I am often asked to speak of Herrington and his daughter, but I refuse to join the ranks of speculating journalists. Suffice to say, their relationship was not unlike that of fathers and daughters everywhere—whatever people might imagine to the contrary.
—The True and Irreverent History of Avvar
Unable to concentrate on serving customers, Roxanne closed the gallery early. She’d planned to return home, only to discover she couldn’t bring herself to go.
How was she going to face Charles and Max? The way they’d grown up, on the streets in dockside, demons were true monsters to them. Young as Max was, maybe she could put off telling him, but Charles had a right to know. She’d read stories about Herrington in the rags—mainly because, in addition to being the city’s resident Yamish envoy, he was a respected amateur archaeologist. As an artist, she had followed the news of his digs with interest. In the process, she’d also seen accounts of his diplomatic prowess.
People claimed he was a master strategist. Victoria’s chief counsel had dubbed him “The Red Fox.” Who knew what he might do if Roxanne resisted his wishes?
As to that, who knew what she might do if her half-demon side started coming out?
Barely aware of what she was doing, she climbed the steps to the next clanking tram that passed, squeezing into a seat beside a tired-looking maid with a basket of groceries clutched on her lap.
Roxanne’s skin was clammy, her shoulders tight. What if, unbeknownst to her, she was even then draining her fellow citizens of etheric-force? Horrified by the thought, she wrapped her arms around her waist, trying her utmost not to touch anyone.
Halfway through its route, the tram’s generator stalled. While the driver paid a streetboy to run to the nearest stable to hire a team, Roxanne got out. The clinic Abul volunteered at two days a week was only a few streets away. If he was back to his normal schedule, he’d be there now.
She wasn’t eager to confide in him, but she knew she needed professional advice.
The clinic was housed in a converted candy shop. It was cramped inside but well lit by the front windows. Roxanne’s expression as she walked in must have been strange, because Abul’s eyes widened the moment he saw her.
“Have Doctor Russet finish this case,” he said to the nurse who stood at his side.
Leaving his patient behind, he came straight to her and, in front of everyone, took her hands. She couldn’t even feel guilty that he wasn’t making her wait.
“I need to speak to you privately,” she said before he could ask what was wrong.
“Yes. All right.” He glanced behind him. “We can talk in the back parlor.”
The back parlor was a combination file room, office, and break kitchen for the staff. It had a coal fire and a few sad pieces of furniture. Roxanne sat on a lumpy gray-green couch. Though her eyes were too hot and dry to have been crying, she accepted Abul’s offer of a handkerchief. Her friend swung a wooden chair around to face her.
“I need this kept between us,” she said.
Abul smiled faintly at her intensity. “You may consider doctor-client privilege to be in effect.”
“This isn’t a joke. I’m deadly serious.”
“As am I,” said Abul. “So don’t insult my integrity.”
Roxanne bit her lip and looked down at her hands, now twisted together in her lap. “I met my father today,” she blurted out.
“Did you?” Abul sounded mildly curious.
“He’s a demon.”
She was looking at him then. She saw how his dark skin paled. His mouth worked for a few seconds before words came out. When they did, they were raspy.
“That isn’t possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. He showed up at the gallery. I’m his spitting image. And he knew my mother. He recognized that I have her voice. You know I’m stronger and healthier than most people. Plus—” She covered her mouth as another piece of evidence fell into place. “I’ve always been good with numbers. You know how demons are with math. I need to know, physically, what I have to worry about. I need to find out if…if I’m going to start feeding off people.”
Abul rose to his feet. Roxanne wasn’t sure the move was deliberate, but he put his chair between them, his long brown fingers gripping its slatted back. His hands and nails were scrubbed just as Yamish doctors insisted they should be, and around the collar of his clean white coat hung the silver snake of a Yamish stethoscope. A thought slipped so quickly through her mind it hardly registered.
Was her unsuspected heritage truly a cause for shame?
“I…don’t believe you will,” Abul said, bringing her attention back to the matter at hand. “I’ve never heard of our species interbreeding, but I do know the Yama begin transferring energy very young. If you were going to develop that ability, I expect you would have noticed it by now. You might…” He rubbed his chin uncomfortably. “You might have trouble conceiving a child, but you’d probably need to consult a specialist to be sure, and a Yamish specialist might be best.”
Up until then, Roxanne had never heard him refer to his foreign colleagues without a shadow of scorn—or at least resentment. In spite of herself, she smiled. Poor Abul. Discovering his friend was half-demon couldn’t be easy.
“I wish I knew more,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t predict what effect your mixed blood might have.”
Roxanne stood. “Thank you for telling me what you could. You’ve reassured me just by being calm. I probably panicked more than I needed to. It’s not as if I haven’t been…what I am all along.”
“I could attempt to get you a referral.”
She tried to conceive of letting a demon examine her. “I’ll think about it. For now, I’d like to keep this quiet.”
Abul nodded, his face somber. He knew as well as anyone the prejudice she might face. “Will you tell the boys?”
“I’m thinking about that, too. At some point, they’ll need to know.”
“They’ll love you all the same,” he said.
