Read Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra for Free Online Page A

apartment,” she said, then tugged Treet to his feet. “We'll enjoy it all the more.” She laughed and took his arm, guiding him willingly from the restaurant.
    At Treet's door he fumbled for his code key while Dannielle, having pulled his free arm around her waist, nuzzled the side of his neck. The empty, lightheaded feeling was back in force. Treet felt adrenaline pumping into him furiously as he jammed the plastic key into the lock.
    They tumbled into the semidarkened room in full embrace. Dannielle's mouth found his, and she pressed herself full-length against him. Treet returned the kiss with every ounce of sincerity in him, devoting himself to it exclusively.
    “Ahem.”
    A polite cough from a darkened corner of the room brought Treet's head around. Still holding Dannielle, he turned partway toward the sound. A shape emerged from shadow. “Varro!”
    The round-headed man stepped apologetically forward. “I
am
sorry to interrupt, Mr. Treet.”
    Danielle turned and glanced at Varro, and Treet thought he saw a sign pass between them. She stepped away, saying, “I see that you two have business.”
    “No,” protested Treet. “I don't—”
    She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.”
    Treet found himself staring in stunned disbelief at the closing apartment door. He turned and faced Varro unhappily. “We were going to have a drink,” he explained, and then wondered why he was explaining.
    “Of course,” sniffed Varro sympathetically. “I am sorry, but something's come up. We must talk.”
    “It couldn't wait until tomorrow?” Treet whined, still reeling from his loss.
    “No, I am afraid it couldn't wait. Please, sit down.” Varro seated himself in the leather armchair, so Treet took the couch.
    “Whatever it is, it better be good.”
    “I promise you won't be bored.”
FIVE
    Treet drained his glass in a gulp and poured another before plunging the bottle back into the ice bucket. The wine spread its mellow warmth through him from his stomach outward to the extremities. Varro's glass sat on the table between them, untouched.
    “So, what you're telling me is that I have to make up my mind right now. In that case, the answer is no—I won't do it.” Treet swilled the Pouilly-Fuisse around in his long-stemmed glass for a moment, and then added, “Not for any amount of money.”
    Varro frowned mildly—more from concern than from any apparent unhappiness. Treet noted the frown. It, like all of Varro's movements, gestures, and expressions, was finely-tuned and rehearsed. Did the man spend his spare time posing in front of his mirror in order to get such precise effects? Was each of his actions so perfectly controlled?
    “I don't think you should dismiss our proposition quite so hastily, Mr. Treet. I'll admit that this probably seems a little sudden to you, and that you'd no doubt rather have some time to think things over—”
    “A week or two would be nice. I could straighten out my affairs, settle some old accounts, tie up a few loose ends.”
    “Then the idea of accepting our proposal is not entirely out of the question.”
    Varro was one slippery negotiator, but they were now heading in the direction Treet wanted to go—toward money. “Well, not entirely out of the question, I suppose.”
    “Then it's really a question of time—in this case, time to make up your mind.”
    “You might say that,” allowed Treet. “Call it peace of mind.”
    “Yes, peace of mind. How much is your peace of mind worth to you, Mr. Treet?”
    “Frankly, Varro, I don't know. I've never had to price it before. As a man of some principle, however, I'd have to say that it doesn't come cheaply.”
    “No, I'm certain that it doesn't, Mr. Treet.” Varro pressed his hands together and touched his index fingers to his lips. “I want you to understand that this is as awkward for me as it is for you.”
    “So you've said.” Treet doubted that anything was ever awkward for Varro.
    “But let me