Kat glanced at her watch and stood. “It’s Saturday. I’m sorry, but I have a private swim lesson to give.”
Lisa’s eyebrows rose. “You’re leaving me with just Edith to help?”
“Most of the kids are sleeping in.”
“Most, huh? That leaves ten who are already up and about.” Lisa jerked her chin toward the door, where a little face, set in a crazy array of angelic curls, peeked in. Lisa crooked her finger at the girl, who ran to hop in her lap. Lisa kissed the top of the girl’s head and handed her the remains of Kat’s croissant. “Like this little elf.”
“I’m…no…elf,” the four-year-old said between bites. “I’m a fairy princess.”
“I stand corrected,” Lisa said.
Kat smiled warmly at Clara, who perched quite like a princess in Lisa’s lap. The children made all this worth it, every terrible call from the bank, every threatening letter from the mortgage company, every crime she had to commit to keep the lending hounds at bay.
Kat bent to kiss Clara’s curls. The aroma of sweet, clean, loved child made up for all the loneliness, exhaustion, and worry. “The fairy princess of Sister Mary’s Home for Children.” Kat nodded. “Sounds right.”
“I thought that was you,” Lisa teased.
“I passed that baton when we bought this place.”
Kat and Lisa had been raised together as sisters behind these loving walls. As teenagers, they had helped the nuns with cooking, cleaning, and child care. They almost gave up their scholarships to the University of Virginia to run the home for the aging nuns. It really had become their home.
Four years had now passed since they graduated from UVA, Kat on a swimming scholarship and Lisa on a soccer scholarship. They had returned for a visit to find the orphanage bankrupt and on the auction block. And the church wasn’t swooping in to save the home this time. The children were in jeopardy of being split up. The oldest kids had already been sent to the Palmer House in Mississippi, a private orphanage. The younger children remained, and the sisters were desperately trying to keep them together.
Sister Mary’s Home for Children was a family within itself. If a child was adopted it was sad to see them go, but the separation would lead to a happy loving life. But it was utterly cruel to tear a child away from the only family they’d ever known to send them to another institution. No matter how many times Kat heard from “experts” that kids were resilient in the face of change, she had no intention of seeing what was left of her family split up.
So Lisa and Kat threw in a bid for the building. With the backing of the local Catholic church, they were able to scrape up enough money for the down payment. After six months of licensing classes, inspections, and jumping through every government hoop, Lisa and Kat finally rounded the corner. The orphanage was theirs, along with twenty-three children, ages four to twelve.
The new owners immediately hired help and wrote to every institution they could to beg for funding. They were barely successful. Local churches provided Christmas gifts and school supplies, but wages for an extra den mother and a cook were high.
“Have you heard from her?” Lisa pointed to a letter peeking out from the newspaper. Sister Mary had been reappointed to an abbey in Wales.
“Not since last month.” Kat stuffed the letter into her back shorts pocket. She glanced at the newspaper and stuck it under her arm.
“Then what was that?” Lisa pointed to Kat’s pocket.
“A love letter,” Kat quipped, stepping out through the swinging kitchen door into the living area, where three kids in pajamas lounged before the television.
“From Tommy?” Lisa pried, following her. Tommy Orman had grown up at the orphanage. He’d become a successful new attorney climbing the legal ladder at Jones, Beckman, and Giller law firm.
“No.” Kat huffed and turned back abruptly to Clara. “Where’s Jimmy, Fairy Princess Clara?”
“Still asleep,” Clara answered and cuddled into Lisa’s shoulder.
Lisa and Kat frowned at one another. Clara’s twin brother was loud and ready for the day before the day was ever ready for him.
“I’ll check on him,” Kat said and padded down the hall, her bare feet gently slapping the polished wood floors. She met two six-year-old girls on the stairs, kissing them as she raced past.
“Miss Edith is making pancakes in half an hour,” Kat whispered loudly to a group of kids. They cheered in whispers, a rule before 9:00 AM on the weekends. They hurried into one of the four multi-stalled bathrooms Kat’s diamond heist last year had paid for. Kat made a sign of the cross and sent a prayer for forgiveness to the ceiling. Not for the crime, but because she knew she would do it again just to see the happy tears in Lisa’s eyes despite her fretting about the cost of remodeling the decrepit bathrooms.
