a Touch of Ice
Page 31
Not much point chatting about my mum as she’d left me with Grandmamma when I was fifteen—the year she turned thirty-five and became adept at seeing numerical patterns in everyday life occurrences. And codes. Mum did a lot of work in cryptography back then. It’s anyone’s guess what she’s doing now.
Over the years I'd come to accept she didn’t have a choice about leaving me. It’s like that with the calling. We either embrace it completely, or go absolutely mad trying to run from the responsibility that comes with it. Insanity doesn’t appeal to me, which is why I planned to get accustomed to the voices in a big hurry.
I stood, brushed the seat of my jeans off. “I’ll post the letter tonight, then. The sheriff will get it tomorrow, and maybe Avril will leave me alone so I can get some sleep.”
Her eyes met mine. “Anonymous, yes? Tha’s not the quickest way, child.”
A chill snaked along my spine, settled at the small of my back. “Quite. I could ring him up, but I’m not ready.”
Grandmamma pushed herself from the rocker. “Not’a gonna get any easier, accepting who you are.”
I swallowed a sigh. “I know, but it’s a bit much. I hardly have any peace from the newly dead, and if I tell anyone, word will get around and the living will start going on at me just like the dead. Wanting to know about their loved ones who’ve passed. Only it would be worse as I’d have to be polite to the living.”
She looped her arm through mine, and I reached for her basket of lush, purple yarn as we made our way into the house.
Sunlight danced on the worn kitchen table in crazy, happy patterns that aggravated the throbbing in my temples. Grandmamma slid a steaming mug of café au lait in front of me.
I rested my forehead on the edge of the table. “Blast and damn.” I cut a quick glance at Grandmamma through the space between the tabletop and the underside of my arm. "I'm claiming temporary insanity and lack of sleep," I muttered. Then I lifted my head, stuck my nose right over the mug and inhaled all the way to my toes. The rich scent, heavy with chicory, wove through my throbbing temples and calmed the pounding. I took a sip, paused for the bite of herb and the mellow flavor of the cream to blend on my tongue before I swallowed, and waited for the caffeine to tug at my nerve endings. Bayou coffee—a blessing when I'm over the edge of sanity and well into a bottle of Aleve.
Grandmamma’s hand curled around my shoulder. “More voices?”
I nodded. “A new death. Someone I knew about. Through work actually.”
She met my gaze, her warm, caramel eyes brimming with too much knowledge. There was no mistaking what that look meant.
“You had a vision about her, then?” I asked.
“Yes’n, you’ll be a leavin’ me today, ché.”
I dipped my chin in acknowledgement, and then blew across the mug to cool the fragrant brew. “In a few hours. What did you see?”
She settled into a chair and cradled a mug between her hands. “Jus’ that you’d be a’leavin’ and the man you’re going to see—”
“Evans. Blake Evans. He’s an FBI agent on temporary assignment at the Minneapolis airport.” I dropped my forehead back to the table as his image popped into my mind, clear enough to send a rush of heat twisting into a knot around my heart. There couldn’t be a man in my life. Not with the demands of the calling. And especially not Blake Evans. It was only one kiss. Shouldn’t have affected me at all.
“Whitney, child?”
Damn, I’d been quiet too long. I sat up, took a quick swallow of the café.
Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. “He’s, what do they say nowadays? A hunk?”
I sputtered. “Not so.”
The grin became a belly laugh. “Ah, yes’n he is. What is it you young ones say nowadays? A Bad Boy? The girls in my time would’a been a’buzzin’ all around him.”
Goosebumps skittered along my skin, prickled against my light cotton shirt. Bad. “Where did that come from? Bad Boy? Why did you call him that?”
“Why, child. I can see him plain as day. My eyesight may be goin’, but my sight is just fine.” She closed her eyes as she drawled out the “fine,” and a blissful smile settled on her lips.
I rapped her hand. Harder than I should have. “He’s too—”
One eyelid snapped open and I knew I’d been had. “Perfect is the word you’re a’lookin’ for, child.”
I shivered. “Nia used those same words to describe Evans. Beautiful, alone and dangerous. Throws me to hear you describe him as such. I don’t fancy him. Told her the same.”
“Un-huh, an’ you can keep a’telling yourself that.”
I took another sip of café. It’s a waste of time to argue with the woman because she always wins. Likely a manifestation of her clairvoyance. Irritating.
Her voice interrupted my irritation. “Time has a way of changin’ things. This is not as it seems, with the woman a’tellin’ you ‘bout her death.”
I ran my tongue over my lips, tasted the lingering nip of chicory. “This new victim, she disappeared a while ago. It was in all the papers. Both here and in the UK. She’s from Hampshire. Was from Hampshire.”
Grandmamma reached for the pot and topped our mugs off, then added a stream of warm cream. “They still seem alive, telling you their stories like they do, yes?”
“Quite.” I scooted my chair back, stood. “I’d best get packed as the flight leaves just after noon.”
“Will you be a’goin’ to visit your father, then?”
The café au lait spun in my stomach and threatened the back of my throat. “No. It’s time for me to go home. I’ve been away from Honolulu, from my house for too long.”
Genteel. Eloquent. Demanding. There are no words to accurately describe Grandmamma’s eyebrows when they ask a question—and insist on an answer.
“I’ll give Agent Evans a report on what happened to her and let him take it from there. He’s not one to understand the calling, so I’ll just drop my report on his desk while I’m between flights. Mala Sen,” I said, bending for a hug. “The dead woman’s name is Mala Sen.”
“Uh-huh. But tha’s not what’s important, child. All the time you’ve spent here a’talkin to me, always with the accent of your father. Not once slippin’ into the rhythm of the Bayou. Now tha’s important. Closer to bein’ a Brit than you’d like, I’m thinkin’.”
“No. Definitely not. It’s because Cajun words flow with mysticism. The calling is eerie enough what with the dead crowding my head, demanding attention. In my father’s world there’s no room for magic, no room for anything but crisp, clean logic. It’s safe. Predictable.”
I scooped my mug off the table and headed for the bedroom before Grandmamma could say another word. I wasn’t running away from her. I wasn’t. I had to finish packing. Not that a backpack takes a long time to fill, but I needed to make some notes on Mala’s abduction and murder. Neat, orderly notes I could pass on to Agent Evans without a lot of fuss. And absolutely before I got caught by the lure of his perfect body, lopsided sexy smile, and warm brown eyes that made my hormones spin out of control.
In spite of what Grandmamma thought, a lot of the Cajun had seeped into my bones and I needed to pull the British half of my ancestry firmly into place. Over a month in the Bayou had softened my stiff upper lip—to say nothing of the mess the dead had made of my otherwise orderly mind. It had nothing to do with my father. Not a single, blasted thing.
By the time I finished packing, Grandmamma was in her rocker on the porch, knitting needles flying. A ray of sunlight caught the skeins of golden lamé yarn in her basket. “I need to be off.” I reached down and ran my fingers over the yarn. “This is really quite lovely. For something special?”
A grin played along her lips and sparkled in her eyes. “For your wedding, child. For your wedding.”
Table of Contents
a Touch of Ice
Midpoint