Destiny

by Rachelle Mills et al.

  After a long pause, she finally said, “I honestly don’t know how you’ll react.”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m the—” Daphne stopped short to glance at the mortal woman tattooing her hip. “Well, you know.”

  Emma flushed. “I feel like an idiot.”

  Daphne let out an ugly sigh of exasperation. “Just tell me.”

  Instead of responding, Emma closed her eyes and dug her palms into the closed lids until she saw stars and shapes float around, and possibly Jesus’s face. She tried to concentrate on the psychedelic waves and shapes that swam past her eyes instead of the gnawing awkwardness in the pit of her stomach. Focus on the Jesus face, Emma!

  “Last night Henry and I made out and then…he kind of ate me out on my desk until it broke and collapsed from under us,” she rambled.

  Silence, except for the buzz of the tattoo machine. The colors continued to swirl from behind her eyes. She sighed and removed her hands from her eyes and blinked at the brightness of the overhead lights. Daphne and the tattoo artist were staring at her, mouths agape.

  Daphne frowned and glanced up at Leona. “Hey, careful with that, Leo.”

  The woman apologized with a sheepish wince and pulled the tool away from her sister’s hip. Then the pair went back to gaping at Emma.

  “Quit it, you guys.”

  The tattoo artist grinned then went back to work. “Sounds awesome to me. I want details.”

  “Fucking right?” Daphne slapped her chair’s armrest with glee. “I knew something happened. How was he?” She gave Emma a naughty upside-down smile.

  Emma’s cheeks burned while she admitted, “Amazing. If we hadn’t started overthinking it, we probably would’ve had sex in the rubble.”

  “Please explain to me the problem. Aside from potential splinters,” Daphne said in a measured tone.

  “Daph, he’s my boss.”

  Leona looked up at Emma again and gasped. Daphne rolled her eyes at her.

  “Leo, I love you, but you have a tattoo of a chesty decomposing zombie nurse on your arm. You’re inking a picture of a ferret on my hip. How are you shocked by something like this?”

  The tattoo artist peered back down at her work. “I’m not scandalized. I just love good gossip.”

  Her sister laughed. “Amen to that.”

  Emma continued to frown. “It doesn’t matter. There are a million reasons why this is a horrible idea.”

  Daphne dismissed her by flashing her middle finger. “Yeah? Like what?”

  Emma focused on the framed tattoo designs adorning the walls to gather her thoughts.

  “Aside from the fact that he’s my boss? It’s a distraction and could easily lead to one or both of us screwing up a case. Everyone kept making little comments about us being together last night, way before we were even, you know, together. You suspected something this morning. Our assistant is smart; I can only imagine how he’ll implode on Monday when he figures it out. It’s completely unprofessional, and I don’t see how my clients will be able to take me seriously if they think I’m sleeping with my boss.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but there’s something you need to remember about your clients, Em.”

  Emma looked at her sister and waited for a response.

  “They’re criminals.”

  Emma snorted. “Alleged criminals, but that’s exactly what I mean. We’re supposed to be held to a higher moral standard.”

  Daphne pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You really think a pair of goody two-shoes like you guys would drop the ball over sex? Also,” she continued, “I hate to say it, but if they know you’re with Henry, then they would probably give you less shit for being…a different sort of person.”

  Emma assumed that was her way of saying “for being mortal” around Leona.

  When she didn’t respond, her sister said, “Besides, everyone I talked to on Friday night who had worked with him trusts him. They think that man works miracles and they respect him for it.”

  Emma’s thoughts became even more dour. If only they knew why he was able to work miracles, though she supposed they probably wouldn’t care. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that this situation with Abernathy was unsustainable. Deterrent spells aside, there weren’t enough safeguards in place to keep the supernats safe. It sounded like Henry had plenty of influence and respect. He should start using it. She’d have to ask Daphne her opinions on that when there wasn’t an unsuspecting mortal around.

