MONTCLAIR

"When a daemon takes a look, I feel the slight, unnerving pressure of a kiss. But when a vampire stares, it feels cold, focused, and dangerous."

A Discovery of Witches
Deborah Harkness

The kettle screamed and I removed it from the heat.

Hot water steamed in the cool air. I poured water into two ceramic mugs, the homely scent of instant coffee soothing the knot tightening between my shoulders. The itch like a finger trailing over the skin at the back of my neck.

"How do you take it? Your coffee," I asked quietly.

"Black."

Like my soul . . .

I shook my head – that's not what he said, don't be dumb – and dropped a splash of milk into my own mug. Left his alone. My skin crawled with awareness of him. His presence seemed to fill the room like shadows crawling up the blue blossom wallpaper . . .

I brought our drinks to the square country table; its legs painted white. The flat tabletop a natural wood. Mr. Pompous Ass couldn't have looked any more comfortable there in his ten thousand dollar suit, platinum-plated Swiss watch peeking out from under his tailored sleeve, had he been sitting in his own home.

As benign as a sleeping lion.

Not unthreatening. No. But meaning no harm – right now.

Heavy wind rattled at the window, testing the strength of the windowsill and I thought it was a testament to the care that had gone into maintaining this place that not a whisper of air moved inside.

Mr. Montclair accepted the coffee, and I sat across from him. At a loss for what to even say to this man. I held my mug lightly between both hands, and lifted it to my mouth. Blew softly. He was unsettlingly handsome.

I shut that thought down before I could go any further with it.

"You know it's interesting," I ventured "what you can tell about a person by how they take their coffee."

"Do tell."

I tipped my chin. "Black, no sugar."

"Dark," he inferred "and bitter."

"That's not –"

He ticked a brow. No?

"– what I meant."

"Don't apologize," he said. "Never apologize."

"That was rude," I added. Apologizing.

Dark eyes leveled on mine.

The air in the small kitchen suddenly charged, I could almost feel the crack of static lifting the hairs on my arms. The back of my neck. I know you. Familiar. He was just so, so familiar.

Mr. Montclair made no move to touch the coffee quickly cooling in front of him, though the rich smell of Folders Instant filled the room with warmth; a reassuring familiarity cut with cardamom and what I could have sworn were seasonal cloves.

That was his scent flavoring every breath. Earthy-sweet, smoky and a bit spicy . . . absent the harder sting of cologne – because he wasn't wearing any and my god, was it ever hard to hold the full weight of those eyes . . .

"You know you're right," I conceded. "Dark and bitter were your words, not mine." Fighting the pull of his gaze, his voice, that elusive familiarity – "Is that how you see yourself, Mr. Montclair?"

"In truth I'm more interested in what you think your coffee says about you."

I tapped my thumbnail on the side of my mug, watching the slight vibration move through the ceramic; medium brown, glassy enough to reflect the window. I'd taken it strong, with just enough milk to lighten it and no sugar.

There was a lot to unpack there, if you knew what to look for. "What I think is that I actually hate coffee," – true. "But there's something to be said for the focus caffeine gives you."

"I'm sure."

In the silence that followed, he ran his thumb over his mug's handle. Quiet. Considering me in a way no one had ever looked at me before and in truth, I had no idea where to take that. Hugo Boss, I decided and again, immediately shut that down.

I'm sure. As noncommittal a response as one might expect, when expected to make conversation with a stranger. Mr. Montclair made no effort to carry the conversation, to pick it up when I fell silent and I recognized that this was a deliberate decision.

A subtle but effective manipulation; trusting in the innate need to fill a prolonged silence to keep people talking and, inevitably, to have them start talking about themselves.

My Dante did that.

He was renowned for doing this, in fact, and in the span of four bestselling books translated into twelve languages, it would have been hard for me not to recognize this particular bit of maneuvering. I took a deep drink from my mug, feeling the coffee warm its way down to my belly.

Fine. Let's talk, "Do you often drag yourself out in the rain, to oversee the ground crew measuring a field?"

