WARNING: One naughty word at the end of the chapter.

In the months since she'd first thought that Dulaque, formerly Master of the Serpent Brotherhood, had to die for the good of the world, Lamia had gone through more emotions than she thought she'd had in her entire life before that time.

First had come the emotions similar to the stages of grief: denying that Dulaque was on a self-destructive path, then anger that she couldn't convince him to change that path, depression that if he weren't going to change his path she had no choice but to do it herself, and finally not so much acceptance as resignation.

The same emotions had repeated, if in milder form, when Eliot Spencer actually did kill Dulaque. Lamia had known that would happen - had, in fact, arranged for it to happen - but that only dulled her reactions somewhat.

And that wasn't even counting the emotions Eliot Spencer stirred in her - emotions she hadn't been willing or able to face in the aftermath of Dulaque's death and her own disillusionment with his methods and his goals.

Now, six months later, Lamia felt she was - finally - getting back to her center, to the person she had been before Dulaque, before magic. Now, she was finally ready to face the world on its - and her - own terms.

So when, during one of their semi-regular calls about how Chamblin House and the Benwick Collection were faring, Eliot had casually invited her for dinner in the week leading up to Christmas, Lamia had surprised both of them by agreeing.

Now she stepped off the elevator onto the top floor of a mid-century apartment building in Portland, Oregon, and turned to her left.

Of course Eliot had a corner apartment on the top floor, Lamia thought. Probably roof access, too, to make for easier getaways in case bad company came calling.

At least she could be reasonably certain he didn't consider her bad company. Not anymore.

Eliot answered the door almost before she finished knocking, his hair in some disarray despite being pulled back into a ponytail, and she found herself returning his smile.

"Hey, Mia." He stepped back to let her into his apartment. "C'mon in. Cookies are cooling and dinner's almost ready."

Lamia crossed into the apartment, unable to keep from looking around, hoping for a glimpse into the depths of this man she had wrongly assumed was just a hired thug. She didn't know what she might have expected, but this comfortable apartment wasn't it.

To her left was a dining area - a table for four currently set for two, and beyond that the kitchen. To her right was the living room, whose main feature seemed to be a large window overlooking the neighborhood. No television, she noted - or if there were, it was concealed. A guitar on a stand next to a stool at the window sat somewhat apart from a conversation grouping of a sofa and two chairs.

Very neat, she noted. In fact, the only thing out of place was…

"Why is there a rug piled at the back of the sofa?"

"Let's save the heavy talk for after we eat," Eliot suggested. "There's a rack for your coat beside the door."

"Thank you." Of course he hadn't offered to take her coat, Lamia mused, and almost before she finished the thought, she was arguing with herself. You would've refused if he'd offered.

And that was probably true, but the gesture would've been nice. Lamia slipped her coat off, hung it on the rack, taking an extra moment to smooth any wrinkles while she got her thoughts under control.

He's a colleague, not a friend, and certainly not anything more, she told herself. And he's treating you like one. You shouldn't expect anything more. You shouldn't want anything more.

With that reminder firmly in place, Lamia turned back toward the dining area and, beyond that, the kitchen.

While she'd hung her coat, Eliot had poured glasses of wine and put them on the island where plates of four different kinds of cookies rested.

Lamia crossed to the island, sat at it, and took a sip of the wine. A red, rich with fruity tannins and a hint of plum on the finish. Just as with any other wine he'd selected, it was excellent, almost seductive on her palate.

"How's London?" he asked, and it was surprising how easily they fell into light conversation. Then again, she thought, maybe it wasn't surprising.

This was Eliot Spencer, after all, and everything she'd heard about him only bore out her personal experiences with the man - just when you thought you had him figured out, he upended your conclusions with new, unexpected data.

So she followed his conversational lead, telling him about how London was in winter, from the bitterly cold temperatures that hovered around freezing to the precipitation that was more sleet than actual rain. Then she described the Christmas lights that turned Oxford Street, Bond Street, and the Strand into wonderlands of light and music.

In turn, he told her about Christmases when he was a child, and then about the time he'd had to impersonate a mall Santa to stop a robbery at a federal depository. By the time they'd finished the pork chops and risotto he'd made, Lamia felt more relaxed than she had in a long time.

Naturally, that was when Eliot chose to strike.

"Got a question for you, Mia," he said.

"What?"

He stood and crossed to the rug piled haphazardly against the back of his sofa, grabbed one corner and pulled it back to reveal three men, bound with zip-ties and gagged with duct tape, who seemed to be just regaining consciousness.

"How many more of these dumbfucks am I gonna have to deal with?"