Traffic crawled in front of me along Georgia Street. Every light pouring out of the city — from storefronts, restaurants, and traffic signals — was reflected in a blurred rainbow of golds and greens and reds on the wet asphalt. My windshield wipers appeared to be having trouble keeping up with the deluge as my thoughts drifted to Declan … as my thoughts always drifted to him. I probably could have turned right at Denman, but I didn’t know the city terribly well.
The next time I stopped for a red light, I texted Jasmine back.
Beecher’s Cheese and the Confectionary, yes!! My treat. Miss you.
>I miss you but I’m leveling up. Enforcer, baby.
I snorted. Jasmine was a witch with an affinity for technology. In fact, the only reason I could even text with her was due to the protection spells she regularly placed on my phone. Otherwise, I would shut down the cellular — or any other technology — with a single touch. Jasmine’s affinity for technology also translated into an obsession for gaming and social networks. If it was online, my cousin would play it — and then usually reject it as trite and dreadfully programmed within twenty-four hours.
I had no idea what she meant by ‘leveling up’ and ‘enforcer,’ but apparently, she had a new online role-playing game to obsess over.
I texted back.
Good luck with it.
>Luck? Who needs luck when you have magic in your fingers?
I laughed. Who could argue with that? Not me.
❒ ❒ ❒
After I made my way over the Burrard Street Bridge and found parking just off West Fourth Avenue, I tucked my phone back into my bag and pulled my platinum charm bracelet out of my trench coat pocket. I allowed my fingers to linger on the two tiny oyster-shell cubes hidden among the bracelet’s miniature houses, trees, and picket fences.
I carried those reconstructions with me everywhere since having had the bracelet made six years before. It was an acknowledgement that I would never have a life that contained a loving family, a dutiful husband, and two-point-five perfect children. Instead, I wore my white picket fence on my right wrist … in celebration and in defiance.
The oyster-shell cubes contained scenes from my past. Pieces of my heart, really. Large pieces. Reconstructions I’d replayed so many times that I had no idea anymore what parts were pure memory and what parts were actual events.
Declan. And Jasmine.
I clipped the bracelet onto my wrist. Then reaching into the back seat for my bag, I focused on swapping out my practical flats for heels and putting on a touch of makeup. I might be dining solo, but this level of fine dining called for an effort. In lieu of a hotel stopover, a teal pashmina stole, a strand of pearls, and a darker maroon lipstick paired with my practical-but-classic, dark-navy flutter-sleeve sheath dress would have to do.
CHAPTER TWO
Bishop’s Restaurant was located in the neighborhood of Kitsilano, ironically only a block and a half east of Jade Godfrey’s bakery. Thankfully, Cake in a Cup was closed for the evening, so I could skip the societal niceties and wait until morning to drop the reconstruction off to Pearl.
I had a room booked at the Pan Pacific Hotel, which was situated over the Burrard Street Bridge and back through the downtown core. The hotel contained a fantastic four-diamond restaurant, the Five Sails. I’d eaten there on my first visit to Vancouver three years earlier, when I presented my reconstructions before the tribunal assembled to pass judgement on the murders committed by Jade’s foster sister, Sienna. At the time, everyone had assumed Sienna was dead. She wasn’t. And more reconstructions had followed in the wake of her bloody killing spree across Britain.
But I wasn’t interested in dwelling on blood-frenzied black witches. I was seeking fantastic West Coast fine dining. And I was going to find that, and surround myself with regular humans, at Bishop’s.
The restaurant was small and tastefully decorated. First Nations art — prints, carvings, and masks — dominated the white-painted walls. The tables were swathed in white linen, with a fresh posy and a glassed votive candle at the center of each.
“Ms. Fairchild?” The hostess, who I thought might also be the manager, greeted me in the tiny glassed entranceway. Apparently, she knew exactly who each and every one of her reservations were as they walked in the door, which was utterly charming and boded well for the level of service over the rest of the evening. “May I take your wrap?”
