“Hello. Er… Um… Is this Wycke?”
“I am he.” Wycke braced to toss the phone down and demand Chynne whisk them to safety. Had one of the king’s spies followed him after all?
Chynne stalked off, tail in the air, vanishing a few steps from the bed.
“Sorry to call you so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No. Not at all.” The voice sounded familiar.
The voice registered when the caller said, “This is Piers. We met tonight at the club where I work.”
Surely Wycke hadn’t cast a summoning spell without realizing. “Ah, yes. The dancing bartender.” The gods, ancestors, or someone smiled on him tonight.
“Look, I have an unexpected free shift. If you’re not busy, I thought, maybe, you’d like to go get that drink… or something.”
Definitely “or something.” If memory spells weren’t such a chore, Wycke would open a portal, drag the man through, and wipe his mind later.
Risking turning Piers’ brain to mush.
No. Wycke must play by the realm’s rules. Besides, portals were hit and miss for him due to no proper training or time, except between his room in the palace and this realm. He’d hate to wind up with only the guy’s clothes while his new favorite bartender shivered naked somewhere.
If he couldn’t conjure a bit of company, he could bring Piers to him in other ways. “What do you suggest?”
“Do you like Italian food?”
Wycke would gladly agree to any cuisine if Piers sat across the table from him.
“There’s a place called Luigi’s, right around the corner from your hotel. Should we meet at say, six tomorr… I mean, tonight?”
Wycke glanced at the clock. Four a.m. “I’d love to.”
Piers sounded less nervous when he said, “Great! I’ll see you tonight.”
Wycke hung up the phone, flooded with relief for some reason.
Only… How the hell had Piers found out where Wycke stayed?
Wycke occupied his day canvassing the area. No magicals lived in the vicinity of Sir Lyvianne’s old apartment. A wood sprite at a nearby market recalled a magical battle about fourteen or fifteen human years ago, but refugees were terrified of being found out and didn’t call attention to themselves by rushing into trouble.
They’d seen enough carnage.
Too bad there was no representative of all the magical races Wycke could appeal to, someone who knew the comings and goings of other-realmers. Someone like Lady Nyanda Gimitri could lay waste to this world.
Right. Humans couldn’t wield magic here for long.
Or could they? He certainly did, though he’d never stayed long enough to know if his abilities diminished over time. For all he knew, the man who’d just passed him on the street came from the magical realm, for humans from his realm didn’t need glamour. If they managed to suppress their magic, could they exist in this world indefinitely?
Scary thought. The last thing either realm needed was another Lady Nyanda.
If her son were truly here…
Once more, Wycke stood in front of the apartment building where he’d first materialized. He focused on Sir Lyvianne. Again, images came in clearly: Lyvianne performing domestic duties, sitting in a chair by a child’s bedside, reading.
Wycke shifted his focus from Lyvianne to the child. The image grew muddled. Why couldn’t Wycke focus? Why couldn’t he see?
Could someone have cast a befuddlement spell?
Someone would have discovered Pieravor Dimitri long before now if he lived. Perhaps Saris misspoke. Maybe Sir Lyvianne fled to another realm instead?