Roxanne couldn’t help but notice his assurance held a hint of doubt. If she couldn’t be certain of Max and Charles, she didn’t want to imagine telling Adrian.
By the time the hired cab dropped him home, Herrington’s course of action had been decided. Because he couldn’t be positive his newly discovered daughter would keep their relationship to herself, he had to be the one to break the news to his handlers, and he had to do it now. Only then could he hope to manipulate their reaction.
With a wordless wave to Albert, who knew better than to approach him uninvited, he proceeded up the stairs to his private, locked study, the one the maids were forbidden to even think about tidying. After picking his way through the unavoidable dust and clutter, he reached his large, marble-topped desk. A secret compartment at the back of one of the drawers hid his one truly indispensable piece of Yamish technology. On the outside, to disguise it from the eyes of unwitting humans, it appeared to be an out-of-date Farmer’s Almanac. On the inside, a small, flat viewing screen allowed him to speak directly to his superiors in Narikerr.
He opened the false book, laid it on a mahogany stand designed for the purpose, then fit the tiny wireless speaker into his ear. If anyone heard him, they’d think he was talking to himself.
He spared a glance for his favorite framed portrait of Louise. Her resemblance to his daughter startled him anew. He hadn’t exaggerated the effect. But he had to push that out of his mind in order to keep calm.
To his surprise, when he punched the code to connect, he reached not the Under-Minister of Foreign Affairs, but the prince of Narikerr himself. A pale shadow of his celebrated father—the man who’d so deftly handled the intrusion of DuBarry—the city’s current prince only answered official calls when he was trying to impress a lover, or unconscionably bored. Startled by the sight of the prince’s languid, handsome face, Herrington adjusted his strategy accordingly.
“Your highness,” he murmured, bowing his head. “You do me great honor.”
“Herrington,” drawled the prince, the protraction of his speech indicating that boredom was the reason for his presence. “I hope you’re calling about something interesting. The city’s deadly dull today.”
“Only your highness can judge if my news is interesting, but it certainly is unusual.”
The prince leaned closer to the screen. One of his thin black eyebrows climbed a fraction higher.
“I have discovered I have a daughter,” said Herrington.
To his astonishment, simply saying the word daughter set his soul alight with what a human would have called joy. He had a daughter. No matter how infelicitous Roxanne’s maternal lineage, Herrington had produced issue. His blood would live into the future. Fortunately, his fierce blaze of feeling could not be read through the screen. All that showed in his expression was mild distaste.
“I take it congratulations are not in order,” said the prince. Had it not been extremely lower class, Herrington suspected the Emperor’s nephew would have rubbed his hands. His royal worthlessness adored being privy to good gossip.
“Alas, no,” Herrington admitted. “My daughter turns out to be half-human.”
The prince was shocked into gasping aloud. “How could this be?”
As tastefully as he could, Herrington shared his theory of mixing seed, at which the prince grimaced, then feigned knowingness.
“Regrettably,” Herrington went on, “because she was born in Avvar to a human mother, she won’t be subject to our laws.”
This was debatable, the situation never having come up before. Herrington knew, however, that if he could get the prince to agree with him, his interpretation was that much closer to becoming fact.
“Hmm,” said the prince, drawing out the sound unsurely; thankfully, he was not a great legal mind. “Likely you are correct. I wonder, though, do we want her subject to our laws?”
“It would be a dire diplomatic mess,” Herrington said, knowing the prince would not like that. It might, after all, require him to exert himself. “The problem is, this woman does not wish to acknowledge the tie between us. Truth be told, she wants nothing to do with me.”
“Why on earth not?” demanded the prince.
Herrington pursed his lips sadly. “Humans don’t see us as we see ourselves. I know it is hard to credit, your highness, but they are barely sophisticated enough to distinguish between daimyo and rohn. I believe, however, that I know a way we can lure her into our sphere, so we may observe any noteworthy peculiarities her breeding may have created.”
“You can’t mean to bring this creature to Narikerr!” At the mere possibility, the prince’s well-bred features twisted delicately in horror.
“No, indeed,” said Herrington, judging it time to incline his head respectfully again. “That would be most inappropriate—as you yourself have intuited. No, I intend that she should stay in Avvar, under my personal observation, as would be natural were we a normal father and child.”
The prince took a moment to absorb this suggestion. Herrington tried not to hold his breath. It was absolutely crucial that Roxanne remain under his protection, under—for that matter—the protection of her own nation’s law. If Yamish authorities decided to lay claim to her, especially with her existence essentially unknown, he could not swear she would be treated with the care he’d begun to suspect was due every intelligent being. Not that he’d ever air the view. That would constitute going more “native” than any daimyo could approve. In any case, it would be all too easy for his handlers to cause one human woman to disappear.
At last, the prince responded. “I applaud your tolerance,” he said. “I am not certain I could remain in the proximity of such a—But she is your daughter. I shall not mention a word.”
Most likely, he couldn’t come up with one, but Herrington nodded as if in gratitude for his sensitivity. “You are too kind,” he said gravely, secretly delighted to have gotten the concession he was hoping for. “It is, as always, my signal honor to serve my prince.”