Deamon's Daughter Part 10

"You don't know that they did," he snapped.

The runner squinted at him. "You interested in this filly?"

Adrian rolled his eyes.

"Hey, no skin off my nose," said the runner. "Bloke's got a right to fancy what he pleases."

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I a.s.sure you it's uncalled for."

The runner raised his hands in surrender. "Sure, I understand. None o' my concern. Say, before I forget, she had two kids livin' with her. Don't think they were hers. You want me to dig up somethin' on them?"

Adrian hesitated a moment, tempted, then shook his head. Even if he weren't low on funds, the boys' origins weren't his concern.

"All it takes is time," a.s.sured the man. "I can get more on her, too, if you like."

"I don't want anymore," he said.

The runner took this for the dismissal it was. He downed the rest of his beer in a single swallow and stood. "Nice doin' business with ya, guv. Call me anytime."

Then he left Adrian to his thoughts.

"Of all the luck," he muttered, propping his head over the remains of his meal. Even without Roxie's connection to Herrington, this material was enough to brand her untouchable.

He had, however, promised to call on her again. He was going to have to break off with her. Formally. Finally. In unmistakable terms. He supposed he could avoid her altogether, but that seemed cowardlya"and far less than Roxie deserved. Better he should do it in person. He could take her to a nice restaurant, tell her how much the time they'd spent together meant to him, how he respected and admired her and loved the way her breath caught in her throat just before shea"But it wasn't going to work out. He was very sorry, but their lives would never, ever fit together.

Sighing deeply, Adrian called for another beer.

Chapter 12.

When surveying human art, simply opening oneself to the experience is not advised. Far preferable is focusing on the measurable qualities of the piece. Ask yourself how it compares to similar works. Is it well executed? From what traditions might it spring? In this manner, much embarra.s.sment may be avoided.

a"The Emperor's Book, of Etiquette Adrian dreamed of Roxie, just as he had every night since leaving her home: hot, tangled scenes of kissing her bare skin, of sliding into her body's slick, tight hold, of stroking endlessly without release.

"Stay," she'd plead in the dream, her arms hugging him close. "Stay inside me and never leave. I love the feel of you moving. I want to come and come all night long."

Her words seemed to take control of him, making it impossible to do anything but what she asked, no matter how his body strove for release.

"I need to spend," he'd beg as the mural above her bed came alive, the figures sliding from the ceiling onto the wall. Big as life, though still two-dimensional, Adam straddled the headboard. His c.o.c.k was hard, but no harder than Adrian's. Eve knelt before it, winked coyly at Adrian, then sucked the tip into her mouth.

When her head began to bob on the reddened shaft, the painted Adam groaned as if he'd die with bliss.

Adrian wanted to groan himself, especially when Adam tensed and then exploded.

"I need to spend," he repeated, his hips working desperately.

"No," Roxanne refused. Her long legs slid tormentingly along his, swelling him even further within her hold. "I'd have to paint you first, and that would take much too long."

He shuddered awake before his dream self could argue. His face was smashed against the pillow, his erection flattened between his belly and the sheets. He'd held off pleasuring himself the previous nights, feeling as if giving in would only make matters worse. This time, he couldn't help himself, grinding his hips against the mattress until his climax broke in a hot, white blaze. Even that wasn't enough to let him sleep. Stiffening again moments later, he rolled onto his back and fisted himself to a second wrenching release.

Then he felt better, though his groin still pulsed ominously. Evidently, a dream of Roxie was more exciting than most women in the flesh.

Considering the frustrations of the previous night, Adrian's morning was not cheery. Too restless to stare at the walls of his bachelor quarters, he spent most of Sat.u.r.day inquiring after Tommy Bainbridge.

