Around six the following morning, well before a watery sun peeked over Mt. Cranadnock, I rolled out of bed. I was exhausted, had barely slept. My mind had traveled over and over Larrimer’s words.
How could they do that, transform death into a man? The science, I’d never understand. The cruelty, that I got. Users. They were users.
I ached for him, for his grief at a lost life, for his lack of choice, for his self-loathing. For the spirit inside him that he failed to see.
I thought, too, about his touch. I longed for it. The pads of my fingers traced my lips. I wanted him more than any man I’d ever known. Not one word he’d told me had changed that.
Maybe, because it didn’t feel real. Maybe, because it was another freaky thing atop all the others. Maybe, because I didn’t care what he was, but who he was.
In the middle of the night, I’d heard him dancing with his swords in his room beneath my bedroom. I’d felt him, too, his energy, his passion, his anger, above a low thread of desperation. Oh, his shields were titanium, not that I’d tried to get inside, but his leaks of emotion, they’d been precisely what Dave had trained me to read. I could have blocked them out, but Larrimer made me hungry. So very hungry.
I pulled on some cargoes and a turtleneck, then reached for my gun on the night table, my backup Glock.
Larrimer coffeed me up, and we slipped into a routine in the barn. He was good with the animals. Being Larrimer, he said nothing about our conversation. Questions bubbled my brain, about his past, where he was from, a thousand things. But I respected his silence.
I caught him looking at me. Covertly. After what he told me, was he wondering if I found him disgusting? Saw him as a thing? A monster? The Freak.
In fact, I found him a little bit magical. Boy, he’d be horrified if I told him that.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked.
I snuck a hand into my pocket and pulled out the large, black mitts I’d knit for him. Made from a fine, hardy wool, I’d soaked them in Eucalan last night and let them dry. They were soft now, yet strong, like the man.
“Here.” I handed him the mitts.
He put them on and flexed his fingers. “They fit.”
“Of course.”
He turned away. Blam went the rubber mallet on the next bucket of ice. Crackles sounded as he topped off Clem’s water.
“You knit them,” he said, not looking at me.
“I did.” I added fresh hay to Clem’s hayrack and slipped him an apple.
“They feel good. Thank you.”
I didn’t need to be an empath to feel his quiet joy.
Back inside, Larrimer disappeared into the office. I refilled the woodstove. Someday, I swore, I’d have oil or gas heat. I was sick of emptying the ash in the morning, lugging it outside to a burn-safe container, then filling the woodbox.
Lulu. Something would break soon. It had to.
After I showered, I sat on the sofa with my coffee and iPad, and pulled up the emailed images of the invitation and the box I’d taken at Ronan’s house. The picture told me nothing of the box. But the invitation was pure platinum.
An invite for The Adept’s Den, the address, Asheville, a mere two towns away. I mapped the street view. The old brick factory they’d transformed into condos and commercial space.
Coupled with Roberto, the calligraphy, and Ronan’s father, I liked it. I liked it a lot.
So did Larrimer, who said his techs would duplicate a card. He was even sort of excited.
Next, I called my sometime wood supplier, Buzzy Benhoff, my Asheville local who knew all there was to know about the town.
Given Asheville’s size, there wasn’t that much.
Buzzy said the private club was a chi-chi place, mostly out-of-towners, but everyone who entered wore “pricey duds.” Jewels, fast cars, big money. After much cajoling, he admitted he’d tried to get in once, but failed. He swore a blue streak about the bouncers. If they were like Blondie, I could imagine.
The club held a supper party, invitation only, once a week.
If they kept to the pattern, the next one would be on Wednesday, two days hence.
Would the techs be able to duplicate the card that quickly and get it to us? Larrimer assured me they would.
Whoooeeee!
In the laundry room, I retrieved my bloodied jeans and pulled the splinters of Ronan’s and Lulu’s box from a pocket. Feathery tingles zipped up and down my hands, making me drop them. I massaged my hands. They felt fine. Normal. Like hands.
Gingerly, I used my thumb and index finger to pick up the largest fragment. More tingles, not unpleasant, like a gentle, soft wave undulating up and down my skin, reaching for my wrist.
