Her earnest face, white with fear, made her freckles stand out in high relief. She looked me in the eye. “Are you sure?”
I cupped her cheek. “Yes, Lulu, I’m sure. And I’m glad.”
She turned away, wagging her hands. “I think I am. Mostly. Yeah, I am. Where’s your family?”
“Long gone,” I said. “I don’t talk about them much.”
“Why not?”
I inhaled the sweet scents of the barn. “Because I was so little when they died, I don’t remember them.”
“That’s weird,” she said. “How can you not remember them?”
“It just is.” Claudia oinked in glee as I poured food into her bucket. “I wanted to—”
“You and Agent Larrimer are hunting my dad’s killer. I can help, you know.”
I peeked over the stall. “How?”
She gave me a thumbs up. “I’m great with computers.”
“Super. But you’re hiding things from me, Lulu, and that makes it hard for me to confide in you. Won’t you talk to me about it?”
“I… I’ve… But I deserve to help! He was my dad. You’re just jealous.”
I squeezed my eyes tight, shook my head. “I was never jealous, Lulu. Love isn’t expendable. The more you give, the more exists. Your dad loved me very much, but you were his treasure. Nothing and no one could ever change that.”
She slammed her hands on to her hips. “You don’t love me. You won’t let me help.”
“I don’t want to be glib or easy, but you’re in my heart. And that’s the truth. But you are keeping secrets that might help us find your dad’s killer. How am I supposed to get past that?”
Fear in those amethyst eyes of hers. Fear of change, of aloneness. And anger. “I can’t. I won’t.”
Shoulders hunched, she stomped off, copper braids trailing from the green cabled beanie.
Perhaps Lulu guarded her dad’s secrets so closely because, to her, they were the only private things left of him she had.
When I walked into the mudroom, she was waiting for me. I started taking off my boots. “You’d better get ready for school.”
She kicked a nonexistent speck of dirt. “I’m sorry. Dad always said I had a temper. He hated when I ‘flounced’ out. That’s what he called it.”
“It’s okay.” I gave her a quick hug.
Her eyes probed mine.
I held them, saying nothing, waiting for her to pursue the silence, to open up.
She kissed my cheek and left, and I inhaled a long, stuttering breath.
Larrimer had made me coffee again. Small kindnesses. Yeah, talk about getting to my heart. I carried my mug to my office, intent on inputting my notes from the previous night. Ha. Some gala.
The door to my office was open maybe three inches, and a funny squeaking came from inside. I toed the door a hair wider. Larrimer had shoved all the furniture against the walls and rolled up the carpet. He danced around the room, feet shoulder-wide, elbows bent close to his body, barefooted, barechested, rocking black flowy pants, a stout sword in his right hand. In the early morning light, sweat glistened on that intense face, sheened his shoulders, and covered his broad chest. He lunged and thrust, parried and twirled and leapt, all while wielding a blade maybe two feet long, carved at the end like a Bowie knife, with a curved hilt.
His form of ballet.
He plucked a second, longer sword off the day bed and continued the dance.
Back and forth, around and around, the blades blurred as he moved faster and faster. I focused my senses, and his intensity arced through me. No thoughts, no words, his mind a laser on an invisible opponent more real than I. Long moments passed as the power, the grace, the man held me spellbound.
Otherworldly.
He perceived a watcher, started to turn.
I shielded my senses and backpedaled down the hall.
n hour later, Larrimer and I were headed to Dalesboro and The Fish Dish. On the way, we stopped to retrace our steps from the previous night, hoping to find some evidence dropped by last evening’s nasty group of predators. We separated, Larrimer at one end, me at the other, to meet in the middle. When he was out of sight, I took a small detour by the tripod tree. Soon, I came upon the big rock, far closer to the path than I imagined, and smiled at the child’s memory. I walked around the rock and just stared at the same immense granite outcropping. I took a few minutes to search, but found no cave. I ran back to the path.
No clues, no cave, no joy.
