Terrible Praise

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Synopsis

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  I: Meeting Minutes

  II: A Pale Horse

  III: The New Deal

  IV: Disturbance

  V: Preludes

  VI: Symbiosis

  VII: Renaissance

  VIII: Not With A Bang

  IX: Consent

  X: Bargaining

  XI: The Beginning

  Bella Books

  Synopsis

  For five hundred years, all Stela had known was a roving life in service to her maker, Fane. But in the last century her family has built a permanent residence in the abandoned freight tunnels beneath Chicago, where anonymity reigns supreme.

  Navigating the modern world is not easy and Stela, once a fierce warrior, has traded the heat of battle for petty negotiation, her sword for a pen, and her station as Fane’s enforcer to now serve as her family’s financial liaison.

  When a late meeting forces Stela to visit a nearby hospital, she crosses paths with the beguiling Elizabeth Dumas—a brilliant nurse who sacrificed her academic career to care for her ailing mother. Their charged encounter will threaten the secrecy Stela has sworn to uphold, and the bond they unwittingly forge will irrevocably alter both their lives.

  Worlds collide and entwine in Terrible Praise, Book One of The Redamancy Series.

  Copyright © 2018 by Lara Hayes

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  First Bella Books Edition 2018

  eBook released 2018

  Editor: Cath Walker

  Cover Design: Lara Hayes

  Cover Designer: Judith Fellows

  ISBN: 978-1-59493-597-8

  On Being Unalone, Delaney Nolan for Vela Magazine

  Source/credit: http://velamag.com/on-being-unalone/

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Now I am safe from strange men, but nobody praises me. I need this terrible praise and I do not want to need this terrible, terrible praise.

  —Delaney Nolan, On Being Unalone

  Redamancy (noun): The act of loving in return.

  Acknowledgments

  This story might not have been told without Carolyn Cruse’s constant encouragement and enthusiasm, her helpful notes and our countless late night discussions over the years. Similarly, thank you to Vera and Jordan Hayes for their endless support. Thank you to Jessica Hayes for sharing her expertise, and to Claudia Wilson who helped with pronunciation. Thank you to Dana Piccoli for sound advice, friendship, and more than one much needed push.

  Thank you to my loves Megan Evans, Jackie (JK) Willett, and Nick Lutz for always listening to my stories. Also: Robby and Mandy Olivam, Nick Davenport, Matt Willett, Seth Miller, Lizzy Carraway, John Beechem, Kelly Shiflet, Sarah Maddox, John James, Jasmin Chen, James Willett, Erin Fuhrman, Veda Chapman, Jennifer Chapman, Bobby Evans, Angie Evans, Rodney Conard, Jimmy Buchanan, and Stephen Savage.

  Lastly, thank you to my amazing editor Cath Walker, and everyone at Bella Books, but especially Jessica Hill.

  Dedication

  For my mother and brother

  I

  Meeting Minutes

  By the time the elevator chimes its arrival, my senses are already muddled. My head feels lighter than it has in a long while and I struggle to focus. My eyes are drawn to the scalding bright white fluorescents behind the brassy redheaded receptionist. Our quarterly meeting is conducted face-to-face, and has always been my burden. Trusted associates though they may be, it takes every ounce of discipline to remain civil and controlled.

  “Good evening, Opes and Sons. How may I direct your call?” The red hold lights blink incessantly in a never-ending queue of incoming calls. “One moment please.”

  I flex my hands to conceal their tremble, and place my palms flat against the corner of the black marble desk as I wait for Rachel to acknowledge me.

  “Good evening Ms. Radu,” she says. “Mr. Opes is finishing with another client. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.”

  Rachel keeps her head down as she rushes to say in person what could be relayed by phone. She reconsiders her haste and hesitates with one hand poised on the glass corner of the entryway.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asks, courteous to a fault.

  “No. Thank you, Rachel.”

  “Please have a seat while you wait. Mr. Opes will see you shortly.”

  Rachel vanishes and I indulge in a brief stretch, permitting myself to lean against the lip of her desk. If I sit, the urge to sleep will triple and it will take noticeable effort to stand again. One must appear infallible inside these walls, so I settle on presenting an impatient façade.

  I can hear Rachel’s hushed nervous whispers bouncing off the granite tiles. She does not want to return to her domain to count the tense minutes as they pass in my quiet company.

  Her heels click toward me and I raise my head. She keeps her chin down and stares at my feet.

  “Mr. Opes offers his sincerest apologies, Ms. Radu.” Her voice is a soft but shaky melody to my ears. “He will collect you in a moment.”

  I nod and take to pacing by the far wall, granting her the distance we both know she prefers. I appreciate Rachel’s apprehension. She is smarter than her predecessors, always keeping the bright emerald of her eyes hidden from the black of mine. She does not trust me so much as to fix her gaze on my dark sunglasses, though I doubt very much she could explain why. Perhaps her Irish forebears are to blame for filling her head with absurd superstitions.

