“By all reports”—the ganglord arched one manicured eyebrow—“he’s a dangerous man.”
Caren blinked. Jerked a thumb at the five-foot-two bespectacled waif standing a few feet to her right. “… Him?”
Zhao, at the same time, shot his boss an exaggerated puzzled face. “… Lil’ Pigeon?”
“Mr. Meillassoux,” spoke up Grenville, with a deep bow.
“Mr. Dreyfus-Meillassoux, if you please.”
“My apologies.” Caren wondered was she imagining it, or was Grenville’s Old-World accent stronger when addressing the ganglord. “Mr. Dreyfus-Meillassoux: I’m a Martial Magus in the employ of Ordo Arcanus. As you’re surely aware, Philadelphia and its suburbs are AM-designated neutral territory. So, even without these”—Grenville displayed the bracers on his wrists—“my hands are tied. I’m no threat to you, unless, of course, I find you in violation of interfaction law—or you put me in a position where I’m compelled to defend myself.” Grenville directed his expressionless stare at Zhao. “Which I don’t recommend.”
“I guess you heard the young man, Vernon,” said Dreyfus-Meillassoux.
Zhao grinned with every one of his perfectly aligned teeth. “Yeah, I copy, Chief.”
“Maréchal,” said Dreyfus-Meillassoux to Betancourt, “you may remove their bracers.”
Caren breathed a sigh of relief as the cold, weighty metal lifted off her wrists, and warm mana resumed flowing through her channels. Grenville, she noticed, as soon as his wrists were freed, pressed his left palm against the wool of his pea coat and closed his eyes, a slow intake of air swelling his skinny chest. A faint red glow emanated from the tattoos peeking out of his left sleeve.
“Please take their coats,” said Dreyfus-Meillassoux to his servingmen. “And send to the kitchen for the apéritifs. Ms. Navarrete, Mr. Grenville, please do sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Dinner will be served within the half-hour; we’d be most honored if you would join us.”
“Oh—yeah, for sure.” Caren surrendered her leather jacket to a guy—Peri's goodies wouldn't be needed, she was pretty sure at this point—and plopped down on a fancy, deep-blood-red embroidered couch.
“May I ask how you heard of me, Mr. Dreyfus-Meillassoux?” Grenville picked a small accent chair and sat down on it in that awkward arms-right-up-against-his-body way of his that somehow made him look even smaller than he actually was.
A servant entered with a drink tray. Dreyfus-Meillassoux selected a wine glass full of steaming dark liquid with a warm thank-you, then seated himself in an ornate wing-backed chair. “Despite having defected from Ordo Arcanus many years since, I remain a religious reader of the Delphi Moon Post.” He took a sip of his drink. Miles Winter limped over to a chaise lounge, arranged himself on it with his injured leg raised, laid open a few of his books and papers, and sat peering back and forth between them through his spectacles, tracing lines of text with the forefingers of both gloved hands. Betancourt grabbed a couple of drinks and handed one of them to Caren, then settled himself on the other end of the same sofa as her, while Ishaan Ram took up a silent post to the right of the ganglord’s chair. “Your council hall demonstration, Mr. Grenville, dominated the front page the morning after. Combat alchemy is perhaps the greatest innovation the arcane world has seen in decades, and I do not speak such praises lightly. Your father must be very proud of your accomplishment.”
Grenville waved away the drink tray, seemed to consider his response. “My father…knows little of alchemy. He concerns himself mostly with my standing in the Black Pyramid.”
If the mention of Fraternitas Mercurii troubled Dreyfus-Meillassoux, he didn’t show it. “Surely the Brotherhood has duly recognized and rewarded your talent.”
Again, Grenville appeared to deliberate before speaking. “I’m not sure talent is the primary criterion for advancement in the Pyramid these days. But…I’m sure you’re aware it’s not my privilege to speak further on these matters in present company.”
“Indeed, I am aware.” Dreyfus-Meillassoux’s gaze lingered on Grenville for a moment. He then turned to Caren. “Ms. Navarrete, did you enjoy your ride in Nathaniel’s new Trans Am? Our Maréchal takes great pride in his refurbished antique automobiles.” Betancourt puffed up a little at the mention.
Caren peered dubiously into the dark, frothy beverage Betancourt had given her. “The car was pretty sweet. Nathaniel’s chill.” She jerked a thumb toward Zhao, who was currently rolling around on the floor with the cat. “But if I’m being real, Sicko Mode over there was an interesting delegation to your welcoming committee.”
Grenville’s eyes bulged. Betancourt muffled a snort. Caren glimpsed what might be smiles tugging at Dreyfus-Meillassoux’s and his compatriots’ lips—with the exception of Zhao, who sat up and gave her a Bambi-eyed look, pronouncing in a flute-like falsetto, “Who…me?”
“Vernon, were you impolite to our guests?” said Dreyfus-Meillassoux.
“Why, Daddy dearest, I would never.” Zhao effected a Southern-belle twang, pressed his palm flat to his heart. When the ganglord looked away, he fixed Caren with a Trollface grin.
