by Rhodan, Rhea
She was surprised he’d answered her considering how preoccupied he sounded. “To the tree. It’s a very special tree in a very special place.”
“And where would that be?”
The way he was staring at her belly was beginning to make her feel self-conscious.
“Buchanan’s Crossing.”
His finger was still moving over her skin, but the little frown between his eyebrows had returned, more worrisome than adorable now.
“We can go there for our next date,” she prompted.
The frown remained.
A ripple of unease slithered inside, settling in her middle. “You said I could pick the location, remember?”
“Sure. Wherever.” His half-smile and careless shrug did nothing to ease that uncomfortable squeeze.
His finger tracked lower to the oak’s roots and circled them lazily.
“So, your hair is red.”
Pulled in too many directions, Cayden squeaked a startled, “I beg your pardon?”
A decidedly more sincere smile spread across Clint’s face. “I was wondering…” He reached up to tug on a lock of the hair on her head. “The way it’s colored, I couldn’t tell. The red seemed too, well, red. But your skin is so fair, black didn’t seem right, either.”
“Freakishly pale, you mean.” Perspective had returned, now that those hands of his were occupied above her neck.
“White and smooth as Yule marble.”
“Yule marble?”
But his hands were no longer above her neck, and her trembling overrode all perspective.
“Elk Mountain, Colorado. Rare. Beautiful.” He captured a breast and began suckling it.
“The mountain, or my…?”
“Yes,” he murmured, his mouth moving lower, his hands stroking her sides, gripping her thighs, pulling them apart.
It wasn’t really an answer, not that she could bring herself to care. About much of anything. And that was before he made her witless with desire.
The last words she remembered him saying were, “Just. Can’t. Get. Enough.” The tempo of each syllable matching the tempo of their bodies.
Early morning sun drizzled across Cayden’s eyelids. She snuggled her face deeper into a firm, slightly hairy chest. A muscular arm tightened across her shoulder, and a long leg snaked around her thigh, dragging her closer. She allowed the warm scent of sandalwood, man, and memories of the night before to envelope her, hold her worries at bay.
Which lasted all of two minutes. Then they came crashing through. She was a fool, a complete, utter—and worse, shameless—fool. She’d blown everything. And for what? Yes, their lovemaking had been amazing, unbelievable, wonderful, the stuff dreams were made of. Which made Clint’s reaction when she’d brought up their next date all the more crushing.
He hadn’t even been able to look at her when he’d offered her that fake smile, the casual shrug. She knew them well enough, having used them more than once herself. Then he’d distracted her and gone for a repeat performance, because there wasn’t going to be another date. No Joining.
An alternative method of gaining the Crossing’s acceptance must exist. Losing the battle didn’t necessarily mean she’d lost the war. Maybe Clint didn’t have to be the Keeper. She’d work harder, master herself, her power.
She slipped out of bed and pulled on her spider web nightshirt. Padding down the stairs, she passed the scattering of clothes, pausing at the shards of her great-grandmother’s bell jar. So that’s what her shoe had broken in its flight. Beneath its glass, Cayden had been able to see a microcosm of the next day’s weather. That she would suffer its loss seemed entirely appropriate.
Nevermore perched on Dr. Seuss’s shoulder, his head tucked beneath his wing. How could she have found his scolding amusing when it had been so apt?
A quick peek at the traitor in the bathroom mirror had her scrambling into the shower. Her makeup came off easily. No amount of scrubbing washed away the guilt. Facing the agent of her failure was almost as bad as the idea of confessing it to Gran. If the bathroom had a door that could be locked, instead of the heavy drape separating it from the theater racks and shelves that functioned as her closet, she’d have hidden in there until she was certain Clint had gone. With any luck, he’d already sneaked out the door.
Nevermore’s wolf whistle cursed that small hope. He followed it with, “Clint MacAllen. Keeper.”
Cayden pulled a plain black silk kimono off a hanger on the rack, tied the sash brutally tight, and stepped out from the drape.
Clint was standing in all his naked glory with his back to her. It was impossible not to admire the view, equally impossible to forgive herself for what it had cost her.
“Hey, I thought you didn’t like me.” Clint’s voice was sleep rough.
Nevermore croaked, “Clueless Keeper.”
Clint’s head tilted at the same angle as the bird’s.
Cayden cleared her throat. “Nevermore, remember our little talk?”
Clint jumped.
Nevermore squawked, “Bad girl,” beat his wings, and flew through the window, leaving them staring after him.
“Don’t remind me,” Cayden muttered.
Clint had begun rummaging through the clothes on the floor, so he wasn’t looking at her when he said, “It’s getting difficult to believe he’s just saying these things randomly.”
Or when she said, “He isn’t.”
He straightened then, his shorts in one hand. “Right.” He balanced on one foot then the other to pull his boxers on without sparing her a glance. “God, it’s bright. It was bad enough up there.”
“I don’t care much for the sun myself, but it’s good for the plants.”
“Working nights must be tough. When do you usually sleep?” He grabbed his jeans, still avoiding her eyes.