The back of his neck tightened as he walked the alleys where Charles's friends had sighted the runaway, but on this day, Harborside tolerated his presence. Rewarded it, as well. Two older boys, sons of a local pieman, swore they'd seen someone who looked like Tommy sneaking into the back of a peat wagon. Adrian hadn't located the peat man yet, but he did discover a cellar where the boy had spent at least one night with a stack of old newspapers for a pillow. "Ancient City Found Under Boral Lake" screamed the top headline. Obligingly enough, Tommy had left a chalk drawing of a motorcar on the damp bas.e.m.e.nt wall. Whatever his circ.u.mstances, the boy was still car mad.

That lead run to ground, Sunday found him trudging up the gravel road to his parents' home in Carpenter's End.

Rough gray stone walled the house of Adrian's youth, two stories high except for the tower Isaac had added to stop his wife from declaring she never had an inch of her own. A set of wooden stairs, painted misty heather to complement the wisteria, zigzagged up the outer wall to the open cupola on top. On summer nights when they were children, he and his sisters would creep past their parents' bedroom to the roof, where they'd survey their kingdom through their father's spygla.s.s. The Philipses owned eight quiet acres with an orchard in the back, a nice slice of country.

He remembered the shock of moving from the city. He'd been twelve. His father had just been appointed master carpenter to a nearby s.h.i.+pyard. Slumrats, the children at the village school had called them, mocking their clothes, their accents, the food their mother packed for luncheon. More than one hayseed earned a b.l.o.o.d.y nose for teasing Adrian's sisters. For his own defense, he chose a different course. Let them taunt as they pleased; he'd show their supposed superiority for the lie it was. He resolved to be better spoken, better educated, and more dignified in every way.

Looking back, he knew his marriage to Christine was an outgrowth of that resolve. The daughter of threadbare gentry, her parents had abhorred the idea of a civil servant for a son-in-law. Nonetheless, seeing how firmly Christine's affections were fixed, and knowing three daughters remained to settle after her, they'd lent their reluctant blessing to the match.

Ironically, when the marriage fell apart, their daughter bore the brunt of their disapproval. To their minds, her duty was to obey her husband, whoever he might be, especially when it came to begetting grandchildren. Gentlebred women had suffered this yoke for centuries. Who was she to complain?

If Adrian hadn't taken pity and released her from her vows, his wife would be suffering still.

Of course, if he hadn't decided to gain promotion by accepting his implants, their marriage might not have crumbled so thoroughly. Christine had never gotten over her belief that the demons had tainted him. At the end, she'd confessed that every time he kissed her, she'd feared his tongue would be forked.

Disturbed by the memory, he scrubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't been home in a year, not since the welcome feast for his sister Julie's last baby. Each missed event, each excuse, increased his reluctance to drag himself down the fieldstone path.

He managed, though, and found his mother stuffing grape leaves on the kitchen tablea"enough to feed an army. Chagrined, he recalled her habit of inviting his sisters' families for Sunday dinner. He knuckled the furrow between his brows. He didn't think he was ready to see them all.

Because Varya hadn't noticed his arrival, he took a moment to get his bearings. The big, old kitchen with its ruffled chintz and its scratched oak table reminded him of Roxanne's house, a place to put your feet up. He suspected his mother would like Roxie, if only because she was a woman of relatively few words and would let Varya jabber to her heart's content.

Not that Varya was going to meet her. Adrian frowned at the reminder, and it was with that dour expression on his face that his mother turned and saw him.

"Adrian!" Leaping out of her chair, she gave him a tight but handless hug, her fingers sticky from her work.

As he bent to return the embrace, he noticed how gray her hair had gotten in the past year, how thin the braid that hung to her waist. She was still beautiful. Slim as a girl, his father liked to say. Adrian tried to guess what he'd have said about Roxie if they'd stayed together as long. Still full of fire, he thought, then shook the imagining off. Fancies like that would do him no good.

"Oh, my." His mother set him back from her and wiped quick tears from her sun-browned cheeks. "What perfect timing. Pull up a chair and help me with these."

Happy for the distraction, Adrian complied, grabbing a heap of marinated grape leaves and a dish of barley-olive stuffing, the recipe for which Varya's family guarded jealously. In spite of himself, he wondered if Charles would be able to decipher its ingredients.

