by Rhodan, Rhea
The police couldn’t decide whom to arrest until Cayden suggested checking Talking Fool’s pocket for a gun before removing her parasol/javelin from his shoulder.
While everyone was waiting for more transportation to arrive, one of the officers said, “You should be grateful, Ms. Sinclair, that they were stoned to the gills when they stumbled onto you. Otherwise, you might not have been so lucky, even with your unusual weapon.” He eyed her speculatively when she didn’t say anything. “Any idea what could have shredded their clothes and inflicted the smaller wounds? They keep raving about a flock of crows.”
“Murder.”
The officer straightened. “Excuse me?”
“Murder. The collective term is a ‘murder of crows’ rather than a ‘flock,’ though they rarely gather in groups larger than a few.”
Bad Poet screamed, swiping at empty air.
In compensation for her clarification, she received her tenth eye-roll of the evening. “Ms. Sinclair, about the birds…”
Cayden shivered in the adrenaline’s aftermath. She’d expected the police to be less condescending under the circumstances. If they were going to treat her like a freak, she’d have preferred to give them a reason to. Even a discreet display of power would’ve satisfied her. Since it hadn’t manifested in the emotional turmoil of the last half hour, it certainly wouldn’t now. She wondered if it ever would again. Another layer of disillusion settled over her.
She finally said, “Perhaps they were watching the Alfred Hitchcock classic before they got high.”
He nodded and directed one of the officers in a newly arrived car to give her a ride home. After he turned away, she heard him mutter to himself, “Damn full moons bring out all the crazies. It’s going to be a helluva long night.”
In spite of being mistaken in regard to either her or her attackers being crazy and the full moon actually being tomorrow night, the statement did contain truth. The full moon’s magic began three days before, and it did intensify longings. As if on cue, the memory of being safely wrapped in a heated Clint pierced her.
Yes, it was going to be a long night.
He shouldn’t be here, his throbbing head reminded him. All week long, every time he’d thought about Cayden, something had throbbed. Everything else was going great. Work on the mall was proceeding without a hitch; meeting Dean’s deadline wouldn’t be a problem. The new contract was better than he could have hoped for. Both his private and Green Man’s outstanding bills had been paid off. He should be on top of the world.
The awful dream he’d had Saturday night should’ve made it easier to stay away. The vivid image of Dean’s expression when he’d driven up to a party at the developer’s mansion, hopped out of a bird-shit-covered truck, and introduced a fully-gothed Cayden had kept Clint awake hours after it had faded.
Monday, Bill had asked how the date went. Clint told him about the permanent damage to the paint on his truck and the nightmare. Clint had told Bill he thought they were a sign, that Cayden was like cigars, lavish but unhealthy. Bill had told him he was an idiot. It was Friday night, and he was beginning to think Bill was right. Miserable, sleepless, and tortured by erotic visions of a mystifyingly frustrating woman was not how he’d pictured his glowing future.
So much for the top of the world.
Instead, he was standing outside Cayden’s apartment, knowing full well it represented the gates of delirium. This awareness hadn’t lessened the dull twist in his gut when she hadn’t answered her gonging doorbell this late on a Friday night. He should go now. Wondering where she was, whom she was with, was killing him.
The sound of her voice coming up the stairwell thrilled him more than it should have. The sound of the man’s voice angered him a lot more than it should have. His feet remained rooted to the floor despite him telling them to hurry to the back stairs, as though they understood it was too late, that those perilous gates had already closed behind him.
The voices became clearer, not so much because they were coming quickly but because they were raised.
“What do you mean I can’t have my parasol back?”
“Even if it wasn’t evidence, your umbrella has been illegally modified.”
“Illegally modified? That’s reaching a bit, don’t you think, Officer?”
Officer? Evidence? What?
“Confiscating an umbrella with a spring-loaded twelve-inch spike on the end that maimed three men can hardly be called reaching, Ms. Sinclair.”
Spring-loaded Clint could believe, and after seeing her fence, maimed wasn’t hard to imagine, either.
“Three armed assassins, you mean. Four guns and two combat knives were found between them, you’ll recall.”
“Assassins? In that neighborhood? Come on, they’re just drugged out gangbangers. Their kids carry guns, for God’s sake.”
“They’re not gang members. Their clothes and colors weren’t right, and I heard them say—” She was still half way down the hall. “Clint?”
“I take it you know this man, Ms. Sinclair? He’s not another assassin?”
She leveled a glare at the cop that made the man take a step back. Clint knew that one. He was glad someone else was on the receiving end for a change.
“I’m her boyfriend, Clint MacAllen.”
Cayden stared at him, open-mouthed. He took the opportunity to move into the space the cop had left and put his arm around her.
“Are you okay, honey? What happened? Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”
“With that makeup, I don’t know how you could tell,” the cop said.
Clint turned on him. “Is this the way you people treat victims?”
