by Maria Lima
He'd said the guests wanted privacy. I imagine they paid pretty dearly for it, too. Last I'd heard B&Bs in the Hill Country were getting more than a couple hundred a night per room. A house this size must be at least triple that.
"This is nice,” I said. “Not quite what I expected."
"What did you expect?” The teasing smile was back.
"A little more country cottage, a little less ... house."
"It works for me,” he said. He leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. The smooth touch of his lips left a trail of fire on my skin; I automatically leaned into him, wanting to feel more.
"Thank you, Keira Kelly,” his voice was nearly as soft as a caress. “It was good to see you again."
I nodded and closed my eyes briefly, not trusting myself to speak. Holy shit. If I weren't careful, I would be following him inside and letting him have his way with me right this minute. I forced myself to pull away slowly, keep my voice steady and not look at his face. I was afraid that if I did, all my intentions would no longer be good, but very, very bad.
"Thanks.” I finally forced the word out. “It was good to see you, too."
"I'd like to treat you to dinner sometime, if you'd like ... as a thank you."
I nodded again. “That would be nice."
"I'll call you, then,” he said, sliding out of the seat. “Good night, Keira."
The words floated softly through the air between us, landing on my ear, a feather in the dark. It was as if he'd touched me again. Danger, Keira Kelly, danger.
"Good night, Adam,” I said, turning the key and gunning the engine. I was having a hard time concentrating. My brain was telling me to leave now or damn the consequences. I pressed my foot to the gas and sketched a wave in his direction as I pulled away.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
"Damn it, Tucker, answer.” I swore at the cell phone.
A click on the other line, a quick “leave a message” and a beep. My brother was either ignoring me, or really not at home. It had been his scent I recognized next to the dead cat. A scent almost as familiar as my own. Tucker was the brother closest to me, not in age, but in attitude. That aside, as far as I knew, he was supposed to be in Canada with the rest of my family, not in Rio Seco. Especially not killing a house cat. I pulled off the road for a moment to scroll through my phone's directory menu. I dialed his mobile number.
"Didn't take you long, did it, little sister?"
His cheerful voice teased me on the other end. I could imagine his broad open face, blue eyes crinkling, accompanied by a wide grin. Damn him.
"Where the hell are you, Tucker?"
"I wouldn't call it ‘hell', exactly, sister mine, more like ‘really uncomfortable'."
"That was you, then, wasn't it? At the Wild Moon?"
A pause.
"Yeah, damn. I didn't expect you to be there. What were you doing there, anyway?"
I almost repeated his “really uncomfortable” phrase.
"Giving the owner a ride home. You didn't kill that cat, did you?"
My brother laughed. “Please, Keira, you know me better than that. I was out at the ranch stretching my legs, getting in a good run when I found the cat. I had to stop to check it out.” He didn't mean running as in “Just do it.” Tucker was a 1200-year-old hellhound, a Viking berserker with a touch of lycanthropy. He liked to run in the rain.
"Did you find anything?” I asked.
"Not much. Dead cat. Not sure what killed it. But it wasn't one of us."
I hesitated before I spoke. Telling Tucker about my nightmares might not be a good thing. He'd know I was changing. Then again...
"Tucker,” I said.
"Yes, Keira?"
"Just why are you here?"
Silence.
"Tucker?"
His sigh echoed through the phone's speaker. Oh, crap. He didn't have to say it for me to know.
"I'll be damned if I let you play babysitter,” I said, slamming my fist against the steering wheel. “You can just turn right around and go back to Canada."
"Be damned then, little sister.” I could hear his grin. “Because here I am. You need me here. Besides, you know I'm your favorite."
"Favorite as in ‘least obnoxious’ ... yeah, well, I guess.” I still wasn't convinced. “I don't need someone to watch over me, big brother. I'm an adult. So I'm changing, so what?"
"So you're changing, that's what,” he replied. “Look, Keira, I came because I knew you'd hate it less if I was the one doing this. Just think, it could have been Ciprian."
