Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

Breakfast came, and lunch, and then he found himself tied up on the phone.

“We can’t stall on this any longer,” Jordan insisted to his VP of Finance. “I say interest rates are going up. They’ll be up for the rest of the year. Get the loan taken care of before we lose another quarter point.”

The short hand of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs completed a circuit before he had convinced himself his executive agreed with him for the right reasons. He tried never to enforce his authority arbitrarily. He had no yes-men working for him.

He found Véronique in the basement gym. She was practicing yoga in a corner of the mat. Other than her location as far as possible from the weight machines and barbells, he was reminded of the many times he had found her here after one interruption or another had stolen away his attention. Even on Sundays.

Air seemed to collect behind his heart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t. I got distracted. Coleman means well, but sometimes I think he was born too rich. He doesn’t quite have the urgency of someone who had to scramble up the way I did.”

“I don’t need explanations.”

The real Véronique had seldom asked for any, either. She had her foundation work, her friends, her beautiful mansion. Her life.

“I…” He hadn’t planned this yet, but—“I think we should go to the symphony tonight.”

“Anyone we know going to be there?” she asked casually.

That struck at the heart of the matter, all without dropping out of character. “Yes,” he replied. There would inevitably be members of his circle of acquaintances at the buffet for patrons. Precisely who could not be predicted, but it would include those who knew of Véronique’s death.

“I’m looking forward to seeing them,” he added.

They arrived at a fashionable point, not too early but allowing time to mingle. Eyes turned immediately to Jordan’s companion. He realized this was inevitable. Even among ladies bedecked in finery and enhanced by everything liposuction, health clubs, and beauticians could offer, Véronique attracted more than her share of admiration.

It was not until late in the feasting that he was approached by a rotund figure in a tuxedo that, despite the expert tailoring, no longer fit.

“Ramsey,” Jordan said, offering his hand.

Ramsey’s grip was moist, his handshake cursory He leaned forward, breath heavy with Cabernet. “So, Welles, you’ve found yourself a foxwife. Been borrowing ideas from old Takahashi?” He thrust his chin toward the buffet table, where Véronique was adding a pair of strawberries to her depleted plate.

“Don’t compare me to Takahashi,” Jordan retorted, failing in his plans for a calm explanation of the elf’s presence.

Ramsey failed to suppress a locker-room chuckle. “Oh. Well, of course. He’s yakuza. They don’t think like you or me. All I meant—”

“Outsiders have rights,” Jordan said. “This is all properly done.”

“Of course, of course.” Ramsey gazed at Véronique again from the straps of her shoes to her pearl necklace—one of the few types of jewelry the elf could tolerate. Jordan suspected antebellum plantation owners had scrutinized their slave women in just such a way.

As quickly as possible, Jordan disengaged from Ramsey and escorted Véronique to their seats in the concert hall.

The musicians played as if inspired, but after the finale, Jordan had to consult his program simply to recall which compositions had been featured.

Jordan made no further arrangements to go out in public with the elf, except to places where they would be perceived as just another wealthy couple taking in the sights. This annoyed him, because it was not a restriction the real Véronique would have tolerated; she had loved socializing. The new Véronique accepted it without comment.

He forced himself to contact his office as little as possible. Monday they loitered at the mansion. Tuesday they spent aboard his yacht, visiting Shelter Island and roaming the Atlantic a bit, beyond scrutiny. Finally on Wednesday he spent three hours downtown.

The lure sank in. Thursday he returned for nearly a full day.

This was not what he had planned when he hired the surrogate, but he told himself the elf needed the respite to shrug off whatever deleterious effects the shapeshifting caused.

His own employees said nothing to him of foxwives or ghost-chasing, and they probably wouldn’t, so long as he didn’t thrust the evidence right in their faces. He knew they knew. He hadn’t told them, but gossip was unstoppable.

She was waiting when he arrived Thursday late afternoon. A kiss and hug, body against his, aroused him as reliably as ever, but he suppressed the urge to take her upstairs that very minute. They had plenty of time to indulge later, in the darkness.

“Let’s take the limo out,” he said.

“All right,” she answered. “That would be nice.”

Véronique had loved riding through the countryside with no particular destination in mind. Jordan told the chauffeur to recreate the route taken a few days before the accident.