Grimm: A Novel In The Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Series (The Temple Chronicles Book 3) (17 page)

Listen, farmers don’t mess around. Welcome to the Midwest, folks. It’s dangerous.

I studied the man, face neutral and unthreatening, peaceful even.

Unless I was grimacing. I
was
in pain after all, despite Mallory’s mysterious magic. The spell I used to mask pain worked to some extent, but only to hide it, not eliminate it. My face could have been set in a perpetual scowl without my realizing it. An instinctive muscle formation. I would have to look in the mirror to know for sure, but thought that would only encourage the farmer’s
City Slicker
impression of me. So I waved a hand and then shoved them in my coat pockets, looking relaxed.

The farmer stared at me.

Not Mallory or Ashley.

Me.

His glittering eyes didn’t blink. We were close enough for me to see the hard lines on his face. He wore a casual fitting dress shirt, sported golden hair that just brushed his shoulders, and wore what looked like designer jeans and expensive as hell gator cowboy boots with a fat, glittering belt buckle.

In fact, despite the boots and belt buckle, he didn’t look like a farmer at all.

My eyes roved to his face to see that he was still staring at me. He had a weathered face, with piercing hawk-like eyes that seemed to calculate me down to the individual hairs on my head, and his sudden grin looked like he was confident that his estimation was as accurate as only my accountant – or my mother – could ascertain.

It was chilling.

“Please. Come in.” He called out in a clear, authoritative voice. Then he turned back into the house, not waiting for us.

Mallory and Ashley blinked and then looked at me to silently gauge my response. I shrugged with a smirk and said, “Let’s go talk to Mr. Not Farmer.”

Mallory grunted in agreement.

There were, after all, no plants anywhere. Only cows in the field beside the house. Now, I didn’t know cows very well, but one thing stuck out as odd to me. These beasts were spotless. As in, they looked to have never experienced a fleck of dirt or shit on their coats for more than a day. And the fields were also pristine. No gaping mud pits, and it seemed the patties were more or less centralized to one corner of the field, because the section they were standing in was green as green could be, not a single defecation crater in sight. As if to point out this fact, one of the beasts slowly began meandering towards that section of the field, just like a regular person would head to the restroom. She did her business, turned around, and reentered the herd, tail still spotless.

Huh.

Trained to shit in one spot? Some trick.

I also noticed that the odorous part of the field was as far as possible from the house.

Then there was the house itself.

It was no farmhouse.

It more resembled a stone castle dressed in modern clothing, like it had harbored a brief real estate identity crisis. Pillars supported a second floor balcony that wrapped around the entire front of the house, and I spotted a wide sliding glass door that no doubt led to a living area or the master bedroom on the upper floor. Expensive shutters hung outside the windows, looking to be painted gold, and immaculate garden work had turned the property to the American equivalent of an English Lord’s estate, with plenty of large trees that hunched over soothing seating areas complete with benches or swings. The pile had to be several thousand square feet, but I only saw one car.

A Bentley.

New.

Gleaming farm equipment stood in an open barn that looked more like a luxury Quonset Hut that those modernists seemed to recently love as a primary home. Windows, log siding, and a spotless cement floor. The equipment all looked new. Unused.

Weird.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “My Spidey sense is tingling. This guy seems like runner up to the most interesting man in the world.”

Mallory and Ashley had followed my gaze, seeming to come to the same conclusion.

I reached the expensive oak door, complete with a distinct set of scales burned into the wood. I knocked. It was partly open, but still, even though he had invited us in I didn’t want to just enter. What if he was a Grimm? Or the Grimms had him under duress? I readied my anger, feeling the pleasant thrum of power at my feet, even though less than an hour ago I had been drained. I definitely needed to drill Mallory on his past. But not now. I checked the pistol Mallory had handed me, tucked it back in my coat, and entered after I heard a distant,
come in
.

I gently pushed the door open and it stopped after a foot, catching on a rich Persian Rug. Rich as in far superior to anything I had decorating
Chateau Falco
. My eyes traveled up to the walls to find true works of art casually adorning the plaster without embellishment – Renaissance pieces, portraits, battles, and then a smattering of specifically chosen more modern work that I also noticed were expensive – not worth the cost in my taste, but to each his own.

