Page 8 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Five

Nell

M y mouth was open. I forced myself to close it. He stared at me silently, eyes narrowed in furious concentration as he tried to place me.

I lowered my outstretched hand, my stomach cartwheeling. I pressed my hand against it, then realized how weird that looked, and forced myself to drop the hand.

My hand twitched and swung, unsure of what the hell to do with itself.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “I know you.”

I ginned up some instant bravado. “Yes, you do, in a manner of speaking. Strip steak sandwich, soup of the day, and apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“You’re the waitress. At the café where I get lunch.” His tone was accusing. He seemed so much taller here, but of course, in the restaurant he’d always been sitting down. He studied me, his eyes puzzled and suspicious. “You look different.”

“I’m not wearing an apron or holding an order pad.

Not that I need one for your order.” I resisted a near-overwhelming urge to button up my jacket.

There was no need to scream my discomfort and self-consciousness to the four winds.

I had buttoned my blouse to the top, hadn’t I?

Hadn’t I? Do. Not. Check. Just don't. I was also acutely, intensely aware of the lipstick I’d painted onto my mouth. I regretted it bitterly.

“Wait. So you guys know each other?” The receptionist’s eyes were goggling.

“Derek, that’ll be all.”

Derek blinked innocently. “Can I make you some coffee? Or bring in some?—”

“Get out, Derek,” the man said, with an authority that was both flat and absolute.

Derek sidled obediently out the door. Mr. Tall and Hyper-Focused and I looked at each other in absolute silence for a moment.

The weight and pressure of his full attention was as bewildering and disorienting as it had been earlier today at the restaurant.

I had to brace myself, as if I were standing in a hurricane wind.

“You said you were an expert in poetry and a doctoral candidate at NYU,” he said.

“And so I am,” I replied.

“Excuse me for making personal statements, but you look too young for that.”

Oh, for God’s sake. I absolutely had to change my look. “I’ll be thirty in October,” I said. “I can show you my driver’s license, if you’d like to verify that. Or my passport. Not that it’s particularly relevant.”

“That won’t be necessary. Look, Ms. ... uh …”

“D’Onofrio,” I supplied.

“Ms. D’Onofrio, I sympathize with your desire to break out of waitressing, but I’m not the kind of employer who hires young women just for scenery. So if you’re not actually qualified, don’t waste my time. It would be unpleasant for us both.”

I was stymied for a moment as I unpacked that complicated statement.

The fucking nerve of him, to imply that I was lying or scamming.

To say nothing of the fact that he’d just implied that I was …

well. Pretty enough to be considered scenery.

Which was a compliment hidden inside an insult, or maybe it was an insult hidden inside a compliment.

I wasn’t quite sure which one it was. Or which one was worse.

Or, well … better. As the case might be.

“I gave you my credentials,” I said icily.

“They were absolutely genuine. I did not misrepresent myself in the least. If you’d like to verify my references, feel free.

Do it now. I am more than qualified for the work you’ve described.

I’m interested because of the flexible hours and the possibility of working remotely.

It’s very difficult to find jobs that fit into a graduate seminar and teaching schedule. ”

“If you’re a teacher at NYU, then why are you waiting tables?”

Ah, how innocent he was. I exerted all my self-control and did not roll my eyes.

“It’s impossible to pay rent on a grad student’s stipend,” I told him.

“Though that, too, is irrelevant, and nobody’s business but mine.

I am an extremely busy person, Mr. Burke, but I’m the best you’re ever going to find for this project.

If you’re interested in interviewing me, we can proceed.

If you intend to insult and belittle me, I’ll be on my way. ” I stared straight into his eyes.

He stared back for a harrowing moment, tapping his pen rapidly against his keyboard. “I never meant to insult or belittle you,” he said.

I sniffed. “Very well. Apology accepted.”

“Apology? Did I apologize?” he said, his brow furrowed.

I gave him a thin smile. “I sure hope so. Or else I’ll just be on my way right now. Did I misread you?”

He chewed on that, still tapping. “No, I guess not,” he said. “Let’s proceed.”

I rummaged in my bag and handed him a resume. He flicked his gaze over it and tossed it on his desk. “Pull up a chair,” he said.

I looked around, at a loss, since both chairs were piled high with books and folders.

Burke got up, grumbling under his breath. His white sleeves were rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms bulged appealingly as he grabbed armfuls of paper and dumped them on the floor. “Derek was supposed to file this stuff,” he growled. “Sit down.”

I seated myself gingerly on the chair, nerves buzzing.

Burke studied me for a long moment. “We’re creating a cutting-edge computer game,” he said finally.

“Puzzle solving, riddles, prophecies, secrets, treasure maps. Less blood and guts, but there’s plenty of that, too.

To move to the higher levels, the player must pass a series of trials each time, like following an enchanted map, breaking a spell, or figuring out how to enlist the help of some magical creature.

That kind of thing. Instructions for the tasks and trials will be encoded in hidden texts that are stylistically in keeping with the game.

I also desire texts that have actual artistic merit, although I’m no judge of that kind of thing myself.

That’s where you come in. Do I make myself clear? ”

“Yes,” I said. “Look no further. I’m your woman.”

The words rang in the air between us. They sounded so suggestive and sexual. Dear God. What on earth had come over me to say something so in-your-face flirtatious?

He gazed at me for a moment, blinking. “You sound very confident,” he said.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I know my strengths, and this plays right to them.”

He nodded. “We’ve been interviewing people for weeks, but I’ve been unsatisfied with the pool of applicants that have come our way.

Several struck me as lightweights. Others took it far too seriously.

It’s a game, for God’s sake. So I thought maybe the local universities might have people with the right vibe. Competent, yet playful.”

