by Black, Regan
As two students prepared to deliver their perspective on the balcony scene, Amy realized it had been over a year since she'd seen Aunt Camille – last Christmas – and they hadn't spoken by phone since she'd acquired Guinness.
Easy enough to fix that. She jotted a note to herself to call Camille, and another note to have her assistant make the necessary travel arrangements once she had a destination. Camille was forever flitting from place to place. It was part of the mystique of owning a high-powered consulting firm and an enviable trait unique to her eccentric aunt.
But she could never be so brave and free as Camille. She needed roots, routine, stability. A life where a winter visit to Charleston was a big adventure surely looked boring to an outsider, but Amy knew it was perfect for her.
Leave the bold flirtations and jetsetting to women like Maeve and Camille who could handle it. Amy had long ago concluded she wasn't destined to join their ranks.
Oh, she'd fantasized and even taken a tiny, daring couple of steps outside her comfort zone. Those forays hadn't ended well, but she'd learned to be content with herself. She was the approachable girl next door, the average everything sort of woman that rugged, eye candy sort of men used to get the introduction to the svelte, glamorous women like Camille and Maeve.
Maybe it was the echo of Camille's letter, maybe it was the Goth girl mixing a little Rapunzel with her Juliet, but Amy found herself wishing she was more like her aunt or even Maeve with her inimitable grace, delicate features, and Southern Belle charm. They knew how to work a room and how to own a moment. After so many years with their good example, Amy wondered how she could still be so...bland.
She sighed. Even her name was another layer of blah beside the elegant monikers of Camille and Maeve.
It had been the solitary goal of her childhood to grow into the rare beauty of her aunt. Hair dark and straight as night, flawless alabaster skin, and nearly electric blue eyes.
She tried to imagine herself behaving like Camille when she saw a man hovering stage left, arms crossed, staring out at the seats. From this distance all she could tell was that he was taller than average with broad shoulders and dark hair. Just for the mental gymnastics, she envisioned herself going after him, but with a little less intensity than Maeve exhibited this morning. She pictured herself striding forward, all smiles and grace. She'd make a witty comment about the pair on stage, and they would glide out to an intimate lunch where they flirted wildly and exchanged names and numbers.
She clapped a hand to her mouth to smother the burst of laughter.
Reading the stranger's body language, knowing he was looking for someone, she knew he wasn't watching her. It was the simple law of attraction and not entirely because she was a classic case of too much plain with a smidge of plump. Her grandma called her lovely, but Amy knew that referred to her personality. She'd never have the allure of her aunt and she held no hope of developing a resemblance to her streamlined, athletic greyhound.
No, sitting in the middle row of the center section of the dark theater, she was effectively invisible. If Camille sat here, there would be no doubt every man in a three block radius would be compelled to stare, good lighting or bad. But that wasn't the point.
Goth Juliet wrapped her scene to the sincere applause of the group and Amy turned her thoughts to what Camille would say really mattered: her successes. She'd achieved her first career goals ahead of schedule despite her soft edges, fiery hair with a tendency for frizz, and an abundance of freckles.
While the students offered constructive criticism, Amy made her way to the stage.
Maeve was praising fresh viewpoints and moderating with a deft touch when Amy joined them and noticed a few students gloating over those who'd struggled with the acting. "Well done, everyone. We won't meet tomorrow morning." This was met with cheers and she smiled sweetly, even as she noticed she was losing their attention. Clearing her throat, she continued. "I want a three page essay with a personal perspective on any theme of this play other than the romance. Due tomorrow afternoon."
The students dispersed with groans and grumbles, sounds that always surprised her when uttered by adults hoping for good grades.
"Well that was inspired," Maeve said.
"I do have my moments."
"What are we doing with our morning off?"
She smiled. "Anything we want until two o'clock tomorrow."
Heavy boot heels thudding across the stage drew Amy's attention.
"Pardon me, ladies." It was the same man Amy had used in her failed fantasy. His voice was compelling and gentle, but there was a hard glint in his pale blue eyes. "I'm Grant Barclay."
