by Jen Printy
I peer out into the dimly lit hall. Grady is nowhere to be seen. Perfect. I recoil at the thought of him catching me leaving his sister’s room at this time in the morning. No need to revisit that scenario. Been there; done that.
“Where are you going?” Leah asks, a little annoyed.
I jump, turning around.
Leah peers at me from the comfort of her bed, her eyelids droopy with sleepiness.
“Do you want Grady to catch me leaving your room?” I ask.
She shrugs then shakes her head.
“Didn’t think so.” I return to kiss her before slipping out.
In the living room, I climb onto Grady’s couch and yank the blanket over me. I shift about, finding a comfortable position among the pits and lumps. Just as I settle in, I hear a door open and Grady yawn. I close my eyes and snore lightly.
After listening to ten minutes of rummaging going on in the kitchen, I decide it’s safe to wake up.
Grady’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a Red Sox T-shirt. His hair sticks straight up like a rooster’s comb. He looks at me sheepishly. “Did I wake you?”
“No worries.” I add a stretch for effect.
“Sorry,” he says, banging more pots and pans. This time, it’s apparently intentional. A roguish grin spreads across his face.
“What are you doing anyway?”
He beams. “Cooking breakfast.”
“So you’re good? With Leah, I mean.”
“Couldn’t be better,” he says, taking the eggs out of the refrigerator. “I was up until about three, when it hit me. Leah isn’t crazy. Never was. What happened to her was normal for who she is. After that, I slept better than I have in years. A weight”—he cracks an egg and raises its empty shell halves over the frying pan—“has been lifted.”
I smile and nod.
I’m sitting at Grady’s small glass-top table, waiting patiently for his eggs to fry, when Leah emerges from her room, showered and dressed. When she sees Grady cooking in the kitchen, she wrinkles her nose. The worry in her eyes has vanished, and that realization brings a grin to my lips. She takes the seat next to me.
“Good morning,” she says. “How’d you sleep?”
I feel the corners of my mouth twitch upward. “Never better. You?”
A muffled giggle escapes her lips. “Perfectly,” she says.
“Grady insisted on making us breakfast this morning.”
Her expression is a portrait of panic.
My callused hand slips into her soft, smooth one and gives a little squeeze. “Be brave, love,” I tease.
“I heard that,” Grady says. He sets two plates of burnt toast and greasy fried eggs in front of us.
Leah pokes at the inflated egg whites with her fork and scrunches her eyes, wrinkling her nose again. “How did you get this consistency?”
Grady ignores her. “Charlotte has been teaching me how to cook. She said I’ve improved.”
“Charlotte? Who’s Charlotte?” Leah’s eyes shoot to Grady’s annoyed face.
“She’s one of the teachers over at the school. Now try them and see what you think.”
I chuckle, watching her poke at the eggs again, eyeing them skeptically as if they’re toxic.
Grady waits, his arms crossed over his puffed-out chest.
She cuts off the tiniest piece, places the bit on her tongue, and chews. Swallowing, she chases the lump down with a large gulp of milk.
“Yum,” Leah says unconvincingly. She puts down her fork and nibbles the dry toast.
Grady rolls his eyes and returns to the kitchen.
Taking a hesitant bite, I’m surprised. “These are bloody fantastic,” I say, shoving another bite in my mouth. When my plate is empty, I eye Leah’s. “If you’re not going to eat those…”
“Have at.” She picks up her toast and slides her laden plate toward me. She watches incredulously as I devour her eggs in three mouthfuls. “How can you like those? The sensation is more like a flavorless greasy mush than eggs.”
“See, it’s not my cooking. It’s you,” Grady says, returning with a bowl of steaming baked beans in one hand and a plate of sausages in the other. He places them on the table next to me and plops into a chair.
She shrugs halfheartedly and then takes another bite of toast. “Maybe. Tell me more about this Charlotte.”
“I told you. She’s a teacher,” Grady says with a bit of apprehension hidden in his irritation. His eyes avoid Leah, and he scoops a pile of baked beans onto his plate.
