CHAPTER ELEVEN

Friday rolled around without any interesting incidents to distinguish the intervening days. I didn’t let myself think about it too much once it was time to whoosh on over to the Phillips palace. I just gathered my books, stepped into the teleport booth, and let myself be flung across time and space back into the lion’s den.

Which seemed to be empty of lions. Francis met me at the gate, Quentin greeted me ecstatically at his door, and the whole hour passed with an unalarming ordinariness that made the last of my frayed nerves reknit and stop complaining. Quentin and I took each other’s quizzes, both of us scoring high marks though I did just a bit better percentagewise, and we laughed even more than usual. I have to say, it was one of our better sessions.

As the hour drew to a close, there was a knock on the door, and Bram Cortez stepped inside, Dennis at his heels.

“Hi, guys!” Quentin exclaimed. He had an inexhaustible supply of enthusiasm for the arrival of new guests. “What are you both doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you down to the pool,” Dennis said, “and I imagine our own very dangerous house cop has come to walk Taylor down to the teleport gate.” From Dennis’ quick look in my direction, I guessed that someone had told him the story of my encounter earlier in the week, but now, of course, was not the time to discuss it.

Cortez didn’t crack a smile. He said to Quentin, “Unless you’d rather I took you to the pool and Dennis took Ms. Kendall to the door.”

“Taylor,” Quentin corrected. “You’re supposed to call her—”

“Taylor,” Cortez amended. “Dennis could take Taylor to the door.”

“I have a better idea,” Dennis said. “Let’s all go to the pool.”

“Oh, yeah! We could play tag—or keepaway! I’ve got this big inflatable ball and we—or dodge ball! That would be fun, and we could pick teams—”

“I’m on duty,” Cortez said stiffly.

“’Bout twenty guys here covering the place,” Dennis said. “I think you could be spared. Besides, you’d still be on the premises to fight off any intruders who happened to make it past the forcefield.”

My eyebrows lifted. “There’s a forcefield?”

“Shock wall,” Cortez said briefly.

“That does make me feel secure.”

“So let’s go play,” Dennis said.

“Love to,” I said insincerely, “but I don’t have a suit.”

“Mr. Phillips keeps a selection of unworn bathing suits in the women’s locker room, for guests who arrive with just such a deficit,” Dennis informed me.

My mouth fell open. Because he said it so triumphantly, or because I was sure it was true, I couldn’t tell.

“A similar selection exists for the men,” Dennis added. “But I happen to know Bram keeps his own suit here in his own locker, because he exercises in the pool almost every day.”

“Well, I guess we’ve covered all the bases,” Cortez said. “Let’s go swim.”

Quentin cheered and headed out the door. The men hung back to allow me to go next, so I numbly followed. I had no interest at all in stripping down and parading my partially clad, imperfect body before the eyes of my student, his shasta friend, and the unreadable Bram Cortez. Okay, it didn’t bother me so much to be semi-nude in front of Quentin and Dennis, though of the three, Dennis was the most likely to make comments that were pointed and embarrassing. But I felt shivery and odd to think about taking off most of my clothes before Bram Cortez. There was no denying it, and no real reason to examine it closely.

Isn’t it strange? Can’t count the number of times I’ve worn skimpy suits to the Evanston or Oak Street beaches and paraded without shame before thousands of strangers. But gather together a few people with whom I have some history, even an acquaintanceship, and suddenly I feel like a bathing suit is immodest, exhibitionist, and entirely too intimate.

But here I was, headed to the locker room to try on one of the “unworn” outfits. All I needed now was for Duncan Phillips to decide to come in for a quick swim, and my day would be complete.

Once we were on the ground floor, the scent of chlorine led us to the pool room, which was not visible from any of the hallways. “Shoes off,” Dennis said from behind me, so we strolled barefoot into the tiled room, Quentin rolling along behind us. And a lovely place it was, too, with a high skylight above and walls formed completely of glass overlooking the struggling spring garden. The pool was Olympic-sized and jewel-blue, and an intricate pattern of turquoise-and-white ceramic squares decorated the flooring all around its perimeter.

“Girls’ room,” Dennis said, pointing to a door. “We’ll be out in five minutes.”

