No, Wycke had witnessed his passing—sort of. An illusion? Or perhaps Lyvianne hid the child in another realm before mages and hellhounds took the old guard’s life.
Too much thinking, best saved for later.
Wycke returned to the hotel room to find Chynne sitting on the folded-up couch.
“From the look on your face, which could curdle milk, am I to believe you found nothing?” Chynne appeared as dejected as Wycke felt.
“Nothing. It’s like someone or something is blocking me.”
“I felt that too.”
“Did anyone tell you anything?”
Chynne sighed. “There’s no hiding what I am or who.” He glared up at Wycke, eyes flashing red. “Remember your reaction to me at the palace?”
Yeah. Nyanda’s familiar wouldn’t be well received. “Well, I’m having dinner with Piers tonight. Despite him being human, maybe he knows something.” Good enough excuse to shirk duty for an evening, in Wycke’s opinion.
“Piers.” Chynne rolled the name off his tongue. “Piers. Why does that name…” He stared off into space. “Something is going on there. Be careful.”
Be careful? A being who barely tolerated Wycke cautioned him to be careful? “Why, Chynne, I didn’t know you cared.”
Chynne growled and turned his back.
Yeah, Wycke knew how he felt. So frustrating. He didnotwant to return to Saris without knowing what happened to Nyanda’s child. What was his name again? “Chynne? What was Nyanda’s son’s name?” Why couldn’t Wycke remember?
“It was…” Chynne turned, head cocked to the side. “I don’t remember. Why can’t I remember?”
Were their memory blocks a product of this realm rejecting human magic? No. That wouldn’t affect Chynne. And the other magicals Wycke had met here kept the ability to maintain glamour.
Very, very strange.
Wycke entered through the restaurant’s front door and immediately spotted Piers sitting at a booth in the back. The aroma of spices and tomatoes made his mouth water. If the taste of the food lived up to the smell, he would indeed like Italian. Soon he’d take bad news to his sister, so why not put off the moment as long as possible?
Yet, this meeting alone caused concern. First, Piers claimed he had to work, now he didn’t. Had he simply changed his mind about seeing Wycke, or was he telling the truth about his sudden availability?
Piers threw up a hand, a tentative smile on his lips. Nervous? Why? Then again, he said he didn’t accept company often.
Dressed simply in a button-down shirt and blue jeans, Piers didn’t stand out much until their gazes met, and he paralyzed Wycke with a pair of icy blue eyes. The rest of his face matched his eyes’ beauty, a long, thin nose, dark brows, high cheekbones, full lips. With the lights low to accentuate the candle burning in a glass on each table, the blue highlights in his hair remained hidden.
Wycke donned a practiced smile. Wait! What? Why? No one here to put on airs for. He let a genuine smile bloom, made his way to the table, and slid into the booth opposite Piers. The stress of the fruitless day suddenly melted.
The establishment didn’t look like a place where royal kin might dine, but somehow Piers elevated the place to much more than a drab eatery.
“Hi,” Wycke said. Hi? He said hi? How ridiculous.
Piers’ smile turned shy. “Hi, yourself.”
“I’m glad you called.” No need to bring up the question of how Piers got the number or knew where Wycke was staying. To question fate meant to put oneself on its bad side. Not a good place to be.
Fate hated being questioned.
Then again, maybe Wycke had mentioned the hotel in passing.
“I felt bad about having to work, then lo and behold, someone wanted my shift, so here I am.” Piers swept a clumsy bow without getting up.
“Here you are.” Wycke had to stop grinning like an idiot. Piers gave a hard swallow. Wycke followed the movement of Piers’ bobbing throat with his eyes.
A server appeared at their table, a bottle of wine in hand. “Could I interest you gentlemen in a glass of our best Chianti?”