Oh great, Ciprian was almost as much of a prick as Marty. If I had to have someone around, Tucker was the least objectionable.
"All right, then,” I said, capitulating. “You win for now. Do you have a place to stay?"
"I'm fine for tonight, Keira. I'm going to stay outside. I'll be by sometime tomorrow. If you need anything, just call."
"Thanks, bro,” I said. “Really. I'm not pissed at you."
"I know.” I could tell he was grinning. “See you tomorrow."
The storm still raged as I continued home, matching my own internal angst. I loved thunderstorms; their wild electric force resonated deep within me, answering some inborn restless need ... for what, I wasn't sure. But the day's strangeness had been too much and the storm only increased my disquiet. In twenty-four hours, everything in my life had suddenly taken a turn. Not necessarily for the worse, but definitely for the different.
The power inside me was no longer dormant, but awake, restless, hovering on the edge of release. Ahead of me were a few weeks of my own internal stormy weather as my talent emerged and my ability matured. It was all so very unpredictable—the edgy tension, the feeling that I was suspended on the threshold, needing only a word or a motion to open the door still firmly shut in front of me. I couldn't go back, but I couldn't yet move forward.
Then there was that weird three-hour black-out and the weirder “vision” or whatever. Of course that might just be part of my “power surge."
To further complicate matters, my past, blameless as it had been, was catching up to me. In the space of the same twenty-four hours, I'd revisited an old flame, who, to my dismay, had kept that particular torch burning for the past fifteen years. Then chance had thrown another double and I'd re-encountered someone who'd turned my own personal burner up to “high.” And let's not forget the lovely visions from hell: dead deer and a dead cousin. Finally, to top it all off, my brother was here to play babysitter.
Although I couldn't ignore the visions, I could try to avoid thinking about them until at least tomorrow, when I could talk to Tucker.
Since I couldn't offer Carlton what he wanted—more importantly, I didn't want to—I'd just have to ignore him.
As for Adam Walker, I just couldn't ignore him and didn't exactly want to. Neither my brain nor body would let me disregard Adam Walker. Suave, sophisticated and continental, he'd always struck me as the type that would accept a liaison as is, no strings, no regrets. I didn't picture him looking for a white picket fence. This I could do, and probably would have done before, except I hadn't seen him again after the last boring soiree we'd both attended. I'd figured that flirtation as part of the same past that was back knocking on my door.
I stared at the road in front of me, trusting to instinct to get me home safely, as I replayed my conversation with Adam Walker and added my own reality, one that involved Adam Walker in compromising positions. I took a deep breath and sent out a quick prayer to the powers that be. Trouble was ... I wasn't sure what I was praying for.
* * * *
The rest of the night passed quietly, except for Bea's whoops and hollers when I explained I'd known Adam in England. I loved Bea, but she was not making my situation much easier. I'd arrived home, determined to forget about Adam, forget about Carlton, and not think about anything more than food and a bad movie, but Bea wouldn't let it rest. She was determined to make sure I was happy, whatever that meant. I
wasn't too sure.
I read for several hours after Bea left and then fell into bed just before dawn.
* * * *
It took a constant and very loud pounding on my front door to bring me out of Slumberland, where I was contentedly having tea and biscuits with Adam Walker, while Boris Nagy served and Bea and Greta watched. We'd just reached the refill stage and I'd raised a lace-gloved hand to Boris when the noise finally sank its way into my dreaming brain. Instead of sitting across from a morning-suited and gorgeous Adam Walker, I was staring into the brown eyes of someone all too familiar leaning over my bed, his hand reaching toward me.
"Carlton?” I sat up and scrambled to the head of the bed, quickly pulling up the sheets before all my assets were exposed to Carlton and the rest of the world, or at least to whoever else had let themselves into my house. “What the hell are you doing here?"
