The Demon's Daughter, page 21
Color swept up the older boy’s face. Adrian’s own cheeks heated. He hadn’t thought about Charles.
“Actually, Max,” said the boy, with a small, throat-clearing cough. “I’m only six months short of majority. I’ve got a good job now, and much as I appreciate having a…a family to be with, I can take care of myself.”
His countenance was purple by the time he finished. The parlor clock could be heard ticking across the hall. With a woman’s genius for deepening a man’s embarrassment, Roxie assured Charles that he was family, too. “And I love you every bit as much, sweetie.”
“Yes, well.” Charles cleared his throat again, then popped up like a jack-in-the-box to clear the table. “Thanks.”
Roxie was still chuckling when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Adrian volunteered, sensing his absence could only improve Charles’s situation.
Whoever had rung must have remained outside. Adrian left the door ajar behind him and sprinted down the twisting flights to the street. The setting sun filled the stairwell with dusty gold and rose. Whistling as he went, his legs felt as bouncy as Southlandic rubber. He was a hero tonight: his soon-to-be family’s hero.
To his surprise, he knew the person waiting on the stoop. A full-blooded Silver Islander, Sergeant Farsi Ross had skin the color of roasted chestnuts and the curliest black hair Adrian had ever seen. His accent was melodic, serving as counterpoint to his intimidating bulk. In Adrian’s opinion, he was the department’s most promising new recruit.
“Sergeant Ross,” he said, swinging the door open. “Has something happened with one of my cases? Do I need to return to Little Barking?”
He hoped not. Roxie deserved a bit of a honeymoon before being forced to habituate herself to policemen’s hours.
Whatever the sergeant’s news, he seemed more interested in tugging imaginary creases from his uniform than in sharing it.
“Would you like to come in?” Adrian offered, a prickle of unease flashing between his shoulder blades.
“No, sir. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but Superintendent Atkinson asked me to relay the message that you need not come to work tomorrow.”
Adrian fell back a step. The glass of the door was cool against his shoulder. “I’m being suspended?”
The sergeant screwed his dark, broad face into a picture of regret. “Well, not to put too fine a point on it: You’re being dismissed. I am sorry, sir. It’s ridiculous to dismiss you simply because you intervened with the Children’s Ministry on behalf of a friend.”
Adrian cursed under his breath. He’d known word would spread, but not that this would turn out to be Atkinson’s final straw. He supposed he hadn’t wanted to know.
“Rumor has it the superintendent was getting pressure from above,” Ross said sympathetically. “But he knows you’re a good man. Maybe if you talk to him?”
Adrian snorted. “And say what? That I’m sorry? I’m not sorry. Or maybe he wants me to promise not to come here again. I won’t promise. I intend to see this woman as often as she’ll let me.”
Ross lifted his hands. Even in the fading light, his grin was brilliant. “I’m no enemy to romance. We Islanders have our priorities straight. Your gain is Securité’s loss.”
Adrian was warmed by his response, even if it didn’t change a thing. “Somehow, I doubt Atkinson is wasting any tears on me.”
Ross treated him to a true Island shrug. “So you’ll work for yourself now. No more politics.”
“Maybe.” He picked a fleck of paint off the door, then watched an electric tram clack its way along the rails. Sparks flew off the metal wheels as it rounded the corner. Dismissed. This threw a proper wrench in his marriage plans. You couldn’t support a wife on what he’d set aside to supplement his pension.
“You put your mind to it, sir,” Ross said, “and you can do whatever you like. In fact, you ever want to hire another investigator, you call Farsi first.”
Adrian smiled. “That means a lot to me. Of course, I’ll be lucky to support myself as an independent, never mind hiring an employee.”
“Don’t count on it. You’ve got a way about you, Inspector. I know Securité hasn’t always treated you as they should, but outside the department, people trust you. You make them want to put their troubles on your shoulder. I think you’ll have plenty of work.” He finished his declaration by pressing Adrian’s severance envelope into his palm. The stack of notes felt thick. Atkinson must have been feeling guilty.