"I don't believe we've met." Maeve moved forward, hand extended, smile heating up.
Amy stepped aside, giving them room, but noting that love-sick look in her friend's eyes, she had no intention of leaving Maeve alone.
"The pleasure is all mine." Mr. Barclay raised Maeve's outstretched hand to his lips and had to tug his own hand away when she clung. "I know your reputation on campus, Professor King, but not your partner's."
He scrutinized Amy as if he could see right through her. She wanted to take a step back. Pride kept her feet rooted in place.
"Amy's a guest professor for the next few months," Maeve gushed. "Professor Campbell, Mr. Barclay." She wiggled her eyebrows at Amy.
"Ah. Professor Amy Campbell." The way he said her name, as if it had germs, bothered her. "It seems I am indeed here for you, Professor."
Camille's letter flitted through her mind while Maeve whispered something about hot men walking straight out of books and Amy felt the blush staining her cheeks. It wasn't as if Mr. Barclay couldn't hear her. "How odd, since we've just met."
He narrowed his eyes and she felt a sudden lack of oxygen and an odd buzzing sound in her ears.
"Let's just say I'm a fan of your work."
"All right." Not all right! What work? Aside from a few published articles, she'd never done anything more than teach collegiate English classes. This wasn't a man she would've overlooked even in a packed lecture hall.
"Do you have another class scheduled?"
She shook her head, still trying to make things fit together. Power radiated from him and while she wasn't precisely afraid, all her instincts were on red alert. "We can talk on the way to the office." There. She'd managed to sound composed. Planning to deal with him quickly, she was already looking forward to her walk with Guinness.
"Of course." He bowed and flourished as the stage lights blinked off.
Amy ordered herself to remain calm. The exit signs were bright enough to reach the door without incident. Mr. Barclay gave every sign of being an actor, not a threat, and Maeve was right here, though she was clearly losing the battle against another hormone hurricane. Was she drooling?
No matter. Amy could handle this – whatever this was. Serial killers didn't usually escort their victims into a more public arena, did they?
Outside, in the bright light of mid day, among the bustle of business people taking lunch and tourists killing the hours before embarking on a cruise, Mr. Barclay didn't look or feel any less threatening. He didn't scowl or glower or threaten, but Amy felt him at her shoulder like her own personal storm cloud.
To get a handle on her runaway imagination, she cataloged every detail. The name he gave, his height and coloring, the careless stride, and the classic manners. The dark sweater and faded black jeans. Black jeans? Didn't those go out a decade or so ago? She jerked her attention to more important points. The police would want better details if this went downhill.
Pessimism or imagination, she couldn't shake the feeling that she should be prepared to dial 9-1-1.
Beside her, Maeve's wide-eyed gaze remained fixed on the dark Mr. Barclay. It was a small relief from her chasing every male in sight.
"This is an honor," he said as they turned the corner to the admin building.
Amy didn't know how to reply.
"I thought your class went well."
"Oh, thank yo
u," Maeve gushed, oblivious to Mr. Barclay's annoyed glance.
"Yes, thank you," Amy echoed, wishing she felt more like a person and less like a specimen under his microscope. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she didn't like this guy. Whatever he wanted with her, Amy needed to get Maeve away first. "You said you were here for me?" She led the way through the lobby and up the wide steps. It was the long way to Maeve's office, but it guaranteed they'd pass more than one security camera.
He nodded as his lips hitched into a sardonic half-smile. "Your aunt sent me."
His timing was too perfect. Yesterday she'd never have credited his claim, but today she had a new letter from Camille in her purse. She still found it an unthinkable notion that someone so dire being would be a trusted friend of her aunt.
Aloof and polite and dire. What a combination. A combination working all too well on Maeve. This guy might be GQ-cover worthy, but there was a hefty dose of creepy in the mix.
"You've certainly come a long way," she said, trying to get into the spirit of hospitality Maeve claimed made Charleston famous.
