by Jane Cousins
Perhaps he should regroup, see a healer, and speak to his co-conspirator.
Yes, let them come up with a better plan to tame the clever spinster.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Patricia’s face was finally beginning to feel normal. The second lot of cool chamomile compresses were doing the trick. The contacts were out. Her hair dye gone, thanks to a quick shower. And her sore feet were resting in a small bath of ice water. What a day… night… day? It was very confusing with all the different timeframes.
She would be needing a nap soon. If she could get her mind to shut off that was. Cullen’s rejection. Zartel’s offer. Two weeks ago her life had been normal, busy, bordering on frantic, and yet, personally, perhaps bordering on dull. Now. She had two very confusing men in her life.
One who looked at her with heat in his eyes, and rejected her.
One who looked at her impassively and turned up naked in her bed, offering to have sex with her.
She stifled a yawn and removed the compress from her throat and face. Ah, so much better.
And there was one more confusing point of order. Why was there one hundred pounds of freeze dried steak on her dining room table, wrapped with a large bow?
Too many questions. Very few answers. Curling up in bed a short time later, on fresh sheets, she vowed to work out just what the hell was going on. With Zartel and his cronies.
And with Cullen.
Because of all the events that had taken place today, she couldn’t seem to shake or soothe the sting of his rejection. Even though she totally agreed that he’d made the right call. It shook her, that she seemed to care. Care, when Cullen was closer than ever to getting his hands on Mara Botbain, discovering her nefarious activities and bringing Mara, and those she was in cahoots with, to justice.
Yes, soon Cullen would be gone, and instead of rejoicing at the thought, Patricia found herself feeling strangely empty.
Chapter Thirteen
The buzz of the alarm broke Cullen’s concentration. He blinked, arching his back, wincing as several muscles protested the long bout of sitting. Crap. It was his personal calendar. Reminding him that in twenty minutes he was due at the main branch of the Library to supervise the Krell Spawn Campaign Re-enactment Society.
It was probably a good thing, besides two power cat naps he’d been working on nothing but trawling through footage from the school party for the last thirty-six hours. Not just everything his own four cameras had recorded but all of his family present had been secretly filming as well.
The footage was both intriguing and frustrating. Trying to line up multiple feeds so the events unfolded in real time was something he was very good at. Problem was, the content. Yes, there were gaps. No sound. But his powers were having a hard time collating what he was seeing. He suspected magic was to blame. Something he had a hard time factoring into his conclusions because it often required too much guesswork for his fact loving nature to abide.
Grrr, stomping into the fully kitted out bathroom attached to his hi-tech lair, he shed his clothes and stepped into the shower. Dunking his head under the cool water, trying to shake off both the cobwebs and the after affects of sitting still for so long.
Just as intriguing and frustrating were the British media reports surrounding the event. Seven deaths had been reported. It was deemed a tragedy. General consensus seeming to be that a stray electrical spark had set the Christmas decorations alight, resulting in a stampede for the exits. Even the fire marshal’s initial report, accessed by one of Cullen’s cousins positioned high up in the Metropolitan Police, reported the same conclusions.
No mention of firearms.
One of his Aunts had snuck into the morgue and taken copies of the coroner’s initial findings and emailed them on. Looking at the photos of the victims and then at the reports, nothing was making sense. The official documents clearly stated the coroner attributed the cause of death for all seven victims to be crush related, incurred as a result of the stampede.
But the photos, they told a different story. Yes, two had obviously been crushed or stomped on. But four of the victims were all but shredded. Throats torn out in two cases. A heart missing in the third. And the fourth looked like he’d put up a fight, his face and arms striped with cuts. With four strange deep puncture wounds in his chest. The fifth victim had incurred only four shallow cuts across his face, it was the two neat gunshots in his heart that had done him in.
He had to be the man Mara shot. Two bullets travelling through the man’s back and puncturing his heart. Text book. So she hadn’t identified Cullen after all. This man was her intended target all along.
Yet, the coroner reported the cause of death for all the victims as accidental.
Out of the shower, Cullen grabbed a towel, rubbed at his wet hair, dried off, and dressed quickly in a fresh white shirt, grey trousers and black brogues. A quick brush of his teeth and a comb through his hair, he was good to go. Excellent. He was sure this meeting would run an hour, tops. Then he could get back to work here in his lair.
Stepping out of the main Library Transportal, Cullen made his way through the central dome room and into the Historical Wing. Last time he’d been in here it had been pitch black and he and Patricia had been trapped. That felt like forever ago.
Since that time a cacophony of Christmas decorations had gone up. Boughs of fresh smelling evergreens cross-crossed the high ceilings. Gold lanterns emitted a soft glow. A hundred sparkling diamante turtledoves cooed softly in pairs. Red bows, and bunches of gold holly interspersed all the greenery. And somehow it looked like it was snowing. Though the snow only fell about ten feet and then disappeared completely.