It might not be the chest, but it was a something. A thing of power. Yes, that fit.
“Shit!” The Celtic spirals crawled around my right wrist and glowed. They freaking glowed.
Determined. Insistent. I pushed power out. Dammit, I would see those glowy fireflies.
Not one appeared. Gurrr. Next time. I might be sick of failure, but I wouldn’t give up.
I had knowledge in this brain of mine, and memories, and they’d surfaced at the most unexpected times. Someday, I’d grasp all of it.
Well, listen to me, all Ms. Magic about stuff. Whatever was happening to me, whatever extraordinary thing was going on, I vowed to matter-of-factly accept it, learn from it, absorb it.
I was a Mage. Yes, a Mage. Own it, kiddo.
Hell, next I’d start spouting life-and-death pronouncements and profound haiku.
Dammit, I needed Anouk to tell me the real deal. The retwining worlds. The hows and the whys. After. Yeah, after we found Lulu and the chest and The Master.
I continued to clutch the splinter of wood, its feathery tingles almost pleasant, and watched my glowing spiral for a long, long time.
When Larrimer materialized behind me, all cool intensity, I pocketed the wood and looked over my shoulder.
He wore a navy t-shirt, jeans, boots, jagged hair almost brushing his shoulders. Gorgeous. Lethal. Mine.
“What’s up?” I asked, going all casual.
“I’m getting Ronan from the hospital. He wants some stuff at his house, too.”
I stood on tiptoe, slipped a hand around the back of his neck, and kissed his chin, which was all I could reach. After a long moment, he wrapped his arms around my ass and lifted me, and we kissed, long and deep.
I finally broke the kiss. After all, I needed to breathe. “Be safe.”
“You, too.”
You’re going down, mistah. I baggied the wood splinters and tucked them into my top dresser drawer. You just don’t know it yet.
y Wednesday, we’d gotten everything into place, including settling Ronan at Sparrow Farm. Given her level of confusion, Bernadette was now in Pine Valley Rehab on the hospital campus, undergoing further tests. They said it might be a bleed in her brain, but it could have a bunch of other causes, too. My thoughts went to magic, which sounded less and less nonsensical these days. About Lulu, we’d learned or heard nothing. Forensics gleaned precisely zilch from Bernadette’s Jeep or the icy lake. Her kidnappers had gotten away clean. The barn was almost as bad, offering little but some ubiquitous industrial carpet fibers and a few hairs that produced no DNA matches.
In a few hours, Larrimer and I would attend the weekly “do” at the The Adept’s Den. I was nervous, jittery—we were finally doing something—but once I started my transformation, I’d settle.
I’d always been a chameleon, inherently cool with dress up and roleplay, which was why I often used costumes, along with my knitting, in my work as an interrogator. Plenty of people in the area knew me, so I’d deemed it wise to radically change my appearance.I polished my toes pink and applied fake nails, also pink. I donned a wavy brunette wig crowned by a topknot, a darker base, brown contacts, pink lipstick, and a rented green satin evening dress that arrived, along with the invitation, from Larrimer’s agency. I’d Amazoned a pair of topaz chandelier earrin
gs, dripping with stars—my homage to Lulu. I dabbed on perfume and, voila! Sofia Vergara! Okay, not exactly. But still.
Two hours after that first flick of polish, I walked down the stairs, all tentative steps and care, having squished my feet into a pair of loathsome spiked heels. I now stood an acceptable five foot nine. At the bottom of the staircase, Larrimer waited, looking every inch the suave desperado in a black suit, unlit stogie in hand, hair curled and enhanced with product. His clipped beard and mustache, and a small gold ring in his left ear added to the jaunty effect. Different enough that any folks from the gala wouldn’t recognize him.
And a misty image of another man, hair honied blond, Roman-nosed, laughing eyes, wearing a gold earring.
Not again. But there it was in Technicolor.
Da. He wore an earring, too, when he’d argued with Mam about my calico kitten. He’d won, and I’d kept her. She’d found me after the explosion.
Meow. Our calico kitty threaded through Larrimer’s legs. Different markings, but so like my kitten.