“Thank you,” he responded, trying to hide his dejection. He wasn’t sure he wanted to enter the sometimes seedy business of private surveillance. Still, the sergeant meant well. He held out his hand for the other to shake. “I’ll remember what you said.”
When he shut the outside door, he found Roxanne waiting on the last step. So. She’d witnessed his humiliation. It seemed inevitable, even appropriate. Her hands were knotted together, and her feet were bare. For the first time he realized how affluent she looked, despite her eccentric dress. The sheen of good health and regular meals glowed in her skin. She owns her own business, he reminded himself. And she’s twelve years younger than you.
He hated the look of pity in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You loved that job.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets to hide their unsteadiness. He shrugged. “I’ve lost things I cared about before. What’s one more?”
“One more is one more.” She sounded watchful. Wary. “If Herrington was behind Max being taken, he may be behind this, too: his retaliation for being thwarted.”
Adrian wasn’t sure it mattered. Atkinson might have fired him anyway. He pushed his hair back from his face. He was going to have to get it cut. Then again, why worry about looking businesslike now?
“We should have talked to Herrington,” she said, “as soon as we got Max back.”
“We can’t know that would have made a difference. Plus, your custody of Max wasn’t secure.”
“But if we’d given…my father a chance to yell at us to our faces, maybe he wouldn’t have done this.”
“Yama don’t think that way. They prefer the indirect route.”
“If I’m mad at someone, I want to yell.”
“That’s funny. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you do it.”
She sighed. “I could have given in to him,” she admitted reluctantly.
Adrian cocked one eyebrow. “Without knowing what his idea of father-daughter obligations involves? Assuming he was behind this—which we don’t know—you couldn’t have guessed this would happen. Hell, if I’d guessed, I would have done it anyway.”
She took this in, her wrists twisted together between her knees. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Go private, maybe. Investigative work is all I’m trained for. I’m not destitute, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Adrian.” One bare foot dropped to the dusty vestibule floor, but aside from that, she didn’t come closer. “You know I’m not worried about your finances.”
“Aren’t you?” He studied the concern on her face. “Tell me you weren’t wondering whether you should offer to help.”
She blushed and drew a circle with her toe.
“That’s what I thought.”
“You’re my friend. And you’ve helped me. Look what you did for Max and Charles.”
“You’re a woman,” he said. “You’re supposed to need help.”
She drew her foot back onto the step and crossed her arms. Her expression said this was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. “Come on, Adrian. With thinking like that, you might as well grab my hair and drag me back to your cave.”
Anger heated in his veins. So what if he was stuffy and middle class? So what if she wasn’t truly his to take care of? What right did she have to mock him when he was at his lowest?
Catching himself before he could say something he regretted, he forced his body to relax. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at fate. “You feel like a drink?” he asked abruptly. “ ’Cause I sure could use one.”
“I don’t know.” She seemed startled as he caught her elbow and began to escort her back up the stairs. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink when you’re upset.”
“Who’s upset?” He stomped them forward determinedly. “We’ll celebrate my freedom. We’ll celebrate not having to worry about whether I’ll get fired. After all, I already have been.”
When he laughed at this irony, Roxie did not join in.
Chapter 21
Ironically, the rohn’s industrious habits did not endear them to their human hosts. Though poor compared to the daimyo, each exile arrived in Avvar with his royally mandated “bloodstake”: a small sack of Northlandic gold which was meant to prevent him or her from becoming a drain on Victoria’s purse. With this capital, far greater than most residents of Harborside would see in their lives, they began small businesses that then provided humans with employment—menial, it was true, but in an impoverished area like Avvar’s slums, such jobs could not be scorned. Hole-in-the-wall restaurants sprung up, used-clothes sellers, tiny repair shops for the new technology. Harborside had never been so vibrant…or so divided. Envy, it seemed, was not a good basis for friendship.