The floors were made of a single sheet of polished marble, not sections of tile, and tables lined each wall of the seven-foot wide entrance hall, each holding figurines, clay vases and bowls, and other decorations that were both tasteful and a profound display of wealth in their own right. Gold and jewels glittered like nightlights. And this was only the entrance to his home.

It was like standing in the waiting room outside Smaug’s cave.

Was his wife a billionaire interior decorator? Or did he inherit a pile of money at some point? None of it made sense to me, which put me on edge.

Mallory and Ashley were no strangers to being around money, having spent a considerable amount of time around my parents, myself, and at
Chateau Falco
, but that only seemed to make their awe more impressive. They looked dumbstruck at the contradiction of a wealthy farmer. I snapped my fingers. “Pick up your jaws. We’ll discuss it after. Act casual, friendly, and polite. Extremely polite. It’s like cocaine to rich people. They want you to know how much better than you they are, and that you openly acknowledge it. Don’t act like bumpkins or they will lose respect for you. Thank him for his hospitality. Compliment him on his beautiful home and things. Then politely sit there and let me do the talking.”

They nodded and followed me down the hall. We entered a spacious living area that looked like it belonged on the cover of
Log Cabins for the Stupidly Rich
. A massive six-foot wide by four-foot tall two-way fireplace centered the room, also made of some flavor of marble, and a hundred thousand dollars worth of aged leather Chesterfield’s (plural) formed an arc around each side of the soothing fire, essentially creating two living areas, or two sections of one giant living area, like an Aspen Ski Resort.

A bar stood off to the side, fully stocked with a selection that only a single man would need. No fruity drinks. Just scotch, whisky, and a twenty-foot tall glass fronted wine rack, complete with amber lighting and title placards with a brief paragraph neatly written underneath each bottle. Notes on the taste, vintage, and grading of each bottle were scribbled in a precise hand. Was he a sommelier? I noticed that the wine closet extended several feet back, telling me that he didn’t just have what was visible to the room, but at least six backups of
each visible bottle
. The guy obviously liked his wine. A quick scan of the selection let me know that he collected nothing less than two hundred bucks a bottle.

More exquisite artwork decorated the walls, entirely out of place in a farmhouse. In fact, it was more fitting for a wealthy European Baron of some kind. I didn’t even bother to further assess the value of the rest of the shiny artifacts and
objets d’art
surrounding us. Safe to say, none of it would ever be sold at
Ikea
.

Farmer Kingston sat in one of the Chesterfield chairs facing away from us, watching the fire contentedly. His shoulders were entirely relaxed, and if I had to guess, he seemed genuinely pleased at the occasional sounds coming from our throats, as if he didn’t often get the chance to share his collection and was enjoying our honest reaction, and giving us the solitude to enjoy it without him watching us.

My cynical side reared his ugly head. Pretty trusting guy to turn his back on us with all this money lying around. Three of us against a lone senior citizen. It wouldn’t have been difficult to rob him blind.

Which usually was a sign that we really,
really
shouldn’t think of robbing him blind.

He slowly turned to face me, sensing my gaze, and took a sip of the drink clutched in his scarred fist. His hard gaze told me that he knew what I had been thinking, and that I had been spot on. Ashley and Mallory had finished their circuit and now stood beside me.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he slowly cracked a polite smile. He motioned for us to sit and join him. A serving tray with an unopened bottle of
Johnnie Walker Blue Label
and three fresh glasses with crisp white napkins artfully rolled inside sat on the artful coffee table between us. A meat and cheese tray piled high with rolls of salami, hard cured sausage, and small wheels of assorted cheeses rested on a wooden platter beside a large bowl of fat, juicy grapes, complete with stems. None of it looked like it would be available at the local grocery store, but more like it had been harvested fresh on the property. Which obviously couldn’t be true this time of year. But I didn’t voice my thoughts. Instead, I smiled politely and took a seat in the chair opposite Kingston. Ashley and Mallory sat on the adjacent couch eagerly eyeing the platter.

“So, been farming lon-” I began.

Kingston cleared his throat pointedly with a sharp glance my way. “Please, be my guests. Help yourselves.” He motioned to the food and drink. A bucket of ice sat on the opposite side of the tray as the bowl of grapes. Mallory began to reach for the ice but Kingston made a grunt. We all looked up at him. He pointed a finger at me. “Serve them.” I blinked.

