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Prologue
We call it the Breaking of the Worlds, the moment when magic tore Earth in two and created Fairy. Humankind could not hunt us in Fairy. They could not demand our magic be used for their purposes, and they could no longer murder us in their fear. The great dragon and his sidhe lover had created a haven for all Bright creatures, a world beside the world, where we could be safe.
Chapter One
There was a knot between my shoulders from sitting still for too long, but I tried for a pleasant smile anyway. Morning light set the study into a warm glow of polished wood and brass fixtures. My father’s oriental rug was the worse for wear, its pleasant blue pattern fading despite my best efforts – both magical and mundane – at upkeep, but it was seven-hundred-years-old, if his boasts were to be believed, and entropy was having its way. Nothing short of encasing the rug in glass would save it at this point, and I didn’t have the heart or the finances to do that.
Across from me, sitting on opposite ends of my overstuffed couch, the vampire and the elf scowled at separate windows. Neither seemed interested in being the first to speak, which was tiresome since we had been suffocating in silence for the better part of ten minutes. I checked the old cuckoo clock ticking away on the west wall and tried not to tap my pen against my open notebook.
Maker knew I couldn’t write anything or both creatures might turn on me, demand to know what notes I was taking, and the explosion we were all avoiding might level the house.
Well, maybe not the whole house. I was relatively certain my wards could withstand any magical attacks these two brought to bear, but since a lycanthrope tore through our music room last week, I wanted to err on the side of caution. Nana Bess would never forgive me if I let such a thing happen twice in the same month. So, I focused on keeping a polite smile and waited for my clients to answer the ten-minutes-and-counting opening question.
Mrs. Daphne Belmonte – the svelte vampire currently glaring daggers into the oil painting on the northern wall – reminded me last month that both she and her husband had already outlived me by several hundred years. The very idea that twenty-seven-year-old me could have any relevance on their immortal lives was laughable, and the only reason they attended these sessions was because of the interspecies marital law passed three years ago.
All of which I couldn’t fault her for. The law did seem like an invasion of privacy, no matter how well meaning the Center for Earthside Bright might be.
But the hurt ebbing off both creatures was a palpable weight on my chest, and I could sense the fraying of their relationship through every unspoken second. With a deep breath, I checked the clock again.
These two needed to talk, soon. But it is cursedly difficult to get a three-hundred-year-old vampire to open up about her feelings, especially one as pristine as Daphne. The woman’s perfectly shaped fingernails were vivid blue that sparkled in the light, and her flowing blouse with its plunging neckline matched as though they’d been created for each other. She had straight black hair that was so dark it seemed to consume light, and porcelain fine features that models would die for.
I felt frumpy just looking at her.
Her husband was no better.
Olav Belmonte might have been the poster boy for a typical elven male, complete with brawny shoulders and a full black beard that hid most of his mouth. In contrast to his wife, he was holding tight to the aura of a thug in trousers and a plain shirt. Most humans he passed on the street would likely sense the danger and leave him alone. I would certainly cross the road to avoid him, and I am used to this sort of thing.
Another minute passed and I took a breath. Someone was going to have to end this stalemate and, sadly, I was the professional here.
If we use the word professional in the loosest sense, anyway.
“I would like to try something different this week. I want to speak to each of you in private and then we can come together at the end,” I said, trying to put as much authority into my voice as possible.
Daphne’s gaze snapped to me. “So the man can talk about me behind my back? Not on your life.”
“It wouldn’t be about you; it would be about him. A way for me to get to know him apart from you.”
Maker help me, I was bad at this. Beyond Daphne’s glare I could sense the panic in her, the hurt and fear rabbiting around inside her. Olav was much the same, though he was outwardly calm, and for a heartbeat I wished I wasn’t an empath. Above all other emotions, fear was always the most overwhelming.
But then, if I wasn’t an empath, I wouldn’t have this job.
“It would help me direct a more productive dialog.”
“What dialog?” Daphne lifted her chin a fraction. “The man barely speaks at home. He can hardly be bothered to do so here.”
A flash of pain shot through the fear, but I couldn't determine if that was Daphne or Olav. I took another breath, absorbing the emotion, trying to let it slide away from me.
Olav stiffened – if that was possible, the man was already a rigid brick on the sofa – and pressed his knuckles under his chin in what might have been a play at nonchalance. If it was, it missed the mark entirely.
I started tallying the repair bill in my head.
“So, what you’re saying…” I began, hoping to lead Daphne into a less acerbic tone without having her stop talking at the same time.
“What I’m saying is that my husband won’t speak to me.” She slid a glare Olav’s direction. “I’m lucky to get a grunt of acknowledgment when he comes home, which is rare enough these days.”
I gave a slow nod and cleared my throat. Well, I wanted them to communicate. “You feel that he’s not home often.”
“There’s no feel about it,” Daphne said. “This last month alone he was only home five days.”