Kat cracked Jimmy’s door. “Miss Kat,” he croaked. “My stomach hurts, and my throat.” Kat sat down on the plaid comforter to kiss his forehead. One-hundred-two, she thought.
“You’re hot, too,” Kat said, and smoothed back his hair. “Probably strep throat.” Kat managed a calm smile, but inside she shrieked. Strep throat through an orphanage of twenty-three children was daunting and expensive even with government subsidizing. “Are you hungry? Miss Edith is making pancakes. I can bring you some.”
Jimmy shook his head no.
“Okay, I’ll get some medicine that will make you feel better, and we’ll have Doctor John come out.” Luckily the elderly doctor made house calls for the orphanage.
“Grape? Not the awful grape, but the good grape?” he whispered.
Kat nodded. “Good grape, no cough medicine in it.”
“Okay.”
Kat tucked him back in with a dose of grape-flavored pain reliever, and washed her hands. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and grabbed the velvet bag she had hidden in the little hidey hole in the chimney. Kat threw a swimsuit and white tight-fitting leggings and shirt into a duffle bag and glanced at her watch. Nine-twenty-two.
“Shoot!” she cursed. After fifteen years living with nuns and four years running the orphanage, the worst swear words that came out of her mouth were mild. She made a mental note to color up her swearing for the meeting today.
Kat raced past Lisa. “Call Dr. John. I think it’s strep. I gave him a pain reliever. After breakfast send Edith for some more. Have everyone wash their hands.”
Lisa nodded and led Clara to the sink as Kat stepped outside.
Kat looked up at the gray storm clouds. At least that’s working in my favor. She jumped into her old blue hatchback. The rain frizzed her hair, but it also strengthened her magic. And today she would need some extra umph.
As the car raced toward the beltline, Kat listed her to-do’s out loud. “Nine-thirty sell jade pendant to Mr. Pinkas, swing by two post office boxes and my YMCA gym locker to hide money, teach swim lessons at twelve-thirty, and try to scope out the artifact exhibit. Then pick up antibiotics that Dr. John will probably call in for Jimmy.” She groaned. “How am I going to get all that done and be back in time to ref the kids’ soccer game at four o’clock?” It would be close.
At least it was Saturday so she didn’t have to talk to the bank. Even when she got the money she couldn’t just go plop it down on Roger Hamilton’s desk. She had to deposit it into several different accounts in different states to make sure it didn’t look like she was acquiring large sums of cash illegally, which of course she was.
Kat’s hand signed the cross at the thought of the cash. She’d never stolen anything before, not even cable in her dorm room. But now she was on her way to sell a third piece of stolen jewelry. “The rich, selfish sons of biscuits don’t need all of it anyway,” she whispered, and swallowed the guilt with the acid from her stomach.
Kat’s first heist was a pair of diamond earrings. It had taken her several months to figure out how to sell them. The second piece she’d lifted was a moon rock for some private collector. For this last heist, she’d driven all the way to Washington, D.C., to an exclusive
gem collection. Mr. Pinkas would give enough money for the ancient jade pendant to get the bank off her back and buy school shoes and new jeans for all the kids.
Kat’s heart pounded. If she could just get used to the illegal aspect of the whole thing. It had all seemed so romantically Robin Hoodish when she’d first thought it through.
Kat caught her breath as she rolled past the dead end street. Mr. Pinkas’s black sedan sat at the end. Her hand automatically squeezed her moonstone pendant. Kat was sure it had been her mother’s and its magic made it possible for her to understand other languages. And other people could understand her even if they didn’t speak English.
Kat drove a few blocks past and parked on a rundown residential street. Before she stepped out of the car, she took a drink of water from the warm bottle. Kat scrunched down in the seat, checking that no one was near. She let the liquid splash around her tongue and down her throat as she closed her eyes. She pulled the little pockets of magic that lay within the water inside her body. The magic pulsed, danced inside the water molecules. The more she drank, the more water magic enhanced her, helped her to change.
