by Rose Wulf
Smirking, Eric met his brother’s patient gaze and asked, “So what’s the plan for taking out Dean and his bitch?”
****
Italy was a nightmare. A beautiful, terrible nightmare. She’d spent most of Monday lost in reflection, and over two hours of that reflection at Gianni’s grave. At least I was able to get the location out of her. Gianna hadn’t wanted to tell her where he was buried—something that still infuriated her—and they’d argued on the doorstep for nearly twenty more minutes before Gianna finally caved. Tuesday hadn’t been much better, though Arianna was glad to discover Gianna had at least given her the correct information for the funeral. As expected, it had been awkward sitting amongst strangers, but it hadn’t been too difficult to ignore them. After the funeral, in an effort to shed some of the sadness that had settled over her, Arianna decided to do a little local sight-seeing.
It had been that wandering which first introduced her to the elaborately carved fountain she now sat on. There were three toga-clad cherubs standing straight in the center, their backs together, all looking toward the sky with their cupped hands held out as if to receive a gift. Crystal clear water flowed from their hands, falling down into the larger, almost flower-shaped bowl. Each petal stretched out and flattened enough to make a kind of seat for passersby. She’d found it on her way back to the hotel—after a couple of wrong turns—Tuesday night. The fountain was much more beautiful in daylight. And since it was her last full day in Italy, Arianna couldn’t think of a better place to eat her lunch.
She couldn’t wait to get back to the airport. First, though, she had to survive one more day. Then she could settle into her ridiculously long flight. Then she could finally see Dean. Why didn’t I let him come with me again? Stubborn independence, most likely. She really needed to do something about that.
“—would be done by Friday,” a clearly agitated male voice was saying as he walked into Arianna’s line of sight. The man walking past her, phone to his ear, was tall—possibly as tall as Dean’s six foot two—with a faintly protruding, rounded belly and stress lines on his face. His nicely combed, dark hair was highlighted with silver and a wedding band flashed on his free hand as he lifted it to pinch the bridge of his nose. He came to a stop only a handful of feet away, hand now propped on his hip and glaring toward the fountain as he listened. But it was none of these things that drew Arianna’s curiosity. It was the fact that he’d been speaking in English.
It’s not your business, Arianna. She didn’t need to be snooping.
“I understand that,” he continued before she could pull her focus back to her nearly eaten sandwich. “But I promised my wife I’d be home on Saturday. Sunday’s my daughter’s eighteenth birthday.”
A flash of pain shot through Arianna’s chest and she looked away. This was a terrible time to have to think about fathers and daughters and how quickly their lives could change when the daughter was eighteen. She’d been eighteen when Gianni was killed. Her father had still been actively in her life, actively supporting her, when she was eighteen.
The nameless stranger sighed, resignation and frustration heavy in his voice, and said, “Yes, fine, of course. I’ll switch my flight.” He didn’t bother offering any kind of farewell before disconnecting and shoving the phone into a front pocket of his slacks. “Damn,” he grumbled on another sigh as he dragged a hand through his hair. His fists clenched, he started forward, and spun to let himself drop, defeated, onto the petal beside Arianna’s.
She was barely watching, barely paying attention, and so she was sure she imagined what happened after that. Because, surely, there was no way the water in the fountain could actually have reacted to him. It had certainly looked like the water had shifted and rolled against its natural flow when he collapsed. Like his weight settling onto the stone bench had shaken it. But that’s impossible.
Wasn’t it?
The man’s fists curled over his knees as he slouched forward, clearly trying to settle his anger with deep, deliberate breaths. He inhaled, and the water behind him seemed to roll forward, toward the edge of the bowl. It stilled, then, and when he exhaled heavily it receded as if fleeing. The sight reminded her oddly of watching the ocean’s never ending push-and-pull with the shoreline. Only that at least made sense. Sharp, insistent ringing interrupted her confusion, and it took her a second to realize the ringing was coming from his cell phone. Still, she watched, noticing that by the time the phone was all the way up to his ear, the water seemed to have settled. It was completely back to its regular flow when he snapped, “Page.”
