Her cell phone’s ringtone knocked her back into reality. She grabbed it off the coffee table. “Speak of the devil,” she murmured. Lucas’s name and phone number flashed on the screen. Andor muted theTV.
Claire answered on the third ring. “Hey,Lucas.”
“Hey yourself, gorgeous,” her ex said. “Happy Thansgifing.” He slurred the words, and Claire suspected Thanksgiving dinner had been a buffet of double martinis or several shots of expensive singlemalt.
She raised a staying hand as Andor stood. “You too, Lucas,” she replied. Leave it to her ex to spoil a perfect evening. “Do you want to speak toJake?”
“Yeah. Wanna wish him HaffyThansgif.”
Claire rolled her eyes. Jake was more articulate than this, and he had speech therapy three times a week. “Hold on, I’ll get him.” She pressed the mute button and grasped Andor’s hand. “Do you have togo?”
He nodded, his fingers caressing her knuckles. “I have to stop at the museum and check a few things. We were having trouble with the lighting on three of the trees in the Christmas exhibit.” He lifted her hand to his mouth. Claire made a strangled sound when she felt the tip of his tongue glide across her fingers. His gaze was gaslight blue, full of heat and promise. “You beguiled me into staying longer than I meant to,Claire.”
“Sorcery,” sheteased.
“The best kind,” he replied. “I’ll see myself out.” He released her hand, waved to Jake and gestured to the phone. “Your ex will wonder if you’ve forgottenhim.”
She watched him disappear around the corner of the short hallway, heard the front door open and close, and listened to his car back out of her driveway. “I did that the moment I met you,” she saidsoftly.
8
Every year,on December sixth, Andor joined the throng of worshippers who entered the Basilica of Saint Nicholas in Bari, Italy and found a pew near the back of the church where he sat beside its namesake. This year was nodifferent.
Nicholas, dressed in the garb of a twenty-first century gentleman, leaned over and whispered, “I wasn’t sure you’dcome.”
Andor kept his gaze on the altar and the steady parade of people looking for places to sit. “You say that every year, and I’m here everyyear.”
He’d balked at attending the saint’s feast day the first twenty years of his exile. This was ground sacred to a deity whose existence he acknowledged but didn’t worship. He was ljósálfar-born and sensitive to the warp and weft of the magic woven into the air and ground peculiar to Midgard. It pulsed in sacred wells, grass-capped kurgans and temples like these. In this church built in Nicholas’s honor, it resonated heavy in his bones, a power colossal beyond measure and ancient beyond comprehension. The first time he crossed the church’s threshold, he’d nearly bolted right back out. It had taken sheer will to hold his glamour in place and keep his feet planted on thefloor.
Nicholas muttered near his ear again. “This year is quite different. Someone else occupies your time andthoughts.”
“Spying onme?”
The saint gave an affronted sniff. “I’m also the patron saint of one waywardljósálfar.”
An elderly woman sitting on the other side of Nicholas leaned forward, glared at them both and made shushingnoises.
Andor almost broke a rib trying not to laugh out loud at the idea of Nicholas being ordered to be quiet by a congregant in a church built in his honor on a day that celebrated hissainthood.
A mortified Nicholas hastily apologized in Italian to the woman and motioned for Andor to follow him outside the church. Andor didn’t need to be toldtwice.
Once outside, the elf glanced back at the church doors; they were closing, a signal that the mass was about to begin. “You’re going to miss themass.”
Nicholas waved away Andor’s concerns. “I’ll attend the Thursday hymnals or an all-night vigil at one of the Eastern Orthodox churches. There’s also the Departure celebration in the Coptic church on the nineteenth. You’re welcome to attendthat.”
“Humans certainly throw you a lot ofparties.”
The saint sighed and offered a rueful smile. “I get a lot of requests forintercession.”
Andor shifted restlessly, the rhythmic surge of power moving like high tide under the church steps, sending arcane vibrations through his legs. “What did you want to tell me that’s so important, you’d miss the biggest celebration in yourhonor?”
“You found Claireagain.”
Andor frowned, sensing more to Nicholas’s brief statement. “I did. And what strings did you pull to make thathappen?”
Nicholas shook his head. “Not a one. I might suggest you look to your Norns for such machinations, but I’m a Christian bishop and believe something greater is at work there.” He began to pace, and Andor’s unease ratcheted up a good six notches. The saint was typically a calm, good-natured presence. “If you hadn’t come, I would have sent for you. The queen has summoned you to audience at the Ljósálfarcourt.”
Andor didn’t think his spine would freeze any colder if someone had poured ice water down his back. His exile wasn’t yet finished, yet Dagrun summoned him home. “Why? I still have a dozen years left to myexile.”