The Fish Dish’s site said the place served breakfast, as well as dinner. On the way over, after Larrimer handed me the ripped shawl he’d found on the path, I’d shown him the card I’d snuck from Blondie. All it said was, Wild Things. Short and well… short.
“No hits on the Web relating to anything that might interest us.” I handed it over to him. “Maybe your techs will find something.”
“I’ll recheck my notes,” he said. “But I don’t remember that phrase.”
“Anouk said the trafficked animals aren’t The Master’s…” I did air quotes. “End game.”
“And what if that woman’s purpose was to put you off the trail?”
“In her own strange way, I think she wants to help. Are you a Game of Thrones fan?”
Up went the eyebrow.
“I love it,” I said. “Especially the dragons. You remind me, sometimes, of those dragons. Which is why I think of you as dragon dude.”
His lips twitched. “I’m not a dude.”
“So you admit you’re a dragon.” I sipped my coffee, thought about it. “Most of the time, you’re like a sleepy one. All banked fire.”
“And you know dragons how?”
I laughed. “I have my ways.”
“Most would bite your head off.”
I pictured all sorts of interesting things. “You wouldn’t. You’re one of those gimlet-eyed, secret-hoarding breeds.”
Just like a dragon, he huffed out a breath. And the coffee I was swallowing spewed through my nose and onto the dashboard. “Gross.”
“Precisely.”
We turned onto Dalesboro’s West Main Street and parked in front of number eleven, a small building with a painted rainbow trout on the window.
Inside, intimate tables flanked red walls, with an aisle down the middle. The sign said Seat Yourself, and we took a table by the window.
The server left after he’d poured Larrimer’s tea and my coffee, which couldn’t hold a candle to his. Larrimer frowned at the menu.
“You don’t like fish?” I asked.
“Not much.”
“They have steak and eggs.”
“Which is what I plan to order,” he said, stoic-faced, but eyes smiling.
“If Roberto’s here, he might poison us.”
He shook his head. “Too subtle.”
I chuckled. “An understatement. I’m going for the bagel with cream cheese and Nova lox. Technically, I’m a piscatarian.”
“Nasty.”
He turned away, watching the street with that intense concentration of his, while he stroked a finger down his long scar. I studied him. He’d showered, donned a fresh button-down shirt and jeans. I stretched my mind to sense him, and found twilight waters, a tranquil sea. How could he shield so well?
Most people I instinctively sensed, for good or ill. With others, I had to make a deliberate effort. But I seldom had to work hard at it. Larrimer was an odd man out. Twice, I’d glimpsed conflict, shocked at the cauldron boiling beneath the surface. Now all I felt was that contained calm. Before the storm? The thought came unbidden.
He shied from my touch. I was a touchy-feely kind of girl, I missed that skin-to-skin contact, particularly since we’d formed a friendship of sorts. Did I wish for more? Yes.
Sometimes, I’d catch him watching me in that way a man’s eyes follow a woman, a woman he craves. Did he desire me as much as I did him? But if I were honest, the pull reached deeper, beyond sex, beyond friendship. And yet when his flesh met mine, he bristled.
He shifted his focus back to me. “What?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” I smiled.
He didn’t return it. Dragon dude was back.
As we finished our meal, I spoke to the server. “I’d love to meet the owner. Compliment him on an amazing breakfast.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. “Mrs. Krupnik isn’t here.”
“I thought someone named Roberto owned The Fish Dish.”
The server sniffed. “You probably mean our line cook, Roberto Peres.” His description of a portly man fit “our” Roberto.
“Likes cigars?” I asked.
“That would be him. I should have said, former line cook. He’s no longer with us.” He piled our plates into his hands and cleared them away.
Larrimer tossed a fifty onto the table, and when the server returned, said, “Keep the change.”
The tip was more than the meal, and the server’s mouth dropped. He scooped up the fifty.
“Where did Roberto go?” Larrimer asked.
The server grimaced. “Who knows?”
“You do.” Larrimer’s eyes snared his.
And whatever the server had seen, he took a clean napkin from the stack and wrote.
