by Alyse Zaftig
Her mother had rolled her eyes and walked away.
“Okay,” she said, looking up at Andreas. He stared at her with such open curiosity, and she wasn’t used to that. Most men who stared at her were looking because they liked the way she looked. She didn’t think that was the only reason Andreas was watching her so intently, however. The limited amount of psychic information she gleaned from him hinted that he was just…interested.
She didn’t know what to do with that. She wasn’t interesting. Her father had been the compelling one in their duo. Her mother had hated how close they were before she went away. She hadn’t returned. Mary had always asked her father why, and he’d only say that some answers weren’t worth digging for. In Fallon, her situation was hardly unique. Couples there just didn’t stick like they used to.
“What’s wrong?” Andreas asked.
Mary sketched a crude diagram of the accident on her map and then slowly raised her gaze. “I suppose I shouldn’t bother asking what makes you think something actually is.”
“You’re sitting six inches from me. I’m not such a weak psychic that I wouldn’t be able to discern a change in your mood from that distance.”
“For a lot of Fallonites, this is far. Your feet are near me, not your head.”
“As I said. Not far.”
“Then you’re an outlier. Did your parents have similar ability to yours?”
He let down his hands from behind his head and leaned forward a bit. “I have no way of knowing. We didn’t discuss such things in great detail. They considered doing so to be gauche.”
“I see.”
Interesting.
Apparently, she could get him to answer questions freely if she didn’t ask him any about the accident. She still had a few she needed to ask, but was more interested at the moment in getting him to tell her other things. She wanted to figure him out.
She rotated the emerald band on her right middle finger and watched the blue cast from the gems dance atop her pure white paper. “Nothing is wrong. I just get a little…annoyed, sometimes, when I think about certain people. Not a new insult or slight, just history.”
“Melancholy.”
“I suppose so.”
“We don’t really do that here, do we?”
“Who, the witches in Fallon?”
He nodded.
She furrowed her brow. She’d never considered the correlation, but she thought he could be right. Their people weren’t the sorts who’d hoard regrets. They didn’t let the past make them sad. Their constitutions had evolved otherwise. They were so different from the Afótama. The witches in Fallon may have been the better feelings readers, but as far as Mary could tell, the Afótama were better at having feelings.
“I guess we don’t,” she whispered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. There was a chill in the room. Perhaps there’d been one before and she hadn’t noticed.
“The temperature dropped,” he said. “I believe we’re going to get a spritz of rain.” He turned and put his feet on the floor. “Would you like me to turn on the heater? I put kerosene in it this morning in case I ended up having to be here longer than expected.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I have a cardigan in my tote.”
“I’ll get the sweater for you.” He walked the short distance to the bag and knelt by it—by her—and gave her a long stare before looking down into the tote’s mouth.
He withdrew the dark pink sweater and passed his thumb over the cashmere threads. “Not your color. You shouldn’t wear anything that makes you look so pale.”
She scoffed. “Thanks a lot for the insult.” She took the sweater and shrugged into it, wondering if she’d be begging for him to switch the heater on after all.
“I mean you no offense,” he said. “Your skin coloring is actually quite warm, but your hair and eyes are cool. I can’t help but to notice. My mother is a painter, and I learned a lot from her manic mutterings.”
“I see.” So, he did have family somewhere. She made a mental note to query him about them later. “What should I wear, then?”
“I don’t claim to be an expert. I only know when I like what I see.”
“And you don’t like what you see on me?”
“I would like more if you wore a color that suited you.” From the pocket of his pants, he withdrew a white handkerchief, edged in a deep gold. He held the edge against the back of her hand and looked up at her. “Perhaps…like that.”
“Do you like that?”
His fingers were tightening around her wrist, his warmth infusing her flesh.
He was so warm.
“I believe I’d like to see more of it on you,” he said when his fingers had completely cinched her.
“You’d have to find a lot of handkerchiefs.”
“My bed sheets are this color.”
“Are they?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And…where’s this bed of yours?” she couldn’t help asking. He had to have been maintaining a domicile somewhere outside of Fallon, or else she would have been able to find the place. She’d never had such a difficult time tracking someone down.
“Not important.” He picked up her hand and raised it slowly, staring at her over the top as if in dare.
What is he doing?
She was too curious to pull her hand away, and possibly not afraid enough.
Afraid of what?
She wasn’t entirely convinced he’d wanted to hurt her. “Why’d you drug me?” she asked as his warm, soft lips pressed to the back of her hand.
“That’s very elementary.” He turned over her hand and kissed the ticklish underside of her wrist. “I wanted to eat you, and you were going the wrong way for me to do so.”
“Funny.”
“Why do you assume I’m joking?” His tongue lashed up her wrist and forearm, and then lingered at the tender hollow of her elbow.
She stared dumbly at him with her mouth open wordlessly and fingers splayed in shock, or…pleasure.
