Ever After (Rachel Morgan)

room.
    “A closet?” I said, trying to keep up with him. “You keep your magic books in a closet?”
    “You keep your splat gun in a mixing bowl.”
    True.
    Jenks flew ahead as we entered the lower level of Trent’s great room. To my right was the huge three-story window ward that Lee had made, letting in light and sound but little else. Beyond its faint shimmer was the highly landscaped outside living area with a grill/kitchen and swimming pool. At the far end of the gigantic room was a fireplace large enough to roast an entire elephant in. In between was the grand staircase up to Trent’s apartments.
    “Since learning my father’s vault downstairs was not secure, we moved everything to the girls’ closet,” Trent was saying as he headed for the stairway. “Ceri put some kind of demon ward on all the upstairs rooms. They aren’t holy, but it has the same effect. There’s no way in or out but the door, which only Ceri, Quen, and I have access to. If you ask me, it’s safer than my father’s vault. But the reason Ellasbeth insists you look at it there is because it’s temperature and humidity controlled and the book is ancient.”
    That Ceri had warded the girls’ rooms sounded about right, and I touched the smooth finish of a couch as we passed. The ground floor here was basically a big party room. Past the stairway was a dark and silent bar area, and behind that the kitchen and underground parking. I knew, because I’d run through it more than once. Damn it, what was I doing having tea and cookies with Ellasbeth while Ceri suffered all that Ku’Sox was capable of?
    Jenks dropped from the ceiling, an excited silver dust trailing from him. “Rache!” he exclaimed as he landed on my shoulder, his wings never slowing as they drafted my hair back. “You’ll never guess who’s here!”
    “Who?” I asked, almost afraid.
    From the third-story apartments, I heard Quen’s distinctive gravelly voice say, “I’ll speak to the chef immediately, Miss Withon.”
    “See that you do,” said an imperialistic feminine voice, and I stopped short at the foot of the stairs.
    Quen? He was okay? He was back!

Chapter Eleven
    I spun to Trent. The smug brat was smirking. “Why didn’t you tell me Quen was back!” I shouted, my urge to smack him hesitating when Quen dryly cleared his throat. Distracted, I looked up at the railing. Quen was there, his pox scars standing out strongly against an unusual paleness. Ray was in his arms, and the little girl clung to him. Both Quen and Trent were smiling. Ellasbeth was not.
    Trent’s hand went to my arm to lead me upstairs. “Why did you let me believe Quen was dead the morning he recovered from his vampire bite?” he said, and I jerked my arm away from him as we found the first step.
    “I was a little preoccupied with Takata being my birth father,” I said, heart pounding as I took the stairs two at a time.
    Trent kept up, maddeningly graceful. “It wasn’t my place to tell . . .”
    My eyes narrowed. “Not your place . . . Are we even now? You little . . . cookie maker!” I exclaimed, knocking him off balance when we found the eight-by-eight landing for the first floor. Ellasbeth gasped, but Trent was laughing, even as he caught himself. Quen was here. He was okay. Finally something was going our way.
    Seeing me lurch up the last of the stairs, Quen straightened to try to hide his fatigue. Our eyes met, and the older man nodded solemnly. On his hip, Ray gurgled happily. The little girl was in a sweet full-length jumper/Indian-looking robe of some sort cut from a subdued orange-and-brown paisley, her brown hair braided and looped out of the way. Hearing Jenks’s wings, she pushed from her father’s shoulder to find him. She was a beautiful blending of Ceri and Quen, and again I was struck by the frailty of this small family.
    “Rachel,” Quen said simply, and I pushed past Ellasbeth in her cream-colored business suit and matching heels.
    “That’s not going to do it,” I said as I pulled the older man into a hug, getting Ray mixed up in there somewhere. The curious scent of cinnamon and wine that all elves had mixed with the throat-catching odor of hospital. Under it was his masculine pull, a faint hint of controlled magic and ozone to give it some interest. He smells different from Trent, I thought. Trent’s magic smelled powerful, but Quen’s had a darker tang than Trent’s shadowed glow.
    Suddenly realizing Quen’s arms had gone around