America had been just as dangerous a prospect for her mother during the Second World War, with the peril of internment camps or bouts of suspicion-driven violence. Her parents hadn’t wanted to risk their glamour failing them in a country where the diminished perception of their worth would have sorely drained their powers, leaving them weakened enough to endanger their and their daughter’s lives. Even her okaasan and baba could perish, especially without the magick of human belief to strengthen them. Ari didn’t like to think on it, but death could find and claim the gods too—even if the search took longer than normal.
She had not forgotten her parents’ trepidation in that age of a very different United States. Nor could she forget the man. He was an indelible etching on her memory. The image of his lean muscular legs stretched into the aisle of the train car, his bearing and appearance caught somewhere between Russian aristocracy and Gypsy—odd, incongruent. Enthralling.
His seat within the car had placed him too far away to guess the color of his eyes, but his aura held gravitational pull and had set off uncontrollable facial tics. Ari had connected to his energy, to him. The sensation had been like the discovery of an unused limb, one that had atrophied but would soon become strong through use. She felt the man as a part of herself.
A hundred years or so later, somewhen during Reagan’s reign, she had seen him for the second time—Rigoletto at the San Francisco Opera. The lights in the gallery had begun to blink, signaling the audience to take their seats. Her twitching nose synced itself to the flickering lights as forewarning of a much more significant event, and the man had emerged from between a pair of arguing critics.
Black-tie Armani, before it had become passé, tailored impeccably with a red cravat to illustrate personal flare. The man was a thing of epic pulchritude.
Instant regression into that ole Orient Express shyness. Black magick indeed.
Ari hadn’t bothered to excuse herself. She’d stiffly strode to the bathroom and locked herself inside a water closet. No amount of pleading or compulsion from her mother drew her out of those chichi theater toilets that night. Only magick sufficed. She still had a burn mark on her booty as evidence of Inari’s ire.
“Am I to guess, from your silence, you did not expect to be found?”
Ari snapped out of her remembrance to meet aquamarine eyes. Their connection hadn’t faded. “Ahh, okay, you’re a Medved. Aren’t you?”
The man looked down at himself and back to her. “Could there be doubts?”
None at all. Ari cursed herself for relying on the dossier her client provided. She’d rested on her laurels because of her busy schedule rather than researching the Medveds herself. She wasn’t usually so careless. What a fine way to land in the pot, nose twitching and rear exposed.
After nearly a century of screwing up in the family business, before giving up and proving herself useful as a returner, Ari had finally grown up enough not to be intimidated by the man. She might’ve been bold enough to woo him. Unfortunately they’d been brought together on the night she’d retrieved something from his home…Hold on.
“Why did you follow me? I retrieved the statue fair as fey.”
“Stole, vorovka.” Off her puzzled look he clarified. “Vorovka means—” he rolled a hand in the air, “—thief. You stole our statue. Return it now.”
“Maks?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it. You had to be the middle Medved. You’re seriously surly. Everyone says.”
“Storied folk do not think I am surly.”
“Oh yeah they do, middleman. Mean and surly.” Ari laughed. “I’m only kidding about the mean.”
Crickets.
She shook her head and exhaled. “Take the truth like a big boy and pull up your underoos.”
“I do not wear superhero-themed underwear. I prefer the boxer briefs.”
It was bad enough beholding him in the upscale plaid shirt he wore—fitted through the waist with snapped shoulder tabs accentuating the breadth of his body, several buttons undone at the chest—the hair on his chin far from a beard but more than stubble, his dark hair windswept… Breathe, girl. Did he need to mention boxer briefs? Her nose twitched at a vision of him in his undies. Cutting off your nose to spite your face made so much sense now.
“I didn’t need to know that, Maksim.”
“I did not need to be called surly. We are even.” He relaxed in his chair. Mimicking her memory of his reclined pose on the train, he sprawled his legs beneath the table, one arm on top and the other thrown across the knee of his olive cargo pants.
A busboy carrying a tray bent to clean up the spilled dishes from the floor and Maks turned his attention away from the conversation. Picking a cookie from the aloft tray, he took a sniff and furrowed his brow at Ari.
“What kind of creature commandeers a man’s baked goods from his home?”
“One with good taste.” She impetuously swiped the cookie from his hand and chomped the treat like the cross-eyed blue monster from the famous children’s show.
Cripes, she needed a nap. Her mother would’ve died had she witnessed the “filthiness of eating food from the floor,” but Ari could flinch and possibly hurl later. Right now she needed to regain control.
Maks opened his mouth and a long feminine sigh came out. His brows drew together comically and he turned in his chair. Ari’s gaze shadowed his movement and found an ancient Faeble actually doing the sighing.
The female had the air of a Greek, from the jet waves of her hair and the warm cream of her complexion, right down to her modern one-shoulder top and its rows of ruffles, emulating draping. The Greek clearly hadn’t tasted her coffee but she stirred the cup in unceasing circuits, her eyes as empty as the cup was full. The pale blue of the skin beneath her lower lashes matched the top she wore in a sad show of fashion fabulousity.
The troubles of one so old were difficult to comprehend, yet Ari empathized with the longing the Faeble breathed out with each sigh. Ari couldn’t recall what the ancient one called herself. The word forlorn kept coming to mind in place of a name.
Maks turned back and started to speak again. Whatever he’d planned to say was lost to an escalating argument between the ovoid man and his gnome companion.
The pair stood up as though added elevation would lend validity to their viewpoints. The shouting blared incomprehensibly, enraging the gnome enough to headbutt the ovoid. The egg-man toppled. Sputtering with indignity, he waved his stumpy arms while the entire café held their breaths, waiting for the yolk to hit the fan. Tragedy lost out to back fat; rolls upon rolls of cushiony fat on the back of a corpulent Faeble broke the egg-man’s fall. The save and subsequent bounce averted a trip to the ER but kicked off another argument.
This time the gnome and the ovoid ganged up on the corpulent male for getting in the way. They gave him a piece of their now unified minds. The pair’s bullying didn’t sit well with the human woman at the corpulent Faeble’s table. She stood, letting loose a stream of litigious verbiage starting with “We’ll sue” and progressing with copious amounts of Latin. So much so the café bouncer—a pretty goblin maiden with shoulders like tree stumps—punched the woman smack in the mouth. Clearly the bouncer suspected spell casting was afoot.
Ari figured the punch was a necessary precaution. Legalese sounded a lot like ensorcelling. A serious no-no in public. Humans should be more careful. All Faeble establishments had bouncers. The concept of behaving properly was as ludicrous to the storied folk as dying of old age. The human woman clearly didn’t understand the bouncer had only done her duty. Resistance ensued in the form of more legalese, which earned the woman a black eye to go with her fat lip.
Ari’s eyes lit up with the sheer mayhem of it all. She looked to Maks to see if he enjoyed the shenanigans as much as she did.
She was sorely disappointed. The middle Medved’s expression remained serious. One might call him brooding and Ari didn’t have the kind of teenage girl fanaticism to appreciate brooding. No matter ho
w ruggedly hot her crush happened to be.
Maks covered his face and breathed visibly. Seconds passed before he dropped the hand.
“Return the statue so I may go,” he said, projecting his voice over the cacophony.
“You know I can’t give you something that doesn’t belong to you. The sculpture has been repossessed, middleman. Let it go.” She watched him for acquiescence. There was none. “Please?”
Maks flexed and curled his fingers then released them to lay his palms on the table. “This statue was carved by my father from resin meant for the Amber Room. For him, it was a symbol of his affection for my mother. He used it to court and win her. Are you understanding?”
He paused and stood. His palms remained pressed to the table. “If it does not belong to me and my brothers it does not belong anywhere. You have stolen the heart of our family.”
