And now she was here, somehow alive.
He stepped forward in a daze, the noise from the crowd dimmed, and time moved drunkenly.
She looked different. Her blond hair was now brown. Instead of bright green eyes, they were red-rimmed with large inky irises as dark as her soul. She turned her head, caught his eye, and smiled.
The spell broke.
Anger rose in his blood. She knew.
She knew.
Years of combat training rushed to the surface, and he instinctively reached for his Katana. It wasn’t there. Of course. Tonight he was Evan, the tortured artist, not Envy, the youngest member of the Deadly Seven. He searched the crowded room for his brother and found him. Tony leaned against the wall with a bored expression. He’d be assessing the women next to him, gauging which one he’d take home tonight. Maybe all. He’d been known to glut himself wherever he could.
Evan scanned for his parents, Mary and Flint, but they were nowhere to be found.
He was on his own.
And she was getting away.
Shit.
He squared his shoulders, centered his mind like Master Yang Lun had taught him. Filtered out the sounds and all sin except hers. Calm. Tranquility. Focus. There she was, at the end of the large room. He made to move, but two large brown eyes suddenly appeared in front of him, blinking.
Fuck. Shit! He jumped back to avoid bumping into her. “Doc? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Lazarus?” Grace asked innocently, ignoring his quip. “Could you spare a moment to answer a few questions about the woman in the paintings?”
She casually touched him on the arm, and that energy zapped between them, ensnaring him. But there was something more, an absence of sensation. Nothing but her fingers on his arm. It was as though he’d stepped into a vacuum. All the envy in the room had dissipated. His wrist tattoo tingled. He glanced down at the black and white Yin-Yang symbol. It shimmered before his eyes, color scrambling like ants to reflect the new equilibrium Grace brought to his psyche. She let go, and the envy in the room whooshed back.
Balance. The word whispered in his mind and his eyes widened.
It was true. She was the one.
It was all true.
The air rushed from his lungs as he took her in. It had only been a few days, but she was more beautiful than he remembered. Out of the ponytail, her dark glossy hair draped freely over her shoulders. Her lips, a rosy pink. Her neck, slender and pale, and when he followed the line of her proud jaw to her décolletage, down to her—
“Mr. Lazarus?”
Look at her face. Look at her face. Holy shit, his heart pounded. “Um, Doc, I’m sorry but this isn’t the right time.”
He had to go. Sara. He had paused too long and now she had completely vanished. Somewhere in the crowd, toward that corner of the room.
“Are you okay Mr. Lazarus?”
“Evan,” he said absently.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I have. Where did she go?”
“Who?” Grace scanned the room with impeccable accuracy. She didn’t miss a thing, yet, she missed the most important thing of all. When she turned back to him, she’d pulled out a pocket notebook and pen, all business like.
“Who is the girl in the paintings?” Her voice cut into his thoughts. “Are you aware she resembles the woman one of the Deadly Seven was allegedly engaged to?”
“You know her?” He took hold of her upper arm, solidifying their connection.
Another warm sensation zipped up his spine and hit him in the face, causing him to break into a light sweat. Oh, no. It’s that thing again. Biological response. It’s happening. One thing to be in a private room at the hospital, but here, in front of so many people. Evan bit down on his tongue to suppress the flush overcoming his body, but his internal biology went into hyper-drive. Mary had warned him their DNA had been programed to respond to a person who embodied their balancing virtue. To send pheromones into the air to attract their mate. In this case, Grace. Suddenly, he wished he’d dressed more appropriately than a pair of tight jeans and a paper thin T-shirt.
Grace didn’t seem to notice the turmoil rolling inside him, but watched him with concerned eyes. “Look, you left so suddenly the other morning and when I found the picture you drew, I just knew I had to chase you down. I’ve been after information on that woman for a long time and it’s imperative I speak with you.”
“Doc, I have to go. I’m sorry. You can’t be involved in this.”
As he began to move away, the envy in the room crushed him like a wall of water. He went in the direction he last saw Sara. He couldn’t sense her unique brand of envy anywhere. There was too much in the air and after momentarily having his senses refreshed by Grace, it all smelled like soured perfume. It would take him a while to be able to distinguish each individual again.
