"Would you care for a drink?" Thorne asks as we take our seats in the small sitting room across the hall from the kitchen. It's a cozy space, the sort of place in which a gentleman of bygone eras might have taken his breakfast with the morning papers.
Thorne stands at a sideboard along the wall, where a crystal decanter of whiskey and a set of matching tumblers rest on a silver tray.
Julian and Dane have taken a small settee, barely wide enough to hold them both, and I perch nervously on the edge of a large wingback chair upholstered in blue damask.
So far, Dane's anger has been directed at the fact that someone drugged Julian and stole the painting we'd been hired to protect. Eventually, though, I expect him to turn it on the person who allowed those things to happen—namely, me.
At the moment, however, Thorne seems more in danger of attracting his ire.
"We don't want drinks," Dane growls. "We want answers."
"I'll have a drink," Julian says, ignoring Dane and nodding towards the sideboard. "Thanks."
"Noah?" Thorne asks, raising a brow at me.
I shake my head. "No, thank you."
Actually, despite the fact that I really don't drink at all, I find I'd like to rather badly right now. Instead, I follow Dane's lead.
Thorne shrugs and pours two glasses of the fiery amber liquid, handing one to Julian and taking the other for himself. Then he settles back in a chair that matches mine; unlike me, though, he looks at home in it: relaxed and confident and, as ever, slightly amused.
"Now," he says, "what was it that you wanted to know?"
"What were you doing at Barker's house tonight?" Dane asks, leaning forward slightly.
The corner of Thorne's mouth lifts a fraction. "Attending a party, to which I was invited, of course."
Dane growls. "Don't play games with me, you cocky son-of-a-bitch. Answer the damn question."
If anything, Thorne looks like he's enjoying himself. "I believe I just did, Mr. Hunter" he says. "Perhaps you should ask another."
Restraining his temper with an obvious effort, Dane asks, "Why were you at Barker's party?"
"Because I was curious," Thorne answers, "about several things, actually—not least of which was how your boys here would fare. Not well, as it turns out." He lifts a shoulder and takes a sip of his drink.
Something squeaks.
With a jolt of embarrassment, I realize it's me. I can't stand tension, and it's been building steadily ever since Dane arrived.
Now he's leaning forward, fists clenched, shoulders bunched in knots, and a wolfish snarl on his lips. I hope Thorne knows what he's playing with, because an enraged alpha is no joke.
Then Julian sighs, downs his drink in one gulp, presses himself close to Dane and whispers something in his ear. I don't know if he's using some fae trick or not, but Dane relaxes and turns towards him with a far different look in his eyes.
"Later," Julian murmurs, and kisses his shoulder before sitting back.
Thorne laughs, soft and low. "What a strange thing, love is," he says.
Dane makes an unmistakably inhuman sound, but Thorne's smile only widens.
"Relax, detective," he says. "I'll tell you everything you want to know. You just haven't asked the right questions yet. Perhaps we ought to give the little wolf a try?" He turns towards me, eyes lit with secret fire.
"Don't call me that," I snap.
"I'll call you by your name when you call me by mine," he replies.
I do my best to glare—I might not have Dane's physique but I share his amber gaze—but the effect just isn't the same from behind a pair of lenses. Giving up, I sigh.
"Fine. Ambrose. Please, tell us what you are, and how you know so much about all this—about me and Julian, and about these thefts."
He nods, looking pleased. "I shall, but it's not a simple answer, I'm afraid. It requires a bit of telling."
"So get the fuck on with it, then," Dane growls.
Thorne's eyes flick back to Dane and he takes a slow sip of his drink before setting it aside.
"In the early part of the last century, my mother was a member of a group of occultists. They lived and practiced in the area around Loch Ness, where there was once a house that bore witness to many outré things—strange rituals, black magic, and the like. It's since burned down, but the man who once lived there was a sort of sorcerer—or thought he was.
"My mother and her husband and some others grew disillusioned over time. Their aims were different, their desires not being met, and so they struck out on their own, forming their own circle of practitioners.
"The man who would raise me as his own was among them, and at last he found what he was looking for. A particular ritual, druidic in origin, to commune with the denizens of the Otherworld, and to ask favors of them.
"Together, on the eve of Beltane, the nine self-appointed magicians gathered, laid their runes and seals, and cast their spells. And it worked—their summons were answered.
"Trouble was, Aengus Thorne didn't know enough of magic to tell by whom, and wasn't wise enough to be certain that he did. He thought he was dealing with something like a fae spirit, something that could be captured, kept, and bargained with. Instead he'd somehow managed to summon something else. Something older, far more powerful, and far more perilous to deal with. One of the children of the Tuath Dé—the old gods."
Thorne—Ambrose—paused and sipped his drink, then swirled the amber liquid at the bottom of the glass, watching the little maelstrom spin.
"It was a creature of fire and shadow, of both venom and healing, of hidden truths and double meanings. A being of great power in the Otherworld, who might take the form of a man, or of a terrible serpent as it saw fit; a dragon, in other words."
"A dragon?" I repeat, incredulous. "Even if that was true, how could they not know they were talking to a dragon?"
Ambrose lifts his gaze to mine and holds it, seeming to pin me in place. "Because whatever you're imagining a dragon to be, little wolf, you're probably wrong, and because they were speaking to it across the Veil. They couldn't see it, and it spoke through a conduit, anyway."