Page? Was that his name? Or the other person’s name? And does it matter? That suddenly seemed like a good question. On the one hand it absolutely did not matter. His life, his story, his situation was none of her business. On the other hand, if she hadn’t been completely imagining what she’d seen with the water … she sort of felt like something about him might be slightly her business. In the abstract way that someone potentially distantly connected to her non-boyfriend’s family could be her business. Was he her non-boyfriend? They hadn’t gone out at all, but they’d certainly crossed a few boundaries. And he’d promised. Her trip to Italy had just horrendously messed up the forward progression of their relationship.
The man straightened, leaning so far back he was actually leaning more backwards than sitting properly, and his voice was angrier when he spoke again. “Why are you calling me about this, Nicholas? I’ve told you a dozen times. I’m out.”
There was no denying she was eavesdropping now, at least not to herself, so she attempted to hide her behavior by shoving the rest of her sandwich into her mouth. Was she just so bored and desperate for a distraction that she was hallucinating a point of interest where there wasn’t one? And what was it about this man that looked so vaguely familiar? She’d finally caught a glimpse of his face instead of his profile, and it struck her that he looked like someone she might once have known. Perhaps a long time ago, before his hair had lightened and the age had begun showing on his face. Could he be an old friend of her parents who’d come around sometime when she was younger? I suppose he could be in town for the funeral….
Though she certainly hadn’t seen him there.
“That’s not my business anymore,” the man bit out. He was sitting straight now, not leaning back or forward. He was quiet for barely a minute before snapping, “I don’t want to hear your theories, Nicholas! I told you years ago to let that go. It’s driving you mad. Now it seems you’ve taken Lillian down with you.”
Lillian? Her eyes had immediately snapped back to him when the name rolled off his tongue, and she only hoped her head had been more subtle. The possibility of any of the coincidences she’d thought up was dwindling by the moment.
“There’s no such thing,” the man insisted shortly. It couldn’t be more obvious this was an old, sensitive argument. “Then they’re delusional,” he continued after another brief pause. He lifted his free arm, holding his hand up, fingers splayed and loosely curled as if he were holding an invisible ball, as he added, “Maybe this … curse of ours is finally affecting someone’s sanity. Frankly, I’m amazed it didn’t drive our family mad generations ago.” He fell silent again, arm falling back to his lap and head tilting up to the sky for a moment. “You’re a fool, Nicholas,” he said, a trace of sad resignation in his voice now. “And Lillian and her children are fools for entertaining your wild notions. Your accident was an accident, nothing more. Goodbye, brother.”
Arianna watched, breath stuck uncomfortably in her throat, as the man beside her jabbed his thumb onto the screen to disconnect the call. She couldn’t explain it, but she was sure now that he was connected—maybe not so distantly—to Dean and the other Hawkes. She was as sure of it as she was of the fact that she was sitting in a small courtyard in a foreign country. And while a part of her felt a strange flicker of excitement, another part of her was acutely aware of how alone she really was. If this man was dangerous—perhaps more connected to the Matthews family�
�there would be no one who would even care to look for her. Her only true allies were half a world away. It was that realization that made her hesitate to say anything.
Unfortunately, that was when the mystery man finally seemed to notice her presence. He turned a pointedly arched dark brow toward her, aiming his faded blue eyes straight at her. “It’s impolite to eavesdrop,” he lectured in Italian.
Releasing a breath, Arianna shrugged lazily and—keeping to English to better make her point—replied, “Have your private conversations behind closed doors, then.”
“Mind your own business,” he returned, looking away with narrowed, agitated eyes.
Arianna glanced back to the water in the fountain behind them, watching to see if it would react again to his mood. It didn’t.