The three of them turned toward another door, and I headed in the direction indicated. Where to find this pristine swimming apparel? I looked in a few of the empty lockers before thinking to try what looked like a closet, and sure enough, there were about four shelves of neatly folded bathing suits laid out for me to choose from. Sizes weren’t immediately apparent, so I picked them up one at a time and held them up to my chest, trying to gauge the fit. There were a few two-piece options, but forget that; I was looking for maximum coverage.

Eventually, I settled on a textured forest green racer that, when I tried it on, was comfortable enough but cut much lower than I liked and for a woman with a more ample bosom. The minute I jumped in the water, the straps could very well slide off my shoulders and down my arms. I was not going to risk that mortification. I pulled a hair ribbon from my purse and reached awkwardly over my shoulders to thread it through the straps. Once I’d tied a knot, I wriggled my arms experimentally and was happy to find the suit seemed much more secure.

When I stepped back out into the sunlit pool area, I found all three men already splashing around. Not only did Quentin have a simply humongous inflated ball, but there were a few smaller toys available as well, including noodles, rafts, and inner tubes. In fact, Quentin was floating in the middle of a bright emerald donut that was equipped with a squirting device that seemed to draw water up from the pool itself, and he was furiously spraying his two companions. They were circling him, calling out strategy to each other, clearly bent on dumping him over headfirst. I had a moment’s anxiety for Quentin, so clearly overmatched, but his vivid face was a study in sheer unalloyed devil-driven joy, and I could not help but smile as I watched.

Then I looked around for a weapon.

A second armed inner tube, this one a fluorescent orange, had been placed most invitingly on the side of the pool. Moving quickly, I tossed it in the water, slid inside it feet-first, and paddled over to the warriors, all the while desperately pumping the trigger to prime it. I made it to the field of combat just as the first satisfying jet of water gushed from the barrel, right into Dennis’ face.

“Tay-ughlog-uh” was Dennis’ greeting, since he spotted me a split second before I made my partisanship known.

“Quentin!” I shouted. “You and me against the bullies!”

“Bram’s right behind you!” Quentin shouted back, and the hostilities were on.

A big wave of water splashed over me from behind, so I spun as quickly as I could and fired off another round. Dennis, meanwhile, had reared from the water and landed with both arms pushing down on Quentin’s inner tube, trying to force it below the surface. He was behind Quentin, rendering Quentin’s gun useless, so I shot a few squirts into his face and effectively drove him off. Suddenly my world started whirling out of control, as Cortez took my raft and spun it in three rough circles. Water in my face, up my nose, burning down my throat. I couldn’t stop laughing.

This went on for about half an hour, an absolute madhouse soaking frenzy of a fight. It ended when Cortez swam up behind Quentin, grabbed him in a headlock, and dragged him from the safety of his inner tube. I’d already been dumped from mine. Dennis had flung it back to the tile flooring, then proceeded to pelt me with walls of water that he created by driving the flat of his hand into the pool.

“Wait—wait—stop,” I cried, whipping my head from side to side, trying to see what was happening. “Quentin—he’s out of his inner tube—can he— stop that! —can he swim? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Better in water than on land,” Dennis replied, continuing to splash me but with much less force. “Anyway, you know Bram would never let him drown.”

Treading water with both feet and one hand, I put up my free hand to push my soaking hair behind my ears. Never mind feeling insecure about my body; now I had to fret about how dreadful I looked with my sodden hair streaming down my back and my mascara no doubt running in rivulets down my face. “At this moment, I’m thinking not only would Bram Cortez let Quentin drown, he’d push him underwater and hold him there. You would, too.”

Dennis gave me a lazy smile. While I was pretty much aware of the effort it was taking to keep my head above water, he looked completely at ease, a creature in his natural element, like a swan or a seal. “You loved it,” he said. “By the way, nice touch with the ribbon tied around your shoulder straps. I’ve always admired your sense of fashion, but this—”

“Go to hell,” I said amiably.

Quentin and Bram Cortez swam over. Dennis was right, Quentin seemed quite comfortable in the water, moving rapidly, pain-free. His long spindly body floated like a birch branch. For a moment, my heart contracted. He was so thin. He was a pale skeletal shadow of a boy.

But he was laughing.

“Hey, Taylor, good job!” he called, giving me a friendly splash as he got close enough. “But I think we need someone else on our side. These guys are too big.”

