Read Online Light My Fire by Katie MacAlister - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katie MacAlister
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“Thousands. Hun dreds of thousands. And I’m afraid you’ve just become their public enemy number one.”
“You’re talking about actions more serious than hiding my toothpaste and short-sheeting my bed, aren’t you?”
“I’m talking about imps destroying you, Jim, and everyone near you in a manner that would make medieval torture look like a pleasant way to pass an afternoon,” she answered, her voice grave.
I turned slowly to fix Jim on the end of a glare so pointed, the demon should have been skewered up against the tree behind it.
Jim burped. “Sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I lectured Jim all the way home. Nora left to deal with the threat of possibly more kobolds, and Jim complained of a bellyache (no doubt the imp king was not digesting easily), so a half hour later I headed out by myself to visit a nearby bookstore Nora had recommended, figuring I’d use the hour before I had to meet Drake to bone up on Guardianish things. I was so caught up in my own concerns, I didn’t catch my name the first time someone said it.
A little zing of pain shot up my back the second time, instantly attracting my attention to the man who stood next to a bench in the small green square through which I was strolling.
“Aisling Grey—if you have a moment of time, I would like to talk with you.”
I recognized the man immediately. The curly dark brown hair and dark eyes, square chin, and slightly above-average height were nothing out of the ordinary, but the aura of power surrounding him was palpable even several yards away. I stopped and allowed him to approach.
“We have not been introduced, I think, although naturally I have heard of the famous Aisling Grey.” He smiled faintly, his voice a bit husky, tinged with a faint Irish ac cent. “I am Peter Burke.”
He didn’t hold out his hand, something I’d learned quickly was standard with people in the Otherworld. Drake had told me that too many people could pick up on things when they touched you, so only good friends or close acquaintances shook hands.
“Nice to meet you. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Indeed. Can you spare me a few minutes?” he asked, giving me a polite, tight little smile.
“Sure. Are you in London for business?” Obediently, I took a seat on the bench he indicated.
“In a manner of speaking. I have been attending to my concerns elsewhere for the last few months and only re cently returned to Paris. There I discovered that Albert Camus had been murdered, and you were instrumental in discovering his murderer’s identity.”
“I had a bit of help, but that’s more or less true,” I agreed. Peter’s eyes bothered me—something about them wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.
“Regardless, you made an impression on the members of the Paris Otherworld.” His face was oddly expression less, making me uneasy.
“Ah, now I see what you want,” I said, the truth dawning. The reassuring smile I flashed at him fizzled when he didn’t respond to it in the least. “You’re worried that I want a shot at the Venediger’s job, right? Well, you’re worrying needlessly. I have enough going on in my life and have no desire to be Venediger. My friend Amelie said something yesterday about people thinking I should take the job, but that’s not going to happen.”
“I see,” Peter said, the faintest hint of amusement showing in his eyes. I relaxed at the sight of it, relieved that he was showing some sort of emotion. “Naturally, I am greatly reassured to know that you have no designs on the position so well suited to me, and loath though I am to disturb you at a time when you are so busy, I had thought that since you are held in such high esteem by the Paris Otherworld, you might assist me.”
“Assist you?” I cleared my throat and shifted on the bench, Amelie’s concerns still fresh in my memory. “I don’t know how I could do that. I think you’re
“You’re talking about actions more serious than hiding my toothpaste and short-sheeting my bed, aren’t you?”
“I’m talking about imps destroying you, Jim, and everyone near you in a manner that would make medieval torture look like a pleasant way to pass an afternoon,” she answered, her voice grave.
I turned slowly to fix Jim on the end of a glare so pointed, the demon should have been skewered up against the tree behind it.
Jim burped. “Sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I lectured Jim all the way home. Nora left to deal with the threat of possibly more kobolds, and Jim complained of a bellyache (no doubt the imp king was not digesting easily), so a half hour later I headed out by myself to visit a nearby bookstore Nora had recommended, figuring I’d use the hour before I had to meet Drake to bone up on Guardianish things. I was so caught up in my own concerns, I didn’t catch my name the first time someone said it.
A little zing of pain shot up my back the second time, instantly attracting my attention to the man who stood next to a bench in the small green square through which I was strolling.
“Aisling Grey—if you have a moment of time, I would like to talk with you.”
I recognized the man immediately. The curly dark brown hair and dark eyes, square chin, and slightly above-average height were nothing out of the ordinary, but the aura of power surrounding him was palpable even several yards away. I stopped and allowed him to approach.
“We have not been introduced, I think, although naturally I have heard of the famous Aisling Grey.” He smiled faintly, his voice a bit husky, tinged with a faint Irish ac cent. “I am Peter Burke.”
He didn’t hold out his hand, something I’d learned quickly was standard with people in the Otherworld. Drake had told me that too many people could pick up on things when they touched you, so only good friends or close acquaintances shook hands.
“Nice to meet you. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Indeed. Can you spare me a few minutes?” he asked, giving me a polite, tight little smile.
“Sure. Are you in London for business?” Obediently, I took a seat on the bench he indicated.
“In a manner of speaking. I have been attending to my concerns elsewhere for the last few months and only re cently returned to Paris. There I discovered that Albert Camus had been murdered, and you were instrumental in discovering his murderer’s identity.”
“I had a bit of help, but that’s more or less true,” I agreed. Peter’s eyes bothered me—something about them wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.
“Regardless, you made an impression on the members of the Paris Otherworld.” His face was oddly expression less, making me uneasy.
“Ah, now I see what you want,” I said, the truth dawning. The reassuring smile I flashed at him fizzled when he didn’t respond to it in the least. “You’re worried that I want a shot at the Venediger’s job, right? Well, you’re worrying needlessly. I have enough going on in my life and have no desire to be Venediger. My friend Amelie said something yesterday about people thinking I should take the job, but that’s not going to happen.”
“I see,” Peter said, the faintest hint of amusement showing in his eyes. I relaxed at the sight of it, relieved that he was showing some sort of emotion. “Naturally, I am greatly reassured to know that you have no designs on the position so well suited to me, and loath though I am to disturb you at a time when you are so busy, I had thought that since you are held in such high esteem by the Paris Otherworld, you might assist me.”
“Assist you?” I cleared my throat and shifted on the bench, Amelie’s concerns still fresh in my memory. “I don’t know how I could do that. I think you’re
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