I didn't think he would answer. The point of the question was to redirect his attention, but he surprised me. "Infrequently. Though I very much enjoy reminding the people who work for me that that is my money their spending."

"Do people often forget?"

Mr. Montclair eased back in his chair, leaving one strong arm braced on the table. Smooth as a panther stretching out his paws.

"Infrequently."

I'll bet.

I frowned. Wait . . .

"Land surveyors map topography and update property lines," I said. "The expense would have been in hiring them. Beyond that, it's not your money they're spending."

That edged smile sharpened.

Rather than threatened, I felt . . . challenged.

I could answer my own question. "You plan to build on this land."

"That is the plan, yes."

"Well, that sucks," I muttered, very aware it wasn't my business and not particularly caring that I should keep my opinions to myself. I had grown attached to this little yellow cottage, and would be sorry to see it demolished.

As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, Mr. Montclair elaborated, "A guest house, Simone, not a golf course."

Oh.

Well. That was awkward. This time, I wouldn't apologize to bait him but again found myself drawn to eyes that were the most peculiar shade of hazel brown. Enough gray, and blue, swimming in a rich oak to confuse their color.

In the right lighting, I imagined his eyes might almost look to have a silver sheen. Familiar. So, so familiar. I wasn't enjoying this. I felt I should have known him, that we had met before, once, long ago, but my mind just couldn't pull up the memory.

I studied him through the veil of lowered lashes; pale autumn sunshine, diffused through swaths of uncertain raincloud caught in his hair. Igniting what might have been thick brown strands with a million shades of gold, amber, oak and copper.

Suit like something out of a Fifth Avenue window display.

So what the hell was this guy doing in my kitchen, cradling a cheap ceramic mug of instant coffee while we chatted like distant friends with nothing left to say to each other?

He was stunning, attractive in that sharp, hard way that warned of a ruthless intelligence – of a wealth earned, not inherited; with a shot of mobster thrown in. If not mob, then bodyguard. Assassin. Spy.

"Simone," he said softly, and a thrill race up my spine at the sound of his voice. Rich, deep. Resonant. It was all I could do not to close my eyes, and savor it.

"If you don't mind my asking," I ventured, low, steady, "why are you here?"

"Excuse me?"

"The truck, the surveyors, haven't shown. And you, Mr. Montclair, are looking for something. Though for the life of me, I can't imagine what."

"No," he said, surprising me again. "I would imagine not." No denial. No misdirection. Yes, he was looking for something I had yet to provide and where that should have worried me –

Blink and I would have missed it; his hand dipped into his suit jacket and pulled out a gold-plated card case. He popped it and inside I saw a short stack of white business cards. He took one, and passed it to me.

I accepted it, because the alternative was to just sit there, and felt the thickness of the paper. Expensive cardstock.

The print typed in hard black. Textured, the letters subtly raised. The names of cities – London, New York, Berlin and more . . . over a phone book worth of numbers and addresses, email, home, office.

If you couldn't get a hold of him, having this card in your possession . . . just assume the man was dead.

Intimidated more by this slip of paper then by the presence of the man sitting right across from me, I read what I imagined he wanted me to see, "Mr. Baldwin Montclair." Investment Banker. A successful one, clearly. "Baldwin." I licked my lips. "An old name . . ."

"A distinguished name."

I lost interest.

Set the card down on the table between us.

"And what am I expected to do with this information?"

He slipped the gold case back in his inside jacket pocket.

"Assurance," he told me "that I am, who I say I am."

Proof of nothing, if we were being totally honest.

I could have designed my own, to say anything I wanted, off the Staples website and had a box of two thousand cards delivered straight to my door without ever having had to visit the store. I didn't say that. I was tempted; to lighten some of the tension humming my skin with a touch of sarcastic humor.

"What did you mean outside when you said that you'd been looking forward to meeting me?" Simone. He'd been looking forward to meeting me – Simone. The familiar use of my first name deliberate.

