I kept my distance from Roger. He flared his nostrils slightly, enough that the movement drew his upper lip into the ghost of a sneer and lifted the curtain of his glamour for a second. I pretended to not see the blade-like nails teasing from each of his fingertips and turned to face my host. “I forgot to wear boat shoes, Odilon. Do you think you could escort me, rather than Roger? I’m afraid he and I don’t play well together.”
“Roger is my new head of security. He takes his job very seriously.” Though Odilon laughed, his features barely softened. He moved to the retractable stairs, descended, and positioned himself between me and my ex-brother-in-law. Roger make a token show of stepping back as Odilon walked toward me. “If you would please give me your purse. Roger assumes everyone who is not one of us is out to kill me.”
Roger grunted. Odilon added, “Even those who profess allegiance to Clan Vigne have designs on the length of my life.” He unclasped my bag and showed it to Roger, who sheathed his claws and poked through the meager contents until he was satisfied a tube of lip gloss, a set of tarnished keys, and a packet of tissues weren’t lethal weapons.
I kept my gaze to the side of the boat, tucked my dress against the backs of my thighs with my clutch, and took the steps ahead of Odilon with as much calm as I could muster.
I did it. I was on the yacht for the first time since Harper and Thatcher were eleven and almost thirteen and had done something that earned Meribah’s displeasure and our banishment. Once again I tamped down the nervous giggle rising in my throat. I was about as adept at maneuvering on this social gameboard as I was walking with confidence in these heels.
“Would you like the grand tour?” Odilon asked. He was standing behind me with a statue’s stillness, and I could sense him working to control his heart rate. While I knew he, like most Fae, kept his real features under a constant glamour, I was on high alert for which face he would wear tonight.
I shifted, keeping my grip on the railing until I had my sea legs. Odilon moved in front of me before I answered, “If you would like.” Better to map out escape routes, see who else was on board, and burn up the time allotted for this outing.
He led us clockwise around the yacht. The exterior walkway included three levels of decks and short sets of steps in between. I appreciated the long ovals of anti-slip material, set at a patterned angle all along the walkway.
Everywhere I looked metal gleamed and wood and glass shone. I really didn’t want to gawk at the redesigned furnishings. My intention was to notice the details as an investigator, not an unwilling dinner date. That became easier when I reminded myself Odilon Vigne had invited me here under threat of doing harm to my sons.
I straightened my spine and followed him down the stairs.
The smell of food as we entered the yacht’s interior had me salivating. A white-hatted chef and his assistant paused in their preparations, nodded, and waited until we had passed before picking up their knives.
Odilon closed the door to what I recalled were the sleeping quarters and led the way out through a short corridor to the bow. “We replaced the decking with teak,” he said and again offered me his hand.
I stepped up, paused, and stepped up again. In the background, the hum of the engine revved and the yacht motored forward. “I wasn’t aware we were leaving the harbor,” I said, swallowing.
“Just a little ways. The bioluminescence is out tonight. I hear it is a special phenomenon to witness. We’ll moor near Chocolate Beach.” Odilon had moved to the forwardmost section of the bow and seated himself on one side of a V of padded seats. I joined him, tucking my dress under me as I sat.
“Did you want to begin questioning me now?” I asked.
“Not really.” He gazed out over the harbor and rested his elbow on the railing. Sailboats and houseboats and kayakers on sunset paddle tours meant the yacht had to negotiate its way through the harbor with care. A waitperson brought a tray of canapés and asked for our drink orders. Odilon slid a device from a front pocket of his slacks and pressed. Two tables on tubular bases rose from the decking. The server placed the tray on the surface nearest me and waited for my answer.
“An aperitif,” I said, “whatever you have.”
The waiter looked to Odilon. “My guest will have a Lillet, white, with a twist. I will have the Glengoyne.”
A burbling came from inside the base of the table nearer to Odilon. He rested one hand, fingers splayed and softly patting, on its empty top. His gaze roamed the open water ahead of us.
His demeanor seemed off. I was expecting a cold, controlled, manipulative man, here to make my knees quake and my feet sweat. Instead, Odilon appeared distracted. I looked to the water, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and considered shaking open the shawl and cocooning myself in its finely woven protection.
I decided the cool air would keep me alert.
The waiter returned with a small tray, two highball glasses, and a candle in a glass. Setting down cork circles first, he centered my drink, then Odilon’s, and turned to go. “Armand. Wait.” My host turned his entire body to face me, and for the first time I felt him become present, as though a silent partner had hung up on his call and he could give me his full attention. “Is there anything else you would care for?”
“Please let the chef know I don’t eat meat, fish, or shellfish,” I said.
Armand nodded. Odilon dismissed him and reached for his glass. “To you, Calliope Viridis du Sang,”