  Yet I can smell her fear—sharp and acidic—as she pretends to correct her lurid eye shadow in a small round compact she keeps on her desk. Rachel has never said a word of it aloud, but my reflection in the mirror startles her every single time. A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as Andrew Opes appears in the lobby, hurrying his last client into the elevator. A fellow investor by the look of him.

  Andrew does not trouble himself with small talk. Not while I have been made to wait, yet again.

  Andrew Opes is an intolerable creature with a puffed chest and a perpetual strut. If only he had kept some of his hair after the age of thirty, or been born tall and broad-shouldered. If Andrew were not a slave to the drink, as indicated by the blood vessels webbing down the bridge of his nose, perhaps he would make for better company. He is not the hardened businessman his father was, though he tries desperately to dress the part.

  He wipes his palms
against the front of his wool trousers and offers his hand. “Kathryn, so good to see you.” His warm clammy paws close over my cool fingers.

  “Andy. A pleasure.”

  “Andrew, please. No one calls me that anymore.”

  I suspect he knows that I insist upon the name to taunt him. A friendly jab at his transparent persona.

  “Forgive me, Andrew. Old habits.” I put more emphasis on the last line than I should in front of Rachel, whose heart is pounding like a trapped hare’s. Andrew nods and clasps his empty hands, certain that I will repeat the taunt.

  “Please, after you.” Andrew waves me through the glass partition and down the hall to his office, slipping silently in step behind me. His door is open, as are the blinds. My steps falter, as he breezes around my body and heads for the bar in the corner.

  The effects of the evening sun bouncing off the wall of windows and spilling out against the dark wood of his desk are dizzying. This is his small revenge. Andrew offers me a drink that he knows will be declined. His fingers curl around a scotch.

  My fingers knot into fists as I watch the setting sun drown in brilliant pink hues behind the tops of lesser buildings that frame the view of his penthouse suite. I remove my jacket and hang it on the rack beside his door.

  Andrew’s father, Robert Opes, had kept a separate staff and smaller office in the dark basement of this building as a courtesy and a sign of respect to our family. For many years, he served as a loyal steward, managing our affairs. Robert was the face of Fane’s amassed wealth, and a true ally in every sense of the word. However, Andrew has spread himself out against the sky in this sun-drenched office, as a way of saying he does not need us when we both know that his enterprise, his father’s legacy would topple without our patronage. Andrew’s hubris is the sole reason my meeting schedule has been altered from biannually to quarterly, and Fane is wise to doubt Andrew’s competence. I suppose, were I in My Lord’s position, I too would charge a trustworthy servant like me to be my eyes and ears.

  “Would you prefer the blinds closed?” Andrew gestures with a wide-open hand. A small, disdainful laugh escapes me as I walk around the side of his desk ahead of him, and take his seat for myself.

  “Andy, I would not dream of troubling you with my preferences. Shall we get down to business?” I settle comfortably in his over-sized chair, back to the window and flirt with the idea of propping my heels on the corner of his desk. He downs the last of his scotch, his hostility visible only in the single finger he taps against the glass clutched in his fist. Andrew has more restraint than I credit him for, just not very much.

  “Of course,” he says.

  Andrew freshens up his glass and sets it carelessly on the table while he explains to me—as he does every quarter—how profitable the year has been for us. His verbose, self-aggrandizing yammering is of little interest as I review the numbers for myself. The glowing portrait he paints seems to correlate with the figures Rachel has printed for my visit. I question every quarter whether my abhorrence of him as a person warrants the skepticism I feel toward him as a businessman. I cut short his gloating ramble about the genius, if not underhanded plays he has made for the sake of my family’s fortune.

  “Another strong finish it seems.” I lean back in the chair and Andrew takes a celebratory sip of his second scotch. “And yet again, I see no report on the Caymans.” Undoubtedly the largest single account Andrew has managed for a decade, and the one which fluctuates the most. The account my family transfers from on a monthly basis. Anonymity, after all, is expensive.

  I tap the tip of my black fingernail expectantly on his desk. Andrew sets his drink down and leans back in his chair, his hands folded neatly over his swollen belly.

  “Well, for the sake of your time, I haven’t included details of every account. Just the usual summary.”

  The sun’s grip around my brain lessens with every passing moment and I feel more at home in my own skin, less like a passenger locked in a vehicle I cannot control. I slowly remove the sturdy black frames of my Wayfarers, and toss the sunglasses on the mountainous stack of papers towering between us. A familiar burn settles at the back of my eyes as they adjust, a single flame that flares and chokes. When my vision clears, Andrew looks quickly away and clears his throat.

