“Cynwrig found you, and I can assure you, that journey underground is not an experience I wish to repeat. We Ljósálfar are not meant to be in such realms for long.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything as we arrived at the tavern. Ye Olde Pixie Boots—the name Mom had given it when she’d taken over the business from Gran umpteen decades ago—had stood here for hundreds of years and, aside from a few changes here and there, was basically the same late medieval building that had been rebuilt on this spot after fires destroyed it and much of the old city in the late 1400s. Like the other buildings that made up Deva’s famous row, it was listed, and consisted of a small bar in the undercroft at street level, another at row level, and my living area on the top floor.
Mathi stopped to the side of the time-worn front door and finally placed me on my feet, though he kept hold of my elbow until he was sure I wasn’t going to collapse before handing me my purse.
“Thank you. Enjoy your date.” I paused, but curiosity got the better of me. “Is this woman the statuesque blonde with largish breasts—for an elf—that was hanging off your arm at the memorial?”
“No, but she is in consideration.”
“How many have you got in consideration right now?”
“Three, though one has a voice that could shatter glass, which is a shame because she is rather delightful in bed.”
I laughed and shook my head. “And you, of course, are perfection. She’d have nothing to complain about to her friends now, would she?”
“Nothing at all,” he said solemnly, though his eyes twinkled. “I’ll be in contact tomorrow morning about our next step.”
“Make that the evening,” I called after him. “I intend to sleep well into the afternoon.”
He waved an acknowledgement over his shoulder. I turned and opened the old door, letting my fingers run across its stained wood, listening to its joyous song and briefly losing myself in the network of gold that enveloped the whole building, then stepped inside. The main tavern area was intimate—no surprise there, given that, like many along the row, it was long and narrow—with five larger tables in the front half of the room, and the bar and four small tables on the far side of the stairs. Stairs to the upper floor divided the two areas, and bright pixie boots of various sizes hung from the exposed floor joists and beams, some of them real, some of them not, but all of them a nod to tourist expectations that a tavern bearing the name “Pixie Boots” would have said boots displayed. Beyond the door at the far end of the bar was a warren of rooms that included the kitchen, a furniture store, fridges, stock stores, staff changing rooms, and toilets.
It wasn’t yet five o’clock, so the evening rush hadn’t started—though to be honest, during the winter months, the so-called “rush” generally consisted of nothing more than a half dozen regulars and a couple of hardy tourists willing to brave the often harsh weather. Right now, aside from Kitty and Jonnie, who were polishing glasses down near the bar, there was only one other person here.
That person was not a stranger, and she certainly wasn’t a customer, even if she did enjoy a good glass or two of our whisky every time she came here. It said a lot about my current state of fitness that I hadn’t felt her presence before now. I certainly should have, given the thunderous energy that surrounded her.
She was also absolutely the last person I needed or wanted to see right now.
Especially when, yet again, she looked fucking furious.
Chapter
Three
Of course, Beira and unhappiness seemed to be constant companions, but then, she was a very old, very powerful goddess now confined to what she labeled as an “unsatisfactory and inconvenient meat suit.”
It could also be due to the fact that she was just a short-tempered old woman with little patience for those she was forced to work with.
Which didn’t mean I didn’t like her. I actually did. I just wasn’t sure my migraine could cope with her presence right now.
“It’s about fucking time you got here,” she growled, in a voice so grating fingernails down a blackboard were sweet by comparison. “I’ve been sitting here for nigh on three hours. I’ve other things to do than wait for your ass to appear.”
“Said ass has been in Liadon’s domain for the last three hours talking to my father, and I now have the mother of all migraines,” I snapped back, “so if you could lower your fucking tone several octaves, I would really appreciate it.”
She blinked. “Ambisagrusmetyou? Now that is an interesting development.”
“Yeah, it certainly was.”
I motioned to Kitty for a glass, then plonked down on the chair opposite Beira’s. I’d given standing orders that she be provided with a bottle of whatever whisky was on special when I wasn’t here and she decided to wait, simply because it did help mitigate her temper. Today, it was a particularly fine single malt from The Lakes being sacrificed.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“That in order for this particular game to be won, I would have to die.”
She sniffed. A disparaging sound if ever I’d heard one. “Death is not always final, child, as you are well aware.”
Meaning the situation with my aunt, no doubt. She’d “died” to escape the magical restraints that had been placed on her by the pixie council via the red knife, but had ensured there were medics close by to bring her back to life. “I’m thinking that is not an option when it comes to this round of godly games.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She tapped a yellowed nail against the old wooden table, and though it didn’t seem to affect the wood’s song, it annoyed the hell out of me. I bit my tongue against the urge to say anything, however, because she had at least modulated her tone. “Did he say anything else of import?”