“No. Thank you.” I’d left my trench coat in the rental car, throwing the pashmina stole over my head and shoulders for the quick dash from the sidewalk into the restaurant. The evening held a slight chill, and I wanted the option of wearing the stole indoors as well.
“This way, please.”
The tables at the front of the restaurant near the windows were all occupied by well-dressed patrons. The manager led me past the bar and up a short set of stairs to a second floor. Only a single table for two was empty, tucked into the corner of the waist-high wall overlooking the diners on the first level. Surprised that the restaurant was so full on a Monday evening, I was glad I’d made a reservation. I took the seat in the corner so I’d have a view of the room.
A hushed, happy murmur of conversation washed over me, unobtrusive and welcoming. I instantly relaxed.
The manager placed a two-page menu before me, along with a more extensive leather-bound wine list.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
She smiled, then slipped away, weaving back through the close-set tables. I had a feeling the wait staff would be at my side the second before I knew I needed anything, but that they wouldn’t chat my ear off in the process of serving me. I adored that style of service.
I glanced over at the nearby tables. Though the room was small, it didn’t feel crammed. Perhaps it was the mixture of table sizes and shapes that created the sense of space. Or perhaps it was because all the decor was white, excepting the silverware and the artwork.
I carefully perused the menu, though I already knew I was going to opt for a seafood dish. As I’d noted from the website, and now the menu, the executive chef favored local ingredients and light sauces. I was already in heaven, and I hadn’t tasted a single dish yet.
I settled on the dungeness crab risotto to start, and had just reached for the wine list to find a Pinot Noir to pair it with, when I realized that someone was sitting across from me.
Not just a someone. A vampire.
A white-blond, blue-eyed, exceedingly pale, tremendously powerful vampire who I’d thought was dead. Well, more dead. I had reconstructed the moment of his destruction myself. In London, three years before, I’d seen him stabbed through the heart with a magical blade. I’d seen him fall.
Kettil, the executioner of the Conclave, was swathed in expensive green cashmere so dark it was practically black, sporting what appeared to be a solid gold Apple Watch and lounging back in the seat across from me as if he’d been sitting there the entire time. His eyes were so light blue, they could practically have been called silver. He quirked his lips in a shallow, pleased smile.
I hadn’t seen him sit down. I hadn’t even seen him cross the room.
My server, who’d been approaching the table from the back kitchen area, flinched. Her human reactions were even more delayed than mine. Startled, she exhaled, pressing her hand to her chest.
“Wisteria Fairchild,” the vampire said. His exceedingly straight teeth were even paler than his face. I couldn’t see any hint of his fangs.
“Yes.”
“Kettil.” He reached across the table.
I lifted my own hand from the linen tablecloth. Pleased that it wasn’t shaking, I grasped his outstretched hand as his gaze fell to my charm bracelet. He wasn’t as cold as I thought he’d be, but perhaps I was still chilled myself. His fingers closed completely over mine, firm but not crushing. Still, I could feel the terrible strength that lay just underneath his hold.
He could tear me limb from limb, slaughter every human in the restaurant, bathe in our blood, and I wouldn’t have been a
ble to do a single thing about it.
I was panicking.
I never panicked.
But I could feel the adrenaline rushing through me as the vampire held my hand.
He lifted his gaze to mine, widening his grin. And without so much as a blink or a breath, he ensnared me. Idiotically, I’d been staring directly into his eyes.
He held his other hand up toward the server. She froze.
His presence flooded my mind in a warm, calming, and almost euphoric pulse.
“Steady,” he murmured.
My heart rate settled. I felt as though my arm was suspended, stretched across the table, lightly cradled in his hand … cushioned by the awesome presence of his mind.
I could have stayed there forever. At peace … protected … cherished …
I could have been his forever.
No Fairchild is weak enough to be ensnared by a vampire.
