Kindred of the Fallen

by Isis Rushdan

  “I won’t take up any more of your time. I have another engagement as well that unfortunately I have to keep,” he said in a low voice.

  “Let Dougie know we’ll take care of your bill at the other studio. Have a good day.” She turned to her desk and grabbed her messenger bag to stop her hands from shaking.

  A breath later he was gone. She hadn’t heard him leave, but sensed it in the heat dissipating from her body, the tingle fading from her skin. She couldn’t risk checking in case she was wrong, and he was still standing there.

  “What the hell happened?”

  She looked over her shoulder. Dougie glared at her from the hall. She slung her messenger bag across her chest and went to face him.

  With a shrug, she said, “I don’t know. Couldn’t read him at all.”

  Dougie’s face lightened, and he threw a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Are you feeling okay? Everything went peachy with the dude before him, right?”

  Not quite peachy, but she nodded. “This one I totally screwed up. I told him we’d pay for his tat at another place.”

  “He thanked me, said he wouldn’t be using our services and left.”

  She heaved a sigh. The guy undoubtedly came to their studio expecting an unforgettable experience having his soul read. Instead, she’d scared him from getting a tattoo at all.

  “Shake it off.” Dougie tightened his arm into a playful headlock and kissed the top of her head. “No one can have a perfect record forever. Bound to lose one eventually.”

  The words stung worse than a finger poking a sore. “I’m late. Evan’s going to kill me.” She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Have a good weekend and try not to catch anything that requires penicillin.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny.” He cupped her shoulder, smile fading. “Evan has been in your life forever, and I can’t remember you giving another guy a chance. I get why you said yes, but there’s a difference between loving someone and being in love.”

  Her parents had been in love. Deeply, desperately in love. But in the end it only brought unspeakable misery. “Please, be happy for me.”

  After a resigned sigh, he nodded, then scooted her down the hall.

  The studio hummed with activity as she rushed along the gleaming hardwood floors through the shop. Most customers were inked behind silk screen dividers, but they also offered private rooms for those needing more discretion.

  Along with changing the name, moving from street level where neon signs and walk-ins were the norm to a classy building in Midtown Manhattan had been instrumental to creating a sophisticated salon for discerning body art connoisseurs or the pickiest tattoo virgins. A handful of award-winning tattooists and upscale touches such as her paintings on the walls elevated the hybrid ink studio/art gallery from the typical tattoo dive to premier hot spot.

  She hopped into the elevator and her mind flickered back to the spectacular failure in her office, back to the striking man who’d rattled her senses, nullifying the one true gift she possessed. She wanted to scream.

  Down in the lobby, she flung the door open and inhaled an Indian summer breeze.

  At least her headache had eased, and…no more ticking. The incessant clock beating in her mind had stopped just as suddenly as it had started a few weeks ago. She closed her eyes, reveling in the silence. If she hadn’t been so upset over losing a client, she would’ve done a happy dance right there in the middle of the street. Berating herself once again, she hustled to the subway station on Ninth Avenue.

  The smell of urine and cigarettes engulfed her as she descended the steps into the subway station. She swiped her Metro card through the turnstile. One flight below, the metal rumble signaled the train approaching. She raced down the stairs, hopped on and slid into the last open seat as the doors closed. Lights flickered and the train clattered along the rails.

  The doomsday clock had been counting down in her head for so long it was almost odd for it to be gone. The relentless ticking began the same night as the recurrent dream.

  In her nightmare, a dark angel guided her through the folds of shadow and light, trying to help her, but his presence didn’t change anything. It always ended the same—death coiled around her, pumping liquid ice in her veins. A shiver scraped through her body.

  Energy in her core vibrated and churned. The unforgettable face of the sole customer she’d been unable to read flooded her mind, stoking another rush of dizzy heat. Her parents hadn’t been around long, but one lesson she’d never forget—fiery passion led to disaster.

