Rhapsodic
Page 20
“Temper and I are in private investigation. She uses her spells to catch criminals, find missing persons, and”—scare the living crap out of people—“other things. I use my glamour to compel people to confess, or to act against their base nature.” I think of Mickey, my last client, as I say this.
Des clicks his tongue. “Callie, Callie, making a business of breaking the law. My, how this is sounding familiar.”
So I modeled my business after his. Big deal.
“Copying is the sincerest form of flattery,” I say.
The Bargainer leans forward. “Cherub, this is perhaps too sincere. Though, like I said, it does please me … You are taking precautions to guard yourself against the authorities, aren’t you?”
A.k.a., you’re not going to get caught anytime soon, are you?
I swear it sounds like he actually cares. All this coming from the third most wanted man in the supernatural world.
“I’m fine.” I pull out one of the barstools in his kitchen and sit down. “That’s what I’ve been up to for the last seven years.”
I spin myself on his barstool.
“You’re omitting some details,” he says, rounding to the other side of the bar I sit at.
He doesn’t need to tell me that for me to feel the magic pressing down on me, demanding I say more.
“What have I missed?”
Des leans against the island in his kitchen, his eyes unwavering. “Your personal life.”
I can feel my face flushing even as I give him a strange look. Why would he, someone who spurned me long ago, care about my personal life? I’m just a client.
It’s the magic that compels me to speak. “You want me to tell you about all the relationships I’ve had within the last seven years? There’s nothing to tell.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been with no one in all that time?”
Jesus, this is worse than telling my gynecologist about my sexual history.
“What about you?” I demand. “Who’ve you been with?”
“I’m not asking about me, and you still need to answer the question.”
The magic sinks its talons in, tightening my throat.
“Eight. Okay? I’ve been in eight ‘relationships’.” I air quote the word because my idea of a relationship really is a joke. None have lasted longer than six months.
I have commitment issues.
Des’s magic still has me in its grip.
“And some flings here and there in between,” I say, my face heating as I speak.
God, this is embarrassing, considering I’m telling this to the object of my teenage infatuation. And the longer I’m around him, the more I think he wasn’t strictly a teenage infatuation. No, the more he stares at me with those bedroom eyes of his, the more I feel the armor around my heart crumbling away, like it was made of nothing more than papier-mâché.
As I talk, Des’s face hardens. I get a little thrill at the possibility that he’s actually upset at the idea of me being in a relationship.
“Did you love any of them?” he asks.
I tilt my head at him. “That’s none of your business,” I say, more confused than anything.
“Au contraire, so long as you owe me, it is my business.”
“You’re really going to make me say this?” It’s a rhetorical question; I can feel the magic dragging my answer up my throat.
“No, I didn’t love any of them.” Finally the magic releases me. “Are you happy?”
“No, cherub,” he says, his expression flinty, “I’m not.”
I eye him up and down. This entire repayment has been a farce. A kiss, some furniture, and a couple confessions. That’s all he’s asked for so far.
I’ve seen this man single-handedly force a politician to change supernatural law as repayment. I’ve seen him drag secrets out of men who would rather die than confess.
I lean my elbows against the granite countertop. “Why have you come back into my life—and don’t tell me it’s just because you randomly decided I needed to pay my debts.”
He leans forward as well, our faces no more than a foot apart. “I didn’t randomly decide that, Callie. That was very, very deliberate.” He says this like the words themselves are weighty.
I search his face. “Why, Des?”
He hesitates, and I see the first crack in his façade, something that’s not angry or bitter or aloof. Something … vulnerable.
“I need your help,” he finally admits.
Des has made an empire on secrets and favors. Surely I can’t offer anything he can’t already get elsewhere?
“The infamous Bargainer needs my help?” I say this sarcastically, but I’m intrigued.
“There’s something happening in the Otherworld,” he explains, “something even my secrets can’t uncover.”
Otherworld. Just the mention of it raises my gooseflesh. It’s the realm of fairies and other creatures too cruel for Earth. All supernaturals know of it, and those with a lick of sense fear it.
“How can I possibly help?” I ask, as his fridge opens behind him. Already I’m dreading what he might say.