I wasn’t totally sure whether that was an original thought or a remembered edict of my mother’s, but it was enough to wake me up to the situation.
I gathered my mental shields, imagining a barrier of magic between the vampire and myself. Evoking layers upon layers of magic, similar to the sides of my oyster-shell cubes. I blinked my eyes, then shook my head slightly.
I lifted my hand away from Kettil’s.
He let me go.
I carefully placed my reclaimed limb on the table beside my place setting.
“May I get you a menu?” the server asked, as if she hadn’t been standing motionless beside the table for over a minute.
“The wine list,” Kettil said, though he didn’t take his gaze from mine.
She laughed, thrilled by his request for some unknown reason. She picked up and handed him the list.
“You were thinking of a Pinot Noir?” His tone was intimate, as if we’d been discussing this selection and he hadn’t simply plucked the thought out of my head.
I lifted my chin, affixing my gaze to his left cheekbone, then nodded as if I was in perfect control of the situation.
The vampire’s lips curled into a smirk. He was dreadfully handsome, but in a way that might turn fierce and ugly with a single thought, a simple action. He pushed back the sleeves of his cashmere sweater, and I was surprised that the delicate yarn wasn’t crushed by the casual gesture. His face, and what I could see of his wrists and forearms, was chiseled — honed from marble and centuries of dreadful deeds. Yet by candlelight, he looked exceedingly human. Though his spine was perhaps too stiff, and he held the menu a touch too formally.
“A bottle of the Blue Mountain,” he said to the server. Though perhaps she was actually the sommelier.
“An excellent choice, sir,” she said. “We only managed to get our hands on a single case this season. I don’t recommend decanting it.”
“Of course not,” Kettil said.
The sommelier pivoted, crossing to descend the short staircase to the bar just off the entrance to the restaurant.
“Pinot Noir should never be allowed to breathe,” Kettil said, maintaining his intimate tone. “In fact, it is best to cork it between pours. Yes?”
“Do not attempt to ensnare me again,” I said, forcing myself to be pleasant while demanding his acquiescence.
“You were going to panic. There was no need to panic.”
“The fact that you ensnared me shows that there was a reason to panic.”
“You broke my gaze easily.” Kettil settled back, one hand set casually on the table and the other on the arm of his chair. The pose was meant to appear casual, but it carried a sense of having been well practiced.
The vampire was being careful, considerate. That, more than anything else, should have been a massive warning sign. But it was my certainty that he had let go of his hold on me that chilled me even more. I had no idea whether I could have broken his control any other way.
Being powerless and feeling out of control were tenuous states for me. I avoided such situations, as if doing so was my religion and I was a zealous practitioner.
The sommelier returned with the bottle of wine — a deep, clear red from Summerland, BC, with subtle red berry and vanilla notes — and two globe wineglasses.
Kettil accepted the taster she poured, lifting it to his nose to assess the bouquet, then sipping as if he did such things every day. As if he was practicing being human in the twenty-first century.
Why would a vampire do such a thing? Why would he need to pass for human when the humans themselves had no idea what he was? And where was that wine going when he sipped it? Did vampires have working digestive systems? I had always assumed they just directly absorbed the blood they drank to survive.
Kettil nodded, approving the bottle.
The sommelier poured us two glasses.
My server, an older dark-haired man of fifty or so, stepped up to the table. He smiled at the sommelier as she slipped away. “In addition to our menu, tonight we are offering —”
Kettil cut him off midsentence. “The lady will begin with the dungeness crab risotto, followed by the Arctic char.”
The server looked slightly startled, but he recovered smoothly. “And for you, sir?”
“I’m pleased with the wine and need no other sustenance tonight.”
The server nodded, then hightailed it back to the kitchen. Humans might not have been able to understand they were conversing with a vampire, but unless ensnared, they instinctively preferred to avoid large predators. As did I.
