“Your timing is excellent,” he said. “But I think perhaps this would be better done in privacy. Would you care to meet me at my quarters?”

The flutters intensified. “Your . . . quarters?”

“My condominium,” Stefan clarified, then paused. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. Would you prefer to meet at the Wheelhouse? Or somewhere else? I can retrieve the item I wished to show you.”

Thinking about it, it probably made more sense to minimize my exposure to the emotion-starved Outcast throng. And after what we’d been through together earlier in the summer, I did trust Stefan.

Mostly.

“No,” I said. “You’re right. What’s your address?”

He told me.

I jotted it down on a piece of scrap paper. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said before I could change my mind, and hung up.

Twenty

Stefan met me in the allotted space in the discreet parking garage of his fancy condominium complex overlooking the river. I parked my rundown Honda next to his gleaming black motorcycle, giving it a pat on the dashboard in case it was feeling inadequate.

“Daisy.” Stefan gave me one of his nods, indicating the staircase. “This way.”

I followed him to his unit on the second floor. It wasn’t large, but it was swanky, with high ceilings, polished wood floors, and a huge picture window overlooking the river. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, filling the place with light.

Curious, I looked around. The furnishings were sleek and modern and austere. There wasn’t much that reflected the owner’s personality, unless you counted the one wall hung with an array of weapons on display, including the longsword on which the aforementioned impaling had been done.

Which I guess you pretty much had to count.

“Jesus,” I said. “You’re like the Highlander, aren’t you?”

There was one piece, a painted kite-shaped shield, displayed separately on a pedestal in its own little Plexiglas case. Glancing at Stefan for permission, I went to take a closer look. I thought medieval shields were all about heraldry—rampant lions and roses and chevrons and bar sinisters and such. But this was more like an actual painting on a coppery-gold background, depicting a woman in a flowing brocade gown and elaborate headgear presenting some kind of gift to a bareheaded knight kneeling in full armor. Although it was old and obviously damaged, the pigments were surprisingly rich.

Stefan was silent while I examined it, but I could feel him watching me. When I looked back at him, his pupils were dilated.

“It is a family heirloom,” he said quietly. “A parade shield intended only for ceremony. It commemorates my father receiving a token of thanks from the queen of Bohemia in gratitude for his valor in helping her husband, King Charles, escape with his life at the Battle of Crécy.”