“Clea.” Larrimer held out his hand.
I smiled. “Don’t you look the pirate.” I gave him my five digits and he bent, turned my hand and kissed my palm.
Like a flaming arrow, heat shot from those lips to the juncture of my thighs. Not tonight. Sigh.
“Not so bad yourself.” His eyes promised the devil.
“I’ll show you mine,” I said with a purr. “If you show me yours.”
He grinned, and pointed to his ankle. “Gun, right, knife, left. A semi tucked in my shoulder holster.”
“Sexy.” I licked my lips, pointed. “Thigh knife, right. Gun, left thigh.” I showed him the slits in my gown, so my weapons would be in my hands in seconds. I held my topknot in place and pulled out my five-inch-long “sticker.” “I hope I don’t have to use it and ruin my coif.”
“That would be a shame.” He winked and handed me the invitation.
“It looks perfect.” I tugged on buttery leather gloves that reached above my elbows. “No gloves tonight?”
“In my pocket.” He thrust out his arm, I took it, and we were off to the ball.
Twenty minutes later, we turned right off Main Street in our rented Beemer and into the Asheville Mill complex. A man in a tux checked invitations before admitting cars through the gates to the lot, where valets parked them. In minutes, we made it to the first checkpoint. Larrimer handed over our invitation. I held my breath. Mr. Tux flashed two lights, one ultraviolet, at the vellum. He waved us on.
“Your guys used blood in the invitation ink,” I said.
“They did.”
A blazered young man took our keys and gave us a retrieval tag.
“Do me a favor.” Larrimer slipped the boy a fifty. “Don’t block us in.”
“You got it, mister.”
I hooked my arm in Larrimer’s and we headed toward the dimly lit entrance with the discreet sign The Adept’s Den above the door.
Laughter floated on the night air, infused with contained excitement and high anxiety. I snuck glances at the guests. Vibes of entitlement enveloped me like a prickly cloak.
Voices grew louder as we neared the entrance, where a greeter bent over each woman and kissed her hand. Next he shook the hand of her escort. When he spoke to a man in a black scarf, I stopped.
I dragged Larrimer into the shadows beneath a balcony. “You can’t go in. The greeter. It’s Blondie from the gala. Even with your altered appearance, he might recognize you.”
He stiffened. “I doubt it.”
“It’s not worth the risk.” I stood on tiptoe and patted his cheek. “I’ll go in alone.”
“Fuck it.” Larrimer stilled, his gears churning, possibilities being born and discarded. “Let’s go. We’ll come back for next week’s party. I’ll wear a thorough disguise.” He wrapped a hand around my upper arm.
I dug in my heels. “This is our only lead on Lulu right now. It took me two frigging hours to get this dolled up. Blondie won’t recognize me. I’m going in.”
His eyes incinerated me. “No.”
I kicked his shin, snatched the invitation, and ran down the drive toward the entrance and Blondie. Well, ran as fast as I could in a pair of five-inch stilettos.
Larrimer’s wrath burned a hole in my back. But he didn’t follow.
I bit my lip. I felt bad for kicking him. Sort of. Oh hell.
A faint glow from faux candles lit the path as I walked to the back of the line. Two couples queued behind me, chatting softly, and in front of me a woman dripped enough emeralds to fund several Habitat for Humanity homes. Her partner, wearing a tux so ill-fitting it hurt, had a fleshy face, an orange tan, and a look of hungry greed I’d seen before.
Blondie nodded them in, and then, it was my turn.
I’d danced with this man. He’d held me close, kissed my shoulder, tried to kill me. Little things like that.
“M’lady,” Blondie said. My gloved hand held steady when he lifted it to his lips. His eyes never left mine.
I smiled, not too broadly, as if a flunky kissing me was tolerated, but annoying. Like I was privileged. Like I mattered more than anyone here.
He pointed to the glam girl standing in the shadow, who held a basket lined with velvet.
“Phone, please.”
I wasn’t thrilled, but I’d anticipated the move and brought an unused, but carefully populated, burner. After I deposited the burner, I handed Blondie my invitation.
He lost his obsequious smile, all business as he shone two lights on it. “Your invitation is for two?”