My instincts screamed for me to run or fight, though I was fairly certain that I would die upon initiating either action. My upbringing compelled me to sip the wine and nod my approval of Kettil’s choice. Then I stopped myself. I would be polite, but I wasn’t going to allow anyone to rule me, from near or afar.
“Listening to the specials is part of the ritual,” I said, as quiet and nonconfrontational as I could be.
“You already knew what you wanted.”
I lifted my gaze to meet his almost-silvered eyes. “I might have changed my mind.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “It has been many years since I’ve frequented a dining establishment. Even then, I wasn’t there for the fish.”
If it wasn’t for the implied threat, that was most likely as close to an apology as the executioner of the Conclave got.
“I would like to view the reconstruction you collected at the cemetery this evening.”
The hackles stood up on the back of my neck. A vampire wanted to see a reconstruction of a fledgling vampire’s rising and subsequent destruction.
That wasn’t suspicious at all.
Kettil raised a pale blond eyebrow at my silence.
“Pearl Godfrey requested my presence,” I finally said, relieved to have the opportunity to foist the vampire off on the elder witch. “It is proper —”
“Fine.” Kettil waved his hand dismissively, the motion creating a disconcerting blur. He was moving too quickly. “We will speak to the witches tomorrow if you insist on proceeding through proper channels.”
I glanced down at my wine. Though I didn’t want to appear submissive, I also didn’t want to be caught staring at him strangely.
“But the Convocation will step aside,” Kettil continued. “This is not a matter for witches.”
“This is witch territory,” I said, not knowing why I was bothering to argue. It really had nothing to do with me. I’d done my job.
Kettil laughed dismissively. “This is Godfrey territory.”
I wasn’t sure how his assertion was different from what I’d said — except maybe he was referring to Jade more than Pearl. Vancouver was changing, becoming more of a draw for Adepts in general. But Pearl Godfrey was still the force to be reckoned with in this area. Jade was too young, too inexperienced to hold territory.
Too dangerous.
And with too many dangerous friends, including the one sitting across from me.
I lifted my gaze to Kettil, watching his fingers curl around the stem of his wineglass as he lifted it
, sipping and savoring the dark-red nectar.
The vampire was completely different in person than he’d appeared in the reconstructions I had collected of him. I wondered — for the second time — if that was somehow due to his connection to Jade. I’d posited that same thought in London when I’d watched him step between Jade and her sister to take a killing blow meant for the dowser. I’d watched him fall. I’d watched the magic in his veins appear to turn to ash underneath his translucent skin.
I had seen him die. I’d seen Jade’s utter despair over losing him.
Yet he was sitting before me, seemingly unchanged but completely different.
“Pearl Godfrey will be appeased when we inform her that you will be helping with this investigation. You may report back to her.”
“What … pardon me?” I’d obviously lost the thread of the conversation. “My work here is done.”
“It is not.”
The server returned, placing an amuse bouche before me — a delightful bite of tuna tartare with spring onion to whet my palate.
“There have been more risings?” I asked, pitching my question low so as to not pique the interest of nearby diners.
“One more. That I know of.”
“But the investigative team —”
“Is no longer required.”
I stared at him. More risings implied that a powerful vampire was involved, or multiple vampires. But I was a reconstructionist, not a vampire slayer. “I’m not a certified investigator. I don’t put the puzzle pieces together. I only collect them.”
“Perfect,” Kettil said. “I just need the pieces I can’t see. Then I’ll do the rest.”
I paused, choosing my next words carefully, even while knowing I should keep my mouth shut. For some reason, possibly because they were highly qualified, I felt compelled to defend the investigative teams and the unique skill sets of their members. “You are an … investigator for the Conclave, then?” I subbed ‘investigator’ for ‘executioner’ — Kettil’s actual title — at the last second, not wanting to seem too pointed. I still wasn’t sure how openly I could communicate with the vampire. Without getting my throat ripped out for my insolence, at any rate.
Catching Echoes (Reconstructionist 1) Page 3