Dreyfus-Meillassoux gazed into the black, swirling depths of his drink. “Indeed, Ms. Navarrete, until now it hasn’t been my custom to appoint Vernon to the ‘welcoming committee,’ as you so aptly put it. But; setting aside the fact that my usual appointees are either no longer with us”—his gaze traced the shrines—“are fulfilling roles recently left vacant by those who are no longer with us”—he gestured faintly to Ram on his right—“or are recuperating from grievous injury”—a faint nod toward Miles Winter—“recent circumstances necessitate making it abundantly clear to my guests precisely what will befall them in the event of a breach of trust. This is a task at which Vernon shows exceptional skill.”
Caren recalled Sylvan’s account of the Megyesi ambush. “That…makes sense,” she had to admit, and finally tried the drink. It tasted alcoholic enough. Also kind of pleasantly floral. She took a second, longer gulp, wiped the foam from her lip with the back of her hand.
“Your understanding is appreciated.” Dreyfus-Meillassoux inclined his head. He nursed his drink; fell once more to studying Grenville, who was again staring at the harpsichord. “Mr. Grenville, are you sure you wouldn’t like to give us a tune?”
Grenville swung his head back around to face the ganglord, eyes round. “Oh, I…well. I really don’t…don’t really play.”
“Not even ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”
Grenville hesitated. “I…guess I wouldn’t mind a closer look. If that’s all right.”
“Be my guest.”
Grenville stood, approached the instrument. Sat down on the bench, silently trailed his fingers over the keys. “Exquisite… How old is it?”
“Well over four hundred years, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Holy shit.” Grenville instantly blushed, like he hadn’t meant to let that one slip.
Dreyfus-Meillassoux cracked a smile. “It’s been in my family for generations.”
“And it’s fully playable?”
“Indeed. Usually it’s Nathaniel who plays it. He’s our resident accompanist, a very talented pianist and guitarist. I’m a musician as well, but I’ve barely touched a manual since I was a boy.”
Grenville positioned his hands on the keys, tapped out a quick arpeggio. “Oh—my God. It’s so cool.”
Again, the ganglord smiled. “Seems to me you know your way around a keyboard better than you’re letting on.”
Grenville hesitated, closed his eyes. Lengthened and took a deep breath.
Out of nowhere, he was a blur of pale hands and wild, whipping curtains of hair, as waves of frenzied notes came rolling out of the instrument. Caren felt her whole body electrify, her jaw literally drop.
“Whooooooa!” Beside her, Betancourt clutched his skull, his feet rising off the floor like he was on a roller-coaster drop.
The whole company listened, rapt. Even Sicko Mode and the cat sat spellbound.
Everyone remained motionless as the last notes of the piece lingered in the air, as Grenville’s body finally slumped, visibly heaving like an idle animation.
As soon as the last traces of sound died out, they all broke out in applause. Betancourt whistled; he and Dreyfus-Meillassoux both set their drinks down and sprang to their feet. Winter and Ram clapped politely—Winter a bit awkwardly, Ram with a strong enthusiastic energy. Zhao cranked his fist in the air, yelling, “Beast it, Lil’ Pigeoooooon!” and let out a series of wild whoops. The cat, looking annoyed, jumped back up into its bed.
Grenville peeked sheepishly over his shoulder, his face flushed. Dreyfus-Meillassoux laughed out loud with childlike delight. “‘I don’t play,’ he says! Ah—bravo—magnifique!” The ganglord glanced back to his right. “Oh, Tak! Wasn’t that just—?”
He stopped short, staring blankly at Ram, who stared back at him a moment, then averted his eyes.
The whole room went suddenly, painfully silent.
‘Tak’? wondered Caren.
Her eye drifted to the first of the shrines.
… ‘Takayuki’?
Dreyfus-Meillassoux lowered his gaze. Stood silent for several seconds, while everyone waited.
At last, he spoke. “It was a…transcendent performance, my dear young man. A very precious friend of mine adored Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in C Minor. Today, you have honored his memory. I thank you.” He inclined his head.
Grenville nodded mutely. Sat very still on the bench, like he was unsure what to do.
A manservant appeared in the doorway, bowed. “Dinner is served, mon Capitaine.”
Dreyfus-Meillassoux nodded slowly to himself. “Well, then.” He lifted his head, smiled warmly. “Let’s to the dining room, friends.”
Betancourt flashed Caren a weak smile, which she took as an apology for the awkwardness, then offered a hand to help her up.
As they all started moving into the hall, she glanced back and saw Grenville paused in front of the cat bed, offering the animal his fingers to sniff. It obliged, then dragged the corner of its mouth across his fingertips. He began to scratch under its chin very gently, his big deer eyes glued to its blissed-out face, as if tuning in closely to every nuance of its reactions.
Dreyfus-Meillassoux approached him. “His name is Puck.” Puck flopped over onto his back. “As you can see, he’s very friendly with guests.”
Grenville trailed his fingers over the cat’s belly, oh-so-gently. “He’s beautiful.”
“Indeed, he is. And he knows it.”
A smile touched Grenville’s lips. Which was something Caren was pretty sure she’d never seen before.
Kid fits right in around here, doesn’t he? She smirked to herself. Maybe bringing Daddy’s Boy along wasn’t such a bad move after all.
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