Page 97 of Demon Apathy: Sunderverse

Sage nodded. “That is correct.”

The old man took my hand and gave it an air kiss. “And this lovely creature is…?

“My girlfriend, Cora MacMillan,” Sage offered.

“Lovely to meet you both.” He plastered on a smile that displayed flawless dentures and gestured toward a long hall. “I have a 60-year-old Scotch I am sure you will find to your liking. Would you like to try it?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Sage said, overdoing the British act a bit.

We followed Richie to a study that made me think of a crooked lawyer’s lair. Every piece of furniture was made of mahogany, and the smell of cigars clung to the air. A polished table sat in one corner, topped with glasses and expensive booze. He walked to it and, with practiced hands, poured three drinks, then handed two over.

“Sit,” he extended a hand toward a black leather sofa.

My dress swished as I sat down. The study was big, but as I took a small sip of the Scotch, I felt as if the walls were moving closer. I glanced toward the closed door, wondering how fast I could run out of this place.

“Excellent smoky flavor,” Sage said after tasting his drink, which seemed to go a long way toward pleasing the old man.

This was the reason Drevan had picked Sage for this role. Sage was no stranger to Scotch and who knew what other number of luxuries. Me, on the other hand, I was trying not to make a face as I took another sip of the foul drink.

“I knew someone with your upbringing would know how to appreciate it.”

Sage said nothing. He simply smiled and took another sip of his drink.

Richie paced about the room, came to a stop in front of a large desk, and halfway sat on it. A million thoughts seemed to flash behind his cunning gray eyes, and I had no doubt he was contemplating another million and one diplomatic ways to broach the subject that interested him.

“How is your dear father?” he asked at last. “I’ve heard some sad reports about his health.”

Sage reclined, crossing his leg. “The old man has been better, hasn’t he, luv?”

“He has,” I said, trying to look as indifferent as Sage. His expression was pretty much saying,I hope the bastard croaks.

“That is a shame,” Richie said. “I have always admired him—such impeccable taste in art. And it appears that he has taught you well.”

Sage chuckled. “He might have taught me its value but not precisely its appreciation.”

I swatted Sage. “Baby, what is Mr. Bamford going to think of you?”

One of Richie’s bushy eyebrows rose to his hairline, leaving me no doubt he was salivating at the thought of getting his hands on some of Sir Fernsby’s possessions.

“Absolutely nothing, my dear,” Richie said, “only that he is a very smart young man.” The old man was silent for a moment, then said, “there’s a particular Ming Dynasty piece he possesses that has always been a favorite of mine.”

“You must be talking about the gold tripod vessel.”

“Yes, very rare.” Richie’s eyes looked ravenous behind his glasses.

“And valuable,” Sage added.

“Indeed.”

“Your father would never part with it.” He met Sage’s gaze, sending a silent message.But maybe you would,his calculating gaze seemed to say.

Sage sighed tiredly. “Yes, he can be very stubborn.”

“Can he ever?” I added.

Sage squeezed my hand and, with that simple interaction, we insinuated a common history between us that didn’t exist, but that lent our charade credibility.

Richie took a deep breath and set his tumbler down on the desk behind him. “Forgive me if I am straightforward, but I would probably kick myself later if I’m not frank. At any point you wish to part with any valuable but underappreciated goods, don’t hesitate to call me first.” He pulled a card from his pocket and offered it to Sage. “This has my direct number on it.”