The cop held up his palm. “There happens to be some question as to who the actual victims in the altercation were. Ms. Sinclair has assured us the blood isn’t hers.” The words did little to soothe the unfamiliar protective instinct raging through Clint’s body.
“For Christ’s sake man, look at her. Without the boots, she’s what, all of five feet? Did I hear you say there were three of them? Do you truly possess the balls, or the stupidity, to stand here and try to tell me they were the victims?”
“With all due respect, Mr. MacAllen, you didn’t see what was left of those guys.”
“Well then, you should be commending her on her ability to defend herself. If you people did your jobs…”
The cop issued a long-suffering sigh. “We can’t be everywhere. It doesn’t help us when women, er, people—” he corrected himself when Cayden drilled him with another glare “—dress in ways that attract attention and roller skate through dangerous areas in the middle of the night after doing God knows what with who knows who. Since you’re her boyfriend, I might ask where you were this evening.”
Cayden jumped in before he had a chance to cheerfully misplace a chunk of his guilt by punching the cop. “As I’ve been trying to tell you, this wasn’t a random attack. Ten o’clock is hardly the middle of the night. I was on my way home from the train station after visiting my grandmother. And what I choose to wear has no bearing on this situation whatsoever.”
A menacing roll of thunder shook the brick building. The few remaining hall lights flickered. Shitty electrical job. Cayden stared at the lights, then at him, cocking her head like her damn bird. He picked her up by the waist and set her down a ninety-degree turn away from the cop.
“Cayden, honey, why don’t you go on inside and get cleaned up? I’ll be right behind you.”
“What gives you the idea—?”
He squeezed her shoulder lightly to silence her. No way was he leaving her alone tonight. “You’re upset. Which you have every right to be. I’m merely suggesting this isn’t the time—” he scanned the hall “—or the place for this kind of discussion.”
The cop cleared his throat. “We will be expecting you at the pr
ecinct station tomorrow to go over your statement, Ms. Sinclair.”
Cayden had her hands on her hips. “Is that really necessary?”
“We’ll be there.” And he really did mean the “we” part.
He plucked the key from her hand, unlocked the door, and nudged her inside, then closed it and turned on the cop.
The man was eyeing his fresh dress shirt and high-buck jeans. “Mr. MacAllen, you seem like a pretty regular guy.”
“I’m a regular pissed off guy, right about now.” He fisted his hands to keep from shaking the man by his uniform’s collar. The little prick wasn’t a whole lot taller than Cayden.
“It’s just that… Well, you might want to think twice before remaining involved with this kind of girl. You don’t actually believe she was visiting her grandmother, do you?”
“Why don’t I tell you, Officer, what kind of person she is.” He had to restrain himself from crowding too close, from growling. “Cayden Sinclair is the kindest most generous woman I’ve ever met. She also happens to have more talent in her baby finger than my best engineer. Does she have her quirks? Yeah, most brilliant people do. Oh, by the way, she’s devoted to her grandmother. I bet you didn’t even ask her for a train stub from East Granby, did you? Too busy checking for a record she doesn’t have.” Right?
The cop shifted uncomfortably. Yup, busted. “She doesn’t have a record, sir. However, I do feel obliged to inform you she’s dangerous.”
Relief trickled down the back of his neck. “I don’t need you to tell me that. We’ll see you at the precinct tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why did you tell him you’re my boyfriend? And why are you here?”
Cayden was barely able to get a candle lit, much less recover from overhearing what Clint had said about her when he closed the door behind him, confusion-inducing concern on his handsome face. She’d already been reeling from the previous events and wasn’t aware she’d spoken the questions out loud until he answered.
“Because I want to.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, it does. Both of them.” His big strong arms around her felt far too good. “Cayden, honey, you’re shaking. We’ll talk, about anything you want, after you’ve had a nice hot shower. Go on, now—” he turned her around and gave her an affectionate pat on the butt “—I’ll see if I can’t light a fire in this fireplace.”
She was toweling off when she heard Nevermore squawk, “Cayden okay?”
“She wasn’t hurt, thank God. Those lowlifes shook her up pretty bad, though.”
“Bad men.”
“It’s kinda creepy the way it seems like we’re having an actual conversation.”
“Clueless bastard.”
“Nevermore!” Cayden had pulled on a floor-length black cashmere hoodie that was too worn to be appropriate for ceremonies any longer, and strode to the front of the soon-to-be-blazing fireplace. Clint was perched on the end of the daybed nearest the door, poking at the fire, Nevermore on the armrest opposite him. “If I wasn’t so thankful for you and your friends, I’d be tempted to withhold your breakfast raspberries.”
“Nevermore late. Keeper later.”
“Neither of you were late. In any case, you may not direct obscenities at Clint.”
“Keeper clueless,” Nevermore grumbled and ruffled his feathers.
“You can’t blame him for having a difficult time accepting—”
She broke off because Clint’s eyes were too wide, his face too pale. The man was clinging to the last strands of his reality. It wouldn’t serve either of them to rip them away from him right now.
“Would you care for some tea?”
