He actually cracked a grin at that. “The weather? Seriously?”
“Do you have something better to talk about?”
“Not really.”
After that we really did talk about the weather, how much snow Flagstaff usually got, how he liked to go cross-country skiing with his friends, how the snow would stick on Mt. Humphreys long after it had melted down here in town. Normal things. Someone eavesdropping on the conversation would never have guessed that just a few minutes earlier, Connor had been relating the Wilcox equivalent of a Greek tragedy to me.
But I knew. And I’d never look at him in quite the same way again.
5
A Midnight Clear
I woke the next morning with Connor’s revelations still rattling around in my head, but because he was acting almost studiously normal, I decided I had better let it go. If he wanted to tell me more, he could. That was his decision, though. I wouldn’t be the one to force it.
Because it was Christmas Eve day, I sort of thought maybe he’d close the gallery early, but I thought wrong. When I asked, he gave me his trademark raised eyebrow and said, “No, I’ll close at five. Gotta catch all those last-minute desperate men buying things for their wives.”
“I wasn’t aware paintings and sculptures were such a hot item with procrastinators.”
He grinned and shook his head. “They aren’t, but we also sell jewelry from local artisans, and that is the sort of stuff that tends to fly out the door at four forty-five. Besides, Joelle does need to leave early so she can head out to Winslow to be with her family. So I’ve got to close up.”
My disappointment must have shown in my face, because he made an odd little movement, as if he’d been about to reach out and brush my hair away from my cheek, and then realized that wasn’t a very good idea. “You won’t be alone on Christmas Eve. I’ll be here by five-thirty.”
I wanted to tell him I hadn’t been thinking that at all, but it would have been a lie. “Okay,” I said, then added, “Sorry I don’t have anything to give you for Christmas. I haven’t been able to get out much lately.”
“Very funny,” he remarked, and then gave me a half-wave and headed out the door. I’d noticed that he never put on an overcoat when going straight to the gallery, so there must have been an inside hallway or something that connected the apartment to the shop on the ground floor.
Unlike the tamales, the dinner of duck with port cherry sauce and wild rice I had planned wasn’t something that was going to take up my entire day. And even though I knew that technically I wouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve, I still had a very long stretch ahead of me with not much to do in it.
Although I wished I could push the thoughts away, I couldn’t help brooding over what was happening back in Jerome. Yes, the solstice and Yule were big deals, but we sort of let Yule blend into Christmas in a week-long excuse for parties and dinners, and caroling along the town’s steep streets. Cheerful lights and Aunt Rachel’s melt-in-your-mouth butter cookies, and standing rib roast on Christmas Eve. Would they be doing any of that this year, or were they too busy worrying about me?
No, I didn’t think that would be the case. I was their prima, but my not being there shouldn’t be a reason to keep them from enjoying their holiday. They had to be worried, not knowing exactly what was going on with me, and I realized I’d been selfish to not stay in contact more. Connor had already basically told me it was all right for me to use his laptop. So shouldn’t I use it now to give my family the only thing I could give them this holiday — the knowledge that I was okay?
I went upstairs then, to Connor’s room. Just like the last time I’d entered it, the place was scrupulously clean, the bed made, no dirty clothes strewn around the way I’d always imagined the room of a guy who lived on his own must look like. The laptop still sat on the table, power cord connected.
Once again, I knew an email to Aunt Rachel wouldn’t get read right away, but this time I didn’t let that stop me. I went to Gmail and opened up a new message, then wrote quickly, Aunt Rachel, I’m not sure when you’ll get this, but I just wanted to wish you and everyone back home a very happy holiday. I don’t know if you’ll believe this or not, but I’m being treated well (except for not being able to leave). I’m safe. I know that sounds crazy, but I really think I am. Love you all. Angela.
I sent it as soon as I was done writing it so I wouldn’t have second thoughts. Maybe it would upset her to hear how I was trapped here. And maybe she would think that the Wilcoxes had made me write the email. No way to prove that, so I could only hope she’d detect the truth in my words.
My gaze strayed to the Facetime icon in the dock at the bottom of the laptop’s screen. Aunt Rachel didn’t have any iThings, as Sydney liked to call them, so using Facetime to try to get in touch with her directly wouldn’t work. Adam had an iPhone, though….
On second thought, that probably wasn’t such a good idea. Things were strange enough between Connor and me right now that I didn’t even know what I could say to Adam. I certainly couldn’t admit I was developing feelings for Connor, feelings no McAllister should have for a Wilcox. Saying anything on the subject would only hurt Adam. True, I could ignore the topic completely, but Adam would want to know where I was, who I’d been staying with. Once it got out that the “Chris Wilson” he knew was actually Connor Wilcox….
Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.
But Sydney had an iPhone. Things were probably crazy at her house, since I knew her parents generally hosted the family parties because their house was the largest in their extended family. Her father was an engineer at the cement plant in Clarkdale, and her mother a supervising nurse at the local medical center; they were doing all right, especially by local standards. Cottonwood, Arizona, wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills when it came to the average income of its residents. However, I also knew that Sydney was not exactly the same whiz in the kitchen I was, and tended to stay out of the way after the obligatory table-setting and bathroom cleaning was done. Anyway, it was worth a try.
