His smile broadened a little more. “Do you live here?” he asked and she couldn’t place his accent at all. It was a bit Scandinavian, but not quite.
“I do. I own The Swan & Thistle,” she said, but saw that he didn’t understand. “The pub. The bar. The restaurant. I have a cook, but it’s my place.”
He nodded and looked at the old building again, appreciation in his expression. She felt like the sun had slipped behind a cloud when he looked away from her, which just proved how much she needed a date.
“It feels like home,” he said softly when she had continued and Lynsay looked back, curious.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Not exactly,” he said, smiling again.
“Then where?”
“Iceland most recently.”
“What do you do?”
“I listen to stories, and I remember them. My mother taught me to do that.” He sobered, his gaze trailing in the direction of the big house. “But I have heard so many. I am afraid to forget them. I think I should begin to write them down.”
A writer. Well, Lynsay understood and admired that.
“My dad was a poet,” she said. “And the unofficial local historian. He wrote down all the stories he heard.”
“A kindred spirit!”
“I guess so.” Lynsay found herself compelled to elaborate. “He wrote a lot about the big house, the manor house up the way. There’s an old story that it was built on the ruins of an ancient castle, one stolen by a barbarian king. It was lost by him when he killed his wife and his twelve sons finally rose against him. Kind of a gruesome story, actually.”
“Stories are often gruesome. That doesn’t mean they aren’t true.”
There was a ferocity in his tone then, one that made her wonder what his story was. “You can read my dad’s books if you like.” Lynsay didn’t know what prompted her to make such an offer.
“I would rather you told me his stories,” her visitor said. “I like how people tell stories, and you have a beautiful voice.” His gaze warmed. “I expect you tell them very well.”
“My father always said I’d inherited his gift,” she said, feeling herself blush. “Maybe it was the truth.”
“There is no harm in a father showing kindness to his daughter,” he said firmly.
That was true enough. “You have strong feelings about fathers,” she said, keeping her tone light.
“Mine wasn’t very kind. I always thought that if I had children of my own, I would spoil them with kindness.” He shook his head as if that was foolish.
“I think that’s lovely,” Lynsay said and their gazes clung for a potent moment. She had a lump in her throat for some reason.
She watched him swallow.
“Kindness can be rare in our world,” he said, studying her more intently. “I have the sense that you are a kind person.”
“Some people say I’m a pushover, though. Too soft-hearted,” she added when he seemed uncertain of her meaning.
“There are worse faults.”
True enough. Lynsay started to walk toward her own door again.
“Do you know of a place where I might find work near here?” her visitor asked. “I can work hard and I only need enough of a wage for food and shelter.”
“Not saving for a rainy day?” she had to tease.
“It has been and gone. I am simply glad to be alive.” He surveyed her again. “And here. I am glad to be here.”
“You said it felt like home.”
“It does. I would like to stay, if I can find a way.”
Lynsay looked around, amazed by the strength of her temptation to help. She heard the delivery truck from the brewery approaching—she could always tell by the way Lukas ground the gears on the corner—and had an idea. “I can always use some brute strength around here,” she said, nodding at the truck as it came into view. “There are always kegs to haul and deliveries to be moved.”
“I can do this.”
“There’s a room above the pub you can have. It’s usually rented but not right now. And you can eat at the pub.”
His smile was warm. “Thank you. This will suit me well.”
“And you can collect more stories.”
“Yes.” He regarded her with a smile. “Will you tell me yours?”
“I might.” Lynsay smiled back at him, their gazes locked and the moment stretched into forever. “I’m Lynsay Barnes,” she said, offering her hand.
“Trymman,” he said, his own hand closing over hers.
“No surname?”
“The past is the past. I am more interested in the future.”
And Lynsay found that she felt exactly the same way as she stared into his eyes. Then Lukas honked the horn, making her jump, and there was work to be done.
But there was a bounce in Lynsay’s step that hadn’t been there before, as well as a sense that Trymman’s arrival might be just the change she’d been waiting for.
In the end, it had been ridiculously simple to make a deal with Micah. A Fae sword in exchange for the key to his library. As simple as that.
Sebastian took his time traveling to the continent, knowing it would take a few days for the parcel with the precious key to arrive. He journeyed by night, by train, lingering in London to see the sights he remembered. When he went to Highgate Cemetery, he sensed the presence of other vampires, the few solitary ones remaining, but his reputation undoubtedly preceded him, because they kept their distance.
He ignored the news reports about the unprecedented electromagnetic activity around the North Pole, because he knew what it was. He stood on the roof of his hotel each night though and reveled in the sight of the northern lights, sending all that fucking magick right back where it belonged.
The dragon and the swan had done better than Sebastian could have anticipated.
Of course, much of the credit belonged to him. He had helped them, after all.
His destination was Paris, the city he loved best. Paris was constant in a way that made Sebastian feel young again. It changed, to be sure, but in its heart, the part he loved the best, the pace of change was very slow. His favorite cities shared that trait. Paris. New Orleans. London, to some extent. Budapest. Venice. He really should visit Istanbul again. It had been a long, long time.
He walked down the Champs Elysées at night, savoring the press of people, the sound of music and laughter, the smell of food and women’s perfumes. The vivacity surrounding him was thrilling. He’d feasted upon a wreck of humanity, unable to completely abandon Micah’s principles by putting a homeless derelict out of his misery. The fresh infusion of blood thrummed through him like a fine wine, giving him an uncharacteristic sense of optimism.
The French loved tradition as much as Sebastian did. The great-great granddaughter of the lawyer he’d hired a century before still managed the family business. Like her forebears, she was amenable to an evening meeting. He suspected that she kept the same excellent brandy in the wood-paneled office.
His step quickened as the hour of their meeting drew near. He moved quickly down the familiar streets, diving deep into the quarter to the townhouse he had visited so many times. The light was on in the office on the second floor, its golden light a beacon to him.