by Toni Kerr
“Who needs to? It’s just another way to fall and hurt yourself.”
“Kids are supposed to fall and hurt themselves.” Tristan noticed another opened bottle of wine on the table. “You don’t have a problem using magic. All this stuff keeps appearing and disappearing. How can you trust what’s real and what isn’t?”
“I wouldn’t call it magic and you’ll get used to it.”
“That’s what Landon says, but I don’t think I can.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“You should get out more,” Tristan said, settling back in his chair. “Did you know you have a reputation?”
“Is that so?” She refilled the glasses.
“Seems you have a temper and don’t like people, and maybe you’ll kick me out and they’ll build me a house somewhere else.”
“But you know better.”
Tristan tried to focus on the painting, embarrassed by the fact that he didn’t recognize or remember her, yet she seemed so sure they knew each other. Maybe there really was some guy named Jacques? “Where do the deer fit in?”
Eleonora shook her head. “Can’t you give an old woman credit for trying?”
“Yes. I don’t know how to say it, but it definitely holds my attention.” Or maybe it was a soothing escape from the topics he’d need to face sooner or later. “I should call Landon and Victor and tell them where I am.” Tristan laughed at himself. “But you guys don’t have phones, do you? And no electricity!”
“Oh, yes, please! Put a cell phone tower right over there.” She pointed into the darkness and laughed again. “Then string all our houses together with electrical cables.” After another good laugh, her joking subsided. “They haven’t explained all that?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Tristan shrugged. “There hasn’t been time to explain everything, but I’m sure they will.”
“Don’t you want to ask about Donovan?”
“Can you hear my thoughts?”
“Are you accusing me?”
“No. But you seem to know…so I wondered if I should be practicing more. Sorry for asking.”
“It’s like spying through a person’s window, some just can’t resist. But around here, I think you’re pretty safe.”
Tristan nodded, thankful that he hadn’t offended her.
“Regarding Donovan, I’ve tried getting to know him, I really have. I even asked to be in one of his classes.” She took a deep breath and her smile faded. “I’m sorry. He’s as beautiful as he ever was, but with that mountain façade, he’s impossible to talk to.”
Tristan nodded his agreement, then shook his head. How would he know?
Eleonora stood faster than he could follow, setting her glass aside and peering into the darkness. Her expression turned so blank, he barely recognized her.
Tristan followed her line of vision, squinting to see beyond the brightness of the fire. “Is someone out there?”
He grinned as Landon and Victor appeared within reach of the firelight. “Hey!” He chuckled at almost losing his balance when he stood to greet them and couldn’t wait to explain how wrong they were about Eleonora. He hadn’t laughed so much in years!
But she remained silent with a stony expression that seemed so wrong.
“What’s going on?” Landon asked, eyeing the empty wine bottles and plate of crumbs.
“We were just….” Tristan motioned toward the easel and had to keep himself from falling face-first into the fire. “Just discussing this masterpiece. It’s a—” He still didn’t know and squelched a fit of giggles. Why did everything seem so funny? He turned to Eleonora, who didn’t seem too amused at all.
“You got him drunk?” Landon shouted, not even glancing at the artwork.
“No!” Tristan interrupted. “This was all my doing.” He reached for his chair and sat down. “I swear! It was even my wine.” Or was it Jacques’? William’s?
“You know his background.”
“He could start experimenting,” added Landon, talking over Victor. “He needs to learn control before…this.”
“Actually, what if I don’t want to learn? Seriously. How can I control what I have no concept of? This is your lifestyle, not mine.”
Landon stared with obvious...something. Horror maybe, then turned his anger back on Eleonora. “How could you do this?” The veins in his temples pulsed furiously. “He’s never had a drink in his life!”
“True.” Tristan picked up the original bottle and squinted at the label. “But 1869 was an extremely fine year.”
Eleonora cracked a smile at that, then turned to face her painting.
“How would you know if I never had a drink or not?” Tristan asked Landon, finally comprehending the words.
The painting and easel disappeared, distracting him from waiting for the answer.
Eleonora looked down at Tristan with her hands folded in her sleeves, her face softening. “I’m sorry, but it’s been a pleasure.”
It sounded so final. Before he could say the same, she and her chair vanished.
5
- ALWAYS A SUSPECT -
“I DON’T GET IT,” Tristan said. “Why are you guys are so mean to her?”
“What’s in the suitcase?” Victor asked.
“It’s mine. Apparently.” Tristan stretched to see the case over his shoulder. “I’m not sure why...I don’t even paint.”
“I can’t believe she’d do this.”
“It is sort of funny though,” Victor said, dropping beside the luggage to fix the lid. “Let’s get him home.”
“Why?” Tristan focused on the sky. “The stars are so bright. I’ll bet there are more stars here than anywhere on Earth. Visible that is.”
“But what was she thinking?” Landon shook his head, still pacing by the campfire. “She’s not an idiot.”
“It was like we knew each other from...somewhere in time.” Tristan looked for Landon, surprised to find him in a different location. “You were both really wrong about her.”