"Conduit? Like a medium?" Julian asks, and yawns. He looks sleepy, his head resting on Dane's shoulder.
"Yes. My mother," Ambrose says. "Through her, the nine made their deals—fame, fortune, immortality—the usual things. In return, the dragon—Ainach—asked for trinkets—worthless things, which the men readily gave.
"When they finished, Ainach asked my mother if she had a request of her own. She did, though hers was a little different. She asked for a child, which she'd been told she was unable to bear. What she was asked for in return, she did not say.
"Then, with the bargains complete and the mages ready to congratulate themselves, Ainach revealed his true nature, and the real price each man had paid. Each of their souls were now bound to the objects they had 'given,' and with it, the gift they had received. If the items were ever to be destroyed, so would the man's gift, and with it, his soul."
"What about...your mom?" I ask, leaning forward on the edge of my seat.
"She got her request, though it took a bit longer than the others. I was born in February of the following year. As for the price, well... Aengus Thorne was not my father, as you might have guessed."
"Are you telling us you're...a dragon?" Dane asks, looking about as willing to believe that the earth is flat.
Thorne shakes his head. "No. I'm just born of one."
Julian snorts and then giggles. "Fus Ro Dah?"
Thorne lifts a brow. "Beg pardon?"
"Ignore him," Dane says, casting Julian a quelling look. "He's tired."
"No, I'm serious!" Julian protests. "Do you have like, special dragon powers?" he asks, looking at Ambrose.
Ambrose's mouth twitches. "I have certain gifts, yes. Since I was a child I've been able to see past any disguise, and into the hearts of women and men. When I look at your mate and his brother, I see wolves. You...well, at first I wasn't sure. All I saw was your brightness, there."
He looks at the center of Julian's chest, and Julian self-consciously covers his heart with his hand. Given he's had a madman try to eat it once, I don't blame him.
"I can also influence minds to some extent," Ambrose goes on, "at least, enough not to be seen when I wish. Perhaps most notably, I've a knack for healing—though like all of Ainach's gifts, it comes with a price. I was a medical doctor once, but I stick to animals now. I find it's safer that way."
"Once? Wait, how old are you?" Julian asks.
"Nearly a hundred," Ambrose answers, "though I'm mortal, as far as I can tell. Just...slow to age, it seems."
Dane grunts and leans back in his seat, watching Ambrose with skeptical eyes. "Assuming this is all true, you're saying Barker and the other theft-victims are these nine occultists, from almost a century ago, and the items being stolen are these...soul-trap things?"
Thorne nods slowly. "Congratulations, detective. You've followed the plot," he says.
Dane glowers. "Okay, so then why were the objects left out in the open, unguarded? If Barker's soul was attached to that picture, why was it displayed on the wall of his house, in the middle of a party? Why wasn't it locked in a vault somewhere?"
Oddly, Ambrose looks pleased with this question.
"Dragon magic is trickster magic, Mr. Hunter," he says. "Each 'gift' was unique, as was its price. Barker, for example, asked for eternal youth, and gave the portrait as his 'payment.' Ainach made it the symbol of his vanity, and the price of Barker's gift was that it must be viewed regularly and by many eyes, or Barker's true visage would be revealed. Because of this, he couldn't simply hide it away somewhere. It had to be on display. Of course it was such a hideous thing, and so utterly worthless, there was really no danger of its being stolen. Until now, that is."
For a moment, there's silence. Julian looks almost asleep, leaning against Dane's side, and a sudden thought strikes me, but I keep it to myself for now.
"So who's the thief?" Dane asks, shifting his arm around Julian's back. "Who, besides the nine and your mom, knows all this? And why would they want to steal the gifts?"
Thorne shrugs, a sphinx-like smile playing about his lips. "Now that, detective, is the question, isn't it?"
~ ☾ ~
A question Ambrose doesn't know the answer to—or so he claims, at least.
Shortly after the conclusion of his tale, Dane and Julian depart. Julian is so out of it by that point that Dane almost has to carry him to his car. I watch them leave, and once they're gone, I shut the door and turn to find Ambrose watching me, his fire-lit eyes shining in the shadowed hall.
"Was Julian really alright? When we found him, I mean?" I ask.
Ambrose studies me, a grave look on his face, and then shakes his head.
"No, he was not all right—not at all. He'd been poisoned, Noah—not merely drugged. His fae blood kept him alive, and I did the rest. He's fine now, though. Just needs to sleep off the last of the effects."
I think for a moment. "It was good you kept that from Dane, at least for now," I say. "And from me," I add. "I can't keep a secret worth shit."
He laughs, his mouth twisting with wry humor. "That I do know."
My eyes meet his, and before I can stop myself, the other question that occurred to me this evening rises to my lips.
"You knew," I say, "right from the start. You knew exactly what and who I was. That's why you invited me here, isn't it? To get close to my brother and learn what he knew."
Ambrose holds my gaze a moment, and then nods. "Yes, that much is true."
I feel a crushing weight settle on my heart.
Shutting my eyes, I take a deep breath. I don't know why, but for some reason, I'd been hoping I was wrong.
"Goodnight, Doctor Thorne," I say, and then move past him, keeping my gaze on the floor.
Ascending the stairs, I retreat to my room, in which I intend to stay only what remains of the night, and not a second more.