Warren gave me a withering stare.
I sat up. “I'm going to say hi.” Before the commander could make a sound of protest, I was out of my seat. I had walked past two other tables when I slowly stopped. My heartbeat grew louder under all I could hear was 'whump whump whump,' drowning out all other sounds.
A beautiful redhead, in a summer dress covered in red cherries, but with a body that belonged to an exotic dancer and a swagger to match, joined Remi at his table. He stood up, and they kissed cheeks before he pulled out her chair. She said something. He laughed.
I wanted to wring her neck until it popped off her spine and then spit on her face.
A hand wrapped around my shoulder. Tentative. Gentle. So unlike the Davenport that I knew.
“Let’s eat,” Warren suggested softly.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and the urge to find a waiter and bribe them to spit in the redhead's food. I sat down. My movements robotic.
“I didn’t know Remi had a girlfriend,” I said stiffly. My inner goddess wanted to backhand the shit out of me. Where did all my chaotic evil go? Was I going soft?
“Fiancée,” Warren corrected tersely, his eyes darted from mine to survey the couple across the restaurant. “He didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head, cheeks flushed. I thought about all of my interactions with Remi. There was something there. I wasn't insane.
“Her name is Alicia Greenlea.” Davenport folded his menu and placed it in front of him. He knotted his hands together and watched me with guarded eyes. “She’s a Witchling. Connecticut family. Goes to Columbia.”
My lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “Yippee for her.”
“Remi transferred from London to NYC because she is here.” Davenport continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “The Weber family are well respected in Europe, but their magic will dim if they do not breed into diversity and power.”
“An arranged marriage then?” The waiter came, and I ordered three mimosas and two espressos. No food. Davenport ordered a frittata. The waiter left. “What is a Witchling anyway?” I asked.
“Considering your age, you should know this.” He said.
“Please,” I snorted. “Never shame a lady for her age.”
Davenport arranged the salt and pepper shakers, and then his silverware, taking a second to collect his thoughts.
“Angels get their magic from God. Demons from Sin. The Fae, as you know, are more unique. Witchlings, however, use their own life force to power their spells. Their magic is finite. Burned away with each spell.”
“So if Remi uses too much magic, he'll die?” The thought made me a little sick.
“Witchling power is a Devil's bargain gone wrong. Once Remi turns thirty, he will not be able to use his magic anymore. If he does, he will die. Until then, every spell is a gamble.”
“And Alicia is a Witchling too,” I concluded.
“Yes.”
“And they plan to make cursed babies and live happily ever after in her family’s Connecticut mansion.” The waiter brought over our drinks, and I necked two mimosas, holding one in each hand.
“I didn't realize that you and Remi were...” Davenport's face had cleared of emotion.
“Jealous?” I laughed harshly. “Don’t be, he's getting married.”
“I’m not jealous.” He said softly. “What you have with Remi does not affect what you have with me.”
I wanted to ask about what we had, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Thinking about the way Davenport's lips felt, and his hands tangled in my hair, made my entire body burn.
“Remi loses his value as a Witchling in several months, but he can help his family maintain their status by having children with another prominent Witchling.” Warren reached into his pocket and produced a pack of Big Red. He folded a stick into his mouth and chewed.
“What's up with the gum?” I wondered. Davenport carried a hint of cinnamon with him, but he didn’t seem like the type of guy to chew gum habitually.
“Giving up smoking.” He explained.
I glanced at Remi's table out of the corner of my eye. Alicia flicked her shiny hair over her shoulder and let out a peal of laughter.
“Is Alicia a Hunter?” I asked.
“She is a film studies student.”
My lips pressed together to hold back laughter. “Definitely not a Hunter.”
Davenport laughed before he caught himself and rubbed his hand against his stubble. “Unfortunately, the Greenlea's have foisted their daughter onto me, to keep an eye on Remi. She will be staying with us for a few weeks.”
“Good thing I'm leaving then.” I chirped as I lifted my remaining mimosa, but my smile was fake.
“Yeah.” Davenport echoed. His voice was surprisingly hollow. “Good thing.”
After finding Davenport's armored SUV with a bright yellow ticket under the wiper, we decided to take the subway to Bleecker. As Warren had reasoned, getting a ticket was probably cheaper than paying for parking.
It was early afternoon by the time we stepped into Dirk’s, above John's pizzeria. The unusual warmth that blanketed the fall air disintegrated as soon as we stepped into the Fold between dimensions and into Dermot Dirk's bar.
Dirk's was the same as always. Rusted license plates, a Jukebox playing 'What's New Pussycat,' and an entire bar of empty seats save from a Redcap drinking away his sorrows.
Stan, the bartender, was in the exact same spot I had seen him weeks before. Polishing a filthy glass.
I sauntered up to the pockmarked bar and slid onto a stool. I ordered a shot of Tequila.
Stan did not move. “Boss is expecting you.” He grunted, looking over my head at Davenport.
The Hunter nodded, his arms crossed over his chest, radiating masculine energy. Warren waited patiently for me to disembark from the stool with a heavy sigh. I dragged my feet as we walked through the corridor that led to the backroom.
Davenport knocked on the door. Unlike when I did it, Dirk called him straight through. I scowled and eyed the door with disdain.
Dermot Dirk sat in his office chair, his potbelly hidden behind his desk and his spindly arms folded in front of him, resting on the polished wood. He smiled at Davenport and did not spare me a glance. “Commander.” He oozed the charm that he reserved only for clients. “Thank you for heeding my summons.”
Davenport tilted his head. “You needed an update on Mara's progress?”
Dirk leaned back, his gaze darted to mine and back again. “Yes and no.”
I cleared my throat. “Can I speak to you alone, Dirk?”
Davenport narrowed his eyes. “I’d prefer to stay.”
“It's private.” I insisted. “Just a minute.”
Though he clearly didn’t want to leave me alone with my boss, Davenport patted my shoulder and left the office.
It was a few moments before either of us spoke. The Fae stared at me with pale watery eyes.
“I haven’t got all day.” Dermot Dirk raised both of his eyebrows, affecting an attitude of innocence.
“I'm trying to organize my thoughts.”
“That shouldn’t take long.” His lips curled up in a teasing smile.
My fists clenched. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“We've been over this.” He sighed.
“I was poisoned with salt. I've Marked someone. It’s only a matter of time before I'm found out.” My fingernails bit into the palm of my hand. Drawing blood. “We’re no closer to finding the Summoner. I'm less than useless as anything but bait. You can put a real Mimic Sidhe in the compound in half a second. Why me?” I tried to keep the whine out of my voice but was unsuccessful.