Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(81)

She got a blurred impression of the grand staircase, foyer and the halls as they followed Brennan toward the back of the house. Polished wood shone everywhere. Marble floors gleamed. Every time she took a step, she could see the soles of her shoes just before her feet touched the floor.

An outrageous fortune in rare Dark Fae artwork decorated the foyer and the downstairs halls. The paintings focused on nature scenes from Adriyel. One painting in particular made her catch her breath. It depicted the palace and the spectacular waterfall of the Adriyel River behind it, the scene so unexpectedly familiar, it brought tears to her eyes. The slender flowing pieces of sculpture were all metal. They graced the air by achieving impossible heights and tinkled with a delicate virtuoso of Power that was as refreshing to the mind as the physical shape of the sculpture was to the eyes. Thanks to Urien’s tight control of Adriyel’s crossover passageways, Dark Fae art was difficult to get and fetched high prices at Sotheby’s and other auction houses.

She wondered what statement Urien had been making with the artwork. Everything about the property was controlled, precise, from the Georgian-style mansion to the manicured grounds. The display of Dark Fae art here, in his property in Chicago, seemed as deliberate in its planning as was the rest of the estate. He would have entertained allies and business associates here. Had he offered them glimpses of Adriyel as an enticement, or had he merely been displaying so much artwork as a statement of his own wealth and Power?

She sighed. She was being haunted by a dead man. She hated how much time Urien occupied in her thoughts when all she really wanted to do was to jump up and down on his grave and sing “Ding-dong, the witch is dead.” She suspected he would overshadow her thoughts for a long time to come, as she second-guessed the decisions he made and chose which of his laws she would reverse.

The thing was, and she hated to admit this to herself, Urien had been a very intelligent man. She wanted to despise everything he had done, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to. The Dark Fae artwork decorating the front of the house was quite lovely. Now Niniane was no longer sure about many of her opinions. Maybe she needed to employ a count-to-ten policy whenever she encountered something she knew was Urien’s creation. She needed to assess things on their own merit, not just reject them out of hand because her uncle had something to do with them.

Whatever Urien’s taste in art had been, what Carling had said was still true. To most people, politically and financially the Dark Fae looked like they were in a strong position with regards to the other demesnes. However, those individuals, like Carling, who had an educated sense of the Dark Fae’s real unmet potential, knew better.

They reached an open paneled doorway, and Brennan stood to one side of it and bowed to her. She thanked him and, without thinking, started to walk into the room first. Tiago’s Power clenched on her even as he grabbed her by the arm. Brennan stared at Tiago, openmouthed.

Niniane rolled her eyes at the steward’s reaction. She stepped back to let Tiago go in first as she said in his head, Sorry.

Don’t sweat it, faerie, he said. But just so you know, if the bug expires from shock, I’m not giving him mouth-to-mouth.

She bit her lips to keep from laughing as he strode into the room, pivoted then invited her in with an outstretched hand. She walked in and stopped dead a few feet inside the door.

The study was very masculine, with heavy dark leather furniture that looked comfortable rather than stylish, a scatter of bookshelves, a large mahogany desk in one corner and a fireplace. Large windows overlooked the back gardens where the land dipped downward toward a small sunlit lake. A massive seascape painting by the English artist Turner hung over a wide fieldstone fireplace. Urien’s personality seemed stamped in the room, more so than anything she had seen to date. She could see him sitting at his desk and looking out over that f**king immaculate landscape, all the while knowing he was master of all he surveyed. If she were Wyr, she would bet the damn place smelled like him.

Everything clenched. Gut, fists, face. Count to ten.

Tiago was beside her in three long, swift strides, his face sharp with concern. He put a bracing hand to her back. Faerie?

She raised a hand in a just-a-minute gesture as she struggled to unclench. It was just furniture. They were just books.

It was then she noticed that Aubrey was already in the room. He had risen to his feet at her entrance. Naida was also in the room. A tea service with three cups and plates, along with a tray of delicate pastries were arranged on a table in front of the couch. Aubrey watched her with a concern that seemed almost as sharp as Tiago’s, while Naida looked at them both with a dawning speculation.

I am all right, she said to Tiago. She squeezed his arm. He nodded, still frowning, and rubbed her shoulders. The place smells like him, doesn’t it?

There is a single predominant Dark Fae male scent here, he said. It is very likely Urien’s.

All she could smell was beeswax and lemon polish. She decided that was a good thing. She smiled at him on a surge of tenderness. Really, he was the most scary-looking bastard she knew, and she knew a lot of scary-looking bastards. He was one of the most alpha males in the world. Once he had been a god. He was used to commanding troops of Wyr fighters, experienced in tactical maneuvers and making autonomous decisions. He had given up all of it. Today he had sublimated who he was just to walk in her shadow. She tried to imagine him living that way, year in and year out, as he suppressed everything he was just to be with her.