Grace followed him. He turned to tell her to go, but was interrupted by Azaria.
“Darling. It’s time for the Q&A. Could you please?” Azaria appeared at his side and waved her arm toward the front of the room. She gave Grace an irritated look, as though she occupied valuable space and needed to either fork up the rent, or leave.
Evan frowned. Nobody glared at Grace like that.
“Azaria,” he snapped. “Make sure the doc here gets the best seat in the house. And some champagne.”
Azaria gaped at him, but then let her expression go lax. “Whatever you want, darling. This way please, Miss. Evan, if you’d be so kind as to take the stage.”
Evan cast one last glance around for Sara, but she was gone. He was beginning to believe it had all been in his head. One way or another, he’d flush her out, or go mad.
Six
Sara stood near the exit behind the crowd, and watched the artist take the stand to greet the emcee opposite him. She was supposed to be out of here by now, but there was one more thing she had to do. And if she was caught, the Deadly Seven were the least of her worries. She was on borrowed time.
While the hosts made their pleasantries, Sara separated a napkin from the stack she held and wrapped it around the used and empty champagne glass she’d retrieved from another waitress. When she finished, she gently tucked it into her apron pocket next to the other sample and then stopped at the sight of a stain on the disheveled hem of her white shirt. A single drop of blood had fallen right there on the seam. It bled along the stitching, morphing into a red maggot, wriggling and squirming, getting faster like the pounding of her heart.
She stared. It was just a blood stain. Red on white. Nothing more, nothing less. She tucked the shirt back into her apron and cast a hasty glance around the room. No one noticed. Good.
Then, taking a deep breath, she willed the panic down and stuffed it deep inside a locked box, the same place she kept all her earthly emotions, no longer needed, the nonsense of humans. And human she was no more.
Seven
When Evan’s art dealer indicated for her to follow, Grace lifted her chin, set her shoulders and made her simple thrift-shop outfit behave like a Valentino. The red silk singlet lifted her bust higher, her hips swelled sexily in her jeans, and her legs lengthened beneath her. She was instantly taller, more confident and more secure. Nobody would belittle her with a glance. No. She was Grace Go. A doctor at Cardinal City General Hospital. She was great at her job.
She followed the woman to a place near the front of the stage and accepted a glass of champagne before the agent left to conduct the interview. Grace took a moment to gather herself and go over the past few minutes in her head.
She’d come into the room, fully intending to rail-road the artist and get some answers. She had less than two weeks to come up with the goods on the woman in the paintings. If she could find out more about her, the investigation would stay open. All the victims would receive compensation. Taco, Mason and their aunt. Herself. So many others she’d come to know well. She wasn’t giving up now. She was close. She could feel it.
Evan�
��s behavior had been erratic. While her medical experience pointed toward a psychotic prognosis after all, her heart didn’t believe it. Something was wrong. Unable to tear herself away from the stage, she settled in to watch.
“Hello Dr. Go. You made it.”
A blush crept up Grace’s cheeks as she remembered the way the woman had shamelessly advertised her son’s exhibition. “Yes, I did. But I’m here on business.”
“Oh? She’s here on business, Flint.” The woman elbowed a tall handsome man beside her. Also middle-aged, he had a thick, trimmed beard, and stripes of distinguished gray marked his temples. He had an athletic physique that suggested he kept himself fit and busy. Grace’s gaze snagged on his fingers clutched around a champagne flute. The tiny grease marks underneath his nails betrayed his trade. Possibly a mechanic.
“So I heard, Mary.” Flint’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he looked down at his wife, then he shifted his amused eyes to Grace. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Go.”
“Oh, it’s Grace. Please.”
He nodded. Mary beamed. Once again, Grace felt like Mary knew something she didn’t.
Evan sat down on a small stool situated in front of the colossal Painting Within. He gave it a cryptic glance then focused back on the crowd, eyes scanning before settling on her where they stayed a moment, unreadable.