  She remembered how her parents kissed and hugged, the way people did on TV and in movies, like touching each other was the greatest thing in the world. Even after her mother had abandoned them, he talked about her all the time, about how much he loved her, missed her. And it was that crazy love he couldn’t live without that had killed him.

  Electric ripples fluttered inside her. Not now, not here. Visions of her dad in the wee hours at home were one thing. She couldn’t handle a creepy hallucination of her dead father in public. Closing her eyes, she took calming breaths, coaxing her body to relax. Then she slowly opened her eyelids.

  A man dressed in the same sweater and jeans her father had worn the day he died stood in the subway car, holding a gun. His body wavered ghost-like in the flickering lights of the train. Her heart lurched into her throat and bile coated her tongue. Not again.

  The man’s form solidified. He raised the gun and pressed it against his temple.

  Pressure, heavy and aching, bore down on her bladder. He stared at her, eyes full of woe. She knew every line and curve of that doleful face as well as her own. It was her father.

  Her body locked as if bands of steel had clamped around her. Numbness seeped into her limbs like poison, hardening her entrails to stone. Keep it together. He isn’t real.

  The guy across from her dropped his newspaper. A gaggle of kids fell silent and inched toward the doors. An older lady clutched her purse to her chest, growing bug-eyed.

  Everyone standing near her father backed away.

  Shit. They can see him?

  Chapter Two

  With the gun pressed to his temple, her dead father closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A thunderclap shattered the silence.

  Serenity cringed, expelling a sharp breath.

  His lifeless body crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  A flurry of gasps and screams erupted in the subway car.

  The body lay on the floor, a pool of crimson forming beside his head. People scrambled to the doors and banged on the glass, obscuring Serenity’s view of her father’s body.

  “He disappeared,” someone shouted.

  “Oh, sweet Lord!”

  Unable to see beyond the frenzied bodies, she jumped atop the seat and craned her neck over the chaos. Her father had vanished, without a trace of blood. Her gut convulsed. Her mind reeled.

  Over the last month and a half, she’d seen flashes of her father, but this was the first time anyone else had seen him too.

  Panic swelled, saturating the heavy air. Fists pounded on the metal doors. A window broke, splintering the glass. Passengers threw open the connecting doors to the adjacent cars. People shoved and tripped over each other to get out, spreading terror as they fled. The train slowed to a halt, one station short of her stop. The doors flew open like floodgates. A throng of cursing, praying, panicking people spilled from the train in a deluge.

  An older lady fell. Pinned between the metal doorframe and the bustle of bodies rushing out, she covered her head with her purse.

  Adrenaline spiked in Serenity’s bloodstream. She snapped out of her daze, hustled to the woman and strained to lift her.

  Frightened commuters funneled toward the sole stairwell near her subway car. Holding the woman by the elbow, Serenity stayed near the railing as she jostled up the stairs. She helped the woman onto the street and rested her against a wall. Passengers poured onto the sidewalk, clawing to get away from the
subway station.

  She weaved through the panic-stricken mob, her mind spinning, and jogged four blocks to Evan’s office building. She caught her breath on the elevator and sagged against a wall, grateful it was empty. By the time she reached the forty-fifth floor and wandered toward his office, she still hadn’t been able to make sense out of the impossible.

  The floor was surprisingly quiet. The workaholics around there usually put in twelve- to sixteen-hour days. Even Sarah, Evan’s assistant, had gone home.

  “Finally,” Evan said, rising from his chair as she entered his office.

  She had to tell him what happened on the train, but how to explain without sounding bonkers? Her compulsion to sketch her dreams had been enough to make him mention the word professional, a.k.a. shrink. If he knew about her father popping up, twenty-five years after he died, he’d think she was certifiable.

  But if others had seen her father, then he wasn’t a hallucination and she wasn’t crazy.

  “We’re late.” He walked around his desk, gathering files, and put them away in a cabinet.

  Her heart still pounded in her chest. The last thing she wanted was to go to a firm party. “Evan, I can’t. My…” No matter how she put the words together in her mind it sounded like a big jumble of crazy. “My head hurts. I’m not really feeling up to it.”