She envisioned a young grandmother she’d seen in her National Geographic magazine and the magic slid across her skin, draping her. Kat appeared as a fifty-year-old African-American woman in the rear view mirror. Magic draped her in a worn pink cardigan and khaki skirt with practical shoes. She stepped out of the car and looked at the street lined with row houses.
Children jumped double-dutch on the cracked sidewalk, their voices calling commands and rhymes amidst laughter. The ancient magnolia tree shaded them with a canopy of sticky, sweet-smelling flowers. Nine-forty and already hot. Kat fanned herself with what would look to the outside world as a church bulletin. Several butterflies flittered down to her, but Kat shooed them away. “Not now, my little friends.”
Girls lounged on a front stoop trying to look five years older than they were. Several boys, really young men, walked by with their pants way too low and their name brand T-shirts belying their family income. No one gave her a second glance as she ambled toward a single house. No one saw her step past the house down an alley where she changed into Rocko.
Rocko, thick-necked and broad shouldered, wore a mustache and tattoos circling his arms and down the side of his mobster face, complete with a poorly healed broken nose. He wore a Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt and jeans. His shoes were made for running, but his scarred fists were made for fighting.
Rocko had to be tough enough that no one would challenge him. Because Rocko only had the strength of a one-hundred-and-thirty-pound young woman. One who was desperate for money.
It took Kat a couple minutes to tame Rocko’s heart enough to perfect his swagger, sneer, and accent. Her mother’s blue moonstone did not alter her accent. Kat squeezed it. On Rocko though, it looked like a skull etched in bronze. Four or five butterflies hovered just overhead. Her friends definitely didn’t fit in with Rocko’s air of danger. “Later, come visit me later,” she called softly and they drifted up on a current of hot air.
Butterflies followed her everywhere. Perhaps it had something to do with her magic. When she’d arrived at the orphanage, she’d been wearing old-fashioned clothes, ancient in fact, from her studies. And her hand had been wrapped with a butterfly embroidered sash. It and the stone were all Kat had of her mother.
Kat tucked the water pistol in her pants and kept the jade pendant in its bag in her hand. The water gun looked like a Browning Hi-Power Mark III pistol, and it was loaded. With water. Not much help. She could always use the water to increase her magic. With enough magic coursing through her, if someone frisked Rocko, she’d feel like Rocko to them.
Kat narrowed her eyes until they went slightly out of focus. Her eyes adjusted so that when she looked down her chest, her D-cups disappeared behind a barrel chest and T-shirt. “There you are, Rocko,” she whispered, feeling more confident that she’d seen him. She spit on the ground. “Let’s go get twenty grand,” she grumbled in her deepest, snarliest voice. It was a good thing Rocko didn’t talk much.
****
“Damn ye, ye old crone,” Toren swore as he walked through the labyrinth of artifacts on display. Celtic crosses from tenth-century Ireland mixed with crosses from fifteenth-century Scotland in glass display cases. Tapestries flanked the walls while a set of authentic armor guarded the arched doorway. Viking brooches unearthed from Denmark lay against recreated clothing the Vikings would have worn. Daggers and swords lined the walls, each piece bathed in soft museum light, waiting for the doors of the exhibit to open.
“Where are ye hiding, witch?” He stooped to inspect the rubies and onyx gems in his prize piece, the ornate dragonfly necklace that stood open on a pedestal in the center of the maze. Bait. Toren stood to his full six-foot-four-inch height and stared up at the vaulted ceiling of the southern mansion he had leased for the exhibit. “I am waiting for ye, bana-bhuidseach,” he said through clenched teeth. “Come find me!” he yelled abruptly to release some of the pent up frustration, his voice echoing in the huge room. Five years he’d looked for the old woman who’d cursed him. Five years of searching for the one who’d destroyed his clan, his life.
Toren lowered his gaze to the room of artifacts he’d collected in those five years. Scotland, Denmark, Ireland. This necklace would bring her, he was certain. She’d been wearing one like it when she’d worked her black magic. If the old witch had used magic to recreate the necklace on her spirit body, then she’d be more than interested in the real thing. Toren had found it on the western shores of Scotland, near his homeland, buried beside a stone slab in the middle of a circle of ten standing stones. Magic had buzzed in the air, though he had no idea how to harness it.