“You’re not best friends with someone a million decades older. And don’t you think it’s a little odd that, at her age, she would think it’s perfectly fine to get you drunk? You’re smashed! Look at yourself! You’re a minor for crying out loud. They make laws for a reason you know. This is so wrong on so many levels.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m not a minor in…uh....” He couldn’t remember how she’d made it sound so rational. “Europe?” He rested his head against the back of his chair and resumed stargazing. “I have to ask you something.”
Landon stopped pacing and crossed his arms while Victor held the case.
“What would’ve happened if I’d killed you in Ireland?”
Landon’s mouth fell open and his eyes narrowed with fury.
“You guys just appeared out of nowhere. I wasn’t expecting you. How would I have known if you were on my side or not?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Landon said. “It’s done and in the past. Got it?”
“But it isn’t really, because I was thinking, if I don’t know how I killed those people, how can I prevent myself from doing it again? Was it a certain look? What if…does that make me a psychotic killer instead of just plain psychotic?”
Landon covered his face with a hand and shook his head.
Victor had a knowing bob of the head going on. “You should never be philosophical when you’re drinking.”
“Get up.” Landon was obviously more aggravated than Victor. “Don’t drink ever. It isn’t healthy.”
Tristan got to his feet unsteadily. “How could she stand it all the time?”
“Who?” Victor asked, making Tristan’s chair and the round table with the plate of crumbs vanish with a glance.
“My mother. Her drinking. Where do things go when they disappear like that?”
Landon led Tristan away from the fire, toward the trail to the cabin.
“Come on, Landon,” Victor said. “We’ll never find the trail in the dark; it barely exists i
n the day.”
“Fine,” Landon said, still irritated. “I’ll take him.”
“If you could just…keep those lights out of my face.”
“What lights?” Victor asked, as if he had no idea about the lights.
“Just…lights. Bright.” Tristan scratched his head, but still couldn’t think of any other way to describe what had happened the last time Landon moved him from one place to another.
“Close your eyes and start counting,” Landon said. “Open your eyes on three and you’ll be in the cabin.”
Tristan obediently shut his eyes and counted. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes on three, he stood in his cabin in front of the couch.
Landon pulled him toward the table before he could sit, and let him fall into one of the wooden dining room chairs.
Victor brightened an oil lamp on the wall. “Any lights?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Tristan laid his head on the table and felt his stomach churn. “No.”
“Up for a sec,” Victor said, then lifted the poncho over Tristan’s head as he stood.
A cold rush of air shivered up his spine. “What’s it made of?” Tristan squinted at the poncho, seeing only the basic earthy colors. The cabin seemed freezing cold without it and his gut felt more hollow than queasy.
Victor held it closer to the light and Landon touched the fringe at the bottom. “I’d guess Peru by the style,” Landon finally said. “It’s very old.”
“Did she give it to you, or did she just let you borrow it?”
“She said it was mine.” His eyelids grew heavy and his words slurred worse. “But definitely it’s not mine.”
“She’s a professional fortune teller,” Landon said. “You can’t believe anything she says. She finds out what you want most, and accommodates with nice-sounding riddles of philosophy.”
“You probably told her your whole life story,” Victor added.
True, but he’d left out the dragon parts, hadn’t he? His stomach lurched and he made a clumsy dash for the bathroom, holding down the contents of his stomach.
“Wine makes a terrible hangover,” Victor said to Landon.
“We are not helping him out of this one,” Landon said, loud enough that Tristan couldn’t miss it. “I’ve seen this poncho before, in a book somewhere,” he added, more to Victor than Tristan by the volume.
Tristan groaned from the bathroom floor, losing interest in the poncho mystery. “I’m even more like my mother now. A murderer and a drunk.”
Landon and Victor stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, witness to his humiliation as he settled between the wall and the toilet bowl. “Does this make me an alcoholic?”
“Do you still feel like drinking?”
Tristan shook his head, holding his stomach as the floor spun in undulating waves.
“Would you like help off the floor?” Victor asked politely, offering a hand.
Tristan flushed the toilet. “Where does stuff really go?”
“Septic system,” Landon answered, sending Victor into a snort of chuckles.
Tristan laughed at himself, feeling a little better. He used the toilet bowl to pull himself up. “Other stuff. Like that chair.” He accepted a toothbrush and toothpaste from Victor. “Does it go to another dimension? Does it become air pollution?”
“It’s a little hard to find out,” Victor said, ready to catch him if he swayed too much.
“Do us all a favor and don’t find out,” Landon called from around the corner.
Tristan brushed his teeth and pushed Victor’s guiding hand away, determined to prove he didn’t need help in walking a few steps to the table, where Landon waited with a glass of water and a wet washcloth.
“What would happen if I did?”
“You’d disappear, and not appear anywhere else,” Landon said, through clenched teeth.
“Theoretical suicide,” Victor clarified, much more relaxed about the subject. “I personally think things end up like pollution.”
“Are there activists who want to put a stop to it? Because, we’re probably all breathing bits of chairs and plates and God only knows what else.”
Victor could no longer contain his laughter and even Landon seemed to find the conversation funny.