  “It’s the lack of sleep from the nightmares. You should see that therapist.” He rubbed her upper back in soothing circles. “Tonight is big. The only associates attending are the ones being considered for partner. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need you. Please, try to buck up.”

  Her stomach heaved, but she willed herself not to retch. She couldn’t let him down, not when he needed her most. With a nod, she said, “Okay.”

  He went to a chair and picked up a large, silver box from Bergdorf Goodman. How in the heck had she missed that? Oh yeah, dead father committing suicide on the subway.

  “Sarah picked it. I didn’t have time, but it’s perfect. She said the shoes are a treasure.”

  Serenity winced at what might be in the box. While she preferred simplicity and comfort, meaning jeans and shoes with rubber soles, Sarah’s taste in fashion was far more adventurous.

  “I’ll go flag down a cab and wait for you downstairs. Meter will be running.” He tapped his watch. After a kiss to her temple, he left.

  She opened the box and groaned, taking out a silk sheath dress the color of an overripe pumpkin on the cusp of decay. Why couldn’t Sarah have picked a neutral color?

  I can do this. For Evan. She fished in her bag for a piece of gum and chewed it while she changed. Eight minutes later, she wobbled to the taxi in three-inch heels, clickety-clacking up a storm and cursing Sarah.

  She slipped into the cab. “Sorry we’re so late.”

  “Let’s go.” Evan tapped the driver’s seat. “You’re the best, sweets.” He patted her knee. A half-conscious gesture of tepid thanks she’d grown used to receiving.

  Her gaze fell to the two-carat rock on her left hand. Gleaming in the fading golden light, the ring had the lovely sparkle of a gilded cage.

  “The dress is perfect. Do you like it?” Evan asked.

  If putrid were a color, this would be it. At her hesitation in responding, worry etched across his forehead in deep lines that threatened to splinter his confident façade.

  “It was thoughtful of you to buy it.” She forced the corners of her mouth up. As concern evaporated from his features, her heart lightened. Tonight would be stressful enough for him without her adding to his anxiety. “The scope of my fashion sense is limited to denim and cotton, but next time, please let Sarah know a simple black dress will do.”

  “I told Sarah I wanted you to stand out. You look fantastic…except for the hair. Can you do something with it? Maybe put it up.”

  She smoothed back her long, rebellious curls she had corralled in a ponytail. Fixing wild hair that refused to be tamed, while in a moving car without a mirror, wasn’t advisable, but after his third glance at her head, she gave in. She pulled off the elastic band and gathered her tresses into a twist, leaving curly stragglers around her face so any other loose strands she missed would appear deliberate.

  “Have you given more thought to the gallery’s offer?”

  She squelched a sigh before it slipped from her lips.

  “You’re wasting your talent slinging ink with Dougie.” Evan adjusted his cufflinks and tie. “It’s time to transition from tattoos to legitimate artist. We need to cultivate the right image.”

  “I don’t actually sling ink. Putting the tattoos on customers isn’t my job. I love my work at Soul Ink Designs and I don’t care what people think.”

  “Image is important to the firm. You are a reflection upon me. We’re a team. A few sacrifices on both sides are necessary, sweets. We need something to balance the tattoo thing.”

  He’d worked so hard to make partner, putting in seventy hours a week at the firm. He’d earned it and shouldn’t be held back by her. She squeezed his hand, remembering all the ways he’d supported her, been there through dark times when she had no else.

  “Becoming a partner is for both of us.” His Coca-Cola brown eyes brightened as he held her hand tighter. “We’ll be set. Soon I’ll be able to give you the kind of life you should have. You won’t have to work anymore, and you’ll have the best of everything.”

  “I like working. I don’t care about having more money. I don’t need—”

  “You deserve so much more, and I’m going to give it to you.”