I sighed, and in a sweet Georgia accent said, “Yes. Unfortunately, at the last moment, my Ronnie couldn’t make it.” I looked straight at him. I’d told him the truth. Mostly.
His lifeless stare almost undid me.
Eons later, Blondie nodded again and laid my invitation in my outstretched hand. “Enjoy.”
I let my smile peek, just a bit. “I intend to.”
He turned to the couple behind me, and I stepped inside, relief flooding my system.
I passed through the anteroom, where a woman took my wrap, then into the main salon, all old brick and weathered floorboards and twinkly lights. An intricate crystal chandelier hung from the ten-foot ceiling crossed with sturdy beams.
Stunning. But I’d expected nothing less. A maître d’ guided me across the first dining salon, filled with about seventy-five guests, through a brick archway and into a second, smaller salon. Here, I counted a dozen tables, and wondered what differed on my invite to get me ushered into this more exclusive pasture. My money was on the blood.
Ivory linen draped square tables set with thick napkins, delicate porcelain plates, Sterling flatware, and cut-crystal stemware. The lighting was soft candlelight, the ambiance soothing. The room dripped elegance, simplicity, and refinement, as opposed to the overdone opulence of the diners.
I followed the maître d’, and we threaded our way around banquet tables piled high with hors d’oeuvres and bottles of wine. He waved toward the place settings and indicated I could take whichever I wished.
I scanned the room. Far to my right, Mrs. Funeral Director Shatzkin sat across from a breathtaking man with ebony skin. Surprise, surprise. So much for a widow’s grief.
Across from her, wearing a smug smile, Selectman Kip Alvarise touched his wineglass to his lips. His sadness for his wife had been real. People were never simple equations.
I gestured toward the back, to my left, and we arrived at a corner table set for four, all the seats empty. The maître d’ drew out a tapestried chair that faced the wall. I shook my head and took the one facing the room. “My preference, if you don’t mind.”
He smiled and bowed, then removed the fourth place setting.
“For you,” I said and slipped him a fifty. “Thank you.”
On occasions like this, when I inhabited a persona, I could do meat. But I said a prayer that a place of this quality would also serve vegetarian fare.
Everyone else
in the room must have paid a small fortune for entrance to tonight’s “party.” A Cabernet sat on the table, and I filled my glass and sniffed. I was no wine aficionado, but it smelled “off.” Or maybe it was the vibe of giddy excitement that leaked into my personal space. So far, nothing felt strange or special. But Blondie was here, and that equaled danger.
To keep my profile low, I didn’t bother with the hors d’oeuvres, but a side of Larrimer would’ve helped. I’d have liked his take on the room, the setup. Then again, he’d ticked me off. No, he’d ordered. My ass.
Of course, I’d pissed him off and kicked him. Maybe he’d strangle me on the way home.
The room continued to fill, and a couple joined me at the table, a woman in floor-length red velvet gown and a man in a bespoke suit. They ignored me, although the woman’s lips parted when she spied my earrings.
Cubic zirconia at its finest. I smiled my airhead smile, and she sniffed and turned to her date. And that was that.
The atmosphere ratcheted up a notch.
The brick wall almost directly behind me had two arched alcoves, one on each end. I assumed one led to the kitchen, but the other made me curious. From time to time, the maître d’ would walk a singleton or a couple to the arch. I reapplied my lipstick, using my mirror to watch the alcove. A couple approached with the maître d’. Hidden in the alcove, I caught the outline of a beefy man cradling what looked like an Uzi. The maître d’ held out their invitation, as if showing it to the hidden guard. Then the couple walked into the darkness. I angled the mirror as light spilled across the alcove when the goon held the door, and I glimpsed a room with a single banquet table. And just before the door swooshed closed, another beefy tuxedoed man standing sentinel. Heavy muscle.
So there was yet a third tier to The Adept’s Den. One guarded with goons and guns.
I snapped my compact closed.
When I raised my eyes, I caught Alvarise staring at me like I was a prime side of beef. Shit. Except then he bit his lip and returned his attention to his date. Interesting. He hadn’t been longing for me, but for the arched alcove behind me.
Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Page 24