“Looking for something?” her unwanted companion asked. His tone practically screamed his negative opinion of her and his genuine disinterest in her situation.
But he wasn’t the only one in a bad mood and she wasn’t about to sit there and take crap from a stranger. He was the one who’d decided to take a personal call while he was sitting on a public bench. She’d been sitting there for nearly half an hour before he’d shown up. So she narrowed her eyes at him and said pointedly, “I was watching to see if your temper would agitate the water again.” Because you’re sloppy and I caught it the first time, idiot.
He blinked at her, a half-dozen reactions flying through his gaze, before he scoffed and said, “You should cut back on whatever drugs you’ve been taking if you honestly think I have anything to do with the way the water moves.”
Arianna opened her mouth to retort again when the answer finally smacked her upside the head. When Dean had given her the unedited explanation of his family’s story, he’d mentioned that Angela would be the mother of the next generation. He’d mentioned that their legacy was passed down through the daughter, which meant Lillian had four older brothers, too. Then this man … is Dean’s uncle. She deflated a little, then. She would never in a million years have expected to run into one of Dean’s relatives while she was in Italy.
“Sounds stupid when I say it, doesn’t it?” the man continued pointedly. He was speaking arrogantly now, like a man who was counting his victory the moment he’d stepped into the ring.
Dean’s uncle or not, she really wasn’t feeling like taking that attitude, so she narrowed her eyes at him again and quietly declared, “I won’t pretend to know exactly what you were talking about a minute ago, but I know Lillian and her children. And just because you’re related to them doesn’t mean you can talk about them like that.”
His eyebrow lifted again, higher this time, and he asked, “You expect me to believe that? Please, put some effort into your lies.”
“Lillian Hawke,” Arianna clarified. He pulled in a breath at the name and she pushed ahead. “She has four identical sons and a daughter. And one of those sons has the same power you do, doesn’t he?” It was her turn to pull in a breath when she registered, belatedly, something he’d said during his previous phone call. He doesn’t believe them. He knew about their struggles with another family of elementals, and he refused to believe it was true. He was disconnected in every way possible from his own family. While that was a situation she could sympathize with, her heart only hurt more at the thought. The Hawke family seemed so close she was actually surprised to learn there was such a rift.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered, slowly shaking his head. His faded blue eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. “Who put you up to this?”
Arianna gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.” But it was clear to her he was and she returned his glare with one of her own. “I’m not in Italy for you,” she snapped. “If you want to jump into a conspiracy theory, try the one that really is plaguing your family. The one about the other family whose sole mission in life seems to be mass electrocution.”
He snorted, interrupting her, and said, “What did I do to deserve this? Not only Nicholas, but now a random stranger, too? How did he—no, how did they—brainwash you on this ridiculous story?”
Brainwash? What’s his problem? “An eighteen-year-old brat shot me with lightning and left me to burn. If it weren’t for Dean, I’d be dead.” She hadn’t actually said that last sentence out loud before and she found herself suppressing a chill at the reality. It was true, though. Hearing the words out loud or not didn’t change a thing.
The suspicion and anger on his face faltered for a moment. He might have been in denial, but some part of him still heard her words. If he hadn’t come to at least allow for the possibility of the Matthews family’s existence before, though, she doubted her short retort would suddenly change his perspective. And after a few seconds, she was proven right.
“How do you expect me to believe that?”
Arianna ground her teeth and forced herself to take a deep breath. “I don’t. I’d like you to. It’s hard to see that anyone in their family can be so close-minded, especially given the abilities you have, but if their stories haven’t convinced you already, I don’t expect mine to.” Suddenly she realized she was done. She didn’t want to continue this conversation, not at all.
“You know what?” she began, pushing to her feet and slinging her purse up to her shoulder, “Forget you met me. It can’t be more obvious that I found the better branch of your family tree.” If she’d had the money, she suspected she’d have gone straight to the airport after that. With each step she took from the fountain—from the man who didn’t deserve to call himself Dean’s uncle—she felt a little colder. When she got back to California she was going straight into Dean’s arms and she wouldn’t let him let her go until he’d chased the chill from her bones.