—The True and Irreverent History of Avvar
They started at the Book and Beer, a local establishment that was half bookstore, half public house. It boasted a mixed crowd: students, artists, even a few rohn. The Yama sat quietly amongst themselves, dressed in their traditional navy and gray, a small but telling distance between their tables and the rest—as if the other patrons feared the foreigners might lose control and start draining everyone’s energy. Had the pub been any nicer, the Yama would have been turned away. Had it been any worse, they wouldn’t have come near it. Demons were notoriously finicky about dirt.
Their coin was fine, of course. Everyone liked demon gold.
Most of the humans at the Book and Beer were drinking absinthe and smoking the strong Jeruvian cigarlings that were all the rage that year. Pungent silver-blue clouds swirled above the marble café tables. With their sensitive noses, Adrian wondered how the Yama could stand it. For himself, he hoped the fashion wouldn’t last.
By the time he procured a half-pint from the tap, his determination to enjoy himself had run dry. Back at their windowside table, Roxie was reading the Avvar Post. Didn’t want to encourage his drunken revelry, he supposed. He turned his chair backward and straddled it. The bent-cane back provided a welcome support for his chin.
He sucked the froth off his Bookman’s Red. He sighed. Roxie turned a page. “Home Rule Sympathizers Dump Tea in Harbor,” tattled the headline. The Post was staunchly pro-Empire. If Victoria sneezed, it made the front page. His mind turned in an aimless circle as he thought back to the stack of papers he’d found in Tommy Bainbridge’s temporary burrow. Now that Adrian was unemployed, he’d have plenty of time to look for lost boys, just no means to support it.
The reminder stirred a wave of restless energy.
“This place is too tame,” he groused.
Roxie lowered the edge of her paper. She stared pointedly at a nearby table where a young woman, probably an artist’s model, sat on the lap of a delighted law student. They were sharing smoke and absinthe without benefit of a glass.
Adrian chose not to acknowledge the refutation. He set down what remained of his beer. “Let’s go somewhere near the harbor. I want to see the tea those ‘sympathizers’ dumped.”
“Adrian.” She folded her paper with a brisk rattle. “Charles says you have a portrait of the High Lady in your office, so I know you don’t really want to view this outrage to the Crown.”
“For your information, every Securité officer has one. Victoria’s in our oath.” All too easily, he pulled himself into review posture and placed his hand over his heart. “‘I swear to uphold the laws of the Aedlyne Empire and offer my undying fealty to our most esteemed High Lady, Victoria Christiana St. Steffin Faen Aedlys.’”
“Hear-hear,” said one of the patrons, probably a second-generation immigrant.
Another, from the opposite camp, offered up a raspberry.
The rohn simply looked nervous.
Feeling bad about this and hoping to avoid a scene, Adrian stood. “I’ll let you choose the spot,” he said to Roxie. “As long as there’s music and beer.”
She considered this. “You won’t argue with my choice?”
Policeman’s honor, he almost said: his own personal anachronism.
“All right,” she surrendered. “Be forewarned, though, the place I’m taking you isn’t for tidy folk.”
“Who’s tidy?” he scoffed, and tugged off his cravat.
Adrian’s mood made Roxanne nervous. Was this brittle cheer what failure—temporary failure, she assured herself—brought out in a man? If so, how long would it last? He certainly wasn’t behaving sensibly. First, he insisted on covering the evening’s expenses, then wanted to hire an electric cab. She coaxed him onto the trolley instead. He might prefer to play the gentleman of means, but pride wouldn’t protect his reserves.
Giving their seat a surly swipe with his handkerchief, he muttered under his breath about people who pinched a penny until it screamed.
Heat swamped her face at the unexpected barb. Yes, she economized, but why buy everything new when there were so many nice old things that only needed a bit of care to catch their second wind? Besides, she had two boys’ futures to consider. And her own. And Adrian’s, in a way. She knew it galled him to accept anything from her, but he’d gotten fired on her behalf. She wasn’t about to let him swing in the wind. He’d have her support and be damned to him. Even if he wouldn’t take her money.
She resettled herself on the hard wooden seat. Stupid male. Had their positions been reversed, he’d have sheltered her in a minute.
