He reached out a hand to delicately brush the wheel handle of the safe, then snatched his fingers back with an angry hiss. A thin scent of burning flesh hung in the air, even through his gloves.
Irene let the curtain fall back into place and considered. Clearly there was more to Lord Wyndham’s alliance with the Fair Folk than met the eye, if he’d made sure that his safe was made of cold iron, so proof against Fae. This supported the newspaper’s whole “diabolical intrigue” theory, and it rather fitted what she knew about the Fae. They liked complicated relationships. It didn’t matter if they were loved or hated, as long as the other person had strong feelings towards them. Strong enough, for instance, to install a completely Fae-proof safe. And if she’d been able to choose her options a few hours ago, being trapped in a dead vampire’s private study with an angry Fae would not have been one of them.
Then, more alarmingly, she heard him sniff. It wasn’t the phlegmatic nose clearing of a cold; it was a hungry sniff, a tasting of the air.
“Ohhhh.” His voice hung on the air like incense. “Come out, come out, little mouse. Or shall I come looking for you?”
Irene took a deep breath, set her face to an expression of polite unconcern, and moved the curtain back. “The Liechtenstein ambassador, I presume?” she guessed.
His face was as pretty as his body had suggested, but his eyes were slitted like a cat’s and pure gold. “Why,” he said, tone as smooth as honey, “you are quite correct. But what sort of little mouse hides behind the curtains? Are you a blackmailer, little mouse? A spy? A detective? A little rat in the arras, just waiting to be stabbed?”
She seized the opportunity to present her cover story.
“I’m a journalist here to investigate Lord Wyndham’s murder, sir. I was hoping to interview you. I hadn’t dared hope to catch up with you so soon. If I could ask you for your views on the situation . . .”
He glided a step towards her. “What paper do you represent?”
“The Times,” she said. There was a Times in practically every single alternate she’d ever visited.
“And how did you know that I’d come here, pretty little mouse?” There was something very predatory about his face now.
“Well, of course, I had no idea,” she rattled off hastily, reaching into her reticule. “It was a total surprise to meet you here, sir. But I suppose it’s not surprising that on hearing of his death, you naturally hurried to his domicile, with the intention of expressing your condolences to his—”
His hand caught her wrist. “No guns, little mouse. I don’t think we want the police coming. No, this is all going to be very nice and quiet, and you’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on . . .”
She could lie to him. She could try to resist him. Or she could simply get that cool, elegant, well-gloved, slender hand off her wrist. “Take your hands off me, sir,” she said, anger sliding into her voice. “Or you will regret it.”
He paused. “You’re very self-assured,” he said, and for the first time there was a fraction of something other than malice or purring self-satisfaction in his voice. Perhaps an edge of uncertainty. “I wonder. Are you perhaps a little more than you look?”
“Aren’t we all?” Irene answered.
“And is there someone backing you?”
“Someone you don’t want to antagonize,” she said. She’d got the measure of his suspicion now. She’d met only lesser Fair Folk before, but they practically defined “so devious that they’d fall over if they tried to walk in a straight line.” This one was thinking in terms of conspiracies and agents. She could play that game just as well as anyone else. “But I can’t give names. Not even to an ambassador. But what I can perhaps give is a degree of cooperation.”
He released her wrist and raised a delicate eyebrow. “You intrigue me.”
She understood that sort of language. She was getting the message that he might find her useful loud and clear—and intrigue had nothing to do with it. Instead, she nodded towards the safe. “Perhaps we are both looking for the same thing, sir.”
He nodded once, sharply. “Perhaps we are. Well? Open it.”
“Do you have the combination, sir?”
He rattled off a list of numbers as she worked at the safe’s combination mechanism. So it was just the iron that had kept him out. She wondered what he’d have done if she hadn’t been here—perhaps enchanted or coerced some passerby off the street, or brought a human agent here later.
His gloved fingers brushed the back of her neck, and she shivered. He needs you for the moment; he won’t try anything until he’s got what he’s looking for; the best way to deal with him is to give him something more interesting to pounce on . . .
“Open it,” he purred from far too close behind her.
Irene swung the safe door open and put some distance between herself and the Fae, physically feeling his focus shift from her to the safe’s contents.
Several stacks of papers lay tidily in the large iron cavity. On top of them was a small piece of card, embossed with a golden mask, signed with the name Belphegor.
The Fae hissed. His hands clenched, and Irene heard his kid gloves rip. He turned towards her, his face furious.
Saying Don’t blame me or It wasn’t my fault would just have been signalling that she was a victim. As calmly as she could manage, and wishing for a few more feet of distance between them—actually,