“I told you,” he said, “that you smell good enough to eat. Did I not?”
“You were just being cheeky.”
“I rarely make statements I do not mean.”
“You really want to eat me?”
“Particular parts of you.”
She snatched her arm away, and not because she wanted to, but because she felt like she should have. She was a respectable adult who made good decisions and didn’t fall for lines, and especially not lines from men she’d known in person for less than a day.
But, somehow, her hand was in his again. He rubbed his thumb over the back of hers and met her gaze unflinchingly. “Why do you object? Does our kind not seek touch when we need comfort?”
“That’s really more of an Afótama hang-up than a tendency of the people out here.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is. We have playground songs we sing that mock them for being weak and clingy.”
“Yes, I know those songs.” He kept rubbing her with his thumb.
She didn’t know why, but the small gesture was soothing. She could have been atop a massage table with a trained masseuse worrying at her tired frame and wouldn’t have felt nearly as relaxed.
He canted his head again. “Do you really think they’re fair?”
“Who? The Afótama?”
“No, sweet Mary, the songs.”
“Oh. Well, no. I don’t. Not anymore, anyway.”
“You don’t believe what the people say about the Afótama, then? About Queen Contessa and Oliver and the rest?”
“Why? You want to spread rumors about me being a traitor or a sympathizer?” She chuckled. “That’s basically the nastiest thing you can say about someone around here.”
“Answer the question.”
“Will you do the same for me?”
“Are we back to that again? An eye for an eye?” he asked.
“No, but that would be fair, right? You can’t leave me dangling. You wouldn’t be able
to make me give you more information than you’re willing to give me in return.”
“Are you so interested in fairness?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“Interesting.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the people we are descended from were not ones to concern themselves with fairness. They were raiders and soldiers, who cared only about their next piece of coin, their next fight, their next fuck.” He stood quickly, taking away his hand and his warmth, and she wanted it back—wanted him back.
Come back.
His back was turned, and he had his fingers laced through his hair as he paced by the heater. He turned to her, brow furrowed and eyes dark with barely suppressed rage. “Does that sound right to you?”
“Is that what they were?” she asked gently. “Yes. That’s what they were. That’s what they did, and perhaps many here still behave the same way. Do I condone the behavior?”
He stared unblinkingly at her, nostrils flaring and fists clenching at his sides.
She wanted to take those fists and smooth out his hands. She wanted to set her thumbs against his palms and rub until his desire to clench them abated. She wanted to make his anxiety go away, and not only because his disquietude was affecting her, too. He’d been hurt by their people. That much was obvious, and she didn’t think that was fair for him.
Yet another reason for me to leave this place.
“Well?” he spat suddenly, making her press a hand to her chest in shock. “Do you?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No. I don’t enjoy hurting other people. I don’t like the way I feel when I do. Some actions linger on the psyche for far too long, and I’d prefer to keep my slate clean.”
He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and then let the air out.
In and out.
In and out so many times that Mary’s fingers had started to go numb around the settee’s edge she’d started clenching at some point.
He laid his head to one side, then to the other, swallowed hard enough for her to hear, and then straightened up. “They must hate you too, then.”
She twined her fingers and shrugged, but didn’t take her gaze from his. She wanted him to know she wasn’t only hearing him, but really listening to him. She suspected there were few people he had who were willing to do the same. “I don’t think they hate me, but I wouldn’t say I’m the most popular person in Fallon, either. My father was very protective of me. I imagine I have a certain reputation because of that.”
“I haven’t heard of that. I don’t believe I know anything about your father at all.”
“That’s not surprising. He was the kind of guy who liked to fly below the radar. Do you understand what I mean?”
Andreas nodded curtly and started pacing again. “What did he do?”
“Professionally? He was a private detective. He took all sorts of cases, and I imagine he knew a lot of things about a lot of people, and they would have preferred that he didn’t know them. He was impeccably discreet, though. If word ever got out about the things he discovered, the leak was through no fault of his.”
“Sounds like he was an honorable sort.”
“Yes, he was. I miss him.”
“Where is he?”
“He died. Cancer.” She hated saying that word. It had practically turned into a curse word for her.
Andreas stopped. Turned. “I’m…sorry.”
“Me, too.” She looked down then and twirled her thumbs around each other. “I’m sorry he didn’t live long enough to see all the magic coming back to our kind. He was fascinating by magic of all sorts. In his free time, he used to do research on the groups who still had some.”
She smiled and thought about the piles of dusty books he’d collected at auctions and estate sales. Old, arcane texts no libraries anywhere had copies of. They were unique and irreplaceable.
“For a long while after he died,” she said, “I didn’t want to go into his house. I finally did, and only because I needed to check that the sprinklers were off and such. I had to bribe myself to actually start going through things there. His office looked almost as cluttered as this place.” She crooked a thumb toward the mounds of mess in the basement.
“Truly?” Andreas inquired.