  Taking Emma’s continued silence as disagreement, Daphne said, “Henry would not be the worst guy in the world for you to date. He’s probably seen a lot. You could learn things from him.”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing I’m leery of. I don’t know if dating someone his age is a good idea. It feels like he would always have something to hold over me.” Emma wasn’t looking forward to texting Camille later to tell her she’d made excellent points.

  “Oooh, is he a silver fox? How old is he?” Leona asked impishly.

  Emma sighed. It didn’t matter how old she got. He would always have over a century of knowledge on her, and he was without a doubt going to outlive her.

  “You don’t want to know,” she muttered.

  Even if they could make it work, at what point would his immortality and her mortality become a problem? Would she want to become a vampire?

  Choosing her words carefully around Leona, Emma said, “I mean, what am I supposed to do when I grow old and I’m in my eighties, and he…uh, still has the charm of a younger man?”

  “You’ve got it bad if you’re already worrying about how you’ll look when you grow old together.” The tattoo artist shook her head. “Also, that’s total horseshit about women not aging as gracefully as men.”

  “It’s not that.” Emma threw her sister a meaningful look. “But there are unique hurdles that come with the territory of this relationship.”

  “You’re officially overanalyzing the tea leaves.” Daphne grasped Emma’s forearm and shook it around for emphasis. “This thing is still in its infancy. Cross bridges when you get to them, okay? You two seem smart enough to figure out how to cross them responsibly. Dial it down a notch.”

  “Easier said than done for a lawyer. You’re supposed to anticipate everything ahead of time.” Emma folded her arms behind her head.

  “Is all of this about your boyfriend from college or something?” Daphne accused. “You’ve got trust issues.”

  Emma gave her a long look, unimpressed. “Jeremy is ancient history. What he did was crappy, but we were in college. I’m glad he went after what he wanted instead of quietly languishing by my side.” She’d paid her dues processing that drama. “As great as Henry is, I’m having trouble justifying the risk for the potential reward. Everyone wants love and sex, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense just because it’s a cute story.”

  Daphne winced at the poke of the tattoo needle before countering. “What happened to you wanting to pursue your passions and shedding the beige color of your life?”

  She tapped one foot against the edge of her seat. “I didn’t want to do it like this.”

  “You wanted to plan your spontaneity.”

  Emma snapped her mouth shut. Daphne waited. The ensuing silence was Emma’s acknowledgement that she was right.

  Defeated, she reached for her last shred of resistance. “None of that matters anyway,” she said. “We have an understanding that it was a bad idea for us to be involved, and he seemed completely fine with not taking this further.” Which was a little absurd considering how hard he’d been. Her chest felt a little tight. Had he needed to be quite so nonchalant about it?

  Daphne snapped her fingers to get her attention. “Lady, you can operate at his level. I’m going to buy you your first tattoo. You need a physical reminder that you’re a badass, because for being this close to thirty, you should have more confidence in yourself by now.”

  Apparently Leona agreed with this assessment, becaus
e a moment later she shoved a fat book of designs into Emma’s hands.

  ***

  “And what is wrong with the Rusty Spoon, exactly?” Grant asked as he and Henry walked through the glass doors of a trendy little coffee shop off of Scott Avenue.

  “I had plenty of alcohol last night, and the coffee’s good here,” Henry explained. “Besides, I’m sure you had more than your share to drink in Vegas.”

  “It’s so…mortal here,” Grant said with mild distaste. “And not in a fun way. In like a ‘let’s check out the farmers market this Saturday’ kind of way.”

  Henry rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. Such judgment for a guy who was always trying to get him to come out and enjoy the finer things in life. Good coffee was good coffee. They came to a stop at the counter, where a smiling barista with moppy hair and beard waited to take their order.

  “Hi, guys. What can I get for you?” he asked with cheerful hipster elegance.

  “What’s your special tonight?” Henry asked and ignored Grant’s quiet laugh.

