“Absinthe.”
Maybe he was inching closer to being civil.She should accept, even though she didn’t know what absinthe was.It sounded rather exotic, so why not?“Sure, thanks.”
He removed two short glasses from the cabinet and tipped the squat bottle to fill half of each glass.He placed a silver slotted spoon-type-thing over the top of each glass and set a sugar cube on it with skinny tongs.Like, seriously, withtongs.As though he were doing friggin’ surgery, with the appropriate focus.He then positioned the glasses beneath two of the fountain’s spouts and turned the silver tabs to release a slow drip of water onto the cubes.The sugar melted into the liquid, turning it a milky green.
She didn’t know if he was now looking at her because she was as focused on this process as he’d been while preparing it.The fountain, with old, engraved silver that matched the spoons, looked like it had come from eighteenth-century France or something.When the cubes had completely melted, he stirred each drink with the spoon and slid it across the counter to her.
She had the impulse to clap, but his reverent expression dissuaded her of the notion.Nope, this is a serious ritual.Please hold your applause.
But she did lift the glass.“Cheers.”
“Indeed.”
At the first sip, a rush of menthol licorice filled her mouth and nostrils.Her eyes squeezed shut, and she blew out a breath through pursed lips.When she could open her watery eyes, she stared at the liquid.“This stuff is crazy.What’s in it?”
He sipped at his glass.“Grande wormwood, anise, and fennel, along with other botanicals.Interesting, yes?”
She narrowed her eyes.“Interesting.”Or torture?
But he seemed to be genuinely enjoying each sip he took.She did the same, because maybe he’d be more cooperative, perhaps even friendlier, if sheenjoyedit, too.Or…maybe he was enjoying her discomfort and pretense at actually liking this horrid and very strong drink.Goodness, it had to be near hundred proof.
She set her empty glass on the island.“Thank you for sharing.”
His mouth quirked.“Want another?”
Ah, definitely torturing her.“Maybe next year, thank you.”She pulled out her cell phone and showed him the picture of the Lamborghini.“I understand this might be your brother’s car.”
His expression remained passive.“Yes.”
Well, that was helpful.“Have you talked to your brother lately?”
“Not for a week or so, but that’s not unusual.”
She removed the felt bag from her purse, loosened the cinched top, and extracted the silver feather.
His gaze riveted on it, pupils enlarging.“Where did you get that?”
“From the last Caido who wasn’t cooperative.”
In a blur, he was standing in front of her, gripping her wrist.“Do not toy with me, Dragon Girl.”
She tried to pull free, meeting his fierce stare with her own.“Let me go, and I’ll tell you.”
His hand felt cool against her skin, tight as a handcuff.Her resolve melted as she looked at his achingly stunning face.It’s the Thrall.Don’t let it get to you.
He loosened his grip but didn’t back up.She pulled away and rubbed her wrist, still holding the feather—and her ground.
“I found it in my father’s bedroom, and it looks like there was an altercation.He’s missing.I need to find out who left this and what happened.That Lamborghini has been parked by the curb near my father’s house since I discovered him gone.”
Archer held out his hand, palm up, and she laid the feather in it.A tremor shook his body, and he grabbed his phone and dialed.
After a few seconds, he said, “Jeremy, it’s Archer.Call me.”The muscles in his jaw quivered.Yeah, he was worried.He grabbed a set of keys from the counter and went down the hall.He reappeared in linen pants, pulling a dark blue shirt over his head as he walked to the foyer.“I will find him and get to the bottom of this.What’s your number?”He punched in some keys on his phone and waited for her to respond.
She gave him her number.“But I’m going with you.”
He held the door open for her, but she suspected it was more to make sure she left than out of courtesy.
She paused in front of him.“That dhagger being at my pop’s means something really bad went down, doesn’t it?”