Another pointed silence.

Brief. It was hardly a pause.

"I admire your work."

"Do you read much fiction, Mr. Montclair?" I asked, politely. Skeptically. The man looked like anything short of quarterly reports and business journals were beneath his notice.

"In truth I prefer current affairs," he admitted, with surprising candor "though I find it has never been difficult for me to appreciate the value of a skilled storyteller."

"I don't take commissions."

"I'm not asking you to write for me."

No. I believed him.

Ball was still in my court. He'd maneuvered us back to where it was up to me to keep us talking, if only to move this discussion forwards and I could appreciate how easily he'd done it through my initial burst of irritation.

I studied him, letting my gaze linger on the hard planes his face and noted that Mr. Baldwin Montclair did not squirm under that brazen, totally unapologetic attention as most men would.

He let me look.

I took my time.

"You said skilled," – I set my coffee aside, done pretending the taste of it wasn't catching in my throat "where most would have said I was talented."

"Would you have preferred I praise your talent?"

"Please, don't."

I licked my lips, scrambling to decide if I wanted to share this part of myself.

Decided that yes, yes I did think he should know the compliment he paid me, rather than the superficial flattery I was used to. That I had come to expect.

"These past few years, since my first book hit the shelves, I've spoken to so many people. Fans, critics . . . I've been on the radio, on TV, podcasts . . . and in all that time, out of all those people, would you be surprised to learn that you're the first to acknowledge that what I do is a skill?"

"It annoys you."

"Not annoy," I said "so much as chafe." I offered a hard smile. "People mean well."

"People," his mouth curled up, with distaste, it seemed "are self-serving. People will always want something from you, and are shameless in pursuit of what they think you can do for them. Those who mean well would rather not feel bad about it."

"Even you?"

"Most especially me. Do you think I mean well?"

"What I think," I drew out with deliberate, if mild, emphasis "is that whatever you think I can do for you, you're not looking to exploit my connections." He ticked a brow, but I wasn't done. "You're successful. A man of means and wealth. I don't imagine you need me to pass a manuscript to my editor, or to put in the good word with my publisher."

"Quite right. There is nothing you do for me that I cannot do for myself." Baldwin ticked a thumbnail off the side of his mug. "Where does that leave us?"

"Are you drinking that?"

Cue the rapid blink, the glance down at the mug between his hands. Black coffee, the mirror-surface like glass reflecting the window. A slight frown creased the skin between his copper brows, "No. No, I don't drink . . . coffee."

Hm. I got up, taking his cup, and my own, and depositing them in the small sink. With my back to him, I again felt that lift in my spine. A prickling of nerves, that travelled like a current to tingle my scalp.

I emptied the cold coffees down the drain, and switched on the faucet. Washing the remnants away, before turning the water off. Straining my ears for even a whisper of sound, to alert me that he had gotten up.

Nothing.

Silence.

I might have been alone.

I turned, heart thudding, half expecting to find him standing directly behind me like a stalker in a scary movie but of course he wasn't. Baldwin was still sitting, passive and unthreatening, where I'd left him. With the table, and several feet of open floor, between us.

He tilted his head, the motion near-imperceptible, I might not have noticed at all but for the fact that the rest of him was so very, very still. And for just a second, I could have sworn he could hear the rapid-fire thudding of my heart.

Impossible.

"Seeing as we're being honest," Baldwin said, "I am curious. What inspired you, to write these books?"

"Have you read my work?" I asked, softly.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I have, in fact, read all four?"

Yes. I felt the truth of that statement like a breath of clean air, crisp as an autumn wind. I lingered at the counter, with our two mugs sitting in the sink basin. Motion in my peripheral had my attention swinging around.

Just outside, his limousine was parked on yellow grass beside my rental and I could only just make out the shadow of his driver behind the wheel, head bowed. Further out, a white work van was just now pulling off the highway . . .

The sight of it eased some of the tension knotted between my shoulders.