They had only been together one night. That he couldn’t bring himself to look at her shouldn’t hurt like it did. Why was he even bothering with conversation?
She forced a causal shrug. “Any time. I nap a lot. Noise and light don’t bother me. I can sleep almost anywhere, any time.”
“I think I hate you.” He pulled his jeans on. “But some coffee and scones might soften me. We never did get to those appetizers last night.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. As you may recall, I don’t own a coffee maker. I brought my last batch of scones to Gran’s. I wasn’t expecting—” she coughed briefly “—company, this morning.”
“Right.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head.
His use of that word was seriously beginning to grate on her nerves. In an effort to test whether he was seeking escape, she said, “How about some tea?” Which reminded her. “Say, how is the headache blend working for you? I meant to ask last night.”
“I guess I’m not cut out for homeopathic remedies. Nasty-tasting stuff.” His scrunched-up face resembled a Mr. Yuck sticker. “It didn’t touch the headache, either.” He found his rolled up socks and sat down the on a stair to put them on.
“How many cups did you drink? Did you follow the directions?”
“Well, after the first one didn’t work, I couldn’t bring myself to drink another.”
“The directions were quite specific about drinking three cups in a twenty-four hour period before expecting results.”
He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry if you went to a lot of trouble.”
She knew how bad his headaches were. If he’d had an ounce of belief in her, he’d have given it more of a chance.
“It isn’t about the trouble. It’s about you not respecting my knowledge and abilities.”
“Right.” His glance was directed somewhere past her shoulder.
She honestly didn’t think she could stand to hear that word from his mouth again. H
e must have noticed the clenched fists at her hips. He attempted, unsuccessfully, to hide his flinch in a shrug.
“I don’t have a headache now, anyway.” He tried a smile. It failed, as far as she was concerned.
Okay, easy out it was. “That’s nice. You know, I really do have a lot to do today. Gran’s waiting for me. I’ve got class later. The place needs cleaning.” She looked pointedly at the shattered bell jar.
“So that’s what broke. It sounded like a window. I hope it wasn’t valuable.” He sat down to put his shoes on.
“Although the bell jar itself was hand blown a couple of hundred years ago, its monetary value was of no consequence to me. What it contained, however, was singular and priceless.”
He stood up. “What was in it? I can’t see anything on the floor besides the glass.”
Clint was obviously just a nice guy unable to handle morning-afters quickly and gracefully, even when offered one on a platter. She answered him anyway. “You might have been able to see the contents while it was intact.” He was of the blood. It was possible. “But with the container broken, it no longer exists.”
“Right.”
Wrong word. As she struggled to control her irritation in the face of his continued dismissal, her power surged dangerously. The texture of it had changed. She’d lit the candles last night with a mere wish. Being with Clint, intimately, had altered the flow, as if a valve had been opened. One she hadn’t even begun to master. There was no knowing what she was capable of.
Her voice wavered with strain when she said, “Why should you be sorry? The mistake was mine.”
“Hey, it almost sounds like you regret—”
“I do. Please leave.”
“Cayden—”
“Now.” Before I slip and hurt you.
Where the hell had he gone wrong? Clint shook his head, half-walking, half-feeling his way down the dim hall while he retraced the previous night.
His moves had never been so smooth. Truly inspired. By lust, sure, but something else too, a feeling he didn’t recognize. It hadn’t prevented him from acting like an out-of-control teenager, though. Good thing Cayden had been as hot—incredibly, outrageously, achingly, unforgettably hot—for him as he was for her. While his dreams of her had been wildly fantastic, he hadn’t been prepared for the mind-blowing reality. And she’d been with him the whole way, no doubt about that.
Her morning-after regrets didn’t make sense in a woman as confident and sexy as Cayden. Confident enough to have some guy tattoo a massive tree all over her luscious body. He could picture her spread out in front of him like the banquet she was. Remembering made him hard and pissed off at the same time because he had to give the asshole artist credit. The tat was so good that when he’d brushed the branches below her ribs, Clint could have sworn they moved. Cayden had been going on about the tree and their next date, but he’d been trying to figure out the trick the tat artist had used to make the movement so realistic. That, and fighting the impulse to find the guy and break his fingers. He’d stopped short of asking himself why it bothered him so much.
When he woke up alone, her absence had left him inexplicably bereft. After the sun had driven him down the stairs, the damn crow had whistled and called him a keeper. If she believed the bird knew what it was saying enough to be cranky when it called her a “bad girl,” why not buy the “keeper” part, too? Instead, she’d tossed him out on his ass.
The sight of his truck when he pushed through the heavy door into the sunlight stunned his brain to silence. His beautiful truck, the symbol of all that was good and right in his world, was covered, front bumper to tailgate, with bird shit. On the driver’s side windshield was a tell-tale pink signature. It was the only pink one. The rest…dear God. How many birds would it take to rain down that much shit?
He’d been careful not to park under anything for them to roost on. They would have had to gather here with the express purpose of trashing his truck. It just wasn’t—
“Clint MacAllen, clueless bastard keeper.”
The bird squawked. He flipped it off while shouting, “Keep this!” as it circled once over his head and flew away.
