wooden tables, and a magnificent Syrian-style sofa, adorned with mother of pearl. Weapons decorated the walls between ornate shields: a Turkish yatagan, a shamshir, blades of Damascus steel, and French hand-and-a-half knight swords. Marble statuettes rested in wall niches vying for attention along with framed art. This wasn’t the collection of a poser trying to impress. Too eclectic. No, Mr. De Lacy was a connoisseur.
And he was nowhere to be found. This was simply annoying.
The room ended in a long hallway. To the left was a wall with a door. To the right, another interior wall sectioned off a generous portion of the floor space. I turned right and walked into a study. Shelves filled with books and small busts lined the walls, interrupted by tall windows. A heavy oak desk dominated the space. Carved knights in full armor jousted across its front and sides. Behind it, in a thoroughly modern ergonomic chair, a blond man sat in front of a computer, holding a phone to his ear.
He looked up and raised his index finger at me.
Fine. I would wait. I sat in a plush chair upholstered with a kilim rug.
De Lacy listened to his phone. He was in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a powerful frame shown off by a tailored vest he wore over a pale-blue shirt. A suit jacket hung over his chair. He looked like he’d been up for a while. His hair was tousled, and stubble sheathed his jaw.
His face was handsome in that traditional way of good breeding and money: square jaw, patrician nose, good cheekbones; all the features a child could inherit from generations of very rich men marrying very beautiful women. Sometimes the offspring of those families looked softened by the luxury they were born into. There was nothing soft about Benedict. His eyes were sharp and cold, two chunks of ice radiating intelligence and menace.
A trace of magic brushed against me, the hint of a glacial mind. My instincts screamed in alarm. I let it wash over me. I had become so good at suppressing my magic, I looked inert to others. The magic drenched me and withdrew. A Prime. Some sort of mental branch. Very strong.
If this was a private equity firm, I would eat my coat.
“Authorization granted,” he said, and hung up. His voice matched him, smooth and resonant, with a practiced quality to it, as if he’d spent some time with a vocal coach. “I see you found me, Ms. Baylor.”
I had no idea what he was, but he had no idea what I was either. If I let him think he rattled me, I might not get out of this alive.
“It was touch and go for a while,” I said. “I almost made camp in the Ottoman room but decided to press on.”
Benedict smiled. The small hairs on the back of my neck rose.
“Why are you here, Ms. Baylor?”
“I’ve been retained by House Etterson. It’s my understanding Sigourney Etterson had an investment account with your firm. Her records indicate she liquidated it. I’m attempting to locate those funds.”
“An admirable pursuit.”
“My client is in severe emotional distress after the death of her mother and sister. Her family home is gone, and she’s trying to pick up the pieces. She needs every dime of her inheritance to rebuild her House. We’re unable to account for the two million dollars. We would appreciate any assistance you could provide us.”
Benedict pondered me.
The next step would be to threaten him with a lawsuit if his firm failed to cough up the information. I didn’t want to push that far, not yet. I was alone in the office of an unknown Prime, asking uncomfortable questions and skating on thin ice.
Silence stretched.
Benedict turned his monitor sideways, so I could see it. On the screen Celia leaned forward and smiled at me.
“You come into my house, Ms. Baylor, and use magic on my staff. You can see how it presents me with a dilemma.”
I waited. Silence stretched.
“I find it interesting that you feel absolutely no pressure to fill the lull in the conversation,” he said.
“What makes you think I used magic? Perhaps Celia simply felt some compassion for the two young people who are now orphaned.”
Benedict smiled at me, a quick, precise baring of perfect teeth. “You’re right. I could blame Celia for her sudden attack of kindness. Unfortunately, Celia doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. She approximates human emotions the same way a chameleon mimics his environment to survive. I’ll be blunt: