The maiden fair let off a string of curse words which Skandor didn’t need any help translating. Foul of mouth and fair of face—Skandor had seen that a few times at camp. He grinned invisibly, waiting to see if the girl had anything else to say to Dr. Gottlieb.
“What do you want now?” she demanded as he handcuffed her to the bed.
Was the girl a terrorist, held here by government demand? Gottlieb had been cursing the government of the state of California a few minutes ago, so clearly he had the connections.
Maybe the ability to cloak was part of a secret government experiment, gone awry. Skandor hoped not. He liked the idea of the myths-come-to-life better.
“I’m running tests,” said Gottlieb, in response to the girl’s question.
Skandor admired the way the girl’s eyes seemed to flame as she responded, cursing Gottlieb and his cursed tests. Oh, she was a warrior-alf. When Skandor saw Gottlieb stick a needle into a vein on the girl’s arm, Skandor flinched. The girl, however, didn’t so much as bat an eye.
Beautiful and brave. Like Freyja.
Skandor felt his heart swell with the urge to rescue the beautiful girl, the golden goddess. He would find a way. Wasn’t he a magical creature himself? Well, he had no idea if magic or weird science or destiny or something completely unheard of was responsible for his strange ability to cloak his form. But he promised he was going to rescue this girl, the first chance he got.
The girl spoke to Gottlieb again, her venomous dislike for him apparent in every word. “You won’t kill me. I’m too valuable. I’m the only one you have who wasn’t fathered by Girard Helmann.”
Skandor thought he recognized the name “Helmann.” Wasn’t he the former executive in charge of Geneses, rumored to be dead?
“You don’t know that,” said Gottlieb, absently.
“You don’t deny it,” retorted the girl.
“Child—”
“Katrin!” she spat the name out. “My name is Katrin!”
“Very well, Katrin, has it not occurred to you that I can kill you and re-grow a more … compliant version of you? At your age, I believe the human female has some three hundred thousand eggs.”
Skandor stared indignantly, aghast. But that was nothing to what Katrin did. Leaning as far forward as her cuffed hands allowed, she spat at Gottlieb and kicked the tray upon which he had placed two vials containing her blood. The vials dropped to the floor; one shattered, the other did not.
Gottlieb kept his face from Katrin’s view as he retrieved the unbroken vial, but Skandor could see he was at once embarrassed and furious. Only after the red had left his face did Gottlieb stand and face the warrior-maiden in the room’s corner.
“That is not, perhaps, the best way for you to convince me to keep you alive, my dear,” said Gottlieb.
Katrin opened her mouth, perhaps to curse Gottlieb again, but Skandor never got the chance to find out what she was going to say. Gottlieb uttered another phrase: Vial, Door, Mirror, or something like that, and the girl slumped forward, asleep.
Dark magic, thought Skandor.
That, or hypnotic suggestion.
For a moment Gottlieb looked ready to strike the sleeping girl, and if he did, Skandor was really going to have to consider coming solid and challenging Gottlieb to a … a … a fist fight. But then Gottlieb seemed to collect himself, muttering, “She is beneath your contempt.” The doctor undid the handcuff and then, taking the girl in his arms, he placed her fully reclined on the bed. After that, the doctor vanished along with the girl. When Gottlieb reappeared a moment later, alone, Skandor was disappointed.
But he’d learned a thing or two.
Sven, Leah, Tea.
He could wake the sleeping goddess.
Or he hoped he could.
He followed Gottlieb to one of the labs, to make sure his employer was sufficiently occupied to allow for a visit to the girl. Gottlieb placed drops of the girl’s blood into vials and into substrates and upon slides. Satisfied the doctor would be busy for awhile, Skandor departed the lab, his head full of plans to awaken, befriend, and rescue the sleeping girl.
Of course, you couldn’t just go waking strangers up and expecting them to trust you, Skandor thought. It was a fretful thought, not a brave thought. For a moment, Skandor considered what his favorite mischief-making member of the Scandinavian pantheon would do. But then he reconsidered. This was more of a “What would Oma do?” situation.
Years of advice passed through his mind. Don’t be a braggart. Look before you leap. Listen more than you talk. And one that seemed particularly pertinent: When making a new acquaintance, bring food.
Food? Hmm. There was half a chocolate cake in his office….
He dismissed the half-a-cake idea as rather tacky. Anyway, who knew when another such opportunity would present itself? Skandor drifted back to the corridor where the girl was hidden and passed through the wall into the first room. He experienced a moment’s disorientation before realizing he’d entered the wrong room. This room had a desk and a bed with rumpled covers. Ah, this was Georg’s room. Perhaps Georg was some sort of guard who kept a dragon-like watch over the alf warrior in the room next door.
And then Skandor felt a tingling premonition on the back of his neck, and if there was one thing Oma had taught him, it was that you didn’t ignore tingling premonitions. He twisted around, altering his point of view just in time to witness a person coming solid beside the bed. Only, the person wasn’t Gottlieb. In the moment before the tall, thin figure solidified, Skandor hoped it might be the beautiful alf-maiden. But, no; it was the skinny nephew Georg, who was apparently a cloaker as well.
What a night this was turning out to be.
There was something sinuous about Georg as he paced and muttered. It put Skandor in mind of a wormlike creature—a dragon-boy, lodging next door to the incarnation of brave Freyja. Her guardian, perhaps? The boy tapped claw-like fingers together, fidget-y in a way Skandor didn’t like.
Georg was mumbling “of all the nights” and “it could have been worse, though” and “next time, I’m putting a nanny cam on the roof.”
Evidently, Georg was upset about the hour at which Gottlieb had returned, or the manner in which he’d returned, or maybe just the fact Gottlieb had returned. The young man threw something made of string onto his rumpled bed and stripped down to his underwear before crawling into bed, still muttering about his uncle’s poor sense of timing.
More because he was stunned by the night’s turn of events than because he wanted to watch Georg sleep, Skandor remained silently in the room for another handful of minutes. Maybe another cloaker or two would appear. Maybe the roof would open up and the host of Valhalla would come soaring down to take back the alf-maiden.
But at last Skandor admitted nothing of interest was likely to happen in the darkened room. Also, he realized he’d been away from his security office for far longer than was strictly wise and that, with Georg next door, it was hardly the night to introduce himself to the fair Katrin. He contented himself with checking for her invisibly: yes, he felt the edges of her form as she slumbered invisibly on the bed.
Reluctantly, Skandor made his way back to his office where he fixed his eyes on the rows of monitors, but he saw only his memory of the beautiful girl and her eyes that flashed fire.
12
COFFEE SNOB
“What would you be doing, right now, at home?” Martina demanded of Matteo. He was making her a coffee, using Sir Walter’s french press.
Matteo shrugged. “Praying the latest hurricane avoided Sint Maarten.”
“Did you get many? Oh—that’s sixty seconds.”
Matteo reached for a spoon and stirred the mixture of coffee grounds and hot water, then he placed the lid onto the french press.
“Does the stirring after sixty seconds really matter?” asked Martina.
Matteo grinned. “Everything matters when you’re making coffee. Well, when you’re making good coffee.”
“I’m fine
with what they serve at Las ABC.”
Matteo made a face. “The beans are over-roasted, then over-ground, and she doesn’t even use filtered water. The coffee is allowed to simmer for hours, resulting in a final product that is—”
“Totally fine by the residents of an entire town,” interrupted Martina.
“Minus one resident. Her chocolate chip cookies are excellent. Her crème brulée is heavenly. But Bridget Li’s coffee is appalling.”
“Snob.”
“We didn’t get many.”
“You didn’t get many snobs?” asked Martina.
“No. Hurricanes. You asked if we got hurricanes on Sint Maarten.”
“You’re changing the subject, coffee snob.”
Matteo checked his watch. He was always leaving his cell phone somewhere or other, forgetting to pocket it when he moved from one room to the next.
“Another minute,” he declared. “And then we’ll see who’s a coffee snob and who’s a coffee convert.”
Matteo lifted his head and the sun flashed across his sea-glass green eyes. His Caribbean tan was fading, but this paler version of Matteo still made Martina’s pulse trip.
“I can think of a good use to put your coffee-snob minute to,” murmured Martina, leaning forward.
His lips melted into hers. She caught the faint scent of lavender soap on his skin and shivered as he placed a hand on the small of her back, tugging her closer, closer. She wound her fingers in his hair, shorter now, to follow California fashions.
“Minute’s up,” he called, pulling free of the embrace. Matteo placed a hand on the french press and pushed the plunger. Martina didn’t watch the coffee—she watched the muscles of his forearm flex and relax. He was as knotted and muscular as ever, having joined Sam, Will, and Gwyn on their early morning runs.
Expertly, he prepared a single cup of the dark liquid, pointing out to Martina the ghostly layer of oils from the freshly ground beans. He added a splash of whole milk, stirred in a packet of turbinado sugar, and passed the cup to Martina.
“Tell me that isn’t the most delicious cup of coffee you’ve ever had,” he said, his voice a low rumble that made the tiny hairs on the back of Martina’s arms stand at attention.
“It better be, seeing as it interrupted the most delicious kiss I’ve had all morning,” Martina murmured. But when she blew on the coffee, watching the oily top layer shift and ripple—how could that be good?—and then took a tiny sip, her eyes flew wide. She set the cup down and narrowed her eyes as she looked over at Matteo.
“Are you sure animal sacrifice wasn’t involved in the making of this beverage?”
Matteo’s eyes gleamed. “You like it?”
“I love it!” She lifted the cup and took a sip without blowing on it first. “Oh-ouch! Too hot!”
Matteo smiled and prepared his own cup, adding three packets of the dark turbinado sugar and no milk. “Honestly, this is probably the best coffee I’ve ever made,” Matteo confessed. “Back home, we couldn’t afford the better grades of beans. And Mutti would over-roast them as often as not. She would start drinking and … well….” His face fell as he remembered her and a single tear slid free, running down his cheek. He didn’t swipe it away, so Martina didn’t, either.
Instead, she leaned over and gave him a tight hug.
Matteo shook his head. “The grief comes and goes.”
“I miss her, too.” She bit her lower lip. “It’s harder for you, though, I think. You lost her and your home.”
“You lost yours, too. Besides, this is as good a home as any,” replied Matteo, staring into his coffee. “No. This is better. Because we’re together.”
Martina took his hand, squeezed it, and then tugged Matteo over to a tiny table overlooking Sir Walter’s back garden. A fountain splashed, providing a bath for a pair of … Martina wasn’t sure what they were. Gray birds. She didn’t know the names of trees or brush or animals or birds in this strange new home.
“I was thinking I’d like to make dinner for Chrétien and Sir Walter. For the next time they come solid for a meal,” said Matteo.
Martina nodded. The two de Rocheforts spent a great deal of time invisible—especially Sir Walter, but even Sir Walter had to eat one solid meal every seven days.
“I was thinking conch fritters and blackened fish and fresh mangoes,” said Matteo.
Martina frowned slightly. “I don’t think they have conchs on this side of the country. But fish wouldn’t be a problem. And Bridget orders in mangoes for those smoothies the high school students drink by the imperial gallon.”
“I’ll talk to her,” said Matteo.
“Oh—you should make maduros, too!” exclaimed Martina. “In fact, that could be your cross country recipe.”
“My cross country recipe?”
“You know, for that cookbook Bridget is putting together. To benefit the cross country team.”
“I don’t have a recipe for maduros.”
“You don’t?” Martina frowned. “I thought you knew how to make them.”
Matteo shrugged. “Sure.”
“Good,” said Martina. “So, you tell me how to make them and I’ll write it all down and then you’ll have a recipe. Let me go get some paper.” She ran back to her room and reached for the sheaf of loose paper on the bottom shelf of her bookcase.
And then she paused. “Oh,” she said softly. She pushed a few of the books back and forth, searching for something. “Oh,” she said again. She stood, the piece of paper forgotten, and walked slowly back to the kitchen where Matteo was finishing his cup of coffee.
“First you want to buy the blackest plantains you can find,” he said. “Or just buy them green and wait for the skins to turn—” He stopped, on seeing Martina’s face. “What is it?”
“Georg didn’t just take my copy of Gray’s Anatomy,” said Martina. “I mean, that would be weird enough, on its own. You can buy a copy anywhere. But he took something else.”
“What?”
“He stole Katrin’s starfish necklace,” said Martina. “I was using it as a bookmark. You know, using the string part to mark the page and letting the starfish part fall to one side against the cover of the book.”
“And you think Georg stole it?”
“I know he did,” said Martina. “It was in my copy of Gray’s Anatomy, which is what Georg took. Think about it. He took a book that could be picked up at any college bookstore or online—a book that’s got nothing special about it at all. Except that it held Katrin’s necklace.”
“Why would he want Katrin’s necklace?”
Martina shook her head. “I don’t know. Although, I’m pretty sure Katrin said he was the one who found the starfish. He gave it to her.”
“And now he wants it back, all of the sudden? All these years later?”
Martina spoke slowly. “I showed the necklace to him and to Hansel back in France. When I gave them their gifts from Mutti. So Georg definitely knew I had it.”
“Why not just demand it from you then, back in France, if he wanted it so badly?”
Martina shook her head. “Neither of them were in great health at that point. I’d just injected them with the enzymatic treatment. Georg had an especially hard time pulling back from his illness. Maybe he didn’t think about how much he wanted the necklace until later.”
“He and Katrin were close,” said Matteo. “I remember that. Mutti was always mad at the pair of them for some misdeed or other.”
Martina nodded. “He cried for days when they told us Katrin died in the hospital. I never saw him cry again, after that.”
“Me, neither,” said Matteo. “How old were we? Seven? Eight?”
Martina nodded absently.
“Maybe he’s having some sort of … crisis. Now that Hansel is dead,” said Matteo.
“So he takes a hostage in order to force me to hand over Katrin’s necklace?” asked Martina.
Matteo shrugged, sipping coffee. “Georg had that thing where he’d be really high
followed by really low.”
“You think he has a bi-polar personality disorder?” asked Martina.
“I don’t know. I guess holding that toddler hostage for the necklace was more the act of someone with really strong impulses who didn’t know how to get what he wanted in a more … socially appropriate way.”
Martina picked up her coffee and blew on it softly. Took a sip. Her taste buds informed her it was still delicious, but she was no longer in a mood to appreciate it.
“We’re all a little socially inappropriate,” she said at last, “from being raised in Helmann’s cult of crazy.”
“It doesn’t excuse Georg’s behavior,” said Matteo.
“No. I didn’t mean it should be an excuse. But … maybe this is why Pfeffer and Sir Walter are so adamantly opposed to letting the former Angel Corps members have the use of their abilities.” She shook her head slowly. “I think Georg would have killed that little girl without hesitation if he felt it was the best way to protect himself or get what he wanted.”
“He shot Chrétien, not the toddler.”
“I know, but he shot Chrétien because Chrétien was an immediate threat. Georg practically dropped the child so he could deal with Chrétien. That’s why I was able to grab her and get away.”
“You were pretty kick-ass is what Will Baker said.” Matteo grinned.
Martina drew circles on the coffee table with her thumb. “I was scared to death.”
Matteo took her hand and held it tightly.
“Maybe I should have been more compassionate,” said Martina. “Towards Georg. In France.”
“Martina,” began Matteo, “you can’t blame yourself for his choices.”
She set her coffee cup down. It was empty, but she couldn’t remember having finished it. What a waste of a great cup of coffee. “I don’t think I’m blaming myself. But I could have behaved more compassionately. Maybe it would have made a difference.”
“And maybe Georg is mentally ill.” Matteo paused for a minute, as though he was trying to figure out how to say something.
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