Ari blinked up at him. She did not doubt his words. Could not. Something was very wrong with this job. Yet as much as she wanted to give the sculpture back, it did not belong to the Medved family anymore. Returner powers didn’t lie.
“Maks, I apologize. Something has happened. If it still belonged to you I couldn’t have taken it.”
He snarled, a decidedly ursine sound. Ari paused and cast him a sideways glance. “If you’re planning on fighting me I’d rather we skip it. Let’s just pretend we battled it out and I won.”
He looked askance. She seized the moment and held up her left wrist. The intricate glyphs of the Returner’s Creed were branded into the skin from the base of her hand to midforearm. The markings were delicate but crucial. A returner’s brand kept them honest, making it physically impossible for her to have taken an object from its rightful owner. The fact was incontrovertible. Maks had to know that.
She reached into her pack and pulled the honeycomb sculpture from it. Her markings became incandescent. Maks’s gaze went from her wrist to her face and back to his proclaimed family heirloom. The planes of his cheeks and jaw settled into lines of vexed confusion. “This cannot be. Your face reveals you believe the truth. This is my family’s treasure. How could it no longer be ours?”
Tightness spread beneath his eyes. From the stress he’d placed on certain words, Ari knew he needed her to acknowledge his honesty. Truth mattered to Maksim Medved. A lot. She’d doubted a Faeble with her bloodline could win him over. The realization hurt.
Still she nodded, affirming she believed him.
He dropped his chin in an abbreviated mirror gesture. Hidden emotion radiated from the man. Underneath ire and confusion Maks was hurt by the mystery and the loss. One wouldn’t have known it from his face. Yet Ari knew. She ached for him but quickly shoved the sculpture back into her pack before he tried to take it from her. “I have no idea why it’s not yours anymore but my client must know something.”
Maks eyed the bag. “We will go to them.”
“We won’t—”
He snarled again, his gaze narrowing on her.
“—be able to until later.” She continued, “This particular client is going to contact me with a drop-off location some time tonight. Until then you’ll have to wait and I have work to do.”
“You must sniff them out now.”
“I’m not a dog.”
“Fox, thief, liar. There is no difference.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a thief either, Maksim.”
“Circumstances would disagree.”
She looked heavenward and headed for the door with an exasperated smile. She couldn’t be angry with him. First off, the loss of the sculpture troubled him. No one could blame him for that. Plus, being this close to him made her deliriously happy and a little manic. Her emotions didn’t have room for anger.
Maks quickstepped to catch up with her. “Do you run again?” he said, shouting over the escalating dust-up, which had grown to include the gnome, the ovoid, the corpulent male, the human female, the goblin bouncer, two pixies, plus four and twenty blackbirds.
Ari stopped in front of the ancient Greek’s table to shout back at Maks. “No, I do not run again. I told you I have work to do.” She resumed walking and said over a shoulder, “Go home, middleman.” You’re a serious distraction and I may start humping your leg at any moment. “I’ll call you once I hear from my client. Then we’ll straighten all this out.” She tossed him a backward wave. “Later.”
The Greek chuckled.
Maks grabbed Ari’s wrist, pulled it high over her head and twirled her back around. One waltz with a bear, one twirl with a dream, it was good to be prom queen. His forearm closed around her waist as Maks pinned her too him. Nice. Before she could shame herself by blushing, he informed her in very certain terms: “There is no goodbye. I will stay with you until your client calls. You are not for trusting.”
“Whatevs.” Ari gently pulled away and strode toward the door with Maks on her heels. When she glanced back at him swirls of rosy particles appeared, glimmering after each of their footfalls. Cripes.
Behind them the Greek shrieked as blood began to flow from her nose. Maks turned, took one look at the ancient Faeble, cursed, grabbed Ari by the upper arm and pulled her outside into the night.