The Adept’s Den.
“You didn’t hear it from me. More coffee?”
“No,” I said. “We’re all set.”
Back home, we sat in the kitchen while Larrimer phoned Bernadette’s and Lulu’s invisible watcher and I did a Web search for The Adept’s Den on my iPad.
“Bernadette’s upstairs,” he said. “Lulu’s at school. All’s well.”
“All’s not well here.” I turned to him. “I got nothing.”
He pulled his chair closer and looked over my shoulder. “Businesses have to file permits, liquor licenses.”
“Like I said, nada. I’ll put out some feelers around town.”
“Don’t. It’ll connect us too closely,” he said.
Minutes later, he left for Boston. To meet Bob? Another question that went unasked. I wanted Larrimer to open that spigot.
Hours later, Bernadette’s nagging about the coating of ice made me put on my YakTrax to muck out the stalls. Once engaged in that timeworn task, instead of contemplating The Master, the chest, and magic treasure, I kept mulling over questions I’d like to ask Larrimer, like why he’d left the FBI, what were his favorite foods and books and movies and did he ride horses. Totally off-topic. I spread more of the fresh straw and pictured his big body covering mine, him touching my hair, my breasts, licking and lapping and me touching his shoulders, his chest, his… Hell, that was off topic, too.
I checked my phone. Larrimer had texted he’d be back in a few. I began pitchforking hay around the next stall.
A laborious sort of grinding alerted me to someone struggling with our icy driveway. I leaned the pitchfork against the wall and went out to help.
Wheels spinning, the UPS truck was stuck mid-way.
“Hey, Todd!” I trotted down the drive, my YakTrax keeping me on my feet.
“I hate winter,” he said.
“It’s who we are.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Still hate it, though.”
“I’ve got some sand in the shed. Let me—”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll back down.” He handed me a brown envelope, the return address a scribble, then gave me his machine to sign.
“Thanks.” I turned to go.
“Wait up, Clea. You looked pretty last night.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I’m sorry we didn’t get to dance.”
“You, ah, you going to the contra dance down to Nelson next Monday night?”
I rocked back on my heels. “Um, I don’t think so, Todd. Sorry.”
He flushed. “No point in feeling sorry. You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Nice guy, no chemistry.
I headed for the house. Grace tumbled around the corner, right into me. Flew onto her back.
“Gracie! Geesh!”
Bang! And then, the wail of brakes. I spun around. Todd’s truck was sliding down the icy driveway, one of its tires blown, headed right toward the school bus stopped to let out some kids, including Lulu.
“Shit!” I shouted. “Turn the wheel! Turn the wheel!”
He was, but the truck twisted, still screeching, still moving, now perpendicularly to the drive.
The bus screamed a prolonged honk, air brakes hissing. It tried to back up, except there wasn’t time or room, with a line of cars idling behind it, in front of it. It was trying to turn, but couldn’t.
I ran, kept running, but I could do nothing, nothing as the UPS truck become a metal avalanche.
Like a burst hive, yellow- and blue- and pink-jacketed kids erupted from the bus, scrambling away, out of the path of the truck.
And there was Lulu’s red hair flaming behind her as she half-dragged a boy in a cast.
I wanted to shout her name. But that would only make her pause, make things worse.
A shouted, “No!” behind me. Bernadette.
I could do nothing. Nothing.
And then the truck was crashing into the bus, first the right fender, then in slow motion pushing the front of the bus away from the side of the road.
I stopped, horrified, as the bus veered toward Lulu and the boy. Screeching, incredible noise, the bus relentlessly swerving closer and closer, and Lulu diving for the boy, using him as sort of a sled, trying to push them out of the bus’s path.
Panic consumed me.
The world stopped. Time stopped. The bus slid toward the two kids on the ground.
Remember the Magics. The Magics. Trust your feelings. Bold, like a Jedi.
And the world vanished. The bus, the kids, Bernadette, the truck.
Right hand, thumb out, palm open, open to the magics. Gather, gather. I hold out my hand and push.
