Page 46 of Guardian of Exile

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Of course he lived in the penthouse. The fact fit with the article she’d read, but didn’t bode well for her likelihood of convincing him to leave his life of apparent luxury to come perform illegal magic acts across the universe for her.

She watched him walk inside, but didn’t follow. She didn’t move from her current position at all.

He noticed, pausing in the doorway to look back at her. “Problem?”

“How many people are waiting for us in there?” Though he would likely think she was asking from a safety standpoint, that wasn’t why she wanted to know. Now that she was here, and he was—theoretically—going to listen to her, she needed to know what might sway him to her side, and that meant knowing him. Judging by how he’d reacted so far, she didn’t think he had an abundance of friends and lovers waiting inside, but she needed to confirm it.

“One,” he said.

Okay, she’d been expecting none.

“And you don’t need to worry about him,” he added.

“Why not?”

“Because he can’t do anything to hurt you. He can’t do anything at all.”

“You do realize how creepy that sounds, right?”

He shrugged. Since she wasn’t actually worried, she followed him inside. He flicked the lights on and she found herself in a spacious, airy living room. He braced one hand on the wall and leaned down, untying the laces on his right shoe and working his foot out.

Figuring it was only polite to follow his lead, Nyx took her boots off. She was glad Jevryn hadn’t returned the mercury boots to her yet—she’d thought of going to get them herself, but popping back into Jevryn’s home unannounced didn’t quite feel right—because she wouldn’t have been comfortable taking them off here where they would be left out of her sight. Nothing about her current footwear was magical. They were just ordinary boots, easily replaced if lost.

They also stuck out like a sore thumb. Plain, functional, and black in a living room that was all tans and creams and soft lighting. It was the kind of space her mother would have loved and taken as her due, and Nyx hated. Kind of like she hated Tristen’s shoe, which both belonged to the color scheme and probably cost more than her entire wardrobe..

She couldn’t put her finger on why she disliked the fact so much. It wasn’t jealousy. She could have anything she wanted at the Station—for a while longer, anyway. Ignoring the stab of pain at that reminder, she followed the train of thought as she followed Tristen across the living room. Maybe it was only that she would never think to create anything like this. That all she had ever wanted was safety and security and comfort—a place she felt like she belonged.

She knew she didn’t belong here. But she was suddenly worried that Tristen did.

They passed through the living room and into a foyer, a staircase and an elevator its primary feature. Tristen opened the elevator doors.

Nyx frowned. “We’re leaving?” If they were leaving, she would really like her shoes.

“Going down a floor.”

Her frown deepened. “To talk to your neighbors?”

“The next floor is part of the penthouse.” Then, as if afraid she really wouldn’t get it, he added, in an insultingly patient tone, “I own it too. Are you coming?”

She stepped inside, her face flushing, the irritation he seemed to so easily spike in her right on its heels. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to not having less money than others—she’d been very accustomed to that her entire life—it was more that she’d never had to interact with anyone who had so much money they thought you were dumb for not realizing that some penthouses apparently came with more than one floor.

“I grew up in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere and my boyfriend lived above the barn. Forgive me for not knowing how rich people rich,” she snapped as the elevator doors closed.

He folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t come from this either.”

She understood that the smart thing to do was to let it go. But she’d never been able to be anything but unfortunately honest. She’d never been able to stop what she really thought from tripping off her tongue. Seth had always liked that about her. “You’re clearly used to it now.”

Tristen studied her. “Everyone gets used to how they live. It’s called adapting.”

She didn’t answer. She was…angry with him, she realized, and for things that were in no way his fault. How he looked—so much like Seth in appearance and absolutely nothing like him in manner. How he lived—an unfortunate surprise that meant her chances of convincing him to help her were almost nothing. The most polite thing she could do was keep her mouth shut until reason overrode her emotions.

He seemed to sense she wasn’t going to respond, and he changed the topic as the elevator doors opened. “You said you spoke to the Congregation.”

The elevator door opened and he stepped out into another foyer. What he’d said hadn’t been a question, but he was waiting as if for an answer, and since she had been rude, she felt obligated to give him something. Following him out, she said, “Through another Shaman, yes.”

“What did they tell you? About what I did.”