Whatever the logical explanation was—and there had to be one, had to be—he wasn’t going to come up with it standing here watching the acid in the bird shit eat away the paint on his truck.
If the car wash had charged him extra last time, they’d ask for the title this morning. After they were done laughing. He needed caffeine and something to eat to face that. He was starving.
The coffee joint around the corner was a no-go because the power was out. The entire block, the barista said. The one he found four blocks away gave him the same story. Even the HandiMart had been dark. He ended up having to drive over a mile from Cayden’s apartment to find a place with functioning electricity. No doubt the city had been too cheap to beef up the infrastructure when the area had been gentrified, going from the low electric use of a warehouse district to one of apartments and shops.
That loud boom during last night’s festivities must have been an overload. Probably a basement band with too much equipment. That’s all it would take with a jerry-rigged setup.
Finally, a perfectly logical explanation for an element in the teeming cloud of strangeness surrounding Cayden Sinclair.
Chapter Nine
The week had been a long, debilitating one. Which was why, Cayden told herself later, she’d been taken by surprise. She’d always been careful to be aware of her surroundings, be prepared, take the steps—in her case, extra steps—a woman living in a big bad city needed to.
Gran was finally feeling better. Most of the week had been spent coaxing her to move around the cottage. Today’s excursion to the backyard garden had been a welcome reprieve. She’d studiously avoided even glancing up at the grove while pulling the weeds Gran pointed out.
The idea of confessing the debacle with Clint horrified her. She wouldn’t be able to put it off much longer, though, and she still maintained the hope of an alternative to the Joining. Highlighting the spontaneous candle combustion event wouldn’t hurt. Gran’s take would be appreciated, too, because Cayden hadn’t experienced a single manifestation of power since Clint had left Saturday morning.
On top of everything, adding insult to injury, she couldn’t get him out of her mind—or even off her sheets. His scent mingling with hers lingered cruelly. She’d washed them, twice, to no avail. Nevermore complained about it, too.
Cayden had been skating along at a good rate, twirling her closed parasol by its hooked handle, mulling it all over while trying not to, ever since she’d hopped off the last train from Gran’s. Right after she crossed the bridge that passed over the finger of Watershops Pond on the edge of Stebbins Park, a shadow darker than the other shadows of the cloudy night snagged the corner of her left eye.
Swerving right, she would have rolled over a second shadow if it hadn’t turned out to be solid. She swung her parasol wildly to regain her balance. A third shadow grunted and swore.
Fear curdled the tea in belly, bringing the bile of resentment to her mouth. Come after her, would they? She flipped the spring that added a twelve-inch ice-pick-thin blade of steel to the tip of her lovely black lace parasol, transforming it into a deadly sort of foil. Her lips, teeth, and fury fueled a piercing whistle for Nevermore. Then she spun, wielding the parasol like a staff, forcing her attackers back.
Thankfully, years of training had honed her moves to mindless instinct. Where, in all the heavens, was her magic? She lamented not taking more of those figure-skating lessons her mother had insisted on. Shadow Number Three’s swearing helped keep her oriented, though, holding off dizziness, along with panic she couldn’t afford. What would Gran do if something happened to her?
“Christ. I think the fat little bitch broke my nose. I’m gonna make her pay for that before we shoot
her.”
Shoot her?
“Shut it fool. No talkin’ out of skool.”
Another voice said, “But as long as we make it look like—”
No. A sudden brake, lunge, and low thrust met the meager resistance of cloth and flesh. An agonized shriek followed by incoherent groans gave her something new to orient on: Shadow Number Two, she guessed.
She braked again, changing directions to her favored counter-clockwise, spinning more slowly, feinting and thrusting at rhythmic intervals, still crouched. They were keeping their distance now, trying to circle her, two of them giving her more space than the third—likely the one she hadn’t hurt. Yet.
“I don’t have any money to donate to the Bad Poets’ Society. The only thing you’re going to find here is pain.”
“You wrong, honey. We’re talkin’ a whole lotta money.”
A whole lotta money. This wasn’t random. Someone had paid these men to kill her. This time when she braked, she aimed dead center. The resultant howl could probably be heard in Forest Park.
“Care to rhyme that?”
The howl was repeated in a scratchy raucous caw, echoed in various, even more strident, less-cultured tones. The cavalry had arrived.
“Nevermore! I wasn’t sure you heard my whistle.”
“We late. Fun all done.”
Cayden looked around. Bad Poet was rolling on the ground, moaning. Shadow Number Two was doubled over, clutching his thigh with both hands. Not bad for a blind shot. Talking Fool, aka Shadow Number Three, the one she’d caught by accident, was holding his nose with one hand. His other was reaching in his pocket.
She launched the parasol like a javelin. It caught his right shoulder, drove him back, and pinned him to the ground.
“I don’t know, Nevermore. I think the party’s just getting started.”
A siren wailed in the distance. By the time a squad car arrived, Nevermore and company had departed. The three men were sobbing like babies, covering their heads with shredded sleeves, babbling about the end of the world.