  “Thank you, Andrew.” It is easier now in the dim twilight to focus my eyes on his. He meets my stare with great reluctance. “Your concern for me with these meetings is touching. But I assure you…” I lean across his desk and flash a threatening smile. “Time is not as precious a commodity to me as it is to you.”

  His boisterous veneer subdued, Andrew apologizes with something approaching sincerity. “I will have Rachel arrange the figures for us immediately,” he offers. I wave my hand in dismissal.

  “Tell me the quarter is a success on all fronts and I shall believe you, Andrew.” He brightens and takes another slow gulp of his scotch. I reach for the family photo on the corner of his desk and watch his entire body coil. I hold his family in my right hand and trace his daughter’s face with my index finger. “Christine has grown quite lovely.”

  Andrew stands abruptly and snatches the portrait from my hand, looking once over his beloved child’s face before he returns the photo to his desk. “I will have the figures sent to you first thing tomorrow morning, Kathryn. I am confident you will be pleased with them.”

  After a few quick signatures, I reach for my sunglasses and stand on firm feet. Andrew adjusts his paisley-print tie and I take hold of his sweaty hand in a brief but strong shake.

  “I am positive you would not give me cause to question your performance.” I walk around the side of his desk and sweep my jacket from its place on the coat rack, casting it over one shoulder. “After all, you would not want to jeopardize Christine’s college tuition. It is nearly that time, is it not?”

  Andrew wraps his hand around the back of his chair and does not conceal the hate in his eyes. “Yes. This coming fall.”

  “They grow up so fast.” I slip my arms into the satin-lined sleeves of my coat as I dig my words, like fingers, into his bleeding wound. “Good evening, Andy.”

  My dark glasses are fixed to my face before I pass the receptionist’s desk. There is no need to scare the competent help more than I already have.

  “A pleasure as always, Rachel,” I toss the social nicety over my shoulder as I step into the waiting elevator.

  “Until next quarter, Ms. Radu.”

  Rachel is standing behind her desk, and I do not miss her small sigh of relief as the steel doors close between us. I can practically feel her crossing herself.

  Good girl.

  The cool of the basement-level parking garage settles around my aching skull like a salve. A sojourn in daylight is as physically devastating as a marathon sprint on the surface of the sun, but every moment grows more tolerable as I reach the sanctity of my black Mercedes parked in the space reserved for special clients.

  I crawl across the black leather interior of the backseat—not trusting myself behind the wheel—fighting with the sleeves of my jacket as I fling it to the floor. The second I settle on my right side, exhaustion hits me full force and I pound my fist against the floorboard. The burning in my eyes makes it difficult to keep them open and as I roll onto my back I pinch the bridge of my nose, which does nothing to quiet the screaming in my brain—as though colors themselves have sound.

  There was a time before all this bureaucracy. Many blissful years before we had to trouble ourselves with keeping up appearances, or force ourselves aboveground in the daylight hours, when we were feared and revered in equal measure. A time when men like Andrew kept their eyes on their feet while they spoke, much the way Rachel operates today. A time when it was considered a slight to turn your back, and people backed carefully from the room thanking us for our patronage and generosity. I would have been well within my rights in those days—nay expected—to leave a man like Andrew pinned to the surface of his own desk with a letter opener, for so much as
a misspoken utterance. In moments of his regular abject arrogance, my first instinct is still to reach for my saber. Even after all these years, I feel naked without its grounding weight knocking flatly against my hip. A simpler time, and one I find myself missing more with every passing year.

  I shut my eyes as the dull thud in my temples joins the sharp roar of the blinding world.

  * * *

  I wake with a start, bolt upright in my car. An untimely sleep is a great danger, and I rip the back door open more forcefully than I should. The steel gives a slight protest in my palm as I slam it shut behind me. The air is cool and the sun has set completely. The wind carries with it the stamp of the hour: perfumes too honeyed and cloyingly sweet for office hours, the half-eaten remnants of discarded meals, evening flowers unfurled even in this concrete playground, all of which confirm that I have wasted several hours.

  I slide into the driver’s seat and settle the key in the ignition. The dashboard clock illuminates: nine fifty-three p.m. I let my head fall back against the headrest. The hour is later than I would like, but there is still time to feed.

  My impromptu slumber has steadied my nerves and my headache is manageable, but I am too weak for a proper hunt. I will need to meet with Fane when I return home, and he will want an overview of his financials. Fane will also need to eat. Business matters always leave him frustrated and peckish. With a weary sigh, I throw the car into drive and make my way to the only sure fare I have in such circumstances.

  * * *

  Emergency rooms are always bustling, and I prefer to enter a hospital there among the crowd. Window shopping, my brother calls it, taking inventory of the produce. The sick, the bleeding, the junkie frauds presenting with a myriad of fabricated symptoms in the hope that they will land a new physician. Someone who will not recognize them. But I do. I can smell their organs spoiling in their bodies, spot their dancing, nervous legs scuffing up the tiles.