I scream as a chain of fiery spirals encircles my wrist. I ride the panic. And then I see nothing, feel nothing, but swirly lights. White-gold fireflies swarm from my palm, forming the classic Waterlily lace pattern, scents of citrus and cedar, and thousands of lace Waterlilies surround the truck, the bus, and I pull with my mind, tight, tighter.
Nothing happens! The slide continues, relentless toward Lulu, the boy.
I gasp, stagger. Fight! Gather! Or Lulu will die!
And the UPS truck stops. But the bus continues on and on and…
I pull, muscles straining, pull at the fireflies, and the Waterlilies web and tighten and close, and the bus slows, slows. Stops.
I blink, I breathe, and Lulu moves. Alive!
Scorching pain arched my back. I fell to my knees, hands slapping icy ground, wasps stinging up my arms, enveloping my head, my torso, my legs. Blinding, cutting, consuming. It hurt so bad. Yet the power had felt so damn good. I swayed, the world a mirage, distant.
“Clea!”
A shout. But, oh gods, I burned.
I was scooped up. I screamed, skin on fire, head lolling.
I can’t see. I can’t see!
“Lulu,” I said, voice thready.
“She’s okay.” Larrimer, moving lightning.
I hurt. Everything hurt. Midges biting, prickles everywhere.
He laid me on something soft. “Can’t… catch… breath.”
Larrimer’s fury surged over me.
Pain. Pain!
Gone. A hand smoothed my hair again and again. “Ssshh.”
Calm. Yes. Calm.
My breathing reset, pain receding, and it was better. Soothing.
A cool cloth wiped my forehead.
“There,” he said. “There.”
I opened eyes weighted with lead. “Better.”
Larrimer, stroking my face with the cloth. “Jesus. Your tears. Blood. They were blood.” Larrimer, face taut. “What the hell did you do?”
“Do?” The taste of blood in my mouth. I reached for the towel, wanting to wipe it away.
Instead, he smoothed it over my lips, my n
ose, my cheeks. “You’re bleeding everywhere, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m better.” Sort of.
He cupped my head and kissed me fierce and hard and long, tasting my blood, tasting me, tasting everything.
I hung on to his storm, gave mine to him, and when he released me, I felt bereft. I opened my eyes to see his, tempests of blue.
“James, I’m okay.” My right hand, where I gripped him, had bloodied his shirt. I ran a palm down his arm, and a Celtic spiral, black and dotted with blood, twined around my wrist. “James?”
Bernadette appeared carrying a bowl of water. She got down on her knees and stared, a bright white towel draped across her arm.
Larrimer dampened the fresh towel, went to wipe my face, but he shoved the towel into her hands and strode from the room.
I sat up, too abruptly, and dizziness nailed me.
“Lie down!” Bernadette ordered.
“James,” I croaked after him.
“Leave him be. Sonny boy needs to release his personal pressure cooker.” She wiped my face, strokes slow and even.
I’d think she was all business if her hand wasn’t trembling.
Long minutes later, I pushed myself to a sitting position.
Bernadette held up a finger and took my pulse, nodded. She reached for her blood pressure cuff and took that, too. “Open your mouth.”
I did as commanded, and she searched with a tongue depressor until I gagged.
“Here,” she said.
I drank the water she handed me, cool, with ice, the way I liked it.
Next, she flicked on a penlight and pointed it at one eye, then the other.
She snapped a nod. “You’ll do.”
“The accident?”
“No one hurt badly, thank the gods.” Bernadette folded the bloodied towels. “Bus stopped just in time.” She packed away her emergency kit.
Hadn’t she seen the fireflies? Had Larrimer? Had anyone? My mind fissured.
I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. The burning, the prickles had subsided. Other than feeling like I’d been flattened by a truck, things seemed to be in working order.
“I wouldn’t look in the mirror if I were you,” she said.
Her frown told me it wasn’t good. “Because…?”
“Your eyes are blood red. Like a manticore’s. All the vessels, burst. I assume you can see well enough.”
Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Page 17