****
“Thanks for helping out,” Brooke said as she lowered the brand-new chair in her arms to the floor and slid it into place beneath the equally new table.
Dean swallowed his grunt as he positioned two more chairs. It was the third or fifth time he’d heard that statement—though not from her—and he was starting to feel redundant. “Don’t mention it,” he replied. “I needed something to do, anyway.” It was true. He’d been going stir-crazy thinking about Arianna stuck on a thirty-seven hour flight. So stir-crazy, apparently, that even though he’d been scheduled to work at the station, his boss had insisted he go help with the heavy lifting at Earl’s Diner. Chief Bradford was labeling it as a “thank you,” since Earl had provided the cooking for their Firehouse Breakfast, but Dean was one of only two volunteers actually assigned to helping out.
“You’ve probably already heard that a few times today, I imagine,” Brooke joked as they straightened and turned back toward the door. All around them people were hauling furniture and armloads of buckets with smaller items. It was chaos in a lot of ways, but there was an excited energy filling the space that somehow made it good.
“You could say that,” Dean said, spinning to the side in time to avoid getting decked with another table. “If I get a concussion, though, they better start saying it with cookies.”
“Cookies?” Brooke inquired, amusement in her voice.
He shrugged, managing a partial grin, and replied, “Easier to buy in bulk.” He came to a stop again, Brooke stopping beside him, as another man passed by pushing an expensive appliance on a dolly. Dean’s gaze followed the man to the kitchen and he asked, “How’s the redesign look, anyway?” Not that he’d really ever seen inside Earl’s kitchen—before the fire, at least—but he was curious.
“Honestly? It looks awesome,” Brooke assured him. They continued forward, managing to make it through the double doors without getting waylaid. “So … Arianna’s due back tomorrow, isn’t she?”
Dean tensed for an instant and said, “Yeah. Her flight gets in in the morning.”
“That’s good,” Brooke commented. “I can’t imagine having to go halfway around the world for a funeral, let alone knowing you’d barely be welcome once you got there.”
Me, either. But she hadn’t wan
ted him to go with her. She’d wanted to do it by herself, and he’d had to respect that. Even though there hadn’t been a day since she’d left that he hadn’t wished he were with her.
There was a different note in Brooke’s voice when she added, “Have you missed her?”
He wanted to scoff and laugh at the question. Had she not been paying attention? Wasn’t it glaringly obvious he’d missed her? It certainly seemed like it should have been, and he couldn’t think of a good reason to lie about his answer, so he said, “Of course I have.” And since he didn’t particularly want to pursue this line of conversation, he gestured toward the truckload of furniture still needing to be transferred to the diner and asked, “What’s next?”
“More tables and chairs,” Brooke replied smoothly. She fell in behind him, to better avoid the movers coming in their direction, and quietly declared, “But don’t think you can change the subject so easily.”
Grunting, Dean asked, “What’s the big deal, exactly?”
“Blake’s been having to listen to Jay’s whining about you two for most of the week,” Brooke declared casually. “Not to mention Georgia’s talked about the pair of you a few times, too.”
Georgia. He hadn’t even considered that angle. It was bad enough Brooke’s fiancé—his brother—was Arianna’s coworker. But her best friend was also Arianna’s roommate. Not that that mattered. He was far more curious about the first thing Brooke had said. “Judd’s whining about us?”
Brooke laughed as she walked around to the far end of the table he’d, apparently, chosen to take in next. “Every time they share a shift,” she replied. “Blake thinks Jay’s forgotten he’s your brother.”
“Half the time I’m surprised Judd remembers how to swim,” Dean grumbled. He braced his hands beneath the surface of the table and together they lifted it from the ground. “Besides, what’s going on with me and Arianna is none of his damned business.”