“I’ll get it for you, if you don’t mind me bumbling around in your kitchen.”
“It’s all right. I think I’m up to putting on a pot of tea.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Thanks for building the fire. It’s exactly what I need.”
When she returned, she handed him his teacup on a saucer and sat down between the two males. Clint took a sip without making a Mr. Yuck face.
To be certain, she asked, “How is it?”
“It’s not bad. It doesn’t taste like regular black tea, though. What is it?”
“The headache blend.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and took another sip. “How come it doesn’t taste like dried Spackle?”
“The only reason it would taste like Spackle is if you used sugar. The recipe specifically says not to use processed sugar.”
“I didn’t have anything else.”
She couldn’t help the annoyed sigh that escaped through her nose. “You read the recipe while you were here. You could have stopped for honey on the way home. How can I help you if you won’t take care of yourself?”
“Like you take care of yourself? Much as I hate to admit it, that asshole was right. You had no business being in that neighborhood, especially after dark.”
“How else am I supposed to get home from the train station? Besides, as I told the police, it was not a random act of violence. Those men were paid to kill me.”
“Look, Cayden, maybe…” He poked at the fire, his tone careful and sufficiently patronizing that she didn’t want to hear the end of his sentence.
“You don’t believe me, either.”
“Listen, honey, it isn’t that I don’t believe what you thought you heard. Isn’t it possible you misunderstood? The cop said they were high. With everything going on, there was probably a lot of confusion.”
Cayden sat up straighter on the sofa and grabbed the poker out of Clint’s hand. “I didn’t misunderstand anything. And if you think I’m going to let you treat me like some delusional—”
“Hey, take it easy with that.”
She didn’t realize she’d turned the poker toward him until his large, warm hand covered hers.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I guess the real question then is, why would anyone want you dead?”
“I’ve been working on that. I think it was someone who’s after Buchanan’s Crossing. There’s an underhanded developer who wants it very badly.”
She wasn’t going to name names, not without some kind of evidence. Not with Clint doubting her sanity.
“Buchanan’s Crossing’s yours?”
“Not yet”—thank all the gods and goddesses—“not until after Gran’s gone.”
“That’s kind of far-fetched, don’t you think?”
Cayden tightened her grip on the poker.
Clint pried it away from her. “Did you mention this theory to the cops?”
She took a sip of her tea. “Only that it wasn’t random. Because they won’t even admit that much, it seemed futile to share my suspicions. Especially since that’s all they are at this point.”
“That’s probably wise.” He stared at the fire and gave it another poke. “Look, I’m going to call my lawyer, have him join us at the cop shop tomorrow. I didn’t care for the way they were trying to make this your fault. Another thing, you’re not going anywhere after dark alone from now on.”
“How am I supposed to get home from Gran’s?”
“You call me.”
“You know I don’t have a phone, and you know why.”
“Fine, whatever. Have her call me. I’ll pick you up.”
“You’re overreacting.”
He set his tea cup down and started pacing. “Overreacting? Chrissakes, Cayden. For whatever reason, three men just tried to…” He gazed at her, his eyes dark, his jaw hard.
“Why do you care? You already got what you wanted. There was never going to be a second date.” There, she’d said it.
His face blanked with that expression of baffled bewilderment that looked so comical on manly men. Other emotions followed it, more manly, mu
ch more familiar: frustration, exasperation, a hint of guilt.
“I told you what I want.” His voice wavered just enough to make Cayden ask her next question.
“Do you really know?”
He looked away, then met her eyes. “All I know is I’ve been miserable this whole week thinking I wasn’t going to see you again.”
“If you weren’t going to see me again, why are you here?”
“I just told you.” He sat back down, rubbing his hands over his face. “Look, Cayden, when I woke up Saturday morning, I absolutely wanted to see you again. I don’t know what made you think I didn’t. But when I came downstairs, you acted all weird. You kicked me out, if you recall. Then I took a gander at my truck. It got me thinking maybe dating you wasn’t such a great idea.”
Now it was her turn to be confused. “Your truck?”
He pointed to Nevermore. “That is a severely jealous pet. What I can’t figure out is how he did it all by himself. One bird cannot possibly produce that much shit.”
Nevermore rotated his head toward Clint and croaked, “Snitch.”
“How could you?” The last thing she needed was her familiar working against her. She touched Clint’s arm. “Were they able to remove it? How much did it cost? I want to reimburse you.”
Nevermore turned his bright eyes on Clint. “Keeper pride truck. Keeper hurt Cayden.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Clint wiped his hand over his face again. “Why am I talking to the damn bird? Cayden, honey, I don’t know what I did or said, or what happened here last Saturday morning, but I never meant to hurt you, and I’m sorry if I did.”
“Nevermore sorry, too.” He hung his head.
The day had been too long to hold a grudge against such an onslaught of sincere remorse.
“You’re both forgiven, as long as you play nice.”
“I can play nice.” Clint slid over to her on the sofa and curled his arm around her.