The Prancing Pony pub
It had taken a while
to get Hopkins and Declan caught up, and even Sean had eaten
breakfast with them. Hopkins had already called Fiona’s assistant,
Madeleine, and given her the week off and done the same for the
rest of the staff, so there would be no interruptions or
distractions. By the time she and Christophe managed to escape, it
was nearly lunchtime. Sean had dropped them off, darkly muttering
something about errands, and promised to be back in two hours
unless Fiona needed him sooner.
She had never spent
so much time in pubs in her life. A lady didn’t frequent pubs, of
course. She defiantly took another sip of her ale, sending a mental
piss off to her
grandfather.
“I’ve never liked ale
before, but it’s really quite perfect with the fish and chips,
isn’t it?” She chose another chip and blissfully poured vinegar on
it and doused it with more salt. “I could quite get used to this
pub food.”
Christophe grinned
and shook his head. “I’m corrupting you. Today ale and pub food,
tomorrow who knows? Reality TV?”
“You know about
reality TV? In Atlantis?”
“Riley told us about
it. Another sign of the decline of humanity, if you ask me.” He
nodded toward the bar. “There he is.”
She turned. It was
him. “How could you know which one is Maeve’s cousin?”
He was right, though.
“Yes, that’s Paul.”
“Not exactly a
brilliant deduction. He’s the only Fae who walked behind the bar
like he owned it.” He leaned forward. “You’ve got a little salt
right there.”
Instead of wiping the
corner of her mouth, he kissed it, and then he kissed her some
more, and soon she was necking in a pub like a proper
ninny.
“Stop,” she said,
pulling away. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I look at it more
like I have a reputation to destroy. Namely, yours.” A slow, wicked
smile spread across his face. “Sex on a balcony in broad daylight,
kissing in a pub—what’s next? The fall of the British aristocracy,
I bet.”
“Shh!” She looked
around, but nobody was paying them any attention, except for Paul,
and he was too far away to have heard. “You’re too
bad.”
“Nope. I’m just bad
enough, and you love me.”
She sighed. “Yes, and
you’re going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”
“Every chance I get.”
He tilted his head toward the bar. “Why don’t you go find out what
Paul knows, soften him up before I come over? I’ll stay here and
rescue any of my chips you didn’t manage to steal.”
“I am a cat burglar,” she whispered.
She stole another
chip and waved it just out of his reach before she slid out of the
booth and headed for the bar.
“Hello, Lady Fiona,”
Paul said, wiping down the already spotless bar. “Surprised to see
you here.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I
haven’t made it over more often. Dead-lines and such. You know how
it is.” She smiled, inviting him to agree.
He
didn’t.
He didn’t smile,
either.
“I know you know
about us now, Fiona,” he said, his formerly warm voice gone cold
and hard. “What do you want?”
She allowed a little
of his wintry coldness to seep into her own voice. “I want to talk
to Maeve, Paul. She took a friend of mine when she poofed out of my
house, and I want to be sure he’s all right.”
He turned to aim his
stare at Christophe. “Your friend from Atlantis is fine. You can
tell him that, and get out of my pub.
Both of you. I’m in danger just from your presence.”
She glanced back at
Christophe, and quicker than thought, he was standing next to her.
She’d wanted him and he was there. Warmth spread through her veins,
as though he superheated her blood simply with his presence. The
soul-meld? Perhaps. A topic to be tabled until later,
certainly.
“Where is
she?”
“She’s in the Summer
Lands, fool. You know that and you have no recourse.” Paul picked
up a wickedly sharp knife and started slicing through limes like
they were butter. “I like cutting things, Atlantean. How well can
you bleed?”
“Are you threatening
me?” Christophe’s voice was calm. A little bored, even. She could
actually feel that he didn’t consider
Paul to be the slightest small threat.
Christophe answered
her unspoken question out loud. “Fae vary as dramatically in power
as humans do in physical or mental ability. This one isn’t much of
a power. Barely even much of a Fae.”
Paul’s hand tightened
on the knife until his knuckles turned white, but he didn’t
challenge Christophe. Instead, he sighed.
“Just leave. I can’t
force you to do it, but if you don’t, I’m going to suffer for it.
If you ever liked me at all, Fiona, please just
leave.”
She stared at him,
looking for any hint that this was yet another deception, like the
bit with the knife, but all she saw was weariness and a hint of
fear.
“Who is frightening
you like this, Paul? Tell us and we can help you.”
He laughed, and it
held genuine amusement and utter despair. “You can’t help me,
Fiona. You can’t even help yourself. Get out of London while you
can. Run. Run all the way to Atlantis. Swim, if you have to. He’s
after you next. He’s going after the Siren and then he wants you,
and I don’t even know why.”
Christophe reached
over the bar and grabbed Paul by the collar and lifted him up and
halfway over the polished wooden surface. “Who wants her? Tell me
or die now, Fae.”
Paul looked down at
the fruit staining the front of his shirt and then raised his head,
and a corpse’s smile spread across his face. “Maeve’s brother, of
course. Fairsby is Gideon na Feransel, Prince of the Unseelie
Court, and he has decided to take a human bride. He’s after you,
Fiona. You need to run.”
Christophe released
him, and Paul slid back down his side of the bar until he was
standing there, grinning at them, his eyes twin holes blazing in
his pale face. “He has old business with you, too, Atlantean, or so
he claims. You should both run.”
He started laughing,
clutching his middle, insanity rising in the shrieking tones of his
voice. “Run, run, run. Run, little human, but there’s no place to
hide. The Siren is back, the wolves will fall, Atlantis will be
destroyed. Run, run, run.”
Fiona grabbed
Christophe’s hand and pulled him toward the door. She managed, only
just barely, to keep from covering her ears with her hands to block
out the horrible laughter. The mad refrain of “run, run, run”
followed them out the door and at least fifty feet down the
street.
That’s when the pub
exploded behind them.