“You’re in one piece,” a chill voice said from the doorway, and Alaric squeaked in alarm, nearly falling over. It was literally his first real day on the job—it was Monday, and he had been hired Friday just before noon, and here he was acting like a frightened kitten left out in the rain. The mental image made him grimace, but he swiftly turned it into a smile for Cariste, the fae executive assistant who ran the entire building with an iron hand.
“Good morning. Sorry I’m late. Bad weather,” he pointed out the obvious, trying to arrange his damp clothing into some semblance of neatness and hoping he didn’t look like he ran two blocks after the taxi he could barely afford dropped him off at the wrong address. His fault—he was still learning his way around the city, and his lack of French was kicking his ass. Montreal was an international city but French was the predominant language and he was perpetually terrified that he would be unintentionally rude or sound like an idiot if he attempted the language. He never really regretted staying in the States after his parents split and his mother moved back to her home city of Montreal, but he was wishing his father had let him come visit more often than he had. His French was abysmal and not at all adequate for living in Montreal.
“I shall be back for you in one hour,” Cariste stated ominously. Sparkling eyes flicked over his ragged appearance and dripping hair. “Please take this time to make yourself more… comfortable.”
Less disheveled, he heard the order under the kinder words. He gulped and managed to get his tongue working. “Yes, sir. Ma’am. Um. Sorry.” He flinched. His people skills were rusty.
“Cariste is fine, Mr. Keening. I do not need an honorific.” The fae smiled faintly. They looked amused but he didn’t know if that was good or bad. “One hour.”
Alaric nodded and drooped with relief for a moment when Cariste drifted away majestically. How someone dressed so conservatively and in such muted tones could fill a room with their presence was mind-boggling. Fae were impossible for the gifted to overlook, their auras a bright beacon of colorful energies and enticing magics. They could be thousands of years old, or be twenty years old, never wearing the years on their face or forms. Age was only detectable in their bearing and their mannerisms, the older fae being more collected and efficient, less inclined to fidget or waste energy.
Alaric sucked in a breath, peeked out the door to make sure the coast was clear, then bolted for the bathroom down the narrow hallway. His office was at the far end of the floor from the elevators, near the stairs, and he wasn’t sure what was at the other end of the hall. There were no other offices in this hall, which he was thankful for, as the bathroom was empty when he darted inside.
Luxurious and spacious, the bathroom had couches and armchairs in it, multiple sinks on marble countertops, mirrors everywhere, the floor was immaculate, and there was even a tiny rug in front of the chairs in the seating area. The toilets and urinals were tucked discreetly around the corner at the rear of the room, each behind a classy wooden stall with latches.
One look in the mirror had him cringing and then running back to his office for his satchel. He dug around for his brush and darted back to the bathroom. Usually a bright and impossible shade of strawberry blond that an art student at college once called Spanish gold, his hair was a funky shade of dirty blond from the rain and the lights overhead. He grabbed a handful of actual cloth hand towels and dried his hair as best he could. There was an assortment of tiny, unopened toiletries on the counter in small baskets, amongst them a tub of hair paste that smelled of elderberries and maple sugar. He sniffed, enjoying the scent, then attempted to tame his hair.
Hair sorted, he frowned at his dark brown suit jacket, the shoulders wet and the stain from the water visible. He slipped out of it, the shirt underneath damp but not as wet. At least his tie was dry. He found an air dryer and held his jacket underneath it, waving it about several times as the device timed out and he had to restart it.
He checked his watch and groaned. He had maybe ten minutes before Cariste came back for him.
“Close enough,” Alaric said as he tested the fabric. A little bit damp but nothing noticeable. He shrugged into his jacket and cleaned up his mess before leaving the bathroom. He made it back into his tiny office and was just putting his brush in his bag when Cariste materialized out of nowhere in the doorway.
“Good.” A sharp glance from head to toe and Cariste seemed to find him acceptable. “Come with me.”
He had no idea where they were going and was too frazzled to ask. He was just glad he wasn’t fired and trudging home in the rain.
Cariste took him down that uninvestigated turn in the hall and Alaric blinked in surprise when it opened up into a wide space illuminated by floor-to-ceiling windows, marble flooring, and a reception area with a wood and iron desk bigger than his office. Cariste went behind it and gathered up a file, which hinted that the desk was theirs, and then gestured toward a wall of glass and carved wood. A huge set of doors was centered in the wall, and one of the doors opened at the slightest touch, swinging inward. He managed a few steps into the room before he stopped in shock, blinking in alarm at the occupant.
“Master Tarquin, this is Alaric Keening, your new Truthseeker,” Cariste announced.
His tiny office was just around the corner from the office of Tarquin, The Dragon Lord of Storms, CEO of GHH & Acquisitions, and his new boss.
Chapter 2
Tarquin eyed the young human who stared back at him with a hint of trepidation in his brilliant gemstone-colored eyes. They shimmered like dark emeralds, drawing his gaze and holding it. A hint of magic hovered around the mortal, as well as the scent of rain and a vague impression of elderberries. Slim, just under six feet tall, and with hair like the rose gold that once littered the floor of his hoard, the human male was pretty in just the way that drew Tarquin’s attention. His thoughts must have been clear upon his face, as the young human man blushed prettily, biting his lip, cheeks pink.
A hint of arousal stirred in the air, and Tarquin couldn’t tell if it came from the young man, himself, or both of them. He made himself focus and pushed aside his growing interest. And interested he was—his instincts roused just by being in Alaric Keening’s radius. He wanted. Alaric stared back at him, eyes wide, breathing increased, and a fine tremor ran over his slim frame.
He did not want to scare this young man, this human whose very presence made every fiber of his being scream treasure. Treasure was to be protected, cherished, and adored. Never scared.
Tarquin hid his sudden avarice behind an impeccable mask of polite welcome, and Alaric calmed almost immediately, his reaction to Tarquin enough to make Tarquin’s inner desires push against his control.
Only a mortal destined to be treasure would react so perfectly in sync to a compatible dragon. He reined in his wild speculation and focused on the matter at hand.
“Alaric Keening, come in please,” Tarquin stood and gestured to a chair set in front of his desk. Cariste eyed him sharply, keen eyes missing nothing of the last minute or so. Tarquin schooled his features even more, and Cariste nodded once, handed over the file they carried, and then slipped from the room, shutting the door.
Alaric startled a bit and ran his hands over his trim belly before approaching the chair and carefully sitting. “Hello, sir.”