"You weren't answering the phone, Keira. Your door was unlocked, so I let myself in,” he answered, stepping back and looking about as uncomfortable as only a more than six-foot, 200-plus pound county sheriff can when confronted with a potentially embarrassing situation. He had his Stetson in his hand and was trying to talk and not look at me all at the same time.
"Of course I wasn't answering the phone,” I said. “I was asleep. I don't normally answer the phone when I'm asleep. Besides, I unplugged it.” I wasn't making a lot of sense, but I was still tired, still cranky and not too happy that Carlton had come into my house. “Why are you here?"
"Well, Keira, I...” He hesitated, turning his hat in his hands. If he wasn't careful, he'd ruin that precise brim roll he liked so much.
"Spit it out, Carlton,” My mouth tasted terrible. I couldn't remember if I'd been awake enough for my normal brushing and flossing routine before I'd fallen into bed.
I wasn't all that comfortable sitting there naked except for a sheet, so I grabbed my bathrobe off the floor and tried not to flash my visitor as I wrapped it around me. My people didn't sweat nudity, but I'd grown up around humans and wasn't quite so open, especially with Carlton, and especially after what happened yesterday. I pushed past him to the bathroom so I could brush my teeth.
"Keira, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Did you go back to the funeral home last night?” His voice was quiet but steady. Sounded like his official sheriff's voice.
"No,” I answered, around a mouthful of toothpaste. I didn't like the way this was beginning to sound. I finished as quickly as I could and decided to skip the flossing when I looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked as if he was ready to cry.
Fuck.
I came out of the bathroom, brushing my hair and pulling it back into a scrunchie.
"Come on into the kitchen,” I said, “I'll make some coffee.” I don't really know why I wasn't letting him talk. I suppose I knew that when I did, I was going to hear something I wasn't going to want to hear.
He let me go through the routine of grinding the beans, measuring the water and flipping the switch on the pot. I'd gotten out the mugs, sugar and cream before he spoke again.
"Come on and sit down, Keira.” He pulled out a chair and motioned with his hat hand. “Please."
I walked over to him, my bare feet cold on the Saltillo tile. He took a chair at the other side of the hand-hewn mesquite wood table and set his hat down next to the place mat. He looked at me directly for the first time since waking me up.
"Do you know what time Marty got back?” he asked. He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. Carlton had always spoken beautifully and deliberately, determined to lose the accent his folks had bestowed on him. He'd succeeded. Acting and debate classes in high school helped him speak more like a toastmaster and less like a hick country sheriff, which he wasn't.
"No, I pretty much just came back here after—” I stopped as I remembered my side trip to the Wild Moon. I didn't think he needed to hear that.
"Marty never called you or anything?"
"Not that I know of. If he did, he didn't leave any messages.” My brain was trying to clear itself of too-early-in-the-morning fuzz. Had the place been robbed? It had happened once before, bored teenagers playing I-dare-you games, breaking into the funeral home to prove their testosterone.
I watched Carlton fiddling with his hat. His index finger pushed it, then reached and pulled it back. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. He didn't look up.
The drip of the coffee maker was the only sound in the room.
"Damn it, Carlton, what's going on? Stop beating around the bush."
He looked down at the table and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Keira, but Marty's dead."
I looked at him. Suddenly my hands were damp and my throat wasn't. I stood up and walked over to the cupboard for a glass and got myself some cold water from the dispenser. I drank it down and filled up the glass again.
"What happened?” My voice sounded unused and old.
"We're not exactly sure. Sometime last night, after we both left, someone, or more than one someone, got into the funeral parlor. Ruben Cortez found Marty this morning when he came in to do the cleaning.” Carlton cleared his throat. “Could I trouble you for some of that coffee, now?"
My hands shook as I poured us each a large mug and brought them to the table. I could barely think. He'd meant murdered, not just dead.
Carlton took a long sip of the steaming coffee before speaking again. When he did, I had to strain to hear him. I'd never known him to speak so softly.
"Ruben went in and found all the lights on, as if no one had bothered to turn everything off after the electricity came back on. He said he didn't think too much about it and just went around doing the morning cleaning.