"I'm glad you came today," she said. Her work-roughened hands moved nimbly at their task. She hadn't worked at the cannery for twenty years, but she still had the calluses and the speed. "I've been all aflutter with no one to talk to except your father, and he's no help about things like this. Little Beth's rejected another suitor. Sometimes I think we ought to post a sign out front: 'Beware the Heart-breaker.' Much as I love Elizabeth, I don't know what they're crazy about. She's not nearly as nice as Alice was, nor as pretty as Marianne. And as I recall, Marianne didn't have a third of her beaus."

"Well, er, Beth's got a nice little figure," Adrian suggested, more because his mother seemed to expect a response than because he wanted to discuss his youngest sister's attractive powers.

"Hmph. As for that, Julie's is better, even after three babies. And Gaspar was the only one who ever called on her. Not that I've got anything against Gaspar, mind you. He's done well by her, the restaurant and all and so good with the children, but it mystifies me why they drop like flies for Beth. Why, she's downright rude to some of her beaus."

Adrian lost his grip on a grape leaf and had to start again. His mother had tucked up six tidy green cylinders in the time it took him to finish one sloppy one.

"She's got spirit," he said distractedly. "Those boys probably think she's a wildcat."

"Adrian!"

"Well, it's true. Beth's got a lot of life in her. Sometimes that appeals to a man."

His mother hummed noncommittally, then peered at him. "Adrian, you have the strangest look on your face. Have you met someone?"

"Not exactly," he mumbled.

"What does 'not exactly' mean?"

"It means it's not exactly working out."

"But you'd like it to, wouldn't you?" She clapped her sticky hands in delight. "How marvelous! It's been ages since you were serious about anyone. Not since, well, you know who. I know you can make it work if you really put your mind to it."

"Mother, please. She's not appropriate."

Without even looking, he could see his mother tilt her head.

" 'Not appropriate.' What does that mean?"

"It means what it means." He strove to keep his temper. He'd come here to forget Roxanne, not to get raked over the coals. "Can't we just drop it?"

"But if she makes you happya"

"Happy!" he scoffed.

"So that's the way the wind blows." Varya nodded sagely. "Makes you miserable, I'll bet."

"I wouldn't go that fa""

"Yes, I can see it in your face. You've got circles under those pretty gray eyes." He flinched as she brushed a gentle knuckle across one mark. "Probably haven't been sleeping much or eating right, from the looks of you. You know I hate when you don't take care of yourself. Maybe you should stay with us a while. Rest. Let us feed you up. Your grandfather hasn't had a decent fis.h.i.+ng partner since Jack Crowley died."

"Mother."

"Is she pretty?" she burbled on, clasping her hands in front of her narrow chest. "No, I'll bet she wouldn't be. Christine was pretty, and you wouldn't make that mistake again. I'll bet she's got spirit, though, just like Beth. I'll bet you think she's a wildcata"Oh!" His mother gasped.

"You'vea you've already been intimate with her, haven't you?"

"Can't you be quiet for one minute!" he exclaimed, coming out of his chair and spilling all five of his badly stuffed grape leaves onto the floor.

His mother's face crumpled, quavered, and then she was crying into her ap.r.o.n, horrid tearing sobs that simultaneously annoyed and wrenched him.

"d.a.m.nation," he cursed, watching her for a second before coming around the table and taking her into a loose embrace. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me. No, stop crying. I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to yell at you. But nothing's going to happen between me and this woman. It simply wouldn't work out."

His mother finally calmed, using her ap.r.o.n to wipe away the last of what he sincerely hoped weren't crocodile tears. With Varya, you could never tell. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, he patted her still-trembling shoulder. She squeezed his hand to show she'd recovered.

"Oh, Adrian," she lamented, her eyes still glisteninga"gray, stormy eyes she shared with her son. They were sharp now for all their emotion. "Sometimes I think we shouldn't have encouraged you to be such a gentleman. But your father and I wanted you to have more than we did, to be better."

