Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,82
He wants an excuse.
“So,” I say instead. “What's the plan?”
“We're going upstairs,” he says. “Señor Montoya wants to have a chat with you.”
“Alberto?”
He laughs, and that's all I need to know about his feelings toward the dashingly handsome Alberto. “Señor Escobar Montoya,” he corrects me.
I feel Mere stiffen slightly beside me, and as Talus indicates that we should join him at the private elevator on the other side of the mezzanine from the restaurant, she leans over and whispers in my ear: “The clan patriarch,” she says. “I read about him. When the construction boom hit Santiago in the '30s, he was at the heart of it. He's got to be at least ninety. I thought he was dead.”
“Not dead,” Talus said, reminding Mere of his superior hearing. “He prefers a less public profile.”
The elevator opens as Talus approaches it, triggered by an unseen hand, and he stands beside the doors, indicating that we should enter. I eye the narrow box, considering the risk of taking him once the doors close, but Talus shakes his head as I dawdle.
“You two first,” he says. “I'll come up later.”
I look at him, and my thoughts must be plain on my face, because he shoves me. “Get in,” he snarls, all pretense of civility gone. He stands in the doorway, getting himself under control, until the doors close.
“Well,” Mere says as we begin to ascend. “I guess this is the part where we find out just how stupid this whole evening was.”
I stand in front of her, taking her hands in mine, and I look at her face. “It was a lovely dinner,” I tell her, “and you look fantastic. Nothing else matters. Okay?”
She looks at me and a brave smile struggles to find its way across her lips. “Okay.”
“If things go off the rails up here, take care of yourself. Okay? No heroics. No bullshit efforts to stick with the story. Keep your head down. Get out. Go to the Consulate. Call Ralph. Do whatev—”
“I get it, Silas,” she says, cutting me off. “Fuck. I get it.”
“Okay.” I release her hands and start to move to stand beside her. She doesn't let me, surging off the wall to press herself against me, her arms around my neck. Her lips find mine, her teeth nipping at my mouth. I grab her and return the kiss. Her tongue flicks against my mouth, and I open my lips, letting her in. She presses herself even harder against me, her hands winding in my hair. My hands drop, and I step forward, crushing her between me and the wall. She makes a tiny noise, gasping, and then her mouth seeks mine again.
The elevator dings, announcing our arrival, and the doors open. She breaks contact first, and I step back, giving her room. Mere rests against the wall for a moment, catching her breath, and then raises a hand and wipes at the lipstick on my mouth. “Live to laugh,” she says quietly, looking me in the eye.
“Absolutely,” I reply, and she nods tightly before adjusting her dress and walking off the elevator, head held high.
TWENTY-NINE
I step out of the elevator and I'm in the center of the penthouse. There's nothing between Mere and me and the floor-to-ceiling windows but hardwood floors, a couple pieces of furniture, and an impressive art collection. Off to my left is an equally ostentatious kitchen; to my right are several mobile partitions filled with books and an assortment of smaller trinkets; beyond I spot the edge of a billiards table and an array of large-screen televisions. Somewhere back there is a real wall. The display is meant to be daunting in its dizzying display of wealth, and it succeeds in its efforts.
“What do you think of the view?” someone asks.
The voice comes from a burgundy-colored leather chair near the windows, facing away from the elevator. A narrow glass of wine sits on a nearby side table.
I touch Mere on the elbow, guiding her toward the windows, and we walk over to admire the view. The glass is tempered and there's a pattern to it that shifts when I look at it. Controlled tinting, the sort of atmospheric control that an Arcadian would have installed. “It's impressive,” I say, looking out at the glittering skyline of Santiago. There is only one building that is as tall as the one we're in, and I suspect Montoya owns it too. Off in the distance, I can see the dark hump of Sero San Cristobal,