“Let’s get Francis next time,” I said demurely. All three of them laughed at that. “Or maybe I’ll bring a ringer. Marika. How’s that?”

“That sounds great!” was Quentin’s predictable response.

Dennis turned toward the open middle of the pool. “C’mon, Q, time for us to do some work.”

Quentin’s eyes, stricken and pleading, were immediately upon Bram Cortez and me. “Don’t go,” he begged. “Stay awhile, and we can play some more games when we’re done.”

“I don’t know if I—” I began.

“Okay,” Bram Cortez said.

“Okay,” I echoed.

Happy then, Quentin swam after Dennis. I watched for a few minutes, as Dennis led him through a series of exercises. Sometimes he gripped Quentin’s arms or shoulders, holding him steady in the water; sometimes he would support the boy from the torso, requiring him to work his arms or legs. I couldn’t catch all the instructions or all the banter, but the light, noncommittal syllables skipped back to us over the water, teasing, kind, encouraging. From time to time, Quentin would look up at Dennis, pleased at a compliment or laughing at a joke, and the bond between them was so evident it gave me a shiver.

Or maybe I was just cold. “I need to get a towel and be out of the water for a bit,” I said to Bram Cortez.

He nodded in the direction of a white wicker hamper. “Towels are over there. I’ll fetch some.”

He swam to the other side of the pool and climbed out with quick, economical grace. I hadn’t had much chance to notice while we were all roughhousing, but he had the sort of body I would have expected: taut, well-muscled, marred in a few places by old scars that still looked angry. This, obviously, was someone who considered his body a weapon and cared for it as thoroughly as he would care for his gun or his sword or any other piece of combat equipment. He would not hesitate to use it, and he expected it to perform whenever he demanded. I imagined that he had never been betrayed by a slow reflex or a strained muscle, just as he never would have been caught unprepared with his laser uncharged or his revolver clip empty.

Still, for a weapon, it was a rather attractive one.

I hoisted myself to the side of the pool, hoping I didn’t look as ungainly as I felt, and once out of the water was instantly aware of the full weight and drag of my body. I sat at the tiled edge, dangling my feet in the water, and continued to watch Dennis work with Quentin.

Cortez draped a huge white bath towel around my shoulders and sat next to me at the pool’s edge. “Are you cold?” he asked.

I wrapped myself in the towel’s fluffy warmth. “A little. Thank you. But that was fun.”

He smiled. “Yeah, every once in a while I come down and swim with them. Seems to make Quentin happy.”

I sighed. “Yes, but—constant, unvarying, twenty-four-hour-a-day attention is what would really make Quentin happy. I try to play with him a little every day, too—I don’t really give him a full hour of teaching, as I know I should—but I can’t structure the entire day around making Quentin happy. Sometimes I want to, I really do, but—it would take my whole life.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve felt that way a few times myself. I think, ‘Oh, I should do this for Quentin, or I should do that for Quentin,’ and then I think, ‘You can’t build your life around this boy.’ And you can see Dennis feels that way. And Francis. And you have to ask yourself—why does he need so much attention from outsiders? And then you remember, oh yeah, because his dad’s a class-A bastard.”

The words were delivered in a calm, unaccented voice, but nonetheless they made me jump. “He’s not on my list of favorite people at the moment,” I said.

Cortez gave me a quick sideways look, as if assessing damage, but he did not refer to the incident from three days ago. “Duncan Phillips has done a lot of things that would make a reasonable man hate him,” he said, still in that conversational tone. “But he really only had to do one thing—this one thing—to put himself beyond the pale as far as I’m concerned.”

“I hope you’re going to tell me what it was.”

He nodded. He was looking out at the water, watching Dennis and Quentin. I had the sense that, if the slightest thing went wrong, if Quentin slipped for a moment from Dennis’ hands and dropped his head below the water, Cortez would leap in and swim over to save him before I had even drawn breath to scream.

“A couple years ago, there was some medical breakthrough in the studies of Kyotenin degradation. Or so they thought. Organ donation would slow down the process of deterioration, or even stop it altogether. Bunch of test cases in hospitals all over the world—they even had a program here down at Northwestern’s hospital in the city. Quentin’s doctor asked Duncan Phillips if he’d participate, since the most likely donors were the parents or siblings of the patients.”

