It took some effort to pry Laurence out of bed and shoo him off to work in the morning, but Quentin did so and then took the dogs on their morning run before the day could grow hot.

Perhaps it was psychological, but despite it only being the first of November, Quentin was certain that the air was already more bearable without any additional assistance from his gift. Or perhaps he had finally begun to acclimatize.

He snorted at the idea. People didn’t get used to this sort of environment. They just darted from one air conditioning unit to the next.

It was as he unlocked the gate to the house and ushered the dogs ahead of himself that he heard a vehicle pull up behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder.

The car was a private hire vehicle. They all looked alike, all glossy and black with multiple aerials and tinted back windows, and Quentin was about to ignore it were it not for the smile that the driver cast his way.

He paused while the dogs padded into the courtyard.

The driver eased out onto the sidewalk and locked the car. He was a young fellow with reasonably pleasing features, and bright red hair in tightly-controlled curls. “Lord Banbury?”

Quentin blinked. He’d grown so unaccustomed to being addressed correctly that it came as a surprise. “May I help you?”

“Absolutely.” The redhead offered his hand. “I’m here at your brother’s behest. Lord d’Arcy has tasked me with assessing his property and coming up with a modern valuation for his portfolio. He has sent me keys, if you need to be elsewhere. It won’t take long.”

Quentin took the hand and shook it firmly. The chap had an odd tilt to his accent, as though it couldn’t decide whether it was from England or America. He spoke well enough, though, and his green eyes were bright with honesty. “No, please. Do come in, Mr…?”

“Cole. But please, Lord Banbury, call me Michael.”

“Michael.” Quentin nodded and allowed the lad through the gate, then closed it after himself. “I must apologize, had I known to expect a visitor I would have been home sooner.”

“Oh, please, no.” Michael laughed lightly and shook his head. “I would have waited, it’s no bother.” He dipped a hand into his jacket and withdrew a sealed envelope which he offered over once Quentin had unlocked the front door. “My credentials,” he explained.

“Thank you.”

The envelope certainly bore Freddy’s crest. Gone were the days when such things were done with a wax seal. Instead it was printed directly onto the envelope, and those could easily be stolen. The envelope was only evidence of physical access to Freddy’s stationery cupboard, so he tore it open and withdrew the letter inside.

Dearest Icky,

My apologies for sending a missive in this fashion. I wasn’t sure how welcome a presence I would be after the whole mess with the shirt, for which I still owe you a great deal.

Nonetheless, business is business, and I must have the mansion evaluated to stop the wealth manager screeching in my bloody ear every other week. Some nonsense about the mortgage. I hope you don’t mind.

I trust Michael implicitly. He will do what he has been tasked to, and then leave you be.

We’ll speak soon,

Frederick.

Quentin tucked the letter back into its envelope, and set both down by the telephone in the hallway, then continued on toward the kitchen. “If you’ll spare me a moment,” he said, “I must just fill the water bowls, then I can show you around.”

“Oh, it’s all right.” Michael nodded as he followed Quentin. “I can look around without a guide if you’re busy.”

“It’s best you don’t.” Quentin waited for the dogs to finish guzzling the bowls’ current contents, then he rinsed them out. “We have teenagers on the premises who might respond poorly to finding a stranger in their midst.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but Quentin was well used to keeping secrets now.

“I understand,” Michael said. “Did you want to freshen up before we take a look around?”

“If you don’t mind?” He refilled the bowls and set them down. “I shan’t be long.”

“No problem.” Suddenly Michael’s American accent shone through. “Why don’t I make some tea while I wait?”

“I couldn’t possibly-”

“Don’t be silly.” Now Michael had veered back to English. “If I’m here a while I might as well be of some use. Please, allow me.”

Quentin eyed that open, freckled face, and relented. “Very well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

He showered as swiftly as he could manage, and called Freddy as he tugged a fresh shirt on over his head.

“Icky!”

“Fred. You’ve sent me an estate agent!”

Freddy snorted. “Well, I realize it isn’t Christmas yet, but you should never look a gift estate agent in the mouth. Try not to set him on fire, hm? It might diminish the value of my property.”

“He’s definitely yours, then?” He buttoned the shirt so hastily that he misaligned the buttons and had to start over.

“Didn’t he give you the letter?”

“Mm. I just like to be certain before I show a stranger around. What’s this about? You’re not preparing to sell the place out from under us, are you?”

“Not at all. I can get a much lower rate of interest if the property value is higher than the mortgage itself, so I need an assessment, that’s all.” Freddy sniffed. “I can’t linger, I’m in the office. Call me later?”

Quentin nodded as he tucked the shirt into his trousers. “All right. I’ll speak to you soon.”

He hung up and dropped the phone into his pocket, then eyed himself in a mirror to check that he was acceptable enough despite the still-wet hair and rushed clothing choices.

Yes. That would do.

He hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen, only to find that Michael had already prepared the tea. A mug of it waited for him on the kitchen table, while Michael sat there and sipped from his own.

“It should still be hot,” Michael said quickly. “But I could make another if it’s cooled off too much.”

“No, I’m sure it’s fine. Thank you.” Quentin took it up and sipped from it as if to show that all was well, then his eye twitched of its own accord. “How much sugar is in here?”