“I like this guy.” Ashley murmured with a light laugh. I dipped my head in acknowledgment of Kingston’s game. It seemed pretty obvious that he knew who I was and that he thought forcing me to perform an act of servitude would bother me. In all fairness, it definitely would have bothered most billionaire heirs.

But he didn’t seem to know that I had basically been a bachelor for the past few years. Rather than freeloading at my parents’ mansion, swimming in piles of money
Scrooge McDuck
style, I had instead chosen to open and operate a successful bookstore. By a combination of my bootstraps and a loan from my father to help purchase the real estate – which I had repaid in full and on time – I had opened the trendiest and most exclusive supernatural bookstore for hundreds of miles, only hiring help once the operations grew beyond my scope to efficiently handle. I hadn’t outsourced it like most heirs did with new business ventures. I understood all too well that a true leader served from the front, rather than whipping his people from behind. And that no one could get behind a man’s cause if he wasn’t behind it himself.

But…

Hadn’t I done exactly that with Temple Industries? The thought hit me like a slap to the cheek and I stood motionless for a subjective minute, but likely only an objective second.

Perhaps I had something to learn after all. I shelved the thought for later, avoiding Ashley’s eyes out of guilt at my revelation.

But Kingston couldn’t know any of that. So, a test.

I decided to have some fun with it.

I carefully plucked each napkin from the glass, and – mimicking my Butler, Dean – unfurled them with two sharp snaps of my wrist before expertly placing one on both Mallory and Ashley’s laps. I selected one of their glasses, picked up the ice tongs from the bucket, and asked, “How many cubes, Miss?”

Ashley was gobbling it up. “Four, please, good sir.” She answered haughtily.

I did as requested. “And how many fingers do you prefer, Miss?” I asked, keeping my face professionally servile, fighting to hide my smile at her instantly blushing face. She also looked confused. Served her right.

“Apologize.” Kingston murmured, not looking amused.

I nodded, feigning confusion. “My apologies, Miss. I didn’t mean to offend. Scotch is often measured in fingers, like so.” I held up two fingers parallel to the bottom of the glass, “Two fingers,” I added another digit, “And three fingers. How many would you prefer, Miss?”

She scowled up at me, no longer enjoying the game as much. “Two. I’m not much of a scotch drinker.”

“I’m confident that your opinion is about to change. This is an exceptionally smooth scotch with sweet undertones. Our Host has excellent taste.” I nodded deferentially at Kingston. “Let the drink rest for one minute or so to give time for the melting ice to break down the scotch a bit.” She nodded, taking the glass from my outstretched hand.

I turned to Mallory, but he didn’t let me speak. “Four fingers, one whisky ball.” I managed to hide my scowl and turned to Kingston. He pointed at the bar with a faint grin.

“In the freezer. Don’t dawdle now, son.”

I stood, hiding my growing impatience. I had just wanted to see if my friend, the Minotaur, was safe from the fire, but here I was playing Jeeves to assure an old man I wasn’t a worthless heir. This was going beyond the pale. But it was a test. And I always passed tests. I used the brief walk to cool my heels. A little humility was good for ones moral character. As long as this guy had something worthwhile to tell us and wasn’t simply fishing for a fun story to share with his pals.

I withdrew a fresh glass from the bar and opened the freezer. I instantly spotted the row of spherical ice cubes the size of small racquetballs. I set one gently inside the glass, closed the freezer, and returned to the table. Mallory looked ready to critique, but I knew better. Dean had been the best Butler I had ever seen, he had served hundreds of guests thousands of drinks at Temple functions, and I had paid close attention to his process.

I poured four fingers into the empty glass before Mallory, whisked the glass up with a spare napkin I had nabbed from the bar, and finally poured it over the top of the ice ball in the fresh glass from the bar. He settled back in his seat, looking disappointed he hadn’t been able to correct me. I offered him the drink, tucking the other glass behind my back. “I hope the Gentleman enjoys the drink. Is there anything else I may do for you?” I asked, risking a glance at Kingston after my minions shook their heads and took sips of their drinks. Ashley looked impressed, while Mallory looked as if he had found a second home. Kingston nodded in approval and motioned me to sit down. “Any more tests-”