I entered Sydney’s email address in the Facetime app and waited, unconsciously crossing my fingers while it made the odd little ringing sound as it attempted to connect. Just when I was sure she wasn’t going to answer, that her mother had made her put her phone away so she could play nice with the relatives, she picked up, her face sort of swinging into view as she angled the phone toward her.
“Hello?” Her eyes widened. “Angela! OmiGOD, where are you?”
“Flagstaff.”
I didn’t think her eyes could get any wider, but somehow she managed it. “But I thought you never went there. I mean, you were gone, and Adam had this shiner like you would not believe, and no one was telling me anything, and I was starting to wonder if you guys had gotten in a bar fight and you’d been kidnapped by bikers or something, and — ”
“It’s sort of complicated.”
“Try me. I’ve got nothing but time.”
“You do? I thought your relatives would be coming over.”
She rolled her eyes. “They’ll be here at six. My mother’s gotten enough slave labor out of me today. I came up to my room for a breather because I couldn’t take it anymore. I cannot wait until Christmas is over, actually.” Seeming to recover herself, and realize that I was waiting patiently for her to finish, she said, “Okay, enough about that. So you’re in Flagstaff. Why are you in Flagstaff?”
“Is Adam okay?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“You just said he had a black eye.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I mean, it was a black eye, but it’s not the sort of thing that sends you to the hospital or anything.” She tilted her head and squinted at me, and I realized she was trying to get a glimpse of my surroundings. “So you’re in Flagstaff. Where? That doesn’t look like a hotel room.”
“It’s not.” I hesitated. “You know how I said there were things I couldn’t really talk about?”
“Yes.” Her eyes lit up. “So are you going to talk about
them now? Spill it.”
“I don’t have time to go into everything, but…let’s just say that not all witch families are on the best of terms with one another. And the clan here in Flagstaff, the Wilcoxes — well, they’ve always been our enemies.”
“But you’re there now.” One hand went to her mouth. “Oh, God, you were kidnapped, weren’t you? But…now you’re using Facetime like it’s no big deal? I’m confused.”
Get in line, I thought. “I told you it’s complicated. Yes, they did bring me here, and I’m not exactly free to leave, but Connor has been very nice to me.”
She must have detected a change in my tone. “Connor, huh? Is he cute?”
“Well, you thought so.”
A blank stare. “Huh?”
“Turns out Chris Wilson and Connor Wilcox are the same person.”
“Holy shit. Seriously? Is that where you are now — his place?”
“Yes.”
“So…” She drew out the word as if trying to process the situation. “You’re, what, just staying there?”
“Basically.” I took a breath. “Actually, it turns out that he’s my consort.”
“Are you serious? He’s the man of your dreams?”
“More or less.”
“Boy, did you luck out.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “‘Luck out’? I wouldn’t exactly call getting kidnapped from my room in the middle of the night ‘lucking out.’”
“Well, it could have been worse. It could’ve been bikers. Big, hairy bikers. But Chris — I mean, Connor — is seriously hot.”
“He’s also the brother of the leader of the Wilcox clan…the man who planned the kidnapping. He thought he was going to make me his consort, but it sort of backfired.”
“Because Connor is your real consort.”
“Yes.”
She paused. I could practically see the wheels in her head going around. “So…do you like him?”
“I — “ I floundered for a second. “Sydney, his brother kidnapped me.”
“I know, you told me. That’s not what I asked. If it wasn’t Connor’s idea, why is there a problem?”
“Well, he didn’t do anything to stop his brother.”
That halted her for a second. Then she said, “Could he have? Stopped him, I mean.”
Good question. The truth was, even if Connor had tried to argue against the plan — and for all I knew, he had — he wasn’t strong enough to stop Damon.
No one was, apparently.
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“Well, then,” she said. “Come on, Angela, you’re shacked up with the man of your dreams, and you’ve admitted that he’s your consort, so I don’t see what the big deal is. Get moving and tap that ass.”
“Subtle, Sydney. Real subtle. Did you not hear what I told you earlier? His clan and mine have been enemies for generations.”
“Oh, don’t hand me any of that Montague and Capulet crap.”
I blinked. I had no idea she paid that much attention when we read Romeo and Juliet in English class. “It’s not crap.”
“It is. If he’s your consort, and you like him…what’s the problem?” Her eyes narrowed. “Does he not like you? Because if that’s what’s going on, I’m going to have to drive up there and give him a lecture on his taste in women.”
Oh, for Goddess’ sake…. “No, that’s not the problem. I think…I think he doesn’t want to do anything that feels like he’s forcing me, I guess.”
“Would he be?”
Time to own up to that one. “No, not really.”
“Well, then.” From somewhere off in the distance I heard a disembodied voice yell, “Sydney! Get down here! Your cousins will be here any minute!”, and she grimaced. “I’m being summoned. Look, you’re going to do what you’re going to do, and I get that. But don’t let this history between your families get in the way. That’s just dumb. I mean, Dad isn’t that thrilled about Anthony being Native American — ”
“Seriously?” I broke in. “What year is this?”