“A sensible idea,” I commented. “You said last night that you’d never done anything like this before? So this project is a first for you?”

“That’s right. I’m not a game designer myself.

I design cybersecurity programs, data analysis programs, systems with real-world practical applications.

The game is my brother Bruce’s baby, so you’ll be working with him.

My mission is just to make sure everything stays on track.

I’ve invested a fortune in game designers and programmers.

I can’t afford for this thing to fail. The one thing we haven’t covered is someone to handle the written texts. ”

“I see,” I murmured.

“Let me tell you exactly what I want from you.” His intense gaze made his words sound seductive. I plastered on a politely interested smile and tried to breathe.

“For instance, to move to the second level, the player must find a hidden manuscript and get three clues out of it: a silver vial, a scrying pool, and a jeweled dagger. You pour the contents of the vial into the pool to figure out where to find the dagger, which leads you to the next level—the cursed labyrinth. Got it?”

“Uh, yes. I think so.”

“Write me something that gives the clues but leaves the player to figure out the details—while also alluding to the overall quest of the game.”

“Which is?” I asked.

He shifted restlessly in his chair, looking vaguely embarrassed. “Um … well,” he muttered. “Actually, it’s to, uh, rescue the captured princess.”

Awww. I smiled, in spite of myself. That was pretty freaking adorable.

He flapped his hand impatiently to banish my amusement. “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s tired. It’s been done to death. We know, we know.”

“I’ll say,” I murmured. “For, like, all of recorded history.”

He harrumphed impatiently. “I didn’t come up with it. The princess was Bruce’s idea. He’s a very basic guy. Maybe we can come up with something snappier and more original later.”

“No,” I said. “Rescuing the captured princess is a winner. It works for everybody. It’s an archetype that’s programmed into our deepest childhood memories.

Although I hope she won’t be a dull, helpless princess with no agency, or a sleeping princess, or a princess in a coma.

Those will definitely get you the stink-eye these days.

Your princess might need some help, but she has to have something special up her sleeve that’s all her own. She needs to participate.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but we haven’t gotten that far yet,” he said. “We’re still in the design phase. I’ll be happy for your feedback about proactive princesses.”

“Good,” I said. “So it’s a computer game for hopeless romantics. Even I might be tempted to play a game like this one, although I’m sure I’d suck at it.”

Duncan Burk’s tapping pen was a steady sharp staccato. “It’s not for romantics,” he said tersely. “It’s mind candy for magic and fantasy freaks.”

“You don’t think that rescuing a captured princess is romantic?”

“That isn’t the point,” he said. “So? What can you do with the clues?” He leaned back in his chair and looked expectant.

I blinked. “You want me to write something for you right on the spot?”

“If you can,” he said blandly. “Write me a poem with the elements I gave you.”

I pulled off my glasses and polished them.

It was easier to look him boldly in the face when he was a little blurry.

“What type of poetry would you prefer? Early, mid, or late medieval? Renaissance? Classical antiquity? Homer, or Catullus, or Dante, or Chaucer? Spenser? Sidney? Heroic couplets, like Pope? Or something more, say, Miltonian?” I put my glasses back on, blinking as his dark, narrow, hawk-like face came back into focus.

Wow. He was so fine. It was distracting.

He scowled. “How would I know? I don’t do poetry. That’s why you’re here.”

“It’s not a matter of knowing anything,” I explained patiently.

“I just need a point of reference. A jumping off point. The more indications you give me, the quicker I can structure the piece. If you like, I’ll just choose a style arbitrarily for the purposes of this exercise. How about a Shakespearean sonnet?”

“Fine, whatever. Go for it.”

“Could you give me something to write on?”

He passed a legal pad and pen across the desk. I swiftly scribbled down the list of elements: vial, scrying pool, jeweled dagger, labyrinth, captured princess.

“Excuse my back,” I told him. “I’ll just turn around so I can concentrate.”

“Absolutely. Feel free,” he said.

I swiveled my chair until he was out of my direct line of vision and got to work with the elements he’d given me, taking notes and structuring the piece as ideas bubbled up.

There was great pleasure in doing something I was made for, even under pressure.

This was my happy place. Words, language, stories, myth, and magic.

I let the fear and stress melt out of my mind: Snake Eyes stalking us, losing Lucia, my still-unwritten thesis, my unpaid rent, how badly I needed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep with no stress nightmares to shatter it.

Even the charismatic and compelling Duncan Burke himself faded away as I descended into that inner space.

These were the brain waves that had saved me when I was a little kid living with Elena. I had urgently needed not to focus on what was happening in the next room.

That shielded inner world had saved me once again while I was being shuttled from foster home to foster home, back before Lucia found me.

The magic place had always been there for me. It was safe, it was home, and it never let me down. In that place, I was at my best—clear-eyed, smart, brave, generous, connected to my creativity. I could imagine myself as deeper, calmer, wiser. Better.

About twenty minutes later, I turned spun the chair around and realized that Burke had not moved or spoken for the entire time that I was working.

He’d just sat there and watched, and it must have been about as interesting as watching paint dry.

I wondered if he was one of those guys who loathed being ignored. But he didn’t seem bothered by my having forgotten his existence. He looked curious. As if I were a puzzle that he was intent upon solving.

I ripped off all the drafts, scribbles, and notes and held out the legal pad with my final version. “Take a look,” I said. “That’ll give you an idea of how I work.”

Burke took the pad, looking dubious. “Finished already?”

“It’s a familiar exercise,” I told him. “I make my students do it all the time. The best way to study a poet’s style is from the inside out.”

He read what I’d written, then read it again. He looked at me for a long moment, still tapping his pen. Tappity-tappity-tappity-tap. It was starting to make me nervous.

“Do you want the job?” he asked.