She had reached overload by the time they reached the ground floor and was extra grateful to get her soy latte and that kick of caffeine. Graydon got a grande mocha, and Rune had a black iced coffee. The men ordered a dozen pastries and several sandwiches. Then they picked a corner table. While their manner was relaxed and casual, Rune and Graydon angled their chairs so that they could keep an eye on the rest of the Starbucks. They also could watch the general ground-floor traffic through the windows.
Pia kicked a foot as she drank her latte. She tried not to stare too much at how fast the mountain of food disappeared between the two men. She said, “People use words like ‘empire’ but it’s impossible to understand unless you get a chance to see all this in person.”
“Dragos is the one that did it,” said Rune as he demolished a piece of carrot cake. “About fifteen hundred years ago, he realized the Wyr had to come together and form our own society. It was the only way we could protect our own identity and interests as human societies and other Elder Races developed.”
“Yeah, that dragon’s one nasty motherfucker,” Graydon chuckled. “I don’t think anybody else could have done it. He united the immortals with the mortals, shoved his laws down our throats and kicked predator ass hard and long enough until we all started to behave. We had to or die. Those were some bloody years in the beginning.”
“It seems awfully feudal,” she said. She rubbed her finger around the rim of her coffee lid.
“It doesn’t just seem feudal,” Rune said. “It is feudal. I don’t think there’s any other way to run things. A lot of Wyr are peaceful creatures, like Stanford, who have no problem blending in with human society. A lot more need to know they’ll get the living shit kicked out of them if they don’t follow the rules. The world’s gotten too small for anything else.”
“That’s what you guys do, isn’t it? I mean, when you’re not babysitting.”
“Each of the four gryphons command Wyr forces that patrol a quadrant of the Wyr demesne,” said Graydon. “We’re sort of like police chiefs. But we’ve been pulled in occasionally for babysitting detail before.” He bumped her with his shoulder. “You’re not that special, toots.”
She sat back with a grin. “Thanks, I feel so much better now.”
Just then Rune’s wristwatch beeped. He pushed a button to silence it. “It’s your turn for lunch. Time to head up to Tricks’s office now,” he said as he stood up.
As they rode the elevator, the men chatted to each other with the ease of long friendship. Pia fell silent as she considered her upcoming lunch meeting with Tricks. She turned to face the mirrored back wall of the elevator car. Like her pink robe, her jeans were from Target and she had trimmed her own hair.
Tricks’s silk pantsuit had the classic lines of a famous designer, like Ralph Lauren or Dior, and her chic gladiator-style sandals probably cost as much as a good used car. And how crazy was it to go talk to the faerie about such a relentlessly famous public job? Even if the position were offered to her, she couldn’t take it. Funny, how she hadn’t noticed things like that before when she had been talking to Tricks. Self-conscious, she tugged at the waist of her jeans and smoothed back her hair as she tried to think of graceful ways to back out of the upcoming conversation.
She turned to face the front again along with the two gryphons as they neared the seventy-ninth floor. The doors slid open to reveal Tricks sprinting toward them, her small fists clenched and sweet pixie face transformed with fury. The faerie leaped around a corner and pressed back against the wall, her attention clearly focused on the hall behind her.
Pia slid an uncertain glance from Rune to Graydon. The two gryphons exchanged a look. In a casual-seeming movement Rune took hold of her arm, silently urging her into a corner while he pressed the door-open button to hold the elevator. Graydon laid a hand on his sidearm.
Hard on the faerie’s heels stormed the gigantic American Indian male Pia had noticed in the group of sentinels greeting Dragos’s return to New York. At six foot four and 250 pounds, with barbed-wire tattoos circling thick, muscled biceps and swirls shaven into short black hair, the Wyr male was no less a frightening sight in broad daylight than he had been at night. His face looked like it had been hewn with a hatchet.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Graydon’s eyebrows rose. Either not noticing or not caring about their presence, the male charged around the corner. Tricks stepped out behind him and smacked him flat-handed in the back of his head.
The American Indian spun on one heel with blinding speed. He grabbed Tricks by the shoulders and hauled her up so she was nose to nose with him.