight as he dumped War and Peace's big brother into my arms. "Okay, he's definitely not human, but it's still kind of hard to believe Studly McGee's been around since dinosaurs roamed the earth."
"Not all creatures evolve at the same rate, Cal. Be kind." He began to turn the pages with a fast thumb.
I had to snort at that one. "He's an arrogant SOB. Shallow as a parking-lot puddle, not to mention vain as hell." I suppressed a sneeze as the musty smell of a lonely, deserted library wafted up from the pages. More subdued, I added diffidently, "George told me we needed a car. Funny we should run into this guy looking for one."
"Did she?" Nik said without surprise. "Georgina is wiser than we'll ever comprehend. She may have known that Goodfellow could help us in some way." Sparing an exceedingly sore spot for me, he didn't push the subject any further. "In any event, Robin is certainly something of a peacock, I'll give you that. But considering how long he's survived, flourished even, perhaps he has some reason." A preemptory finger landed on the page in front of me. "You should try literature that contains words of more than two syllables, little brother. You might just learn something."
" 'Voluptuous' has more than two syllables." Turning the book right side up, I scanned the page. "So does 'nymphomaniac,'" I added, distracted by what was before me. It was Robin as Puck. No, it was Pan, his earlier incarnation. The caption read that the picture was from a temple painting discovered in the ruins of Pompeii. It wasn't exactly a Polaroid, but the artist had obviously known Robin. Not known of him, but been acquainted with him personally. The sly glint in green eyes, the wildly curling brown hair, the smugly lascivious grin, it was our Loman to a T.
"Yes, but 'trash' has only the one." Niko retrieved the book and closed it with a decisive snap. "And your five minutes are up. I suppose you'll be going without shoes?"
I had to put on my black sneakers, the closest thing I had to a dress shoe, one at a time as I hopped down the hall. It was that or go in my socked feet. Niko never had been one for idle threats. Five minutes was five minutes; he had an infallible inner clock… and no snooze button.
By the time we hit the street, I was more or less put together and still curious, in a morbidly apprehensive kind of way, who we were covering tonight. It was simpler to think about that than what we might find out from Robin the next day. They say not knowing is the worst and maybe that's true most of the time, but if anyone could prove that theory wrong, it would be me. Running from the Grendels was bad; losing two years of my life, worse. Being half of a thing so twisted and evil that it was feared even by other legendary creatures, that was the topper. Or was it? It could be that if we did find out why I came to be, did find out what the hell the Grendels were playing at, it'd make our lives now seem like a walk in the park.
And the park was a good place. Green and full of trees, blue skies and Frisbees, hot dogs and Sno-Kones. Okay, sure, the occasional mugger with sharp claws, needle teeth, and maniacal red eyes. You dodged, you ran, you fought, and you went on. The park had its shadows, but it might be better than the alternative. The devil you know…
So contemplating what god-awful psychotic pseudo-celeb Niko was throwing our way was a distraction I wasn't about to turn down. I ran through my mental list, wincing with almost every entry. My brother's clients might've been short of true fame, but they were long on character, 99 percent of it bad. It was a regular mixed bag of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Or more realistically, the bad, the worse, and the plastic surgeon's Porsche payment. "It's not Glenda Glamstein, is it? Jesus, please tell me it's not her."
"It is not Ms. Glamstein," he responded obediently. "Though I'm sure she would be quite disappointed at your lack of enthusiasm if it were."
The sky was a sooty purple, at the cusp of twilight as the sun tumbled into its grave. There were more people on the sidewalks rushing home to dinner, their hobbies, their pets, their families. They all looked annoyed; it didn't say much about their home lives. I bumped my shoulder against Niko's. Most people didn't know how lucky they had it, and most didn't have a clue what family was all about. "Right, and you were so ready to go along with her uniform code."
"It would be tricky to hide very many weapons in a leather codpiece." He pursed his lips and looked down the length of his long nose. "For the less endowed among us certainly. I suppose I could've lent you a penknife." Before I could defend myself, not that Cal Junior needed it, Niko delivered the news early. "But have no fear, your virtue, such as it is, is perfectly safe. Your assets aren't liquid enough to draw the attention of Ms. Nottinger."
At the name I relaxed slightly. Tonight wouldn't be too bad after all. Promise Nottinger was one of the more well behaved of Niko's clients. Never mind that she was more commonly known as Promissory Note. As long as you were under the age of seventy and had less than fifty mil in your bank account, you weren't even a blip on the horizon. She might have been the human version of a succubus, but she was one with very specific tastes. As far as she was concerned, bodyguards were professionals there to do their job, nothing more or less, and she wasn't going to interfere with that. You can't really marry five doddering millionaires and their money without making an enemy or two. Keeping the bodyguard's mind on his business could only be in her best interest. There were plenty of disgruntled and disinherited family members out there just itching to have a go at Promise.
Not that she was a black widow from the "Late Late" movies. No, she didn't drop a subtle poison in hubby's warm milk or give him and his wheelchair a push down the stairs. As far as I knew, they had all died the natural death of the truly elderly. Then again there was more than one way to skin a cat. And if the majority of them had died in bed, shortly after their honeymoon or even while on it, who's to say they didn't get what they paid for? They probably died happy, happy men. To every husband, Promise kept her promise. But more importantly, to me anyway, she was quiet and restrained, and let us fade into the background. She didn't treat us like a circus act or a badge of fame and wealth. Promise was always a lady.
From the first wedding to the last funeral… always a lady.
We got on the 6 train and then made our way up to Sixtieth Street. Promise's place was on the Upper East Side, naturally, and thirty stories up in a building on Park. It wasn't the absolute best money could buy, but instead comfortably sandwiched between the obscenely wealthy and the disgustingly rich. There were shining wood floors, jewel-bright rugs, soft misty paintings, and plump grapes on wafer-thin crystal. Not a television or a bag of Cheetos in sight. Maybe the rich don't have everything after all. Niko liked it, though; I could tell. It wasn't necessarily his thing. Even if we'd been swimming in money, his ideal would be much more spartan, more utilitarian. Still, from the tilt of his blond head to the quicksilver flash in his eyes, I could see he appreciated its beauty, though it was entirely too elaborate for his taste.
Promise herself was much simpler than her apartment. Mink brown hair pulled back tightly from her face, pale skin, a full but unpainted mouth—she was saved from anonymity only by cheekbones that could cut glass and a pair of arresting purple eyes the color of blooming heather. In those eyes you could easily get lost, drowning in a field of summer wildflowers. It was easy to see how five rich men had fallen, and fallen hard.