A bottle of sparkling cider floats out from the fridge. Just as the door closes behind it, a bottle of wine slides off the far countertop. A moment later, a cupboard opens and two wine glasses levitate out of it. All four items land in front of the Bargainer, who then begins to pour us drinks.
Des clicks his tongue. “Callie, Callie, making a business of breaking the law. My, how this is sounding familiar.”
So I modeled my business after his. Big deal.
“Copying is the sincerest form of flattery,” I say.
The Bargainer leans forward. “Cherub, this is perhaps too sincere. Though, like I said, it does please me … You are taking precautions to guard yourself against the authorities, aren’t you?”
A.k.a., you’re not going to get caught anytime soon, are you?
I swear it sounds like he actually cares. All this coming from the third most wanted man in the supernatural world.
“I’m fine.” I pull out one of the barstools in his kitchen and sit down. “That’s what I’ve been up to for the last seven years.”
I spin myself on his barstool.
“You’re omitting some details,” he says, rounding to the other side of the bar I sit at.
He doesn’t need to tell me that for me to feel the magic pressing down on me, demanding I say more.
“What have I missed?”
Des leans against the island in his kitchen, his eyes unwavering. “Your personal life.”
I can feel my face flushing even as I give him a strange look. Why would he, someone who spurned me long ago, care about my personal life? I’m just a client.
It’s the magic that compels me to speak. “You want me to tell you about all the relationships I’ve had within the last seven years? There’s nothing to tell.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been with no one in all that time?”
Jesus, this is worse than telling my gynecologist about my sexual history.
“What about you?” I demand. “Who’ve you been with?”
“I’m not asking about me, and you still need to answer the question.”
The magic sinks its talons in, tightening my throat.
“Eight. Okay? I’ve been in eight ‘relationships’.” I air quote the word because my idea of a relationship really is a joke. None have lasted longer than six months.
I have commitment issues.
Des’s magic still has me in its grip.
“And some flings here and there in between,” I say, my face heating as I speak.
God, this is embarrassing, considering I’m telling this to the object of my teenage infatuation. And the longer I’m around him, the more I think he wasn’t strictly a teenage infatuation. No, the more he stares at me with those bedroom eyes of his, the more I feel the armor around my heart crumbling away, like it was made of nothing more than papier-mâché.
As I talk, Des’s face hardens. I get a little thrill at the possibility that he’s actually upset at the idea of me being in a relationship.
“Did you love any of them?” he asks.
I tilt my head at him. “That’s none of your business,” I say, more confused than anything.
“Au contraire, so long as you owe me, it is my business.”
“You’re really going to make me say this?” It’s a rhetorical question; I can feel the magic dragging my answer up my throat.
“No, I didn’t love any of them.” Finally the magic releases me. “Are you happy?”
“No, cherub,” he says, his expression flinty, “I’m not.”
I eye him up and down. This entire repayment has been a farce. A kiss, some furniture, and a couple confessions. That’s all he’s asked for so far.
I’ve seen this man single-handedly force a politician to change supernatural law as repayment. I’ve seen him drag secrets out of men who would rather die than confess.
I lean my elbows against the granite countertop. “Why have you come back into my life—and don’t tell me it’s just because you randomly decided I needed to pay my debts.”
He leans forward as well, our faces no more than a foot apart. “I didn’t randomly decide that, Callie. That was very, very deliberate.” He says this like the words themselves are weighty.
I search his face. “Why, Des?”
He hesitates, and I see the first crack in his façade, something that’s not angry or bitter or aloof. Something … vulnerable.
“I need your help,” he finally admits.
Des has made an empire on secrets and favors. Surely I can’t offer anything he can’t already get elsewhere?
“The infamous Bargainer needs my help?” I say this sarcastically, but I’m intrigued.
“There’s something happening in the Otherworld,” he explains, “something even my secrets can’t uncover.”
Otherworld. Just the mention of it raises my gooseflesh. It’s the realm of fairies and other creatures too cruel for Earth. All supernaturals know of it, and those with a lick of sense fear it.
“How can I possibly help?” I ask, as his fridge opens behind him. Already I’m dreading what he might say.
A bottle of sparkling cider floats out from the fridge. Just as the door closes behind it, a bottle of wine slides off the far countertop. A moment later, a cupboard opens and two wine glasses levitate out of it. All four items land in front of the Bargainer, who then begins to pour us drinks.