  The barista nodded with half-closed eyes. “The special’s a good one. It’s a roast from Guatemala. Very smooth, I like it a lot. It’s bold but textured. The tasting notes are brown sugar, some hints of oak, and even, I think, a little clay.”

  Grant gave Henry a death stare. “Is this really just a straight coffee place?”

  Still facing the barista, Henry ignored Grant’s irritation. “Sounds good. We’ll take two of those.”

  The barista smiled broadly. “Right on. Let me just draw up your total here.” From under the counter he pulled out what appeared to be an electronic abacus. He started sliding black pieces back and forth. He stepped away from it and said, “Well, there’s your total.”

  Grant rolled his eyes. “I could buy us a pair of Tucson Saguaros tickets for that price.”

  Henry threw his friend a quelling look and handed a credit card to the barista, who slid it through a reader mounted on the side of the abacus.

  “Great. Your receipt has been emailed to you. I’ll have those coffees out shortly.” The kid disappeared behind the bar.

  Henry smirked. “Careful, don’t pull a muscle rolling your eyes too hard.”

  “You’re lucky I keep a flask of blood on me. Can’t say I’m loving this whole hipster trend that won’t die. Some humans are crazy.”

  “I know it. You used to be one,” Henry quipped.

  When the coffees were ready, they each grabbed a ceramic cup and claimed an empty table. Like everything else, the seats were also odd. There were no real tables and chairs. Instead, there were three large wooden picnic tables with attached chairs. The ultra-modern picnic benches had raised seats that were at the height of barstools. As he climbed up into a seat, Henry had to admit to feeling a bit like he was on a playground.

  Grant glared at him. “We’re not short dudes, Henry, but my feet are dangling from these stupidly high benches. Apparently, we’re five years old.”

  Henry laughed, sipped his coffee, and swung his dangling feet back and forth. “Coffee’s good, at least.”

  His friend took a deep pull from his coffee and then set it back down. Surprise crossed his face.

  “Good, huh?” he prompted.

  Grant nodded over his mug. “Oddly enough, yes. They’ve improved coffee over the past century. I don’t think I’ll even need to add any blood, although I’m not sure I taste any bark or clay. Probably for the best.”

  “See? Maybe if you moved on from blood and booze and didn’t write off so much mortal food, you might discover stuff you like,” Henry suggested.

  His friend was the “all blood, all the time” type of vampire. He consumed food only when absolutely necessary and disdained it the rest of the time.

  “Why would I want to move on from blood and booze?” Grant smirked. “I enjoy plenty. You’re the suit-shackled killjoy. So, are you going to tell me why I’m here and not at your place drinking a beer?”

  Dread settled into Henry’s skull. He didn’t talk about these kinds of matters. But he was also at a loss for what to do. How was he just supposed to sit at his desk from now on and pretend like he hadn’t tasted the sweetness of her pussy? Too late, Henry realized he’d been broadcasting.

  Grant’s pale face paled some more. His mouth hung agape. “You did what to whom?” he demanded.

  Henry sipped his coffee. At the risk of being melodramatic, he found the bitterness comforting. “Emma,” he mumbled.

  “Tell me what’s going on. You deciding to end your monkhood is major, and I’ve been trying to get you to chase skirt instead of textbooks for decades. Did you go after her or what?” Grant pressed.

  Henry supposed that was his equivalent to a cheerleader demanding gossip and lip gloss. May as well let him down easy.

  “Nothing to tell. Things…progressed to a certain degree last night, but she said we should think it over, which means we’re keeping it professional moving forward.”

  Grant’s face soured. “You do realize that the quickest way to not get something is to not go after it, right?”

  “I need her to help me with the criminal cases, and getting involved with her would cause complications. Surprise, surprise, but there aren’t a ton of supernat-friendly lawyers in Tucson.”

