The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales (Cainsville 3.5)

What Lisa really wanted was to sneak him in the back so he wouldn't see his "crowd"--four committee members who'd felt obligated to appear, three homeless guys hoping for free coffee and cookies, and two actual readers wondering if they were in the wrong place.

They went down an alley, circling to the back door. Lisa led him in, chattering the whole time, as if that could hide the fact that the building was silent. Utterly and completely silent.

And that was when the author part of his brain turned off and the bocan part turned on. While the situation made sense to him as an author--young publicist trying to impress a difficult author, her plan failing spectacularly--it looked very different from the fae point of view.

He'd been tricked. Lured out of Cainsville, where he was safe. Into Chicago. Into an empty building.

Lisa started opening the door to a tiny room and stopped short. "This can't be . . ." She double-checked the door plaque, which announced it was the staff room. Inside it was dark and empty.

She fluttered her hands. "Maybe they moved the green room. They said there would be refreshments and three librarians who are dying to meet you. You have some huge fans on the award committee."

"Do I?"

She nodded, almost frantically. "You do. They're the ones who chose you for this award."

"And what award was that again?"

She stopped nodding and blinked at him. "What?"

"The award. Refresh my memory on the name."

She let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, right. Sorry. That will help. You don't want to stand up on stage and get the name wrong. It's . . ." She froze. Then she scrambled for her PDA. As she skimmed through her notes, Patrick narrowed his eyes, trying to see the telltale shimmer of a fae glamour. It wasn't always evident, but he knew how to turn his head just right . . .

No sign of a glamour. Lisa looked fae, though, now that he thought of it. A very average young woman, which was a popular choice. Young enough to assuage vanity, but ordinary enough to pass undetected.

There were ways to hide glamours, though. And there were also humans who knew about the fae world.

So what are you, Lisa Grant?

And what is your game?

That old curiosity urged him to play this out, see what she was up to. But he hadn't lived to this age by taking unnecessary risks.

"Got it!" she said. "The Chicago Patrons of the Arts Contribution to Literary Culture award."

"That's quite a mouthful."

"It is. Do you want me to write it down?"

"Please."

She took out a small pen and pad from her purse. As she wrote out the name, he slipped up beside her, so when she rose to hand it to him, he was right there, and she jumped with a soft, "Oh!" Then she reddened and held out the notepaper.

He took it. He didn't step back, though. He met her gaze and looked deep into her eyes and called on his powers of fae compulsion.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Lisa," he said. "Authors like me don't get this sort of honor, and we may pretend we don't care, but there is nothing quite as satisfying as artistic recognition. You went the extra mile for me, and I appreciate it."

She blushed furiously. Human, then. Which would make this easy. The problem with compulsion is that it cannot make someone act against their will. But if the person is already leaning in that direction . . .

"Could you do me a huge favor?"

She nodded mutely.

He took off his blazer and held it out. "Would you hang this in the closet over there?"

She hesitated, this clearly not being what she expected. He met her gaze again, holding it and saying, "I would very much appreciate that."

Another fierce blush and she took his jacket. She walked to the door he'd indicated and opened it. Inside was a small dark room filled with janitorial supplies.