All business, Amy opened the office door, motioning Mr. Barclay inside. She stopped Maeve on the threshold. "Maeve?" She repeated her friend's name and pinched her arm before Maeve pulled her eyes away from the stranger.
"What?"
"Can you brew a fresh pot of coffee, please?"
"What? Oh, sure." She grinned and waved her fingers at Mr. Barclay. "Be right back."
Amy closed the door, turning the lock quietly so Maeve couldn't get back in. She skirted around the crush of furniture, putting the desk between her and the stranger.
"You know, I didn't expect to have to chase you across the country," he stated calmly.
Surprise turned to outrage when he reached across the desk and grabbed her hand, yanking her forward until they were nearly nose to nose. For an instant his features blurred, and she saw another face – a woman's face – hovering in the air between them.
She gasped, struggling to find her voice as she reached blindly for the phone. "Release me right now or, or I'll call security!"
"They can't help you," he growled. He tossed her hand back as if she was something vile, muttering under his breath. The language was foreign, but she knew the words weren't flattering. Glaring at her, he rubbed his wrist and then rolled up his sleeve.
"My God!" he roared, seeing the red stain climbing up his inner arm like a wicked venom.
Amy snatched up the phone to call for help, but with a flick of his wrist he pulled the cord right out of the wall.
"Wh-what do you want with me?"
He shoved his discolored arm in her face. "You careless little fool. How dare you mark me!"
He lunged across the desk, she lurched back, and the chair toppled over. Her head cracked against the marble sill of the window and she heard men shouting in the hall. She had time to be thankful for security departments before she slid into a quiet black cocoon.
~*~
"Aw, hellfire!" Darian skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, having followed the outraged bellows of the escaping werewolf. With a quick vine spell he tripped him up and let him tumble down to the first landing. Satisfied the beast was incapacitated, he raced back to the office, wary of what he might find on the other side of the broken door. As introductions went, this was worse than any blunder of yesterday, but he had a mission to fulfill.
He stepped over the broken glass and steadied the door swinging from only the top hinge as he eased into the office. "Amy?" He cringed. He'd scared her once already. Keep it professional. "Professor Campbell?"
How wrong could a simple assignment go? He saw the flowers, noticed the letter was gone. The werewolf hadn't been dragging her off, but where could she be? He turned a full circle, confirming she wasn't hiding behind the file cabinets, then dropped to check the floor. Seeing her under the chair, her head bent at an unnatural angle, sent an icy shot of panic through his veins.
If the werewolf had killed the Matchmaker's niece...
He leaped over the desk and knelt beside her, cautiously feeling about for a pulse. Finding that, he breathed a sigh of relief. Unconscious, praise the gods. He examined her head, finding only a trace of blood, but he felt the lump rising quickly under his fingers. The situation looked much worse than it was, though she might have a concussion and would definitely be hurting when she came to.
Voices in the hallway gave him a moment to prepare for the barrage of questions and demands. He applied a bit of glamour to smooth over the rough edges of reality. "It appears Professor Campbell's bumped her head," he said to the gathering in general. "Would someone find an ice pack, please?" In his experience humans put ice on everything and it gave people something to do and think about during a confusing situation.
He heard someone run off. Now to separate the rabble from the players. He thought the Matchmaker would appreciate the analogy. "There's a man on the stairs. He tried to attack the professor. Security needs to hold him for questioning."
Being detained would only make Wolfie's day worse. Darian suppressed a pleased smirk. There were ten days left before the full moon, so no one was in any real jeopardy in or out of the cell. Someone from his pack would have him released long before he succumbed to the call of the moon.
"Who are you?" a security guard demanded.
Dare carefully eased Amy's body into a more comfortable position. "A student," he improvised. "We were discussing the assignment and that big dude just came in and started shouting."
"Uh-huh."
Keeping Amy unconscious so she couldn't contradict his story, he urged each of the humans to other tasks. He'd stopped by only to confirm her receipt of the letter, but now he needed to determine why a werewolf had been slinking around.