“I’m only exaggerating a little. Anyway, I need to get the place cleaned up and put on the market. I can’t keep paying two mortgages. He’d wanted me to go ahead and sell the place when he was in hospice, and I lied and told him I’d started the process. But I just couldn’t.”
Andreas sat next to her, keeping a couple of inches between them, but close enough that his energy prickled at the bare flesh of her cheek, her neck, her hand.
The warmth was back.
“You finally will?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll just brace myself and get it done. Who knows how long that’ll take me? I needed three weeks just to get through everything and decide what to keep, what to throw away, and what to find new homes for.”
“What did you keep?”
“His hats, mostly, and all of his private eye memorabilia. He was something of a collector. His office was covered in old noir private eye movie posters, and he had this unbelievable collection of stuff, like magnifying glasses and spy gear. I have his things in my guest bedroom right now. Their boxes are still taped up, but that’s the best I can do for right now.”
He nodded. “And the rest of his things?”
“Well, I gave some to the Afótama.” She looked up and watched his brow furrow.
“Why would they want that from you?”
“I didn’t know if they wanted it or not. I just boxed up the books and shipped them via Media Mail along with a note explaining where they’d come from and asking if they could do anything with them. I didn’t really expect to hear back from them.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, surprisingly.”
“Well, what did they say?”
“They asked me to call them.” She twisted up a loose thread at the hem of her skirt and snapped it off. “You wouldn’t think that the former queen of the Afótama would be so gracious, but she is. Muriel and I talked for about an hour about my father, and other things.”
“Like what?”
“Queen Tess. Oliver.”
“Of course.”
She nodded. “I think she was trying to take my temperature on the subject. You know, to see if I was hostile about them getting together, or about the Afótama in general. I don’t know if I gave her the answers she’d wanted to hear. Muriel is very mysterious.”
“I’ve heard worse things about her.”
“I’m sure. The common lore in Fallon is that she’s a petty tyrant, but I didn’t get that vibe from her.”
“How did she seem? I imagine her to be curt and unyielding.”
Mary shook her head. “No. She was sort of, oh, gently inquisitive, I guess. Her questions were very casual and open-ended, but I could tell she was really focused on me, as if I were the only person who mattered at that moment.”
“Did that level of attention frighten you?”
“No. The focus was actually nice, and she actually called me on my birthday a few weeks later to say hello. I don’t even know how she knew, but I was happy that someone cared. I was having a bad day.”
“I’m sorry. My parents cut their ties here and moved to France several years ago. I’m on my own as well.”
She forced a smile. “Maybe each birthday from here on out will be a little less pitiful, hmm?”
He nodded slowly. “Let us hope.”
Chapter 4
Andreas wanted badly to keep Mary talking. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a fruitful conversation where he’d not only learned something new, but also felt calmer as a result of having the talk. But her stomach had growled. He’d been neglectful, and that was unacceptable.
Glancing toward one of the semi-boarded windows, he knelt in front of the small refrigerator he’d install
ed in the basement and opened the door.
The sun was still out, but dusk would arrive shortly. When the moon rose, he didn’t know how he’d react. He didn’t know if the beast inside him would claw his way out, or if the time for change was too soon. The full moon wasn’t due for another night, but he wasn’t convinced his magic cared so much about technicalities.
“You’re welcome to anything I have in here.” Groaning, he stood and gestured to the open refrigerator. “I apologize in advance for the lack of selection. I tend to shop with speed in mind, rather than thoroughness.”
She gave him a curious look, and then turned her wrist bearing the watch over.
Of course she wants to leave.
Nervously, he shifted his weight. If he were a better man, he would have led her to the door and bid her farewell, perhaps stating, “No hard feelings,” but he wasn’t a better man. He was probably becoming a worse man, because instead of searching his brain for ideas on how to mend the strain in their acquaintance enough that he wouldn’t find himself in jail by morning, he was thinking of ways he could further detain her.
She couldn’t leave. If she left, he’d be alone again, and he was so utterly through with being alone. There was no one else he even wanted to be in his company. Not his absent parents, who seemed to be utterly unaffected by the return of magic. He only wanted the goddess with too many names.
She stood, slowly, smoothing down her skirt and then tugging her cardigan together at the plackets. She moved slowly toward him and the open refrigerator, tucking wisps of hair behind her ears, and stepping gingerly over some tools left on the basement floor. “Given the circumstances, accepting food from you would be unwise.”
He furrowed his brow.
“After all, you did drug me.”
He grimaced. He’d had no intention of apologizing for that, though he did regret having harmed her. At the time, he’d done what he thought he had to. He couldn’t trust people in Fallon.
He still wasn’t quite sure he could trust her.
“I’m so hungry, though, and I guess I picked the wrong week to stop keeping spare candy bars in my purse.”
“Nothing in here will harm you,” he said. “In fact, I intend to eat, too.”