“So, Evan,” came the whiny voice of the art dealer, “tell us about the collection. What inspired you to paint these particular scenes?”
Definitely a question Grace wanted answered.
“I don’t think too hard. I just paint.”
Great. His bare as bones answers weren’t just for her at the hospital, the entire world enjoyed his curtness.
Azaria pulled a face at the crowd, riling them up. “You don’t expect us to believe that’s all there is, do you?”
The crowd, bolstered by alcohol, agreed with her. They cheered her on.
“What do you think, guys, should we get more information?” Azaria angled her microphone towards the crowd. Various voices rose above the others but nothing was clear. So she stood and asked again, microphone hovering. “Who wants to ask the question. You know, the one everyone is dying to have answered?”
Many hands rose above heads, like children in a classroom, eager to have their voices heard. One dainty hand was singled out, and Azaria made a security guard help the woman forward.
Before a word could be said, an incredibly loud clanging sound came from the entrance of the gallery. The front glass doors burst open, blasting arctic air in on a gust.
A tall man waltzed in with a model on each arm. He wasn’t just large, he was built. Towering, imposing. His long, tarnished hair brushed the shoulders of his camel cashmere trench coat. His stylish scruff was trimmed to perfection. Confidence exuded from his golden pores. Dazzling eyes winked at someone he knew, and he nodded with a wicked grin to another.
“How you doing?” he asked someone. He shrugged off the models, and then his coat, handing it to some random stranger. Grace almost laughed, thinking, That’s not the cloak person, but no one cared. They stared at him reverently like some sort of dark Norse god. His suit was expensive, tailor made to fit over his scary muscles, but he defied her original assessment and took the time for a selfie with a guest who had her camera out. He pulled a duck-face at the lens then retreated to his girls. “Drink?” he mouthed to them. They agreed, and he grinned, waiting expectantly for them to serve him.
He had no idea he’d just interrupted the main event, or maybe he did, and didn’t care.
“You’d think the actual movie star in the family would be acting like the diva,” grumbled a voice not far from Evan’s parents.
Grace craned her neck to see who’d spoken and became momentarily star struck. It was Tony Lazarus, the movie star. Tall and sculpted under his Polo shirt, designer jacket and jeans. Short hair swept off his forehead as though he’d run his fingers through it. Perfectly tanned and manicured. He caught Grace staring and winked, then lifted his champagne flute to his lips, eyes back to the stage.
Flint grumbled something to Mary, and she shook her head disparagingly.
Grace turned back to the stage just in time to see Evan roll his eyes at the newcomer.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Evan said into his microphone. “I present my brother, Parker Lazarus.”
The city’s golden boy. Billionaire entrepreneur.
After a moment of surprised silence, a reverent murmur shimmered over the crowd.
Grace couldn’t believe she hadn’t pieced it together before. Lazarus. It wasn’t a common name. If memory served correct, there was also a Michelin starred chef in one of the city’s best restaurants, Heaven. His surname was Lazarus. Evan had an impressive family tree.
Azaria cleared her throat loudly. When she had no response from the still murmuring crowd, she carried on with her interview.
“So, where were we, darlings? Oh yes, the question everyone’s been dying to ask.”
From the corner of Grace’s eye, she noted Evan’s family grow still and watchful. Suspicion hardened in her like a stone. They all knew something, she was sure of it. Murmurs faded to silent quivers and soon disappeared altogether.
“Who wants to ask?” Azaria scanned the crowd at the front, then handed the microphone to an awaiting dark-skinned woman wearing a tight dress made from shredded white fabric.
She licked her glossy lips and leaned forward until they teased the mesh on the microphone. “Who is the woman in the painting?”
Evan lifted his mic to his mouth and spoke. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
The crowd collectively gasped and checked the person next to them, to the left, and then the right again. Evan’s family were equally shocked.
He continued: “I saw her not five minutes ago in this very room, dressed in the uniform you see in the painting behind me. I’ll freely give that painting to anyone who finds her and brings her up here. That’s over seven thousand dollars’ worth of fine art. Free. Even if you can only take a photo, I’d consider it.”