There were no patrons now. Monday night, eight o’clock, the Library was officially closed, empty except for the Re-enactment Society Members. Hmm, another room that held a lot of memories from that night. Nope, he needed to lock down those types of distracting thoughts. He was so close to fingering Mara and finding out what she and her yet to be confirmed cohorts were doing. He needed to maintain his focus. There would be plenty of time later to pursue Patricia.
Cullen definitely felt that the two of them working together, in-sync, it had been a turning point for them. Patricia would no longer be able to deny how right they were on a cerebral level.
And he was totally looking forward to exploring the future, more physical aspects of their attraction. After he caught and exposed the nefarious dealings of Mara and her posse that was. And he was sure Patricia would understand after the mayhem and tragic ending to their mission the other night, why she would no longer be included in his hunt. The danger. It was obvious things could have gone seriously awry. The ricochet was proof enough. And Patricia was nothing if not imminently sensible.
Cullen entered the Re-enactment room. There were twenty-three gentlemen present. Given the long life of the Southern Sanctuary inhabitants, it was hard to tell exact ages. But he doubted anyone here was under sixty-five except for himself. Several were drinking beer. All were studying the large miniaturised version of the field of battle.
Cullen greeted the inhabitants, most smiling and nodding absently in his direction as he took a seat on the arm of a nearby sofa. He was glad he’d come. The change in setting. The quiet intense conversations of the Re-enactors, it was strangely soothing. Allowing him to sink into information dissection mode. Working the tangents. Replaying over and over again the body language of his five prime female suspects. Figuring out their roles in the group. Who had power. Who were the followers.
He frowned, trying to ignore the rather tense discussion of two men who had drifted a little closer to his position. Their passion for their project was admirable, but he needed to block them out as extraneous. Except his powers had different ideas. Their conversation, it didn’t revolve around points of trajectory or arguing over kill numbers. No. It seems the Sanctuary grapevine was running rife with a particularly lurid story.
All he got were the words - naked, warrior, broken door and
one name, Patricia. Say what now?
It took everything Cullen had to sit there, looking relaxed, when inside all he wanted to do was grab the closest man and interrogate him. Luckily, his loud library volunteer buddy, Leon, sauntered over to the duo.
“Midge Bennett told me in confidence that the warrior just stood there for like five minutes, scratching his head, looking bewildered. Didn’t even put his pants on.”
“Yeah, we’ve all heard Midge’s blow by blow recounting.” A tall fellow with greying red hair shook his head. “You don’t think she might have been exaggerating a little? At least about the size of the warrior’s equipment?”
“Well, he is tall.” The fellow wearing glasses put forward his opinion on the matter. “It stands to reason that everything would be in proportion.”
“So why would Patty-cake be tossing the man out on the street stark naked in the middle of the day?”
“Maybe she’d had her fill and kicked him out. You know Patricia’s work ethic, she’s nothing but dedicated.”
The trio all nodded and murmured agreement.
“You think they’ll meld?”
“I put twenty on a Fall wedding.”
“Fall? Nah, Patty-cake’s not getting any younger. I’ve got a hundred riding on New Year’s Eve.”
The guy with glasses shook his head. “She’s too practical for all that malarkey. I say she and the warrior chap will double up with Quinn and Matias.”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Hep.”
Cullen’s mental topography shifted. A kaleidoscope of emotions battering him as his imagination went into overdrive. Patricia and Zartel, the lunk headed warrior git? Could… could he possibly have been mistaken? Was Patricia blinded by all that oiled up muscle and those flowing, golden locks?
The idea of them being a couple, it should be preposterous. They had nothing in common. Except Patricia was smart and gorgeous. And Zarty, the wonder warrior, had been sniffing around her constantly.
Had the warrior somehow, someway, coerced her? Seduced her? As a couple they made no sense to him, they just didn’t compute. All his logic said no way. Yet the hot roiling in his gut would not be quelled.
Shit, and now that he was paying attention he realised that most of the conversations taking place around the room were not centred around the scaled down battlefield. No, they were all gossiping and speculating about what was going on between Patricia and Zartel.
Cullen unclenched his jaw. He would not join in the gossip, he would go straight to the source and demand Patricia tell him what the hell was going on. Hold on. No. If he busted in with that kind of attitude she’d take umbrage and clam up. What he needed to do was find an excuse to talk to her and just casually tease the truth out of her. Damn, and the only reason he had to approach her at the moment was to discuss the current status of his investigation. Shit.
Okay, okay. But getting her opinion. Asking her to look over his findings so far, it wouldn’t put her in any danger. And he could find a way to cut her out of the equation once his curiosity was satisfied and his gut ceased churning. Yes. He had a plan. Now he just had to execute it.
“Excuse me.” He broke in to the conversation of the nearest trio of gentlemen. “Just out of interest, how long do one of these meetings typically last?”
The trio instantly began laughing.
“More often than not into the wee small hours.” The red-headed man advised.
“Can’t call it quits until we’ve got a consensus on five kills.”
Leon shook his head. “Why, I remember back a few years ago we were in here for almost three days. Only broke up then because the beer ran out.”