"Mother, I have never in my life been ashamed of either of you."

His mother smiled. "I know, son, but maybe you've been ashamed of yourself. You make your life a good deal harder than it has to be."

He grabbed a dishcloth from the sink and began picking barley stuffing off the floor. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"When you went after that promotiona"

He knew she was referring to his implants. He stopped cleaning up the mess. "I've never been ashamed of that," he said, wanting once and for all to be clear. "Accepting Yamish technology may have made my life more difficult, but it made me better at my job. I can handle situations other officers can't, and I do it without resorting to deadly force. I'm sworn to protect demons, too, Mama. I take that oath seriously."

The back of his eyes burned with how much he meant what he said. More to the point, he knew he'd felt this way long before he'd met Roxanne. Unexpectedly, he was proud of himself, no matter what anyone else thought.

"I suppose you do take it seriously," his mother said, the words coming slower with her surprise. "I guess I always thought part of your choice had to do with wanting to be set apart. You always were a solitary boy."

"The family changeling," he said with a laugh to defuse the tension. "But you must know I don't wish I were different."

His mother sighed a rare surrender. "Very well, I'll stop lecturing. I'm glad you came to visit. You're my firstborn, you know. I miss you when you stay away."

"I'm sorry, Mama," he said, quite sincerely. He looked up from his crouch and made a melodramatically sorrowful face.

As he'd hoped, she laughed and waved away his foolishness. "No need to be sorry. I understand better than you think."

Roxanne's father had implied he'd leave her alone. Roxie hadn't counted on his restraint lasting forever, but she hadn't expected his patience to run out this soon.

A card arrived by messenger: an open invitation to view the Boral Lake find, an archaeological treasure Herrington and his team had unearthed last year. At present, it was displayed in his ballroom and accessible to a select and probably undiscerning few. Unless you had a t.i.tle, human or otherwise, you weren't welcome to intrude. Roxanne had resigned herself to making do with sketches in the rags. The chance to see the find in person, possibly even touch the ancient objects, made her heart beat faster.

Coming from anyone else, the invitation would have thrilled her. Even those who disliked the Yama thought Herrington's methods of excavation were praiseworthy. He was committed to preserving both the treasures and the context in which they were founda"a result, she supposed, of having to distance himself from the emotions his discoveries could stir. The artifacts, a jumble of statues and third-century housewares, were reported to be in excellent condition. Returning a firm, barely civil refusal inspired a terrible pang of regret She knew, however, that she couldn't afford to show weakness.

If she ceded Herrington a finger, the "Red Fox" was bound to claim an arm.

Chapter 13.

Who among us is free? Only those who see their chains know what freedom means.

a"Well and Herrington, A Memoir Charles clattered down the front stairs, his body taut with a strong but unspecified anxiety. He should have been looking forward to delivering this message. Who did that b.a.s.t.a.r.d think he was, letting Roxie believe his intentions were serious? Even if Adrian Philips hadn't meant to hurt her, he'd hardly done her good. Roxie hadn't been herself since she met him, but had grown increasingly distant and preoccupied. Charles had no trouble deciding where to lay the blame for that.

Rallying his anger, he allowed his nemesis to yank the chime once again before opening the door. The man's expression on finding only him behind it was priceless.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d nodded stiffly. "Charles."

Rather than reply, Charles examined the man's dove-gray, short-tailed dinner suit. The cut of his waistcoat was conservative but cla.s.sic, his half-boots shone with a recent blacking, and, to his credit, he had forgone the affectation of top hat and gloves. On a man of his cla.s.s, they would have been ridiculous. The ensemble's fit proclaimed its fine tailoring, as did the greatcoat he'd slung on top.

Likely, these were the only custom clothes he owned. Charles tried to sneer, but it took more effort than he liked. Philips, d.a.m.n him, looked sympathetically scrubbed and earnest.