***
TWO MINUTES PRIOR
The ancient Faeble didn’t want to see the arguing couple go. The tiff between the female with the golden dreadlocks and the Russian male caused a tingle of momentary excitement to fill her. She hadn’t been so thoroughly entertained in eons.
Eternity was a curse.
Nothing held any wonder after centuries had removed the shine. Same war different dynasty. Same crap different century. Always and on and on.
She craved an ending.
Wetness spread beneath her nose and between her parted lips. Tangy, salt and copper. She picked up a napkin and dabbed her nose and mouth. Redness flowered across the white paper. Could this be?
A pixie oscillated nearby, seemingly unable to decide which of the two quarrels were more entertaining. “Dear winged one, tell me what is happening to my face.”
The pixie drew closer and his mouth fell open. “Folderol, lady, you bleed. Yer like a bleedin’ faucet.”
She nodded and the winged one flew back to watch the Stardust bouncer put a human woman in a headlock.
Oh dear gods, yes. The ancient Faeble shrieked with joy. Golden-locks and the Russian turned to stare at her before the male, looking thoroughly disgusted, yanked the female outside into the night. She forgot them in her joy. To bleed was to live. To know at any moment it could all come crashing down and end.
She picked up a fork and cut into the chocolate mini-bundt cake on her plate. It had been tasteless before, simply a time pass, but now it sang with flavor. Rich, sweet and warm. She held a napkin to her nose as she noshed the cake. The bleeding gradually stemmed but she would not forget its flow. She yearned to know what else she could taste, how many ways she could bleed and know she lived.
The rows of blue ruffles rustled as she left Stardust Café in flurry of joie de vivre. The world awaited and she would relearn the answers to questions she hadn’t needed to ask in time without end. She would be reckless and wild and alive. And she would do it all under the risk of death because now she could bleed.
Chapter Four
Maks glanced at the Grecian Faeble as she brushed past him and floated down the street. Surely the vixen’s and his chaos had caused her nose to bleed, yet he’d never seen someone with blood staining her blouse look so elated. All the women he’d met this night were odd.
Speaking of odd, he towed the vixen a few more feet away from the café entrance. Maks needed to keep things calm between them to avoid flares of chaos. At least until he could right what magick had transferred the ownership of the statue and end his association with the thief for good.
He stopped beneath a streetlight and released her, expecting a fight. She didn’t look angry. She looked…lovely, her buttery skin a shade lighter than true brown, and her hair spun
into tawny locks. Since she’d left his home she’d re-styled her hair back from her face and to one side in a messy bun. The glossy coils mirrored the streetlight in golden flecks. Lovely vorovka. Her slightly slanted cognac-hued eyes were wide and reflected an openness one didn’t usually find in storied folk. She patiently stood before him. Perhaps waiting to hear him out when most females would have cast a spell. Or swung at him.
“What is your name?”
There was something familiar about her, something best left unremembered. Maks forced himself to remain in the now and trained his attention on more earthy matters. His stealthy gaze traveled her body, noting the snug fit of her cobalt blue jumpsuit, the soft curves of her breasts, flare of her hips and the way her pant legs disappeared into boots made for wrestling.
Russians excelled at wrestling.
“I’m Ariana Golde,” she said, extending her left hand. “Ari is fine.”
Maks took hold of her fingers. Recognition did not solidify but she elicited a flutter in the recesses of his memory. She was a study of neither nor: neither plump nor slender, neither pale nor dark, neither excessively tall nor petite. Just right. Ariana. Ari Golde was…
“This explains so much. You are the daughter of Inari and—”
“She’s just the returner we wanted to find. Didn’t we, Trajan?” A goblin wearing a driver’s cap low over his ears stepped into the circle of light. Another leaner, taller goblin followed.
“That’s right, Corbel, just the one we wanted,” he said in a voice akin to squeaky sneakers on waxed floors.
Ari turned from Maks and stepped forward. “Why would goblins need to engage a returner?”
Chaos Tryst Page 3