  The cab lurched to a stop. He paid the driver, not waiting for change, and helped her out. In the elevator, she ran her hand across the exposed blemish on the back of her neck. More like a brand than a birthmark. She tugged a few strands free from her twist. The wisps of hair wouldn’t shield her mark, but the feel of curls brushing her skin boosted her confidence.

  “You look absolutely stunning. The updo highlights your elegance,” Evan said. “The fidgeting detracts. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your birthmark.”

  Digital numbers climbed to the top floor in a nauseating blur. The steel doors opened to the grand foyer of Rupert Dupree’s penthouse. Mounting dread simmered in the pit of her stomach. Stepping onto the marble floor, she slipped, but Evan caught her elbow. She stood upright and stroked his smooth, dimpled cheek as a silent thank you. Beaming, he held her arm as he guided her to the safety of Persian rugs.

  In a precarious world where one false step could land you on your butt or even your face, she could always depend on him to keep her from falling. He didn’t have the razzle-dazzle of a zealous lover, but passion was a seductive veneer of window dressing she simply didn’t need or trust. He was safe, and her rocky childhood had taught her one thing: A sense of security was an undervalued commodity.

  Plastering on a smile, she clutched her purse as they worked the living room, greeting his colleagues and bigwig clients. Meaningless chatter flowed through bleached smiles like static on a radio. All the while she tussled with her mind to forget about her dead father on the subway. An opportunity to escape opened in the dying laughter of some joke, and she seized it. She gave Evan a peck on the cheek and retreated to the bar at the opposite side of the room.

  Nursing a glass of Chardonnay, she drifted toward the seventeenth century Japanese tansu propped in the corner. Like her, the foreign piece was meant to adorn and impress, but didn’t fit in any more than she did. Future trophy wife. Damn Dougie.

  At the center of the party, Evan conversed with a casual flair he didn’t seem to possess when they were alone. Focused, vigilant, ever in constant pursuit of the perfect life with her—for her. This world of the fashion-conscious elite suited him.

  “Naughty of you to sneak in without saying hello,” said an unmistakable female voice behind her. The warm southern drawl was sweet as saccharin.

  Suppressing a grimace, she turned to greet Lila Dupree, the hostess.

  Lila held out her palm. “Let’s see it. The birdies
can’t stop chirping about your ring.”

  No point in resisting, Serenity yielded and allowed her to appraise it.

  At fifty-three, with a toned body and strong hands, Lila could have passed for forty. “De Beers? Cartier?”

  Recalling the robin’s egg blue box, Serenity said, “Tiffany’s.” Not that the size of the ring or where it’d been purchased mattered to her.

  Lila examined it from various angles. “Nice job, darling!” She pushed her empty glass toward the bartender and clinked her manicured talons against the crystal. “The martini should be dry, not my glass.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dupree.” The red-faced bartender whipped up another vodka martini.

  Lila took her drink and clamped a claw on Serenity’s shoulder, steering her back toward the hubbub. “So tell me, how did Evan finally conquer your aversion to marriage?”

  “He told me about Greg Reynolds’s car accident. His girlfriend couldn’t visit him in ICU because it’s family members only. What if something like that happened to one of us?”

  Every word Evan had spewed, as if making a closing argument, made sense, but a question lingered. What if more existed than tender affection that teased but never satisfied? Loneliness pricked her heart, but she shrugged off the romantic poppycock. She’d never gotten close to any of her foster parents, and Evan was her only family. The one constant in her life, steady as gravity.

  She needed stability, not roses or moonlit serenades, and certainly not the kind of volatile fire that could destroy an entire life.

  Lila swished the olive around in her glass. “Double congratulations. Evan told me about the offer from the Ellery Klein gallery. Thank goodness, you’ll be saved from that tattoo parlor.”

  “I don’t need to be saved from my studio.” Serenity hoped her smile didn’t soften the sharpness in her tone too much.

  “With the kind of publicity Klein can drum up, you’ll make a splash in the right circles. A gorgeous, supportive wife whose paintings are sold from a fine art gallery would complete the package for Evan, if you know what I mean.”