I shot a quick look at the man at my table, and he rolled one broad shoulder in what passed for a shrug. They were here. The surveyors. Just like he said. Baldwin held out his hand, palm up, inviting me to come back and sit.

I blew out a breath and slid off the counter.

"I can't see you sitting up in bed, reading a glossy paperback by lamplight," I said, teasing. A touch more comfortable now that some of what he'd told me was proven true. "You've really read my books?"

The white utility van rolled to a stop in front of the cottage.

"As I said, I appreciate the value in a skilled storyteller and you, Ms. Kostopoulos," he returned my smile "have demonstrated impressive vision. This series, a singular story, masterfully executed which is . . . notable, given that the first in the series was also your debut novel."

I took my time retrieving a pink can of my favorite grapefruit sparkling water from the fridge before returning to my seat. If it bothered him, he didn't show it. I had his full attention. And whether he meant to or not, he'd surrendered something.

He knew who I was.

"You've been following me. Not literally –" I quickly added "but you looked into me. Enough to know things. Why?"

"Why won't you answer my question?"

"Which one?"

"From where have you drawn your inspiration?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No."

I drank my water, enjoying the familiar fizz. And tried to match Baldwin's unruffled cool, holding his stare as if I were considering my response where really, he'd flustered me. I watched the workmen pile out of their van, and start pulling equipment from the back.

From where have you drawn your inspiration?

Wind rattled the window.

"Nowhere," I said, and those hazel-brown eyes pinned me. I licked my lips, "Look, there's no secret. It was just an idea, that first spark of inspiration, was something I played with when I was little. When I got older, it become a story I used to entertain myself before going to sleep. There's really nothing to say . . . what are you looking for?"

"An elaborate story, for a plaything."

I shrugged.

Baldwin inhaled. A slow, deep breath as if savoring the lingering aromas of wood smoke and Folgers coffee. His dark eyes unnaturally bright, in the overcast light of late afternoon. Those eyes dragged over my face, cool where they touched.

I let my lashes fan down.

"Perhaps," he drew out "what interests me is the uncanny accuracy you portray in your work. Impossible to ignore. A series of events."

"My books are historical fantasies involving time travel – hell, if it were tech instead of magic allowing for my protagonist's passage through time, they'd be sci-fi." I returned my attention to Baldwin, doing my best to mirror that pinning thing he'd done with his eyes, "So what the hell are you talking about? Uncannily accurate."

Unsettled. I couldn't tell where that feeling had come from, him, certainly, but it was more than that. I felt my desire to write itching my hands. Need. All at once, I wanted him gone. Just . . . leave, already. The man was already an unwanted guest.

So what was he even still doing here, watching me like he wanted to pry secrets I didn't have from behind my eyes. But of course, I shared none of that. Sheer, dad-ingrained manners sealing my lips shut.

I took another deep swallow of carbonated water. Soothed by the familiar, subtle flavor.

"There's some accuracy," I allowed, filling the eerie quiet of rainy wind, and silent breathing, "Infinite Regress occurs in our world, so it mattered to me, and to my readers, that I get details right. I've spent hours, days, weeks, studying historical events. Real places, like cities. Buildings. Those I was careful to detail . . . accurately."

Nothing.

The man sitting across from me held himself so still, he might have been made of stone. He opened his mouth, started to say something. Changed his mind. Tried again – "How does it end?"

"Truthfully, I haven't decided. I have four, count that" I lifted my hand, folding my thumb down "four, endings and I haven't decided yet which I like. I imagine at some point my characters will take me there themselves."

"You don't know."

"No."

I had ideas. As I'd told Jane, I had too many ideas but the end . . . whichever end . . . was still a long time coming. There was plenty of time, to make up my mind. There, at least, I wasn't worried.

"I write fiction," I said "I'm proud, of my fiction. But don't mistake it for what it's not."

He ticked a brow. Challenging.

"And what is that?"

I let my polite smile sharpen into a smirk.

"I'm literally making shit up."

Baldwin laughed.