Page 56 of Horn of Winter

His tone was dry but edged with frustration. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Gods—don’t tell me I’ve caught you mid-coitus again?”

“Thankfully, it’s more the seduction phase this time.”

“I take it she’s not in close proximity?”

“No. You’re now listed as ‘The Council Project’ and have your very own ringtone. I told her I had to take the call and moved into another room.”

“I’m not sure I like being listed as a project.”

“And yet, a project you are and will remain until I once again get you into my bed. And yes, I am aware that will likely never happen. What is it you wish?”

“I thought I’d let you know I have several possible leads, but we can discuss them tomorrow. I take it everything is arranged?”

“Yes indeed, and I did send the details. One of these days, you will stop ignoring my messages.”

“Force of habit, sorry. I’ll let you get back to proceedings.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “You’re not following a lead alone tonight, are you?”

“No, because right now, I’m leaving the cemetery, having just had a nice chat with the ghul.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m just scouting, nothing more.”

“I am not convinced. Give me a few minutes and I’ll come?—”

“If you come in a few minutes, your partner isn’t going to be pleased,” I cut in with another laugh. “I’m fine, Mathi, and I’m not stupid.”

“No, but you can sometimes act rashly. You and Lugh are very much alike that way.”

And so was Mom. He didn’t say that, but he didn’t really need to. “Stop talking to me and get back to your seduction. I’ll ring before I do anything too rash.”

“Promise?”

I sighed. “Yes.”

“Good. I will see you in the morning.”

He hung up, and I checked my messages. There was a text confirming he was picking me up at seven. I tucked my phone into my purse, then shoved my hands into my pockets and followed the lane to the nearest bridge crossing. There was a surprising number of people out and about considering the bite in the air, but maybe they were all enjoying the momentary break in the weather. And it was only momentary—the threat of more rain ran heavily through the gathering wind.

As I reached the other side of the river, an odd prickle ran across the back of my neck. I carefully glanced around but couldn’t see anyone in the nearby area overtly watching me. Which didn’t mean anything, given we were dealing with someone who had the use of a concealment charm of some kind. This area was fairly well lit, but there were still patches of darkness remaining in which someone could hide.

I walked under the old Roman gateway and headed toward Duke Street; the sensation of being watched faded but didn’t entirely go away. I did my best to ignore it—it was either that, or investigate the area another day, and I was here now—so I followed Duke Street until I reached the old city walls dividing the street from the old Roman gardens. According to Google, there were a couple of hotels scattered over several nearby blocks, but the first one happened to be called The Old Roman Inn. It was described as a two-story, old-fashioned pub witha couple of B&B rooms upstairs, and both the name and the location were just too perfect not to check out first.

It turned out to be a Victorian rather than Roman building situated on the corner of two streets. Lights burned brightly from the three windows on each side of the ground floor, but there were no lights shining through the windows on the floor above. But they obviously had a good crowd in if the babble of conversation was anything to go by.

I opened the lovely old door and stepped inside. I might as well have stepped back in time. The walls were adorned with lots of World War One memorabilia and old tin advertising plaques, the wallpaper underneath old-fashioned and faded. Wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls, the dark wood matching the small but ornate bar. There was also a small fire, the large green tiles forming the surround holding images of white trees. Seating was a mix of old-fashioned booths and time-worn tables and chairs. I spotted a booth for two in the back corner and made my way through the tables and claimed it.

A middle-aged woman bustled over a few seconds later, her cheeks red and her smile warm. “You here for a meal or just a drink?”

“Both, I think.”

“Excellent.” She handed me a menu. “Special tonight is beef cottage pie with a cheese, potato, and leek topping, accompanied by steamed veg.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll have a double whiskey, too.”

“Any preference?”

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