“If you remember in the morning, you can start a support group,” suggested Victor.
“I’m being serious. If you killed someone that way, would there be proof of the murder floating around? Or does your victim just get missing and nothing more....”
Landon stopped laughing. “They’d just be missing.”
“People don’t find that disturbing? That people are just missing without evidence to prove where they went?”
“Of course it’s disturbing,” Landon answered. “It happens all the time.”
“Why would Sabbatini go through the trouble of melting Gwenna Winters, when he could have just zapped her into nothing?” Tristan leaned his chair back, resting his head against the wall with his eyes closed. “Why would he want to leave evidence of the crime? Should I go back to Ireland and see if I left evidence? Maybe if I confess to someone....”
“There’s a lot of risks to killing a person that way,” Victor said. “Attacks can backfire on the maker, or be deflected to someone nearby. And a soul free of its body has a huge advantage for a few brief seconds. That’s why we’re very careful about how we engage the enemy.”
Tristan opened his eyes and looked for Landon, finding him in the kitchen talking to a third person.
The figure had to be Donovan. Tristan stood, wondering what would make him assume so. His throat constricted with what felt like sawdust, as a confused debate circled in his head. Had he met the man or not?
He had the sudden desire to make a run for it. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, as Victor stepped in to keep him upright. “This is very bad. What’s he doing here?”
“It’s fine, he’ll understand,” Victor whispered back. “Landon asked him to come.”
Tristan turned back toward the kitchen, part of him recognizing the man standing like a statue, without any expression, watching him. The man had the presence of a mountain, just like Eleonora had said. Completely unmovable, without an ounce of fat to soften the muscles on his face. His broad shoulders and chest seemed impossibly wide in his tailored suit. Not a strand of black hair was out of place.
Tristan had drawn this man more than a year ago, with details down to a crescent shaped scar hidden beneath the hair above his right ear. Donovan would never back down. Ever. His sheer stubborn determination would be the death of him.
What if Eleonora was right, and there really was a ghost influencing his thoughts?
“Landon?” Donovan said, without the slightest trace of anger or any degree of parental judgment. No emotion at all.
“He’s afraid for you, not of you,” Landon answered.
“That’s my impression as well, which I find very curious.”
Tristan held on to Victor’s shoulder and turned away from Donovan. “I can’t meet him like this. Not now.” Then he felt nothing. No fear, no worry, no anticipation of talking to the man that had given him something to live for, however false it may have been at the time.
“I don’t think it’s curious,” Victor said. “He just got done suspecting looks could kill, so maybe he’s afraid he’ll kill you by accident?”
“But now there’s nothing,” Landon said, keeping half a step behind Donovan as they approached. “He’s shielding himself extremely well.”
The table prevented Tristan from backing up farther. He shut his eyes as tight as he could. “I’d like to do this another time. I’m sorry I—”
“What is this part of you who is afraid for me?”
The hairs on his neck prickled with a mixture of ice and heat. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do. We’ve met before.”
Tristan nodded, but refused to look. He couldn’t think of a single instance when he’d actually seen the man for mo
re than a second. “I drew your picture.”
“And?”
There’d been a voice in his head when he tried to escape Gwenna’s murder, and the map she’d given him was taken from his back pocket when he couldn’t move to defend it. But he had the map now. And he remembered the point of a sword at his throat, but here he was, alive and well.
The sword though, that brought back a memory from the vision of fire in Ireland.
“You fight with a sword in each hand.” Tristan couldn’t be sure it was Donovan though, with all the people being dark silhouettes against flame. Tristan faced the man square on. “It doesn’t mean I know you.”
“What part of you knows me well enough to draw my image, when you’d only caught a glimpse? Who trusts me when part of you knows to run like hell? Every time we meet, there’s a split second when part of you is relieved to see me.”
“You were stalking me, I thought—” Tristan gulped. This was not going well at all.
“You saw me once. Not nearly long enough to gather such details for a portrait.”
“I have a photographic memory.” Tristan made his move to get away, but Victor kept hold and forced him to sit in the chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.”
“Why do I need to say it?” He wished his eyes weren’t filling with unshed tears. “I was a stupid kid. I thought you might look after me. That you might care when no one else did. I was wrong and hopeful and stupid. I didn’t believe my dad was actually dead for real. Are you happy now?”
“That’s not what I’m after.”
“Why can’t you accept that I’m not automatically afraid of you? Is it that rare?”
Donovan tightened his jaw, then his hands shot out to hold Tristan’s head in a firm grip.
“Nothing I say will be right for you.” Tristan shut his eyes, embracing his drunkenness in hopes of passing out.
“When you were nine, you called me by name. Who told you my name?”
So many confusing pieces. He’d never figure it all out. “I told Eleonora that you guys probably didn’t know about me ‘til Gwenna, but I forgot about you.” Tristan’s muscles constricted, dreading what he knew he couldn’t hold back. “All that time, you knew I was out there. Why did you leave me shut out and secluded and left thinking I was insane? You could’ve helped me. You could have given me information. You could have taught me something. Anything. You could’ve been my friend. Would that have been so hard?”