I felt much colder than I had when I first climbed out of the pool. “He said no,” I guessed.

Bram Cortez nodded. “He said no. He didn’t even have himself tested to see if he was a close enough match. He wasn’t willing to donate a kidney or a lung or part of a liver or even, as far as I could tell, a pint of his own blood to try and save his son’s life.”

Cortez was silent a moment. “Dennis and Francis and I got tested, of course, but none of us was even the same blood type. Not that it would have done any good—for a program like that, Quentin would have needed his guardian’s permission, and clearly his dad wasn’t going to give it.”

“That damn legal majority act,” I exploded. About five years ago, there had been a challenge to the controversial law that made minors dependent on a parent or guardian until the age of twenty-one or a successful bid for emancipation, but it had failed. “If I could tell you the number of times I’ve seen it screw up the lives of my students—”

He nodded. “Stupidest law ever passed.”

“Do you know if Quentin ever considered suing for emancipation?”

“His aunt suggested it at the time. But Duncan Phillips made it clear he would fight the action in court—and since he could afford the best lawyers in the country, he undoubtedly would have won.”

“Why would he bother? Since he clearly doesn’t care much about Quentin’s well-being, why wouldn’t he just set him free?”

“Didn’t you know? Kids who get emancipated are awarded a percentage of their parents’ money, if their families are wealthy enough. Quentin would have walked away with twenty million or so. His dad wasn’t about to let that happen.” He was still watching the swimmers, so he didn’t catch my expression of mingled fury and horror. “Anyway, so that’s the real reason Quentin’s aunt isn’t around much anymore.”

“How could any parent be so cruel?” I whispered.

“Quentin never talks about it,” he said, “but he knows he’s going to die. He knows he’s probably going to die in the next five or six years. He knows that I’ll be here till that day. I’ve told him so. What he doesn’t know is, the day he dies, I’m waiting for Duncan Phillips to come home, and then I’m going to kill the man with my bare hands.”

Now he looked over at me. His eyes were so black that nothing reflected back from them, not the sun bouncing through the glass walls, not the light rippling off the pool, not my face, so close to his. He seemed as calm as if he had just ordered a sandwich and as sincere as if he’d just declared his belief in God.

“I don’t think you should say things like that,” I said at last.

He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug and didn’t add anything else. He continued watching me, and I watched him right back.

An arcing spray of water cut across both our faces and made us look quickly back to the pool. Dennis had swum over silently while we were discussing murder.

“You look so serious,” he said.

“Talking about Duncan Phillips,” Cortez said.

“That is enough to turn the brightest day gloomy,” Dennis agreed. “So let’s talk about happier things.”

I glanced out at the pool to see Quentin swimming laps. Part of the exercise program, I assumed; otherwise, he would not willingly have let three other people hold a conversation in which he was not included.

Cortez nodded out toward the water. “How’d he do today?”

“Not bad. It was good we took some of the edge off by playing around beforehand—made it easier for him to concentrate. I think he’s losing some strength in his legs, though. I need to watch him. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be able to swim like that unassisted.” He too looked out to where the lone figure patiently made its way up and down the crystal blue aisles.

“What happens if he can’t swim anymore?” I asked. “I mean, isn’t that practically the only exercise he gets?”

“He’ll still swim. I’ll just get him a chest belt that will keep him afloat while he works his arms. And maybe I’ll get him some ankle floaters, too. As long as he’s moving at all, I’ll keep him working out in the water.”

“This is making me so sad,” I said.

Dennis reached up a wet hand to pat me on the shoulder. “It makes us all sad, sweetie. But it’s made us all better people—kinder, more tolerant, able to make friends with others whom we normally would have despised.”

I smiled, because I could tell he was trying to cheer me up, change the subject, and bait Bram Cortez all at the same time. “What, you mean like you and Mr. Cortez here?”

“That’s exactly what he means,” Cortez growled. “You think I normally hang around with shasta freaks like this guy?”

I hadn’t thought about it before, so I took a long, lingering look at him. “If I had to guess,” I said slowly, “I’d say that at one point in your life that’s really how you felt. But I don’t think you do now, and I don’t think it’s because of Quentin.”

Dennis gave me a moo-cow look of earnestness, clearly fabricated for the occasion. “It’s because he’s learned to grow and change as a person,” he said.