Pandemonium washed over the room. Previously snooty, upperclass faces of stone collapsed into obscene, panicked motion. Even Evan’s parents went on high alert. Bodies moved about, people pushed past their companions, camera-phones whipped out. Parker pushed his way through the crowd to where his family stood, glaring at his brother on stage.
Evan’s lips curved in sardonic amusement.
If there was one thing guaranteed to get a crowd moving, it was money.
“I found her,” a man shouted. The crowd parted and a frightened waitress jostled forward on a shove.
“That’s not her,” Evan grumbled.
“There she goes!” cried a woman somewhere. “Into the storeroom.”
All heads turned to the storeroom door where they caught it swinging on its hinges.
Good God, it was like an Easter egg hunt.
A blood-curdling scream broke through the din of the crowd, shattering the excitement.
Then silence.
Where had that come from?
The woman screamed again. It came from the far end of the immense gallery, the end that had been blackened out for the night, so that no other paintings would steal the thunder from Evan’s art. Evan jumped from his perch and launched himself into the thick of the crowd.
Suddenly, everyone around Grace herded in that direction too, but she wanted none of it. This game Evan played with the crowd was too much. The heat in the room swelled, and she found it difficult to breathe. The heat transferred to her body in a prickly wave that had her heart racing. Jostling bodies bumped into her, drawing panic to the surface. She could handle this level of confusion in the open street, but inside under a roof and four walls… too much. Drip. Drip. The building collapse burned behind her eyes. The scent of chalky dust filled air as though it were around her now. She coughed at the imaginary pollution and felt the heavy rock pushing against her skin, crushing her. Her heart beat faster and she couldn’t help
what happened next.
The walls closed in. She had to get out of there, so she ran.
Eight
Grace pushed to the exit, shoved the door open, and ran halfway across the darkened street before the subzero temperature registered. She’d left her coat. Her hot breath exhaled in a puff of white cloud. She wouldn’t last five minutes outside in this weather at night. The bus would be another thirty minutes, and a walk home was just as long.
Only one thing for it. Shivering, she pivoted to retrieve her jacket, but slammed into a woman running in the opposite direction. The collision knocked the wind out of Grace and the distinct sound of shattering glass filled the air. They both fell hard to the asphalt, still wet from the recent rain. Grace’s purse fled her fingers and skittered across the street, spinning in circles.
She blinked, staring up at the full moon glaring down at her. Next to her, steam rose from a sewer grate. And then she remembered her collision had broken something. Scrambling to get up, Grace apologized profusely to the woman lying opposite her.
“You stupid cow!” The woman rolled frantically to her side, flipping to her feet with unnatural speed. She didn’t seem to care about her bleeding palms and checked the front pocket of her black waiter’s apron, mortified. “Just look what you’ve done!”
Her face.
“Oh my God. It’s you.” Grace gasped and covered her mouth. “The girl in the paintings.”
The girl from the bombing.
The arsonist.
Only, she looked slightly different—off.
The last time Grace had seen the woman, she’d been standing in the lobby of the apartment complex her parents were inspecting. Grace had stayed downstairs to take a phone call from the hospital while her parents went up to look at rooms for sale on the top floor. Both Grace and the woman—then blond—were in the lobby when the fight erupted on the street. Through the glass windows, the Deadly Seven battled a group of white-robed and plastic Halloween masked warriors. Being the first and only time Grace had ever seen the heroes in action, it had been both terrifying and magnificent at the same time. Flashes of black leather and muted color burst around the air as each member expertly moved their bodies. Shadowed by hoods, their bright eyes flashed menacingly over the scarves hiding their mouths and noses. Each black hood was trimmed with a different color, representing a particular sin. Green for Envy, yellow for Sloth. Purple, red, blue, orange and one completely black. The strange costumes and expert skills, looked straight out of a martial arts movie. Grace almost believed it was a performance of some kind, until the first splash of blood arced against the window, making things real.
Envy (The Deadly Seven Book 1) Page 5