“Just three…” Michael winced. “Sorry, I should have asked. Is it too much?”

“It’s fine,” Quentin lied. The drink was rather dark and bitter, so the poor American had obviously left the tea brewing far too long. All he could do now was curse his own bloody upbringing. Laurence would have no compunction against refusing the tea and making another, yet here Quentin was insisting that this awful drink was perfectly fine.

Americans at least wouldn’t sacrifice comfort in the pursuit of manners.

“Where would you like to begin?”

“Top down?” Michael stood and picked up his mug. “Shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”

“Splendid.”

He briefly considered leaving his tea behind, but it seemed rather rude after he’d made such a fuss over insisting that it was drinkable, so Quentin took it with him as he led Michael to the stairs.

Perhaps if he drank it quickly enough he could forget it ever happened.

* * *

They began on the second floor - or the third, as everyone but Quentin insisted on calling it - and made their way from one room to the next in short order. There was no doubt in Quentin’s mind that Michael was blind to the subtle green glow which surrounded them at every point, or surely the fellow would have mentioned it by now.

Thankfully the house was mostly empty. Felipe paddled in the pool, but the remainder of the children were - or certainly should be - at school. It made showing Michael around a swift process, as all the fellow seemed to need to do was poke his nose into each room and take note of the state of furnishings and decor.

At least Quentin managed to deal with the damn tea at last. It had almost gone cold by the time they returned to the ground floor, so he finished it off all in one go and put the mug aside on a table. His head buzzed from all the sugar as it hit his stomach in one fell swoop, and there was that horrible bitter aftertaste to it which the sugar couldn’t mask. He might have to go out for another run after this business so that he could exercise off the excess energy coursing through him.

Or he could call Laurence.

He coughed softly into the back of his hand as his mind went off right in the middle of something important. Had Michael spoken?

Quentin glanced to the lad and found those green eyes watching him expectantly.

Bugger.

“I do apologize, I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”

Michael looked as though he were the one who had been caught napping. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I was just saying that the architect’s plans for the property seemed to include some underground bunker. Could you shed some light on that?”

“Oh, of course.” Quentin led toward the garage and tried to stay on his feet as his head swam. “Apparently the original design included an underground bomb shelter, of all things.”

Michael nodded. “Got it. Can we check it out?”

“Of course. I will have to find the keys.” Quentin almost missed his footing, and slapped a hand against the wall to steady himself.

“No need. Lord d’Arcy gave me a full set.” Michael dug an assortment of keys from his jacket and offered them up. “Do you keep it locked, then?”

“Mm. There’s nothing down there. Not any more.” Not since they’d emptied out Kane’s absurd collection of tinned food and body armor. He straightened himself up and reached for the keys, then sifted through them swiftly. “The builders had to replace the previous lock, as it was biometric and they couldn’t reprogram it. Ah, here we are!”

Michael nodded and eyed the door they stopped by. “I’ll be out of your hair once we’ve checked this and the garage. If there are no structural issues we should be all set.”

Quentin unlocked the door and flicked on the light above the stairs which led down. The place was still clean after the renovation, thankfully, and he hopped down the stairs quickly.

Until his leg spasmed, and he almost fell again.

“Lord Banbury?” Michael’s voice sounded distant. “Is there something wrong?”

“Just a twinge. Ran a little too hard, I expect.” He unlocked the lower door and pushed against it.

A wave of weakness swept through him.

Quentin sagged against the door and took in deep lungfuls of the cold air, but the faint taste of paint which lingered after the renovations made his stomach clench, and sweat began to trickle down his neck.

“Here.” Michael took the keys from him and held a hand against his shoulder. “You don’t look okay. Should I call someone?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Quentin’s hand trembled, and while he looked to it, his knees gave way. He slid down the door and landed in an ungainly lump.

Alarm finally registered somewhere in the depths of his brain. He struggled to stand, to move, to do anything, but his body refused to co-operate. All it did was sweat more.

“I really don’t like triazolam,” Michael was saying. “I’d rather go with rohypnol, but they make it bright blue these days, and you’d notice if you had that in your tea. Still, needs must, huh? Freddy says it’s virtually impossible to give you an overdose, so blame him if I got it wrong.”

Dark seemed to consume him. He felt the occasional sensation under his arms or against his legs, and wondered briefly whether he was being dragged across the floor, but then another surge of weakness took over, and he began to struggle for air.

“Gonna put you in the recovery position, just in case. There’s a good chance your breathing will slow right down, so let’s keep that airway open, huh?”

Michael’s words made no sense. Why would Quentin stop breathing? What was triazolam?

An overdose?

The alarm blossomed into genuine fear. Worst of all was the fact that it made no sense. Why would Frederick send someone here to do this to him?

Why the hell hadn’t Quentin just refused the damn tea?

He didn’t feel like him. Whatever his body did, it did of its own accord, and Quentin was somewhere else, drifting away into the black without any way of stopping it. He struggled to swim against the tide, to reach for his prone form and force it to its feet, but the world was slipping away, and he grew too tired to fight it any longer.

And then the shadows swallowed him whole.