It took a couple of minutes to make it onto the elevator and then out of the station, stepping back into weak sunlight. The weather was mildly warm, and his leather jacket was enough without needing to activate either the heat or cold charms embedded in it. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and turned right, walking down Bayswater Road.
The embassy was centrally located between the Lancaster Gate and Queensway station. The walk there was shaded by an abundance of trees, with cars and buses driving past him on the left. The numerous white row houses were eventually broken up by a single building separated by a brick wall with steel spikes set into the top. The open gate Patrick approached wasn’t made of iron, but steel, the metalwork of it twisted into wards he wasn’t familiar with.
The magic around him had a different feel to it, nothing like a human’s. The fae guards on duty might’ve been wearing suits, but the halberds in their hands had probably taken more negotiation than Patrick’s dagger to be allowed in London—or they just didn’t give a fuck and had brought them anyway.
It was probably the latter.
The fae guards watched his approach and didn’t bar him from entering. Patrick gave them a polite nod on his way up to the embassy’s entrance. He hauled the heavily warded door open and stepped inside a building that was like all the other government-type buildings in London. The only difference was the number of plants in the place.
Ivy covered the wood paneling from planters that had overwhelmed free-floating shelves nailed to the wall. Potted trees and flowers took up space in the lobby. Patrick fought back a sneeze, eyes watering, as he approached the receptionist desk. The woman seated there wore modern clothes, her hair done in trendy waves, though the pointed ears peeking through them and the yellow eyes the shade of a buttercup proved she wasn’t human.
“You’re expected,” the fae said before Patrick could even open his mouth. “Please follow your escort.”
Patrick looked up at where she pointed. A pair of colorful wings pried itself off the ceiling, coalescing into the tiny figure of a pixie who fluttered down to their level. The giggling fae darted around Patrick’s head, making him almost cross-eyed from its antics. He just hoped it wouldn’t bite him.
“This way,” the pixie said in a soft, tinkling voice.
The pixie flew off, and Patrick followed after it. The inner workings of the fae embassy would remain a mystery, as every door he passed was shut tight. He couldn’t hear anything but his own footsteps on the hardwood, the sound muffled by the forest grown out of pots and vases in every hallway he was led down.
Eventually, they came to an intricately carved door on the third level, guarded by a pair of fae in armor rather than three-piece suits. The pixie flew off, leaving Patrick standing awkwardly outside. He watched it go before returning his attention to the door and the guards, wondering if he was supposed to knock. Before he could try, the door opened, and the person blocking the way greeted him with a smirk.
“What,” Patrick bit out, “thefuckare you wearing?”
Hermes reached up to pat the ugly white wig perched on top of his head, a couple of dyed green curls peeking out from beneath it. “When in Rome, as they say.”
“We’re in London.”
“Then god save the queen.”
“Someone needs to save you from your shitty taste in clothes.”
Instead of jeans and a T-shirt, Hermes wore royal purple velvet breeches and matching coat and vest, with silver stockings and a white dress shirt that wouldn’t look too out of place in today’s business world. Hermes looked like he had walked out of a painting depicting court life in the 1770s, except no artist would ever be able to capture the unearthly look in his gold-brown eyes.
“I’m not here to meet with you,” Patrick said.
Hermes smiled. “You are now.”
“This is Seelie Court territory, so long as I stand here. Mind your place, Hermes,” Órlaith said as she pushed the door open wider. She graced Patrick with a smile that lit up her whole face. “Hello, Patrick.”
The Summer Lady of the Seelie Court was as gorgeous as Patrick remembered, and her laughter had a joy to it that had been missing on the Skellig Islands back in December.
“Órlaith.” Patrick extended his hand for a shake before it was batted aside so she could hug him. “Oof.”
She smelled like summer flowers blooming after a rainstorm. Her slim frame belied the otherworldly strength he could feel in her arms. Patrick pulled away after a moment, taking her in, from the mass of her long, wavy red-orange hair to her pale blue sundress and the trendy white sneakers she wore. A thin gold circlet was twisted through her hair, the glittering leaves and flowers there made out of jewels any collector would kill to own. Her eyes were summer-sky blue shot through with gold, inhuman in color, but the kindness in her gaze put him at ease.
“What are you doing hanging out with the likes of him?” Patrick asked, jerking his head in Hermes’ direction.
“Diplomacy.”
“Shame.”
“I’m beside myself with grief at our severed friendship,” Hermes drawled, wig sitting askew on his head.
“We aren’t friends,” Patrick retorted.
“Gentlemen,” Órlaith warned before gesturing at the huge sunlit office behind her. “Come, there’s tea.”
Patrick sighed. “Great. More tea.”