“I know, right? But anyway, I’m not going to let that get in my way, because it’s stupid. Just like this McAllister/Wilcox feud or whatever it is shouldn’t get in your way. Just be Connor and Angela. The rest will work itself out.”
“Sydney!”
“Coming!” Another eye roll. “Jesus. Anyway, I really have to go. Just think about what I said, okay? And Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I replied.
She winked and then shut down the app, and the screen went dark.
I sat there for a minute, then glanced up at the time display in the upper right-hand corner of the computer screen. Five fifteen. Close enough. It was about time to get down to the kitchen and rev up my domestic goddess routine.
As I closed the laptop and got up, I thought again about what Sydney had said. Just be Connor and Angela. The rest will work itself out.
Maybe it was time to give that a try.
* * *
The table was set, the duck roasting away in the oven. I’d planned dinner for seven, just to be safe, but by now it was past six and still nothing from Connor. If he was closing the store at five, then what in the world was taking him so long?
Maybe a customer had come in at the last minute. Even so, it shouldn’t be taking this long. I turned on the oven light and peered in, but I was still far from having to worry about overcooking the bird; it had only been in there for half an hour. No, my checking on it was nerves more than anything else.
For a minute I contemplated running upstairs to check my hair and makeup, but I hadn’t done anything to mess up either of those, so that was just me coming up with a way to kill some time. I didn’t have any footwear except the riding boots I’d picked out at Nordstrom Rack what felt like eons ago but I knew was only two months past. But with dark skinny jeans tucked into them and that gorgeous concho belt riding my hips, and a dark teal sweater over a lace-trimmed cami, I thought I was looking better than usual. Whether Connor would notice was a different story.
Then I heard a sort of thump-pause, thump-pause coming from the corridor outside the front door. Frowning, I left the kitchen and headed to the entryway, then stopped. It wasn’t as if I could open the door to see what was going on out there.
As I was wondering whether I could press my face up to the peephole without getting one of those nasty magically induced shocks, the door swung open. Connor stood on the threshold, gripping a gorgeous Noble fir with a look of grim determination on his face.
I stared at him, mouth slightly agape, and he said, “I thought we should have a Christmas tree,” before tightening his grasp on the tree and coming inside.
At once I moved out of the way so he could take the tree past me and on into the living room. I noticed that it had a plastic water bowl already attached to it, most likely put on by the people at the tree lot.
“How in the world did you get hold of a Christmas tree that nice at five o’clock on Christmas Eve?”
The green eyes glinted. “Magic.”
I tilted my head. “Magic.” I didn’t know Connor all that well yet — heck, I wasn’t even exactly sure what his talent was, although I figured it had something to do with illusion — but I did know his was not the type of magic that controlled minds or involved any other sort of coercion. No, that was more up Damon’s alley.
“Okay, a judicious bribe. Anyway, I had to go by our storage unit to dig out the box of Christmas ornaments, so it took me a little longer than I thought.” He sniffed the air. “That smells awesome.”
“Well, fingers crossed that it’ll taste as good as it smells.”
“I’m not worried about it.” He adjusted the scarf around his throat, and I noticed he was still only wearing a sweater and shirt. It seemed way too cold outside to not have an overcoat. “I have to run back down to the car and get the box. I’ll be right back up.”
He went back out — leaving the front door slightly ajar. I stared at
it for a long moment. It couldn’t really be that easy, could it? I could just walk out of here and….
And what? Leaving aside the impracticality of wandering around sub-freezing Flagstaff on Christmas Eve in only a thin sweater and a camisole, was I prepared to do that? Walk out and leave?
I realized I wasn’t. Right now, this was where I wanted to be.
Maybe it was a test. Maybe he wanted to see if I would leave. That seemed more like something Damon would do, though, not Connor.
He came back with a large cardboard box in his hands. I was watching him carefully to see what he would do when he realized the door was open already and I hadn’t bolted, but beyond the slightest lift of his brows and maybe a small shrug, I didn’t notice anything. Once he was inside, he pushed the door shut with his foot, and that was that. No more chances at freedom.
Not that I’d really wanted them.
After setting the box down in the living room, he turned and glanced back at me. “How much time until dinner?”
“A half hour or so.”
He nodded. “Think we can get this decorated by then?”
“Maybe. Some of it, at least. We can always finish up after dinner.”
“Sounds like a plan. Let me get a fire started, too.”
I’d noticed the fireplace, of course, but despite the chilly weather, he never seemed to use it. Now, though, he went over, opened the glass doors, and touched one finger to the wood stacked inside. A spark touched the bottom-most log and spread out quickly. Soon the entire stack was crackling away happily.
So he had that power as well. It was a minor skill, one Adam possessed, too, but I did find myself wondering how many others Connor had up his sleeve, since he seemed to studiously avoid using magic whenever possible.
“I need to get back in the kitchen in about fifteen minutes,” I warned him as I came into the living room.
“That’s fine. We’ll do what we can. I’ll get these lights on at least.”
Darknight (The Witches of Cleopatra Hill Book 2) Page 7