"Shouldn't she be awake by now?" He recognized Amy's friend Maeve. The woman refused to leave, making it impossible to get away unnoticed. "Should we call an ambulance?"
"No. It's minor really. I've had some training," he added.
"That's good." Maeve stroked his shoulders. "You're very good at this."
Her sultry voice scraped against his nerves. On edge, Dare glanced from Maeve to Amy and back again. He pumped a little more magic into the narrowing space between them, but the heat in Maeve's big blue eyes didn't fade. What the hell?
Only the Matchmaker had this effect on people. In all his years in her service he'd never heard of an instance where her power had transferred to anyone in her employ. And if he'd been toting a residual effect it sure hadn't helped him yesterday. Power wasn't some airborne virus. It just didn't happen. There were laws and limits and – damn – Maeve's mouth was brushing his ear.
He twisted in the narrow space between the desk and the wall, standing up and pulling her with him, but holding her at arm's length. Her smile was everything sexy and inviting. On any other day he'd – No! What was wrong with him?
There was an obvious explanation, but Dare couldn't contemplate it in this crisis. "You know what?"
"Tell me," she purred.
"The ambulance." He gave her shoulders a little shake. "It's a good idea. Go call for an ambulance and wait for them downstairs."
The woman pouted and then shrugged her shoulder, bringing his hand closer to her lips. He jerked out of reach, using his magic to make his face a reflection of hers. "Amy needs an ambulance."
Maeve blinked a couple of times, almost resisting his mirror charm before finally leaving to follow his instructions.
Gathering the bags and papers he assumed were important to Amy, he scooped her into his arms. Tossing a final illusion over the office, he headed for the emergency stairwell. As a bodyguard he appreciated the clever people who built buildings with egress options.
He'd hoped to revive her there in the office, have a quick chat and be on his way, but this development was too troubling to risk it.
He could hardly cart her around Charleston passed out like this without raising questions, or worse. Southerners were too willing to get
involved, too ready to hear a life story to let him walk around with an unconscious woman in his arms. Controlling the disaster in the office had drained his ability to make people see what they wanted to see out on the street.
If Dare knew anything, it was how to think on his feet. Years with the Matchmaker meant he'd been required to improvise on nearly every consultation. He'd learned firsthand how rocky affairs of the heart could get.
From the emergency stairwell he spotted a maintenance closet and ducked inside. Propping Amy on a step stool in the corner, he held her shoulders and lifted the magic that kept her asleep.
"Amy? Can you hear me?"
"Mmm. Huh?" Her brow furrowed, but her eyes remained closed.
"Be a good girl. Wake up for me now. You're safe."
Her eyelids twitched and fluttered open and Darian nearly choked at the amazing blue eyes staring back at him. Her Campbell blue eyes from yesterday now showed a deep blue star burst radiating from the pupil. Matchmaker's eyes. Gilly besting him in a duel would be less of a shock. This was impossible. There could only be one Matchmaker in the world at a time.
Logic dictated if Amy had the eyes, was in fact now the Matchmaker, then Camille was no more. It was like taking a spear through the chest. He staggered back. Logic or not, he couldn't think that way, wouldn't believe it. But the proof was gazing back at him, confused and baffled.
"What's going on? Why are we in a closet?"
Grief and loss and more than a little denial warred for control of his heart rate. Dare struggled against the emotional onslaught.
Camille's last order echoed in his head. "Find Amy. Be sure she gets this letter." Suddenly, he wanted to read that letter – to hell with the breach of trust. What secrets had the Matchmaker been keeping from him?
"You received a letter today?"
"With the flowers." She started to nod, but winced at the pain. "Oh! You. You were at the house yesterday."
"Yes."
"You're a stalker." Her eyes went wide as she looked around for a way to escape.
"I'm not."
"Get away from me."
He didn't budge, couldn't give her the room to escape. "Keep your voice down. I'm here to help you." Precisely how remained to be seen. "Your Aunt Camille asked me to deliver a letter. I put it with the flowers."