Leah’s eyes narrow. “Who’s teaching you to make breakfast? How often does she come over to give you lessons? Oh, wait, I understand.” Her face gleams with a wide grin. “Mom will be thrilled. And maybe having a girlfriend will keep your nose out of my business.”
“Don’t you dare tell Mom. She’s a friend. That’s all. Now eat your toast.” Grady shoves a spoonful of baked beans in his mouth.
“Uh-huh. Mary Pinkus was just a friend, too, if I remember correctly. That is until I caught the two of you making out in the back of your car at the end of our driveway.”
I laugh, stabbing a couple sausages with my fork.
Grady glares at Leah. “I was thinking you might want to meet some of my friends for dinner tonight, but not if you’re going to act like this—”
The trilling ring of my phone interrupts Grady’s lecture. The muscles along my shoulders and neck tense. I fish the phone out of my pocket and excuse myself, pushing away from the table.
I shut myself in Leah’s room. “Artagan, what’s going on?”
“Vita’s on the move.”
My mouth goes dry. “To where?”
“Venice.”
A frosty burn overtakes me, extending from the base of my spine to my neck’s apex. Slowly and deliberately, I pace the room, trying to keep my breathing even.
“Jack? You still there?”
“Yes.” My words come out more like a growl than I intended. “That’s a bit too close.”
“Istanbul would be too close for you. Now listen. I debated whether I should call you or not, but I wanted you to know you can trust me. Her travels have nothing to do with you. A job popped up. One I’m also invited to, which is good. I can keep a close eye on her.”
I tap the folded stash of hemlock in my pocket. My heartbeat speeds with the rush of adrenaline. “I could be on the next plane. I’d be there in a little over an hour. We could take care of that bitch once and for all.”
Artagan laughs. “Believe me, I would love nothing more, but I can’t help you with that. Rule number one. No slaughtering one’s fellow council members.”
“What? That’s what you all do! Besides, according to the story, Vita murdered Brennus.”
“No, Brennus committed suicide. Unfortunately, Vita’s not the nothing-to-live-for, in-the-depths-of-despair type. Look, we can talk about this later. I have to go. I’ll call you when this little assignment is finished.” He hangs up.
Venice. Anger engulfs me, and fantasies of tearing Vita limb from limb then shoving hemlock down her gullet flash behind my eyes. The first might not kill her, but torturing her would make me feel better. In a pure wintery rage, my hand balls into a fist and slams into the nearest surface. A sharp bite cuts into the taut flesh of my knuckles. My vision skips from the lopsided hole in the wall to my bleeding hand, then to the shards of horsehair plaster littering the floor. I grab one of the socks from the top of Leah’s suitcase and wrap it around my knuckles, slumping onto the edge of the bed.
The door creaks. Someone slips in from the hall. The footsteps are too light to be Grady’s. I glance up to find Leah standing at the door, her expression a jumble of concern and anxiety. Her eyes trail from the fragments of shattered wall strewn across the hardwood floor to my improvised bandage. In three short steps, she’s at my side, sitting on the bed next to me. Her hand grips my arm, attempting to pull it toward her.
Maybe I could hunt Vita myself. However, I would have to leave Leah behind, and Grady couldn’t kee
p her safe from Vita. But if I stayed with her, could I do any better? I jerk my arm away and let my elbow rest on my knee. “It’s fine,” I say, my tone ragged.
“Let me see,” Leah says firmly. This time, I don’t resist, and she flips my hand over.
“Tell Grady I’m sorry about the hole in the wall.” I peer down. Blood has seeped through the fabric. “And the sock… I’m sorry about your sock.”
She studies me apprehensively while gingerly unwrapping the sock.
Jagged gashes score my knuckles. Pieces of milk-white plaster stick out from the wound, but the bleeding has stopped.
She rummages through her makeup bag and finds some tweezers. “First, I’ll remove these pieces of plaster. Then I’ll see what first-aid supplies Grady has. We might be forced to use paper towel and duct tape.” She attempts a grin.
As she removes each pointy sliver, her eyes widen. My skin begins knitting itself together. She puts on a brave face and continues to pick out the fragments.
“I heal quickly.”
“I see that,” she says nonchalantly, keeping her eyes hidden from my view behind her hair.