  “All I’m hearing from this is that the fun side of Henry made a One Night Only appearance for the first time in years and I missed out on tickets because I happened to be in Vegas. This is bullshit.” He drained the rest of his coffee and tossed the cup back on the table with a graceless rattle.

  “I thought you and I had fun,” Henry said defensively. He knew he wasn’t exactly an extrovert these days, but he wasn’t that much of a downer, was he?

  “Dude. I can only take so many nights at the Loft watching foreign movies and drinking microbrews.”

  “What’s wrong with the Loft? There’s not always a ton of stuff to do in Tucson after sunset, but we manage.”

  Grant ignored him then snapped his fingers at the barista lounging against the front counter. “There’s plenty of things for an immortal to do here. You just ignore them.”

  “Is everything all right with your coffee? Do you need a refill?” the barista asked when he walked up to their table.

  Grant sized up the man and said, “You’ll do.”

  “Really, you don’t think it’s a little déclassé to take a bite out of the barista? He just made you coffee.”

  “I think it’s totally appropriate. I got my coffee, and now I’m ready for my blood,” Grant said in even tones.

  The barista’s beard quivered. “Um, what?”

  “Relax, this is just a light dinner. I won’t take much.” Grant snapped his fingers, and his eyes glowed amber. “In five minutes, go on break. Meet me outside the bathroom and take me to the supply closet. Don’t communicate with anyone. Be calm.”

  The barista nodded numbly and walked away. Grant swung down off the table.

  “For a smart dude, you’re being kind of an idiot. If there’s a way to get what you want out of this situation, you can figure it out. If you ever decide you want to have fun again instead of playing with books, you have my number.”

  With that, Grant walked toward the back of the coffee shop.

  “But learning is fun! Why do you think I did it for so long?” Henry called to his retreating back.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he replied before disappearing around a corner.

  Henry looked down at what remained of his coffee and swirled it around. Well damn. He’d seen Angry Grant, but Disappointed Grant was downright depressing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to do something stupid, but maybe the man had a point.

  ***

  Sunday afternoon, Henry was in his office eating a late breakfast, studying the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure, and skimming a book on Arizona DUI defense. If he was going to be working with Emma intensively for the next couple of weeks, it was time to brush up on this material. Already
he’d retrieved a couple of voicemails that morning about cases involving armed robbery and criminal assault combined with a DUI; Abernathy had made it clear she might not be able to overlook violent supernat crimes. Crafting a contract was one thing, but knowing black-letter criminal law was something else. The more you knew, the more loopholes you could find. And it was all way better than thinking about how he’d thrown away a perfectly good chance to rid himself of his chastity. If he hadn’t let awkwardness seep in, he was sure she would be in his bed right now.

  In the cold (fake) light of day, he found himself debating his next step after Grant’s sit-down. In theory, he respected the employee-employer relationship. In theory. The problem was that even when he’d interviewed Emma, it hadn’t seemed like he would be her boss. It had been like recruiting a colleague. They acted like peers together; it was easy for the line between acting professionally and succumbing to licentiousness to blur and smudge like a charcoal sketch.

  He needed to find a subtle way to get her to let her guard down again. How he would do that, he had no idea. Now that the line had been drawn in the sand, he doubted she would go for another bar crawl. Best not to think about any of it just yet. Focus on the work until he got his bearings.

  It was kind of Zen, actually, hanging out on a Sunday, eating pancakes, and reading case law on pretextual stops. He owned about a zillion lamps to cope with his inability to see the sun and had moved nearly all of them into his office, angling them artfully to get a lazy sunny afternoon effect.

  Forcing himself to concentrate, he cut a pancake in half and started reading a section about the impact of the legality of medicinal marijuana on DUI defense. And of course, Emma chose that moment to ruin everything and walk into the building.

  “Hello?” she called. “Someone here?”

  Henry froze, a bite of pancake halfway to his mouth. Shit. The pancake flopped back down onto his plate. He looked down at his boxers and lack of shirt. Double shit. His office was no longer his castle.