Page 21 of Close Quarter
"Mr. Matherton."
What was the man's name? A cloth thrown over the waiter's shoulder obscured his name tag, damn it all. Names were important, Silas had said.
"Remember them."
"Vasil."
The waiter nodded. "May I get something for you?"
The beer list was disappointingly short. "I had been thinking about a beer." Rhys tapped the list. "But I'm open to suggestions."
Vasil looked at the menu. "Too warm in here for most of those." He looked up. "But you don't strike me as a fruit cocktail man."
"Yeah, I'm more of a beer or Jack kind of guy."
"Whiskey Manhattan, then."
Rhys nodded and handed his key card over.
He had no idea what was in that drink, but the least he could do was trust the waiter he had treated so poorly earlier.
The drink came in a martini glass, with a cherry and a twirl of orange peel. But it had the sting of Jack and something sweet and bitter. "It's good."
The waiter nodded again and shifted to move down the bar.
"Vasil," Rhys said. "I'm sorry. About earlier."
The waiter paused. "Think nothing of it."
Light words. "That was quite a tip Mr. Quint had you leave for two scotches." He moved on.
Rhys chuckled to himself. Punishment.
Payment. Silas had so many layers to him.
Amusement dropped away.Silas.He looked back at the waiter. Did he know? No, of course not.
Silas had said there were no other fae aboard this ship.
Fae.Rhys took a sip of his drink and then exhaled. If he had understood their last exchange, Silas wasn't just inhuman; he was old. Really old.
Rhys had no idea when Horace had lived, but he knew when Rome fell.
Rhys slid off the bar stool. Three unoccupied chairs sat near what seemed to be a bookcase. He took one. He needed some space, some time to think.
What had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Five
Silas didn't bother to keep his sword sheathed in the Aether. One benefit of having had Rhys go down on him--he had more than enough power to keep a glamour around the blade. Crafted items were harder to hide from mortal eyes. This particular blade--a Roman gladius--had been forged from silver and diamond by a phoenix in her own fire. His sword was of the very few objects that could damage the soulless. Only the Messengers' own swords were more dangerous.
To glamour such a work was difficult, even when his feet touched earth.
Rhys's power in Silas's blood made the act as easy as breathing.
Not that the blade mattered one whit at the moment. If there were soulless on the ocean liner, Silas couldn't find them. They must be here, for the Messengers were never wrong.
Silas sauntered down the grand staircase that led into the most elegant of the ship's many lounges. The soulless were vain and drawn to crowds, to the elemental energy humans possessed, and to their souls. The more humans in one location, the greater those little flares of elements burned. The soulless would seek the taste of energy and follow it until they found their prize.