When all the remnants are removed, Leah sits as still as a stone, watching the remains of my wound vanish before her eyes.
“So, who was that on the phone?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
I’m quiet.
“You promised, you know. No more secrets.” Leah’s unyielding gaze trains on my face.
My shoulders tighten. “Vita’s on the move. I won’t let her near you.”
Her attention returns to my hand. “It’s you we need to worry about,” she murmurs.
“Not true. The thought of the two of you meeting…” A shiver races through me. With a deep intake of air, I continue, “I was attempting to figure out a way to leave, but who would protect you?”
Leah’s wide eyes snap to mine, moisture pooling along their rims. She blinks away the tears. Her jaw stiffens, and she lifts her chin. “You want to go after her?” she asks through clenched teeth.
“If it keeps you safe, of course. Sitting here waiting is driving me crazy. If I could trust that you’d be out of harm’s way here with Grady, I’d hunt her down. Kill her myself…”
“Absolutely not! Heroic suicidal attempts might be romantic in novels, but not in real life. Are you insane?”
I wince.
“If something happened to you, there’s no getting you back. You’d be gone forever. At least if it’s me that dies, we have a chance of some kind of happily ever after.”
“I don’t want to get into this, not now.” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Artagan said—”
“You know nothing about this man, but you’re putting all your faith in him. I don’t trust him!”
I huff. “I do. He’s helping us. Give him a chance. He’s the only family I have.”
“Family.” She scoffs. “Remember who he is, what he does.”
“Artagan’s different from the other members of the council. He lived a normal life before becoming what he is now.”
Leah nods reluctantly. “Something about him frightens me,” she whispers. “Please be careful.”
I can see her soul through her eyes, and it’s shrouded in fear. “I don’t know what else to do,” I say, the ice thawed from my voice.
Leah shifts to peer up into my face, and ever so gently, her fingertips caress the wrinkles along my brow. “It’s going to be all right. I feel it.”
The forever optimist. I open my mouth to criticize, then I stop short. In place of using spirited words, I put my arms around her and hold her tight. “It has to be. Losing you isn’t an option.”
Leah manages to persuade me to carry on with the evening’s plans as normal. Over the ticking hours, my face becomes a composed mask. Attempting to fight the paranoia brewing inside of me, I smile and joke, but my tranquil nature is all a sham. Twilight comes, but Artagan’s call does not.
I plod through the maze of crooked streets, a half step behind Grady and Leah. My nerves are raw. My eyes dart around, taking in every movement.
In stark contrast, Leah seems relaxed. Instead of concentrating on the turmoil orbiting around us, she’s lost in the beauty that is York, babbling on about tapered streets and the medieval architecture. I want to shake her and yell at her that Death—or at least his daughter—is coming to greet her with a smile, but I keep my mouth shut. Besides, Grady’s already noticing my surge of protectiveness.
At the next corner, we turn right into the Shambles. The overhangs of half-timbered storefronts, reaching out to one another over the divide, darken the cobblestone alleyway. The meager light that creeps into this cramped space leaves the alley gloomy. Dampness clings to the air. It’s a scene right out of one of Leah’s horror flicks. I half expect Vita to jump out from a dark corner.
Five blocks down, Grady slows to a stop. We’re standing in front of the Golden Monk. The building looks as if it was crammed into the confined space as an afterthought. Not a lot has changed—the scenery is still more for locals than for the tourists. I wonder if they want their old dart back. I chuckle under my breath.
Laughter overflows from the open door. Footfalls approach us from behind. Leah turns, and a grin spreads across her face. I slide into her view, becoming a barricade. Two figures walk out of the darkness. My hand slips into my pocket and grips the bag. The plastic crinkles.
“Everything’s okay,” Leah whispers in my ear.
She tosses me a warm, reassuring smile. I reassert my calm mask.
Grady steps forward, greeting them warmly. Excitement surfaces in his voice, and he introduces the duo as James and Charlotte.