They debarked at Front and First. Adrian stepped onto the cobbles and inhaled deeply.
“See”—he handed her down—“you can smell tea.”
“I smell old fish,” Roxie teased.
They stood a stone’s throw from the docks. Oil lanterns lit the pier. Between bursts of noise from the taverns, waves slurped at barnacled pilings. Her nose detected the faintest whiff of oolong. The strongest smell, however, was the aroma of fresh lager. And why not? These brews made their way to Avvar from all ports of Victoria’s Empire. After a long journey spent inhaling the yeasty perfume, the sailors were understandably eager to sample the goods.
“Over there.” She pointed to the sign swinging above one entrance. It portrayed a grinning terrier guarding a mug between his paws. “The Hair of the Dog serves the best beer in Harborside. And they’ve got a piano.”
The fact that the owner was a personal friend and would make sure they didn’t stumble into trouble, she kept to herself.
When they entered the noisy tavern, the piano sat abandoned. To Roxie’s relief, Adrian put up no protest. Not that he had much opportunity. As soon as Genevieve Bleeker spotted her former shipmate, she let loose a whoop that rattled the bottle-bottom windows.
Built like a bulldog and twice as determined, Bleeker had been forced from the sailing life when she lost half an ear in a dockside brawl. Not only did the injury offend their captain’s sense of aesthetics, the fight represented a serious breach of discipline. The heartbroken Bleeker was obliged to find a new love. Fortunately, Roxie was a well-heeled landlubber by then and could afford to stake her bar. The day Bleeker paid back Roxie’s loan, she thanked her for the first time. Roxie understood. Some people couldn’t rest easy until they’d paid their markers.
Sparing a brief glance for Adrian, the grizzled salt pulled Roxie into a bone-crushing hug. Her short silver hair clung to her head like a cap, beneath which her mangled ear was defiantly visible. When she pushed back, her sea green eyes twinkled like stones in a streambed.
“Long time no see, Red. Been too busy playin’ Hide the Sausage with the pretty boys?”
“Get swived,” Roxanne retorted, falling easily into her former foul-mouthed seafaring ways. “Queen’s crew always know where the sausage is.”
At this, Bleeker gave Adrian a once-over direct enough to bring color into his cheeks. “Hard to lose track with a two-fister like that, eh?”
Roxie grimaced on Adrian’s behalf. “Take pity, Bleeker. This one’s a daisy.”
“Fresh enough to pick,” Adrian threw out, still red in the face. Bleeker laughed and walloped his shoulder. His good sportsmanship established, a friendship commenced. With Bleeker’s help, Adrian snagged two pints and a table.
“For the sake of appearances,” he said when Roxie looked askance at her brimming tankard. “Otherwise, these old salts will think I’m drinking alone.”
He downed his drink with the appreciation of a thirsty man, after which he braced one hand on the smoke-blackened wall and stood.
He certainly didn’t have a hollow leg. Roxie grinned into her fist as, swaying slightly, he shouldered through the crowd toward the battered black upright on the far wall. Her eyes widened when he tipped the bench down off the top, sat, and slid back the cover.
Adrian played?
Apparently so. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders in preparation. His hands descended. At first, she couldn’t hear a note above the din but, gradually, as a circle of quiet spread outward from the piano, the music reached her. No childish plunking, this, but a lyrical sonata, deceptively simple, exquisitely timed. Her eyes burned, her intuitive response to artistry. Brine-tinged air gusted through the room as people on the street heard and came in. Even a few rohn braved the rowdy surroundings.
Roxie didn’t bother to wonder why. Adrian was good: concert quality, and—unlike well-born Yama, who tended to suppress such proclivities—rohn were as susceptible to the enticements of human music as they were to etheric-force. Adrian’s fingers must have seemed magical as they flowed over the keys. His body swayed. His eyes closed. Then, as though embarrassed by his solemnity, he broke into a champagne waltz so bubbly it made her feet itch for dancing slippers.
