we attempted the other day.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is this a good time for you? If it is, I can swing by the Wheelhouse.”
“Your timing is excellent,” he said. “But I think perhaps this would be better done in privacy. Would you care to meet me at my quarters?”
The flutters intensified. “Your . . . quarters?”
“My condominium,” Stefan clarified, then paused. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. Would you prefer to meet at the Wheelhouse? Or somewhere else? I can retrieve the item I wished to show you.”
Thinking about it, it probably made more sense to minimize my exposure to the emotion-starved Outcast throng. And after what we’d been through together earlier in the summer, I did trust Stefan.
Mostly.
“No,” I said. “You’re right. What’s your address?”
He told me.
I jotted it down on a piece of scrap paper. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said before I could change my mind, and hung up.
Twenty
Stefan met me in the allotted space in the discreet parking garage of his fancy condominium complex overlooking the river. I parked my rundown Honda next to his gleaming black motorcycle, giving it a pat on the dashboard in case it was feeling inadequate.
“Daisy.” Stefan gave me one of his nods, indicating the staircase. “This way.”
I followed him to his unit on the second floor. It wasn’t large, but it was swanky, with high ceilings, polished wood floors, and a huge picture window overlooking the river. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, filling the place with light.
Curious, I looked around. The furnishings were sleek and modern and austere. There wasn’t much that reflected the owner’s personality, unless you counted the one wall hung with an array of weapons on display, including the longsword on which the aforementioned impaling had been done.
Which I guess you pretty much had to count.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’re like the Highlander, aren’t you?”
There was one piece, a painted kite-shaped shield, displayed separately on a pedestal in its own little Plexiglas case. Glancing at Stefan for permission, I went to take a closer look. I thought medieval shields were all about heraldry—rampant lions and roses and chevrons and bar sinisters and such. But this was more like an actual painting on a coppery-gold background, depicting a woman in a flowing brocade gown and elaborate headgear presenting some kind of gift to a bareheaded knight kneeling in full armor. Although it was old and obviously damaged, the pigments were surprisingly rich.
Stefan was silent while I examined it, but I could feel him watching me. When I looked back at him, his pupils were dilated.
“It is a family heirloom,” he said quietly. “A parade shield intended only for ceremony. It commemorates my father receiving a token of thanks from the queen of Bohemia in gratitude for his valor in helping her husband, King Charles, escape with his life at the Battle of Crecy.”
“Oh.” The syllable emerged in a feeble squeak. I searched my memory for anything in my high school history classes about a Battle of Crecy and came up blank.
“It was in 1346,” Stefan said. “Part of what is now referred to as the Hundred Years’ War.”
Okay, at least that rang a distant bell. “Um . . . wasn’t that between England and France?”
“Yes.” He accorded me a faint smile. “Two powerful countries that called upon their allies to fight alongside them in their wars.”
I didn’t know what to say and I really, really didn’t want to say something stupid. This was the most Stefan had ever shared with me, and whatever complicated emotions I felt for him, I didn’t want to ruin the moment with my unfortunately stereotypical American ignorance of history and geography. So I studied the features of the dark-haired knight kneeling on the shield instead. Although they were blurred, you could see the resemblance. “What was your father’s name?”
“Jakob,” Stefan said, a world of centuries-old sorrow in his tone. “Jakob Ludovic, Count of Zatlovy.”
I turned back to him. “I’m sorry.”
The bond between us tightened, the air seeming to shiver. Stefan’s pupils were immense and full of swimming darkness and pain. I could feel a part of my innermost self spilling into them—
With an effort, Stefan closed his eyes and took an abrupt step backward. The bond loosened. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were small and steady. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”
Yeah, like more than six hundred years. I cleared my throat. “It’s an amazing artifact. I can’t believe it’s in such good shape.”
“Yes,” he said. “The piece is museum quality. I should donate it, but . . .” He shrugged. “It is my only keepsake.”
I glanced involuntarily at the weaponry on display on the wall.
Stefan followed my gaze. “Mere tools,” he said. “Implements of battle with little or no sentimental value.” His tone changed, becoming more businesslike. “But speaking of shields, that is precisely what I wish to show you, Daisy. Or more accurately, to give you.” He beckoned. “Come.”
I trailed after him as he went to retrieve an item wrapped in dark blue velvet cloth from a sideboard. With one of his formal little half bows, Stefan presented it to me.
I removed the cloth to reveal a round steel shield. Other than a hand grip welded onto the concave back, it was plain and unadorned. It was both smaller and heavier than I would have imagined, and polished to a mirror- bright shine inside and out. “You got me a shield?”
“You were having difficulty visualizing one,” he said. “I thought this might help.”
“Where do you buy a
He smiled deeply enough for his dimples to emerge. “I have an acquaintance in the historical replica industry. This is actually their standard base model buckler, but I had it specially burnished.”
Flexing the fingers of my left hand, I curved them around the grip and hoisted the shield aloft.
It felt good.
I gazed at my distorted reflection in the concave surface facing me, then lowered the shield. “Okay. And, um, thank you. Shall we try it again?”
In the center of the living room, Stefan took a stance opposite me, his back to the window. “Yes.”
When we’d done this before, Stefan hadn’t menaced me in earnest. This time, he did. With the sun in my eyes, I couldn’t see the warning shift of his pupils, but I felt the inexorable tide of his hunger pulling at me.
Without thinking, I swung the shield up between us. Brilliant sunlight splintered off the highly polished surface, sending a thousand scintillating points of light dancing around the room. And just like that, something clicked inside me. I kindled the same mirror-bright blaze in my thoughts, holding it between us, a barrier that reflected Stefan’s hunger back at him while it reflected my own emotions and feelings back into me.
“Ha!” Stefan broke into a grin. “That’s it! Perfect! You did it, Daisy!”
Blinking against the brightness, I held the shield—the real one and the one in my head—in place. “What happens now?”
“Now?” His grin turned fierce. “Now we practice.”
If you think holding a single image blazing in your mind sounds like easy work, think again. Despite my breakthrough, it was hard. Stefan worked me ruthlessly. And just when I thought I was becoming adept, he made me put down the physical shield, forcing me to conjure the mental image without it.
By the time he called a halt, I was exhausted and elated. I could do it. I could conjure a shield capable of holding a six-hundred-year-old ghoul—oops, Outcast—at bay. And for the first time since I’d begun to serve as an agent of Hel, my frustration at my own relative powerlessness abated.