“It’s because it’s too much trouble to hate people who are unfamiliar,” Cortez said. “I don’t even think ‘Live and let live’ anymore. I think, ‘Huh. That guy’s different. Wonder what he knows that I don’t know?’” He jerked a thumb at Dennis. “Of course, in his case, he doesn’t know squat that I don’t know, so it’s kind of a waste of time.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Dennis confided to me. “We’re best buddies. We even go out drinking sometimes.”

“Really?” I said, not sure if I should believe this or not. “What do you talk about?”

“Cars,” they said at the same time.

“ Cars! You couldn’t come with anything more boring!”

“See,” said Dennis, “this is why men and women will never be friends.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be friends with anyone who didn’t have a better topic of conversation than that.”

“We could talk fashion instead,” he drawled. “Though I’m not certain it’s your strong suit.”

“I admire your own Eurotrash getup,” I replied. “I can just picture you lounging on the beach, attracting no little share of attention.”

Cortez laughed out loud. Dennis grinned. “You know, Taylor, my sweet,” he began, and then paused as if struck by a new thought. “That’s such a formal name, isn’t it? What do they call you?”

“What does who call me?”

“Your friends. Your family. You must have nicknames.”

“Tay, usually.”

“Do you have a brother?”

I looked at him with misgiving. “Why?”

“Do you?”

Cortez answered. “Yes, she does.”

“What does he call you?” Dennis asked.

I regarded him with complete disbelief. “Now why would I tell you that? That’d be like painting a target on my back and going down to the gun range.”

“If I was your brother, I’d call you Tay-Tay,” Dennis decided. He practiced a few times. “‘Hi, Tay-Tay! C’mere, Tay-Tay.’ Oh yeah, that is definitely it.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re dead on. Though sometimes he calls me Tay-Kay. You know, K for Kendall.”

“Tay-Tay is better,” Cortez observed.

I gave him a look of irritation, but before I could speak, Dennis asked, “What’s your middle name?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

Dennis spread his hands in the water, a look of complete innocence on his face. “Just asking! I thought it might be useful to know.”

“Well, I’m not telling you any useful facts about me,” I said sullenly.

“Anastasia,” Cortez supplied.

Again, I gave him a fuming look, but Dennis appeared delighted. “Taylor Anastasia Kendall!” he exclaimed. “But that changes everything! That’s so feminine—so romantic! It gives me a whole new picture of you.”

I was still glowering at Cortez. “What, did you just memorize the entire file on me?”

“Pretty much.”

“When’s her birthday?” Dennis asked.

“June 20,” Cortez answered. “Couple months away.”

Dennis looked over at me. “He likes you,” he said. “I can tell.”

“This is so unfair,” I said.

“I like you, too,” Dennis said. “But it’s different.”

Quentin came splashing over just then, churning up as much water as possible with the windmill motion of his hands. “Hi, guys,” he said a little breathlessly. “I’ve done my laps. Can we play some more?”

“That’s what we’ve been waiting for,” Cortez said, and slid back into the pool. Feeling a little misused, I considered refusing, but it was, after all, what we’d been waiting for. So I cannonballed in, sending water everywhere, and the fight was on once more.

We played for another half hour or so, splashing, dunking, yelling, laughing. I had never seen Quentin look so alive or happy. On the other hand, he was a frail kid, and I wondered how long he could keep this up, even in the supportive medium of the water. Not to worry; both Dennis and Cortez were keeping their eyes on him, and the minute that I began to think Quentin looked a little tired, Dennis called off the games.

“Time to get you out and dry, young man,” Dennis said.

“No! Just a few more minutes! I—”

“Out,” Cortez ordered, and after a few more protests, Quentin submitted. We all swam a little wearily to the side of the pool, and I saw Cortez make a stirrup of his hands to boost Quentin from the water. Dennis was already out, towel ready, and he wrapped Quentin up and practically carried him to the wheelchair. Hard enough on me to leave the water and become responsible for all my own weight again; I imagined it must be ten times harder for Quentin.

“This was fun,” I said, toweling my hair.

Cortez looked over. “We’ll have to do it again sometime,” he said in a polite voice.

“Hey, yeah! How about Tuesday?” Quentin suggested.

“Maybe not that soon,” I said, smiling at him. “But soon.”

