He closed the door to the basement, a move that surprised Laura. Terryn hid nothing from Cress as far as she knew. “Like I said, I don’t like this. You’ve had persona conflicts before, but never this many connecting to the same case and never with Laura Blackstone involved. I’m worried things could slide out of control.”
She swallowed water. The true reason her personas were tangled was her poor decision to create Janice. Janice Crawford wouldn’t have happened if Laura Blackstone hadn’t been involved with Foyle through Hornbeck’s office. “Are you sure that’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
She rubbed at the tense muscles in her neck. “I read the Alfrey file. He’s dredging up a lot of bad memories, isn’t he?”
Terryn glanced at the basement door again. “I know I can’t lie to you, Laura, so, yes. The Alfrey clan has always been a problem for my family. I don’t think this investigation is about me, but I’m concerned about where it can lead.”
Laura frowned. “Are you afraid it might lead to Ireland?”
He shrugged, a long, languid gesture for him that sent his wings rippling. “ ‘Afraid’ isn’t the word. My sister has things well in hand leading the macCullens. It’s the larger issue. I walked away from Danann and Inverni politics because it never ends, but I’m wondering if Simon Alfrey’s appearance is a sign that I made a mistake.”
“How would your being in Ireland have made a difference?” she asked.
He frowned. “I don’t know. But I do know that I would have a clearer sense of the nuances of what is happening with Alfrey.” His eyes slid to the basement door again. “And I don’t know if I can go back.”
She realized his conflict was about Cress. The clan would have a hard time accepting a non-Inverni as a mate for their leader. That Cress was a leanansidhe made matters worse. No one trusted them. With the failures of the past haunting the Inverni, they would find Cress’s influence disturbing. Hell, she thought, I find it disturbing sometimes. Their intimacy had a palpable texture to it. Everyone could feel it when they were together. That intensity for anything other than the good of the clan would be looked on as suspect. “The Wheel of the World, Terryn,” she said instead.
Terryn said nothing. The Wheel of the World, the fate of them all, a question of faith to which both she and Terryn subscribed. Things happened because they needed to happen for whatever reason fate dictated. They all rode the Wheel as It turned. Sometimes It ran its course as it would and sometimes people affected its course. At least that was what Laura believed. Otherwise, she was a pawn in the hands of some vast unknown Power. As far as she was concerned, if such a Power existed, she doubted it would care much about her as an individual.
“Sometimes I forget that,” he said.
“We all do.”
He changed the subject. “Sinclair stays off the books until he proves himself.”
“That’s fine with me,” Laura said.
Terryn allowed himself a tired smile, which was telling. Powerful fey didn’t tire easily. “Good. Because he’s your responsibility until then. He doesn’t go anywhere without you except when he’s at work.”
Laura nearly dropped her glass. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head. “No joke. I don’t trust him. I trust your judgment, but that doesn’t mean I won’t set precautions. You should decide where you’re going to live. The two of you can’t stay here. It will raise questions.”
She put the glass down. “You want me to live with him?”
“Is there a problem? You’ve done things like this before. If he’s willing, maybe he’ll let Janice Crawford move in to his place. The Crawford apartment is rather small, and the cable’s been disconnected.”
She retrieved the glass and turned away to refill it at the sink. “Fine. Bring him to the Guildhouse. I have to get some things from my apartment, and I’ll pick him up afterward.”
“Okay. Cress should be done by now. Do you want me to help debrief him?” Terryn said to her back.
She shook her head as she stared out the window. Someone had set up a swing set in the backyard. “It’ll help build trust if I do it alone.”
“True. Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” he said.
She kept staring out the window. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
CHAPTER 18
DROPPING HER DUFFEL bag on the threshold, Laura stood in the doorway of Sinclair’s apartment. The small, spare living room was furnished with two armchairs and a couch. A pile of books and magazines teetered next to a used coffee cup on the coffee table. Throw pillows pressed to one side of the couch with a blanket hanging half on the floor. A flat-screen TV was mounted above the fireplace.
“Sorry the place is such a mess,” Sinclair said.
“It’s fine.” All in all, Laura thought, a helluva lot cleaner than her room at the Guildhouse.
Sinclair picked up the blanket and folded it. “Make yourself at home.”
She closed the apartment door. While Sinclair tidied the magazines, she scanned the room for essence. Moving along the bookcases to either side of the fireplace, she noted a few classic novels, plenty of mysteries and thrillers, and a substantial amount of nonfiction. Sinclair read biographies of politicians and histories. Or at least owned them, Laura thought. She mentally slapped herself for the unspoken dig at him. She couldn’t deny he read. There were too many books and too many categories for it to be one of those contrived libraries. She had been hoping he wouldn’t be interesting.
A stone cup sat next to a history of the Seelie Court in the twentieth century. It threw off the subtle essence of a listening ward. As Sinclair passed it on the way to the kitchen, the cup’s essence faded and reappeared when he was gone.
The dining area was large enough for a table and four chairs. Sinclair scooped an empty glass and a plate with crumbs off the table and carried them through an archway. A framed photograph hung on the wall. Other than that, the space held nothing that could be a ward.
To the left of the dining room, the archway led to a galley kitchen. She watched Sinclair place the cup, plate, and glass in the sink and run water. “Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ll take any kind of beer,” she said. She opened the cabinets and scanned inside. No listening wards. Sinclair moved to the end of the counter and took two beers out of the refrigerator. She caught a subtle current of essence when he moved away. A ceramic canister outside the range of his medallion had been charged as another listening ward. She pointed it out to him and held her finger to her lips.
In the living room, he popped open both bottles and handed her one. He held his out, and they tapped bottles. Laura took a sip and set the bottle on a magazine. She opened her duffel bag. Ask me what this is, she sent.
“What’s that?” Sinclair asked.
She held up a small granite obelisk. “This? I like to mediate in a cleansed space before I go to sleep. Do you mind if I set it up?”
“No, go ahead. Can I watch?” he said. He put a mildly lewd tone to the question.
She glowered at him. “Sure, if that’s your thing.”
She placed the obelisk next to the stone cup on the bookshelf. She caressed it, strands of blue essence dripping from the tips of her fingers into the stone. Retrieving her beer, she sat in an armchair. “That cup’s a listening ward. The obelisk is basically a jamming device. We can talk freely in here. There’s another listening ward in the kitchen and probably one in your bedroom.”