“How…suddenly mature of you, Ms. Lane.”
“A sister’s death can make a girl grow up fast.” That much was true.
“I guess that means you’ll be flying home soon, then.”
“Tomorrow,” I lied.
“What airline?”
“Continental.”
“What flight?”
“I can never remember. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Upstairs.”
“What time?”
“Eleven thirty-five.”
“Who beat you?”
I blinked, fumbling for an answer. I could hardly say I stabbed a vampire and he tried to kill me. “I fell. On the stairs.”
“Got to be careful there. Stairs can be tricky.” He looked around the room. “Which stairs?”
“They’re in the back.”
“How did you bang up your face? Hit the banister?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who’s Barrons?”
“What?”
“This store is called Barrons Books and Baubles. I wasn’t able to find anything in public records about an owner, dates of sale for the building, or even a business license. In fact, although this address shows on my maps, to all intents and purposes, the building doesn’t exist. So, who’s Barrons?”
“I’m the owner of this bookstore. Why?”
I jerked, stifling a gasp. Sneaky man. He was standing right behind us, the epitome of stillness, one hand on the back of the sofa, dark hair slicked back from his face, his expression arrogant and cold. No surprise there. Barrons is arrogant and cold. He’s also wealthy, strong, brilliant, and a walking enigma. Most women seem to find him drop-dead sexy, too. Thankfully I’m not most women. I don’t get off on danger. I get off on a man with strong moral fiber. The closest Barrons ever gets to fiber is walking down the cereal aisle at the grocery store.
I wondered how long he’d been there. With him you never know.
The inspector stood, looking mildly rattled. He took in Barron’s size, his steel-toed boots, the hardwood floors. Jericho Barrons is a tall, powerfully built man. I knew O’Duffy was wondering how he could have failed to hear him approach. I no longer waste time wondering about that sort of thing. In fact, so long as he keeps watching my back, I’ll continue to ignore the fact that Barrons doesn’t seem to be governed by the natural laws of physics.
“I’d like to see some identification,” growled the inspector.
I fully expected Barrons to toss O’Duffy from the shop on his ear. He had no legal compulsion to comply and Barrons doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In fact, he doesn’t suffer them at all, except me, and that’s only because he needs me to help him find the Sinsar Dubh. Not that I’m a fool. If I’ve been guilty of anything, it’s having the blithely sunny disposition of someone who enjoyed a happy childhood, loving parents, and long summers of lazy-paddling ceiling fans and small-town drama in the Deep South which—while it’s great—doesn’t do a thing to prepare you for life beyond that.
Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. “Certainly.” He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didn’t let go. “And yours, Inspector.”
O’Duffy’s jaw tightened but he complied.
As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to O’Duffy so I could peer into Barrons’ wallet.
Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a driver’s license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6' 3". Weight: 245. His birthday—was he kidding?—Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was Z. I doubted he was an organ donor.
“You’ve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?”
I’d once asked Barrons about his lineage, he’d told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin.
“No.”
“Where?”
“Scotland.”
“You don’t sound Scottish.”
“You don’t sound Irish. Yet here you are, policing Ireland. But then the English have been trying to cram their laws down their neighbors’ throats for centuries, haven’t they, Inspector?”
O’Duffy had an eye tic. I hadn’t noticed it before. “How long have you been in Dublin?”
“A few years. You?”
“I’m the one asking the questions.”
“Only because I’m standing here letting you.”
“I can take you down to the station. Would you prefer that?”
“Try.” The one word dared the Garda to try, by fair means or foul. The accompanying smile guaranteed failure. I wondered what he’d do if the inspector attempted it. My inscrutable host seems to possess a bottomless bag of tricks.
O’Duffy held Barrons’ gaze longer than I expected him to. I wanted to tell him there was no shame in looking away. Barrons has something the rest of us don’t have. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when we’re standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultured veneer, there’s something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didn’t want to. It likes it there.
The inspector apparently deemed an exchange of information the wisest, or maybe just the easiest course. “I’ve been in Dublin since I was twelve. When my father died, my mother remarried an Irishman. There’s a man over at Chester’s says he knows you, Mr. Barrons. Name’s Ryodan. Ring a bell?”
“Ms. Lane, go upstairs,” Barrons said, instantly, softly.
“I’m perfectly fine here.” Who was Ryodan and what didn’t Barrons want me to know?
“Up. Stairs. Now.”
I scowled. I didn’t have to look at O’Duffy to know he was regarding me with acute interest—and pity. He was thinking Barrons was the name of the flight of stairs I’d fallen down. I hate pity. Sympathy isn’t quite as bad. Sympathy says, I know how it feels, doesn’t it just suck? Pity means they think you’re defeated.
“He doesn’t beat me,” I said irritably. “I’d kill him if he did.”
“She would. She has a temper. Stubborn, too. But we’re working on that, aren’t we, Ms. Lane?” Barrons turned his wolf smile on me, and jerked his head up toward the ceiling.