Tiago said, “Urien looks good for a dead man.”
“Too good,” Dragos growled.
“I can’t believe what a fucking hypocrite he is,” Kristoff said bitterly. “He’s talking about clean energy and lower emissions when he’s still blowing up mountaintops and he has one of the most polluting companies on the planet. You know our DOE contact, Peter Hines, rejected the RYVN grant application like we asked. He got fired today. And Urien’s media blitz hit earlier this afternoon. Stocks are down in six of our companies.”
“The ones headquartered in Illinois,” said Dragos.
“Yup.”
“Oh, buck up, Kris,” Tiago said, impatient. “Did you think Urien would take losing his pet project lying down? Of course he was going to strike back. At least you’ve got the satisfaction of knowing you really pissed him off. Usually he has nothing to do with human media.”
Kris chewed a nail. “I know what’s going to happen next. RYVN is going to reapply for that grant with Hines’s replacement. After this, public sentiment will be on their side.”
“They’ll get that grant over my dead body,” Dragos snapped. “I said do what it takes to tear the RYVN partnership apart and I meant it.” He surged to his feet and slapped his hands on the desk. Tiago was silent and Kris looked at his feet while Dragos battled his rage. After a moment he continued, with a semblance of calm, “Get ahold of Hines, offer him a job. He’s a bureaucrat—he must be able to do something we like.”
Kris said, “Maybe he can join our Washington lobbyist team.”
“Go.” Kris fled. Dragos turned his hot gaze onto Tiago. “And for God’s sake, will you go find that slippery mother-fucker so I can tear him to shreds?”
“Working on it,” said Tiago. “He can run from me but he cannot hide forever. We’ll get him, Dragos.”
He glared as his sentinel strode out. Locating Urien wasn’t happening fast enough. He snarled down at his desk and made himself lift up his hands and get a grip on his temper. I’ve got to stop tearing the furniture up. There’s too goddamn much to do. No time for another repair and remodel.
His thoughts shifted to Pia. He glanced out the window and frowned at the early-evening light. He left the office and jogged the stairs up to a silent penthouse. He strode through the rooms. They echoed with emptiness.
He didn’t like it. His frown turned into a scowl. But what else had he expected? Did he think Pia would be here waiting for him whenever he decided to look this way—like an employee or a servant? Fuck.
Rune, he said telepathically.
Rune replied, They’re still at lunch.
Still at lunch? Dragos reversed direction and headed toward the elevator. Minutes later he entered Manhattan Cat and made his way across the restaurant to the executive room.
Rune and Graydon stood on either side of the closed door. Graydon bounced on his feet. Rune leaned against the wall with arms and ankles crossed. Dragos put his hands on his hips and looked at them.
Rune said, “Tofu stir-fry lunch at one thirty. Four bottles of wine. Waiter took in a tray of chocolate desserts and a bottle of cognac about forty-five minutes ago. Last time the door opened, they were singing ‘I Will Survive.’ ”
“What’s that?” Dragos said.
Graydon grinned. “It’s a seventies hit by Gloria Gaynor. I think they were singing it as a kind of ‘female bonding over bad ex-boyfriends’ type of thing.”
His head jerked up. He had one of the most startling and unwelcome thoughts of the last century.
Am I a boyfriend?
He growled and jerked the door open.
Pia and Tricks were on their hands and knees on the floor, snickering in fits and snorts. The tables and chairs were shoved against the wall. Pia was folding a white table cloth that was covered with black writing.
“Give me a minute,” Pia was saying. “I swear I just saw it. If you fold the flowchart just right—look, the names match up. All of those people slept together too.”
Tricks giggled. “How did you notice? That’s like something out of National Treasure or The Da Vinci Code. We need to get some weird antique glasses with special lenses and maybe we’ll see something else. Wait. Here we go.” She let out a long, loud burp.
Pia counted through the burp. “. . . two ten thousand, three ten thousand, four—oop, you win.” She stared at the little faerie in awe. “Where did you put all that air?”
“It’s a gift,” Tricks said.
Dragos’s bad mood burst like a soap bubble, and he grinned. Pia’s blonde ponytail had loosened and slid over one ear. Tricks had kicked off her sandals and rolled her designer silk pants to the knees. She looked like a refugee from Pucci’s on Fifth Avenue. He leaned against the door and waited to see which one would notice him first.