I glanced at the Were beside me, guessing Trent wanted to talk to me about the RSVP I hadn’t RSVP’ed to. “Think I should?” I said, and the man nodded like a bobblehead doll.
Trent leaned into the light. “Get in, Ms. Morgan. I’ll drop you wherever you want.”
I want to go to Vegas and win a car, I thought, but I stepped forward. “Do you have the air on in that thing?” I asked, and he arched his eyebrows. Okay, that was probably a dumb question. “I could use a ride home,” I added.
Trent beckoned, and the two warlocks behind me almost swooned by the sound of it. “All I want is fifteen minutes,” he said, his perfectly political smile starting to look forced.
He slid himself over so I could get in, and in a surge of defiance I grabbed the handle of the front passenger-side door and yanked it open. Quen jerked in surprise as I slipped in, slammed the door shut, and reached for the seat belt.
“Ah, Ms. Morgan…” Trent said from the backseat.
The air was on, but not nearly high enough, and after I put my shoulder bag at my feet, I started fiddling with the vent. “I’m not riding in the back,” I said, angling my half of the vents to me and opening them full bore. “God, Trent. I feel like a kid back there.”
“I know what you mean,” he muttered, and Quen behind the wheel smiled.
That our dads had been friends and worked together to resurrect Trent’s species didn’t mean pigeon spots to me. After they had died a week apart, Trent was raised in privilege and I learned how to fight off teenage scumbuckets who saw me as an easy mark—being raised by a mother so thrown by her husband’s death she almost forgot about my brother and me. Maybe I was jealous, but I wasn’t going to let him think I’d sit beside him as if we were friends.
From behind us an industrial-size horn blew: the city bus trying to get into the pull-off. We were breaking the law by standing here, but who was going to give Trent Kalamack a ticket?
At Trent’s gesture, Quen accelerated into the empty lane of traffic caused by the stopped bus. I felt like I’d won a few points, and I took off my glasses before settling into the plush leather to enjoy the cool air shifting the sweat-heavy curls hanging in my eyes. This is nice.
“The idea,” Trent drawled, speaking louder than he clearly liked, “was that we’d talk.”
“I want to talk to Quen.” I turned to the heavily scarred man and smiled. He looked as old as my father would be if he were still alive, his dark skin marked by the damage with which the Turn had left even some Inderlanders. Quen was an elf, too, which made four that I’d ever met. Not bad for a species that was playing extinct. He must have a portion of human genes in him, or the T4 Angel virus that had offed a sizable portion of humanity wouldn’t have affected him at all.
Though small, Quen was wiry and powerful, both in ley line magic and martial arts. I’d seen him use a black ley line charm once, though Trent probably didn’t know he knew it. Sometimes it was better not to know how the people protecting you did their job.
He was wearing black, his outfit suggesting a uniform, but its design supple enough for ease of motion and comfort. He looked good, in a late-forties way, and if I ever needed a role model, Quen would do nicely. If he hadn’t been working for Trent, that is.
“So how you doin’?” I asked Quen, and the usually stoic man let slip a glimmer of a smirk. Trent wouldn’t be able to see it from his angle, and I wondered if Quen had a sense of humor I hadn’t guessed at.
“I’m fine, Ms. Morgan,” he said calmly, his voice as rough as his pockmarked skin. “You’re looking…” He hesitated, taking a long glance at me as he slowed in bridge traffic. “What have you done to yourself? You look…glowing with health.”
I flushed. He had noticed I’d lost my freckles along with every imperfection my soon-to-be-twenty-five years of living had bestowed on me, an unexpected benefit of shifting forms by way of a demon curse. “It’s a long story,” I said, not wanting to go into it.
“I’d be interested to hear,” he prompted, his rough voice taking on a hint of accusation.
From the back came Trent’s calculated sigh. Thinking I’d pushed him enough—and not wanting to continue this conversation with Quen—I pulled a dirt-stained knee up and twisted around so I could see Trent. “Look, Trent,” I said dryly. “I know you want me to work security during your wedding, and the answer is no. I appreciate the ride home, but you’re nuts if you think that’s going to soften me up enough to get stupid. I’m not one of your fawning debutantes—”