All night? Days? Nope, Cullen didn’t have the patience, he needed to track down and confront… no, not confront, invite Patricia’s opinion regarding his findings. And then proceed to casually extract the truth regarding her relationship with the blonde lunkhead.
Stepping past the three men, Cullen approached the deceptively frosty looking plexiglass magical display. “This horse was responsible for trampling to death those three men. That swordsman, with the bones tied in his beard, killed him,” he pointed to a tiny crumpled figure, “with a sword to the gut. Him, with a throat slash and him, with a kick to the head. Then he in turn took an arrow to the chest, fired by the thirteenth archer to the left, three rows back.”
Silence reigned for two heartbeats and then the Re-enactors as one raced forward to study the scene. Heavy silence descended with a thud for thirty seconds before every single gaze shifted to settle upon Cullen in speculation.
Fuck, had he just stepped over another one of those invisible lines?
He was out numbered. But the gentlemen were elderly, slower reflexes. He could potentially take them all, but not without incurring potentially significant damage. Worse, these men were all somehow, some way, related to Patricia. She’d never forgive him if he hurt any of them. Bloody hell.
Then suddenly everyone was smiling. Laughing.
A large gentlemen with amber coloured eyes clapped Cullen on the back. “Lads, I think we just found our new President. Who seconds the motion?”
There was a rousing chorus of agreement.
What had just happened? Cullen made several protesting noises. He could only blame the unfamiliar annoying heat churning in his gut for not assessing all the probable outcomes of his rash actions. Displaying his magic that way? It was an amateur move. But the heat, no, face it for what it was, this wave of jealousy that was all but engulfing had him acting like a rookie.
Another reason to bring Patricia on board fully, if he knew where she was, working by his side, then he could be assured she wasn’t having naked encounters with six-foot-six over muscled meatheads.
Cullen made some hurried excuses, assuring the gentlemen that while he was honoured by their confidence in him he had to sadly decline. Though his words might have been lost in the rousing toasts and clink of beer bottles as the club members raised their drinks in his direction.
Slipping away, Cullen headed straight for the Transportal. Monday night? He knew where to find Patricia Bennett. He was an Archer, after all. He’d made a comprehensive study of her movements and schedule over the years. It was well known that on Monday nights Patricia reserved the ice rink at the Fitness Centre.
He had to admit it was a good thing that she was still on the ice when he entered the arena. Not only did it give him a chance to calm down. It gave him an opportunity to observe her skate. Something he found he’d be willing to do more often. There was something soothing, yet riveting about Patricia Bennett as she moved around the ice.
Yes, she was graceful and skilled. But there was an intensity there as well. As she threw herself in to the air, spinning, arching her back. She made it look easy, but he knew the strength required to perform such moves, to gain such height. Again, just the sight of her, it spoke to him on every level. That perfect symphony that seemed to sing to him, and him alone.
Wearing a long sleeve purple fitted dress, with a flippy little skirt, Trix moved like a winter dream… or should that be a Christmas dream? Like the main Library the rink was decorated to within an inch of its life. Not surprising, as according to all the posters taped to the walls there would be a winter wonderland Christmas themed party held at the rink every Sunday until Christmas day.
In here, who ever was in charge, had chosen to go with swathes of gold and silver decorations. And again it looked like it was snowing indoors, the flakes magically disappearing some ten feet before they hit the ground. Clever. Over the loud speakers a bluesy Christmas carol took the festive feeling up yet another notch.
Cullen kept forgetting Christmas was approaching. In Australia it was the beginning of Summer. The sun shone bright and hot most days. The sky was blue. And the smell of the ocean from the nearby beach scented the air. It was as far from the dark, chilly days of his childhood wintry Christmases as was possible.
Taking two deep breaths, he felt the churning in his gut lesse
n, not dissipate, but there was something about seeing Patricia looking like Patricia once more that calmed him.
Her rich sable hair was pulled back in a loose chignon. Her hazel eyes sparkled with determination as she set up the next series of jumps, landing backwards, left leg stretched back, arm lifted high. The practice outfit was skin tight and very short, but it wasn’t something Evangeline would ever have worn. The neckline too high. Not a sequin in sight.
Sauntering slowly down the steps, Cullen rested his arms on the the barricade, drinking in the poetry… oops, he winced as Patricia suddenly hit the ice hard, butt first.
“I’m guessing you’re probably hoping no one witnessed that, right?”
Getting to her feet, Patricia brushed ice off her backside and skated over to chat with her uninvited guest. “Perhaps you’d like to strap on a pair of skates and show me how it’s done?”
“No, thanks. You’re good. On the ice I mean. You make it look easy, even though I can tell it takes a lot of strength and precision to land those jumps.”
Patricia’s gaze narrowed. Cullen, complimenting her? “What do you want?” She’d momentarily forgotten she was peeved with him, but it was all coming back to her now.
“I don’t want anything. It’s what you want.”
Heavens, Patricia was glad the cold air was keeping her blush at bay. Was he really going to throw her fleeting crush on him in her face? He was the one who’d been sending her heated looks. Kissed her, at least once with real intent. He must be silently crowing that she’d begun to take him seriously. “What I want?”
