The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

I insist. Solvig is clearly your soul mate.” Alva turned to the servant and spoke quickly in what Nick assumed was Swedish.

Nick was transfixed by the vision of the old man wrestling the enormous dog from the room, managing to bow and close the door without losing control of the animal. Nick heard deep barks of protest descending into the basement.

“Well.” He stretched his legs out and put his arms behind his head. “I came to set up a mistress, and I leave with one of the hounds of hell. Does the servant come with the dog? Because I’m sure I don’t know who in my household will be willing to deal with her.”

“You didn’t come to set up a mistress,” Alva said. “You came to learn about the Ofan.”

Nick stayed in his relaxed position, but every sense was on the alert. And so it was beginning.

Alva folded her hands in her lap. “What do you want to know?”

“You admit it, straight out? Don’t you understand that I am a member of the Guild? That they are out to uproot and perhaps even kill you?”

“I understand that very well, Nick. But do you understand it? Are you working for the Guild and against me?”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he straightened his cuffs. The gesture lost some of its brio when his fingers encountered the still-damp dog blood. “Damn.”

Alva took a handkerchief from her bodice and handed it to him. “This is all so hard to talk about,” she said as he wiped his fingers. “And I can’t even properly see your face. Do you mind if I put on my glasses? Since we’re discussing realities and not playing games?”

“Be my guest.”

Alva reached into her bosom again and extracted a pair of red plastic cat’s-eye glasses, wiped them unceremoniously with a fold of dress fabric, and propped them on her nose. She blinked at him a couple of times and then sighed. “That’s so much better.”

He had to laugh. “You are a woman of contradictions, Alva.”

“How?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The medieval peasant costume, the ridiculous dog, the beets, the quick change into demure fashion, the 1960s spectacles stored in your bodice . . . add to that your profession, your modern slang, and the mystery of your Ofanicness. . . .”

The violet eyes blinked. “I am not a contradiction to myself, Nick.”

“Why are you a courtesan?”

Alva’s smile turned upside down. It was not an unhappy or an offended frown, but it was thoughtful. “Why are you a womanizer?”

“I’m not a womanizer.”

“All right,” she said. “What do you call it?”

“Call what?”

“Your many lovers, Nick. Your trail of broken hearts.”

She wasn’t merely contradictory and remarkable—she was disconcerting in the extreme.

“I haven’t broken any hearts,” Nick said, sullen.

“Aren’t you a Casanova? A rake? A rogue? Come on, Nick. Please. Can we not just speak candidly with each other?”

“Oh, for the love of God. First the Guild and now you. Why do you all seem to know everything about my sex life?”

Alva peeked at him over her glasses. She looked more like a librarian by the second. “The Guild knows about you because they researched you. You probably have quite the fat file in the archives in Milton Keynes. They needed to know you would be interested in an assignment with a sexual element. Namely, their cockamamie plan whereby you would become my lover in order to gain entrée into the Ofan.”

“Not so cockamamie . . . you seemed to be agreeable at their ball.”

“Well, yes. But as we both know, you have refused to fall into my willing, or at least purchasable, arms.” She tilted her head. “Which is curious.”

“I didn’t intend to offend you,” Nick said. “It isn’t that you aren’t desirable. . . .”

“I’m not offended.” She righted her head, then tipped it to the other side. “You have made things easier. Now I can go ahead and tell you everything without the added step of taking you to bed.”

Nick laughed. “And that’s it? You’re just going to spill. Upon no knowledge of me whatsoever.”

“But of course! Why else do you suppose I showed up at that ridiculous party?” She held out her hand to him. “Come. Wouldn’t you like to see my catacombs?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Alva led the way down to the cellars. An open door revealed the kitchens, where Solvig, her foot bandaged, lay sleeping, a sonorous snore rattling the pots and pans that hung in gleaming copper glory from the thick, smoke-blackened beams. Alva stooped, lifted a small stone slab from the floor, and extracted an ancient-looking key and a blue plastic flashlight from the hole beneath it. She replaced the stone, fitted the key into the lock of a smaller door opposite the kitchens, and pushed it open on creaking hinges into a black hole from which cool, clean-smelling air wafted. She ducked her head to enter. “The catacombs,” she said, motioning for Nick to follow. “Please close the door behind you and lock it.” She handed him the key.

She held the light as he turned the key in the lock. “Don’t lose that,” she said. “We’ll need it to get back.”

Nick tucked the key into his pocket to make friends with the acorn and followed her. “Where are we going?”

“Under Soho Square,” she said. “You’ll see.” She turned and shone her light on what looked like pantry shelves. “My pickling,” she said of the rows of jars. Then she set off, and quickly enough the shelves of pickles petered out. The white beam picked out rough, arched stone walls and a flagstone floor.

“Who built this?”

“Romans. Extended at various points across the Middle Ages. It is perfectly safe. Look here.” Alva lifted her bean up high, and Nick saw that a stone shelf running all along the corridor up near the ceiling was lined with carefully stacked bones, each topped with a skull that grinned down at them. “We took these catacombs over in 1320, but we didn’t feel that we could remove the bodies, so the silent majority are tucked away everywhere.”

“Creepy.”

“Some of them are Ofan, actually.