Dennis glanced at me. “Next time, bring your own suit,” he said softly.

I was still laughing as I disappeared back into the women’s locker room. Actually, I was still laughing a half hour later when I got home.

*

I wasn’t laughing quite so much that night when Jason called to inform me that we were going to some community theater performance Saturday night. Apparently, Domenic’s soon-to-be-ex new girlfriend had a small role in a musical production of the life of Barack Obama, and they’d all decided I should make them dinner before we set out.

I groused about it, but I secretly rather enjoyed myself as I cleaned the apartment, ordered groceries, and made the meal. Marika arrived first, tumbling into the room with her usual explosion of energy. Tonight, she was dressed in some layered red dress dripping with sequined balls, and her lipstick and fingernail polish were the exact same shade. Her wild hair was tied up in a knot on the top of her head, but it still came spilling down in its normal abandoned curls. Her spike heels were at least four inches high.

“How do you think you’re going to walk anywhere in those?” I demanded.

“Where are we walking? Down the street to the teleport gate. I’ll be fine. I like your dress.”

Mine was more sedate, a tightly fitting bodice of purple set into a flaring black skirt that came to my ankles. I figured I was too dressed up for community theater, but anything I put on would seem tame in comparison to whatever Marika had chosen, so I’d added a rhinestone belt and glittering silver shoes. The guys, when they arrived, wore their usual outfits, Domenic in flowing black and Jason in khakis and a buttoned-down shirt.

“Who raised this boy?” I asked. “Who taught him how to dress?”

“When we’re running from the crime scene, I’m not the one they’re going to be able to identify just by describing my clothes,” he replied.

Over the meal, we covered the usual topics—music, gossip, insults, and former lovers. I thought Jason would stalk from the room when Marika mentioned that Axel had called again.

“Hey, man, as long as she knows it’s stupid, she can do whatever she wants,” Domenic said. He looked at Marika. “You do know it’s stupid?”

She waved her hand in his direction. “Like I’m going to take advice from someone who can’t stay in a relationship longer than a month.”

I passed around the bread basket and tried to change the subject. “I say, let’s have a moratorium on discussions of our love lives,” I suggested.

Marika looked over at Jason. “She’s seeing someone.”

“I am not seeing someone! Why would you say that?”

Jason sat up, all alert, like a watchdog who’d just caught the promising sound of breaking glass. “Are you dating Duncan Phillips? Am I about to become the brother-in-law of a very wealthy man?”

I gave Marika a quick guilty glance. “I haven’t told him.”

“Told me what?”

I shrugged. “I did actually meet Duncan Phillips the other day. I was alone in his library and he came in and he—I couldn’t tell if he wanted to beat me up or take me down right there in the house.”

“Some men confuse sex and violence,” Domenic said.

Jason looked grim. “So—what—he threatened you? You were afraid?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“I told her not to go back,” Marika said self-righteously. “But, oh no, our Taylor, she had to hurry right back three days later.”

“But nothing happened there in the library?” Jason asked.

Marika answered before I could. “No, because her new boyfriend came rushing in to save her.”

“Marika, will you stop saying that?”

“Who? What boyfriend?”

“She’s referring to the security chief at the Phillips house. We’ve met a few times. He gave me a ride home the other day. He came into the library before anything happened—if anything would have happened, which I have to doubt.”

Domenic was nodding. “Knight in shining armor. That’s a nice touch. No wonder you like him.”

“I think Marika’s right,” Jason said. “I don’t think you should go back.”

“Well, I’m certainly going to be careful,” I said. “But I don’t think anyone has to be worried.”

“So, Duncan Phillips,” Domenic said. “What’s his deal? He’s sounding worse all the time.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “A complete bastard to his only son. Widower of a woman who died under mysterious circumstances. Famous for his ex-lovers. Infamous for a holographic gallery of his discarded mistresses—”

“Which I kind of like, may I say,” Jason interrupted.

Marika snorted. “You are so perverted.”

“Sounds to me like Duncan Phillips is the one who’s perverted,” Domenic observed. “Can’t believe no one’s up and murdered him.”

I thought back to my poolside conversation with Bram Cortez. No surprise that Domenic had plucked that thought out of the air; he was, after all, completely fey. I said, “My guess is that it’s just a matter of time.”