"When he got to the back, he realized something was wrong. The prep room door was open, something jammed in the doorway. When he went to check, he saw your cousin."
I looked up from my coffee when the words stopped coming. Carlton was staring at his mug.
"Tell me,” I whispered, not wanting to know, but needing to. My hands wrapped around the oversized mug, as if to leach the warmth out of it and into the iciness of my body.
"He was laid out on the embalming table, nude. Blood completely drained from his body. One of those small drainage tubes—” His voice broke as he talked. We sat in complete silence; the only sound penetrating our awareness was an occasional drip of water from the kitchen faucet. I sipped my coffee, eyes closed, trying to not imagine exactly what Ruben must have seen and failing. I couldn't erase the scene that had immediately been etched on my mind's eye—the same exact scene I'd witnessed in my damned-further-expletives-deleted nightmares. So much for avoiding what my brain had viciously conjured up.
Looked like today wouldn't be any better than yesterday. In fact, it was already worse. Was there some twisted fuck sitting somewhere in the netherworld thinking, “I'm going to screw with Keira Kelly's life now"? I gulped as I realized how selfish that thought was. Marty was dead.
Carlton's fist slammed down on the kitchen table, causing me to spill what was left of my coffee. “This shouldn't be happening here! Damn it, I came back to Rio Seco to get away from evil, from senseless killing—and it followed me anyway.” His head dropped into his hands.
I started to reach over to comfort him, but before my hand touched his shoulder, he stood, slapped his hat on his head and adjusted his Sam Browne belt. The lawman had returned, leaving the emotion behind.
"I've got to go back there, Keira.” He reached over and took my chin in his hand, tilting my face to look at his. “I only came over here so that I could be the one to tell you. Now, I've got work to do.” He dropped his hand and hooked his thumb in his belt again. “You going to be okay?"
I nodded, still silent, still seeing my cousin's body motionless and white on the table, blood dripping from his body, just like the spilled coffee dribbled onto my floor.
"Go on, Carlton. I'll manage.” My voice was quiet, but steady. I had to manage. If I really stopped to think, I might run screaming out into the da
y. “Do you need me to...” I let my voice fade as I asked, but he knew what I meant.
"To ID him? No. But if you need to, I can arrange for you to view the ... him. Before the autopsy."
I nodded. I didn't want to, but I had to. In order to convince myself this wasn't all part of the same bad dream that had started yesterday or the day before, or whenever the hell it had been. Whatever had happened, I needed to know for the clan's sake. They may have disowned Marty, but they would want to know.
"Take your time,” he said. “It'll take us some time to finish at the mortuary. We don't have much in the way of up-to-date forensics here, but I called in a favor. A friend of mine is coming in from SAPD to help. I'll call you when we're ready for you.” Carlton walked out the front door and turned as he reached the bottom porch step. I stood there staring at him, still not saying a word.
"Keira, until we find out what's happening here, please be careful. Keep all your doors and windows locked. We don't know who's done this.” He adjusted his hat like some mockery of a movie cowboy and walked away.
I knew I'd have to try to reach Tucker to let him know about Marty, but not right this second. Before I called anyone, I wanted to think. I needed to put a little distance between what I'd just heard and talking to my brother.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and sank into my favorite easy chair. Who on earth would have wanted to hurt my cousin? Obnoxious? Yes. Annoying? Absolutely. But I couldn't think of why he'd been marked for death. Poor Marty, his life span was so short anyway. To have it cut even shorter was pure irony.
* * * *
Nightmare was not the word for what I experienced during the rest of the morning. Bizarre phantasms and kaleidoscope horrors blended together with my mind's interpretation of what Marty must have looked like when the killer had finished with him. Maybe I shouldn't have gone back to bed, but since I'd gotten only a couple of hours of sleep, I'd figured that some rest was better than none. I wanted to be rested before having to face either my brother or looking at my cousin's dead body.