Charlotte is small, slender, and attractive. Her coffee-colored hair is cut at an angle around her oval face, and one side is tucked behind her ear. Her golden hazel eyes dance with sparks of mischief. From the goofy grin plastered across Grady’s lips and the way he shuffles his feet back and forth nervously, Leah’s instincts are correct. Grady likes Charlotte more than he lets on.
Next to Charlotte is her brother, James, a stocky guy closer to my apparent age. His expression suggests that he has the same disposition as his sister, although a bit more subdued. James smiles, and his eyes drift to Leah. His gaze lingers on her face a bit too long for casual friendliness. I stiffen, and my arm tightens around Leah’s waist. When his eye meets mine, he looks away. That’s right, buddy. Move along.
After the usual pleasantries, we move our conversation into the pub. Patrons crowd around the counter. The England fans sport red jerseys, while the Aussies wear gold—no commingling of colors. Every eye is glued to the TV hanging over the bar.
James leads the way through the crowd, finding an empty table next to the bar. As Grady sits, taking the seat next to Charlotte, the crowd erupts into shouts of victory and moans as Britain scores. “Honestly, I don’t get it. This has got to be the stupidest sport on the planet,” Grady says over the clamor.
A pin-dropping quiet settles over the pub. Angry eyes swing in our direction, all centered on Grady.
“Do you have a death wish?” I hiss just loud enough for Grady to hear.
“Don’t. Diss. Cricket,” Charlotte says, enunciating each word.
“Listen to the lady, ya bloody Yank,” a redheaded man sitting at the end of the bar yells, slurring each word. “Or go back to that arse-slapping game you call football.”
“Ah, that’s not what I meant,” Grady backpedals, panic on his face.
Charlotte glares at him, her seemingly fun-loving nature gone. “So that was meant to be a joke? You think we Brits are funny?”
I can’t tell if Charlotte’s toying with him or if she’s serious. Either way, she has Grady on the ropes.
“Ahhh, no…?” Slack-jawed, Grady stares at Charlotte.
“Would you like a little help? You have no game,” I say, leaning over to Grady’s ear, and then I grin to lessen the insult.
“Just like cricket,” Grady whispers.<
br />
“You’re on your own,” I grumble. I lean back, resting my arm along the rail of Leah’s chair; I fake engrossment in the game. With each passing moment, displaying the image of perfect composure becomes more difficult.
“No one’s ever listening until you make a mistake.” Grady grins in Charlotte’s direction. She laughs, and Grady’s smile grows wider. “If you like one-liners, I’m full of them. Two wrongs are only a beginning. Or this one’s my favorite—he who laughs lasts thinks slowest.”
Charlotte laughs again, followed by her brother.
“See, I knew Charlotte was the smart one of her family.”
His comment earns him a wink. Huh, maybe Grady has game after all.
The meals come, and the drinks flow. While Grady seems to have dug himself out of his trouble, I’m wading into my own. Every time I reach for the silent bulge stuffed in my shirt pocket, Leah shifts comfortably in her seat. Finally, I remove my cell and glare at the incoming-calls list. With a sigh, I place the phone on the table. Twelve hours, and still no call. Artagan must know something by now.
Minutes become an hour, then two. The conversation hops from light topic to light topic, but I pay little attention to the chatter.
My cell vibrates, scooting across the table toward the edge. I grab it just before it tumbles to the floor. Casting Leah a sideward glance, I stand and excuse myself then slip into the rowdy crowd and out into the night.
I flip open the phone. “Where is she? Where’s Vita?”
“You don’t have to worry about her.” The solemn edge to Artagan’s tone takes away any comfort the words should give.
“Why? What’s going on? Has she lost interest?”
“You’re fine. She’s back in Australia. I’ll send her to Canada or maybe Russia next. Enjoy your vacation. I’ve got a job to do,” he says impudently.
“So, you’re saying we’re safe?”
“I don’t recommend you heading back to Portland, but yes, you’re safe. Now, I’m working.”
Click.
“Hello?”
I get nothing but static. Artagan’s gone.
I stare, unblinking, at the phone. Regardless of Artagan’s unexpected behavior, relief washes over me. Safe. I turn to find Leah standing at the pub’s entrance, an unreadable expression etched on her face. I close the gap between us and take her hand.