He breathed deeply, focusing, letting the fury subside until he once again looked halfway civilized. He glanced in the full-length mirror that had once belonged to some princess in Wales. His black Armani pants and casual button-up shirt fit his shape fine. He even admitted that they were comfortable. But he would give his own sword to wear the clothes of his homeland again.
At the open archway his young archeology friend, James Pinterson, cleared his throat. “Mr. MacCallum?” When Toren turned to the man, James hesitated. “I...I’m sorry to interrupt.”
Clearly Toren hadn’t rid his face of all the anger. He tried to smile, but the effect only made the poor archeologist take a step backwards into the entry.
“What is it, Mr. Pinterson?” If the man continued to call him Mr. MacCallum, then he’d return the formality.
James stood just outside the archway. “The security guards are here.” He motioned to two medium-build men in uniform. “I was about to unlock the doors. I’ve seen a couple of cars pull up and park.”
Toren motioned toward the double doors beyond the hanging Swarovski crystal chandelier. “By all means, let them enter.” Not that he expected the witch to come in to see the exhibit, but word would get out. If she listened at all to the goings-on of mere mortals, she’d hear of the necklace. Through his study of Celtic magic, Toren had learned that magic hummed under his skin, and he’d tapped into it, binding the necklace to him. If she took the necklace, he would find her.
He nodded to the guards before striding into the side room where a broad selection of wines sat along a mahogany bar. He nodded to the bartender and poured a draught of thirty-year-old Glenfarclas whiskey. He threw it back quickly and breathed, feeling the fire of Scotland burn along his tense nerves. He heard the musical laughter of some woman in the entryway. Perhaps he’d go have a look. A lass was a lass, and he needed a release.
****
Lady Madeline, as Kat liked to think of the seventy-year-old woman she currently portrayed, paid the taxi driver and watched him drive away before she slipped behind a large oak tree. She had stashed her cash, given her swim lesson to a group of nine-year-olds, taken Amoxicillin back to the orphanage for Jimmy, and had changed into her tight-fitting white leggings and shirt. What a day.
On
ce out of sight of the front doors, Kat took two gulps of water and set the bottle by the tree. “Now I’m also a litterbug.” She breathed deeply, calling upon power. It trickled up through all the water molecules embedded in her human body. As the magic resonated in concert with her thudding heart, she imagined the humid, hot June air wrapping like a blanket, blending her into the scenery. Within seconds, Kat’s body faded to nothing. Kat looked down at what should be her hand, but it was gone. She smiled. Nothing could beat the comfort of being totally invisible. She didn’t have to disguise a voice or change her walk. She breathed deeply and rolled tight shoulders, enjoying the feeling of being totally alone, totally masked.
Kat walked silently on the grass as her footsteps could still be heard and seen in the dust pools amongst the pebbles. Her tight white suit clung so she wouldn’t brush against anyone. She would check out the exhibit. See if anything looked expensive. Perhaps she’d just take it today, not have to come back. During the day the heist might be easier. No alarms and laser lights like D.C. Kat’s heart beat hard as adrenaline raced. She frowned. D.C. had been way too close.
Inside, Kat crept along the wall, avoiding two stout guards. There were about twenty people milling around with wine glasses in their hands as they peered at the properly lit exhibits. If Kat hadn’t been on a mission, she would have spent time studying the ancient pieces. Medieval and Renaissance Britain were her favorite periods. She’d written several papers in school regarding costume and weaponry.
Kat glanced in a mirror across the foyer. No Kat. If she could go through life invisible, she would. There was such freedom in it. She could pull her underwear straight, adjust her bra, pick her teeth, even pick her nose if she wanted to.
A group of country club ladies sauntered through the opulent entry way. “Magnificent,” a redhead whispered with a sly leer at her friend. “I may just come back later to see if I can entice him out of that Armani.”
“Evelyn!” Her perfectly blond friend elbowed her gently. “What are you thinking?”
Masquerade (The Dragonfly Chronicles Book 3) Page 2