Borderline (The Arcadia Project, #1)(15)

“And he threw it in the trash?”

Teo shrugged. “Nobles like Rivenholt—they call them sidhe at World HQ in London—they’re into heavy-duty magic. Wards, enchantments. Charms are low-class, like parlor tricks.”

“If it’s so beneath him, why make one?”

Teo considered. “I guess even low magic would be pretty valuable on this side of the border. Because it’s tradeable. Maybe that’s a draft of something; maybe a human offered Rivenholt something irresistible.”

“Like a lifetime supply of Reese’s cups?”

Teo glanced at the pile of wrappers that had accumulated on the bed and made a disdainful little sound. “Typical fey.”

“If somebody wanted low magic, why would they ask a noble?”

“It’s really just nobles who come here. I’ve only met two commoners ever, a dryad and a goblin. There’s all types of fey in Arcadia I’ve never seen.”

“By fey you mean fairies. This guy’s a fairy.”

Teo shrugged. “Maybe? The word is spelled F-E-Y—it just means weird or supernatural—but London HQ tends to see everything through a fairy filter anyway. Honestly, we don’t know what the f*ck these things are.”

“Reassuring.”

“When they’re here, they enchant themselves to look human. I think ‘facade’ is the official HQ word. Do you know John Riven?” When he saw my confused expression, he clarified. “Actor; he was in Accolade.”

“Which part?”

“Some white dude in a suit; I don’t remember all their names. Anyway, John Riven is Viscount Rivenholt. He’s way more involved on this side than most fey. I’ve got a photo back at the Residence; you’ll know him when you see him.”

Teo looked at me like he was waiting for me to argue with him, but I’ve never understood the pointless ritual of denial. I had a job to do, so I’d assume it wasn’t bullshit until I found out otherwise.

“So what next?” I said.

“Still with me?” He looked dubious, but he at least stopped staring at me and went over to peer at the telephone, which continued flashing its tiny light.

“I think so,” I said. “Where is Arcadia, exactly?”

“It’s like a parallel world or whatever.” He held up the phone receiver to his ear and punched in a few numbers on the cradle. “We call it Arcadia just to be calling it something.”

“What do the fey call it?”

“Uh, ‘the world,’ I guess,” he said distractedly as he punched in another number.

“What do they call our world?”

“Earth mostly, because we do. There’s some weirdness with them and language.”

“What do you mean?”

He held up a hand to shush me, listening intently to the phone, then scribbling something on the message pad. “Two messages from Inaya West.”

“What?” I forgot Arcadia for a second. “The actress?”

Teo glanced skyward. “No, Millie, the postal clerk. Who do you think?”

“You’re screwing with me.”

“See for yourself,” he said, pushing a couple of buttons and holding the handset out to me. I grabbed it from him.

“Johnny, it’s ’Naya,” said the first message, dated a week earlier. It did sound like her. “Call me back when you get this, gorgeous.”

The next one had yesterday’s date. Same voice, completely different tone.

“Inaya again. I know something’s up, Johnny, and I know this isn’t your cell number. And now all of a sudden David won’t return my calls either? I don’t get it. Whatever’s going on, I’m reasonable; you don’t have to hide from me. Just talk to me. Please.” And this time she left a number.

I tried to commit it to memory, since Teo had already torn off the paper he’d scribbled it on and stuffed it into his pocket. You never know when the phone number of an A-list actress might come in handy.

“What do you think that’s about?” I said to Teo.

“No clue. Maybe Rivenholt was having a fling with Inaya and broke it off. Still doesn’t explain why he extended his hotel stay and then left the room. It’s like he’s running from something. I didn’t want to bother Berenbaum with this, but it looks like we’re going to have to.”

My stomach dropped to my knees. “Berenbaum? David Berenbaum?”

“No. Oprah Berenbaum.”

“I went to school for directing,” I said numbly. “He—I—my dad took me to see Blue Yonder when I was ten. David Beren-baum.” The name tore open some hermetically sealed pocket of na?veté I had forgotten I had.

“Oh Jesus. You’re not going to piddle on the floor of his office, are you? If so, I’ll just crack a window and leave you in the car.”

“David Berenbaum. We’re going to see David Berenbaum.” I couldn’t stop saying it.

“He funds, like, half the Project. Rivenholt’s his Echo. Uh, partner, you might say. Not in a gay way, that I know of; Rivenholt’s like his muse. That’s what the Project’s for, to regulate travel between here and there. So we can get inspiration from fey and vice versa. Anybody who’s anybody has an Echo.”