The presence of an aunt and female cousin seemed incongruous for someone with ill intent. Reluctantly, I studied him again, relaxing wariness to allow for the possibility he meant no harm.
‘Where’s your…um… shirt?’ I dragged my eyes away from his smooth latte skin. Annoyed at myself, I gripped the cushion until my knuckles whitened. At least he couldn’t hear my heart thumping a mile a minute.
He gave a faint, tolerant grin, his teeth white and even. ‘Maeve threw it and your dress in the washing machine. There was blood on them from your attackers. I figured you’d definitely freak if you woke up in bed with a guy not wearing some clothes, though.’
I stared at him in horror and his fleeting humour vanished.
‘You ok?’ He frowned.
‘You…you let me go and I fell,’ I blurted, still half-caught in the dream, and entangled with other memories I tried to ignore.
His eyes turning stormy. The muscles along his jaw worked.
‘In my dream,’ I added, although he probably already thought me crazy and we hadn’t even started on the issue of why I’d been attacked twice. ‘You were holding me at the top of a building and…you let me fall.’
The tension in his jaw vanished and his expression segued into thoughtful consideration. He straightened his back, still balancing on the balls of his feet as he crouched in front of me. The action only served to emphasise the lean beauty of his body. I shifted in the seat and held the pillow tighter.
‘Sure it was me?’ He seemed to take my dream seriously.
I considered it. ‘No? I didn’t see his face. Just grey eyes and hands like yours.’
He examined one smooth, strong appendage then gripped one of mine with it. I jumped and pulled free. He grimaced and looked straight into my eyes, serious and intent.
‘I won’t let you fall, Ruadhán.’
I started again, this time in surprise. He’d spoken my real name, and with the original Celtic softness my father had intended. No-one else said it like that, not even my mother.
‘Meghan,’ I corrected, half-heartedly.
The ironic smile returned. ‘Like the hair: Rowan suits you better. It means “light”, you know.’
‘Really?’ I allowed myself to be distracted. ‘What language? I’ve looked it up and I thought it meant “red-haired” in Gaelic.’
He shrugged and didn’t reply. Irritation flashed across his face. It vanished so fast I thought I’d imagined it.
We considered each other; him with calm, cool seriousness, me with wariness born of long caution. The atmosphere between us crackled with a different sort of tension and I swallowed hard against the ridiculous urge to drop the cushion and climb back into bed. That was so out of left field it was a slap in the face. Sitting up, I clutched at the chair arms, aware I was alone in a bedroom with a half-dressed man I barely knew.
Fear leapt. Darkness woke, watchful.
9
Tread carefully, Logan. Back off a little. She’s scared. There’s a…history there she’s hiding. An old fear. She could be dangerous if you frighten her.>
We just need to find out who she is. Why they want her.
Yes, I saw it.
Will that hurt her?
<...does it matter?>
She’s one of ours.
What about with the impediment cleared?
<...possible. Why?>
There’s something about her...
Logan scooted back and sat on the bed again, putting a more comfortable distance between us. Something tight-wound in my stomach relaxed a fraction. Leaning elbows on bent knees and letting his fingers dangle between them, he sent me a half-lidded, cool regard that said he was quite aware of my reactions and wanted none of it. It was the same look I’d given Paul last night. I swallowed down a curious mixture of sick relief and hurt, trying to focus on my situation, rather than the desire to caress his smooth skin, and the fear of what might happen if I did.
Outside, kookaburras broke into raucous laughter that passed from tree to tree around the house. Butcher birds added their liquid, warbling greetings. The room brightened as the sun rose higher and poured heat and the scent of warming earth into the house.
‘So?’ Logan prompted.
‘So, what?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Who were those men and why were they after you?’
‘I...don’t know who they were or what they wanted,’ I said. ‘But thanks for helping. I know I wasn’t exactly polite in the car.’
He folded his arms. ‘You had a pretty good excuse for being scared and angry, so don’t stress. But you really don’t know what they wanted with you?’
I plucked at a corner of the white, fringed cushion on my lap. Normally I had no problems lying convincingly. For some reason, lying to Logan was more difficult. His eyes seemed to see more than most. The secret wasn’t just mine to share. It affected Anna, too, and I wasn’t prepared to risk my mother’s life to assuage his curiosity.
‘This ocair thing is what they wanted last time,’ I said. ‘What do you know about it? If I can give it to them, maybe they’ll leave me alone.’
His mouth twisted into cynicism. ‘I doubt it. All I know is that it means “key”.’
Disappointment fisted in my stomach. If that was true, then I’d wasted my time. And I needed to find another way to stop this madness. So my aim hadn’t changed: get Anna to safety and make these bastards leave me alone. I just didn’t have any leverage any more.
I rolled my neck and flexed my fingers. It didn’t matter. Once I found them, they’d know to leave me be. I wasn’t thirteen or even sixteen any more. And I could do a helluva lot of damage without killing everyone. After all, if I killed everyone, who would be alive to tell them to back off.
‘OK.’ Logan changed the subject casually, yanking me back from my bloodthirsty daydream. ‘What exactly happened in the car to trigger that migraine? The dart drugs?’
I rubbed my forehead. ‘No. I was getting over that fine. Then you touched my head and it felt like you’d shocked me. I saw...’ I changed the words. ‘Then the migraine hit like a hammer.’
He didn’t reply and, for a long moment, he seemed to stare right through me, blank and abstracted.
With his intensity focussed elsewhere the spell of his charisma broke. What was I doing? I didn’t know this man and I’d already said too much. I couldn’t trust him just on his say-so? What if this whole thing was a set up? What if he’d “rescued” me from his own hirelings to gain my trust? I stood up, grabbing at the chair as the room wobbled alarmingly.
‘I should go. My mother will be worried. If you can’t help me then I need to get her out of town.’
Logan rose, catching my shoulders as I swayed uncontrollably. My knees gave way and I sat back down. He knelt once more at my feet, his hands warm on my skin. Wry sincerity momentarily displaced the distance in his eyes.
‘You’re doing it again, Rowan: running. You don’t need to. You’re ok with me, I promise. I won’t hurt you. And I can help you.’ His gaze held nothing more than calm honesty as he continued. ‘Your mother is fine. As long as she’s important to Michael Eisen she’s safe. He has rockstar-level security. Maeve and I called her with a secure phone last night. I used your code-words so Anna would know you’re ok.’
‘How…?’ I gaped at him.
His smile twisted. ‘You told me the codewords last night. You probably don’t remember. You were fretting about Anna.’
‘And she believed you?’ It seemed absurdly unlikely. My mother was as protective of me as I was of her. I half-expected her to burst through the door any second.
He shrugged. ‘Maeve more than me. Maeve’s a doctor. She managed to convince Anna you didn’t need rescuing at one in the morning. We didn’t tel
l Anna about the attack, just the migraine. Anna said you’re usually still weak for a while afterward.’ He raked my face with another searching examination. ‘And that one seemed pretty bad to me.’
I flinched at the mere remembrance.
‘Do you get them often?’
He didn’t seem about to lose control in any way, so I relaxed. I didn’t feel like driving yet so, as long as he didn’t make a big deal, I would stay, at least for breakfast. Well alright, needing breakfast was an excuse. In reality, I had no idea what my next move ought to be. If someone wanted to find me, I couldn’t go home. I needed to plan how to get Anna away, and how to turn the tables and find my pursuers before they caught up with me.
‘I…’ I shook my head to clear it, focussing on his question. ‘Migraines. Not too often, thank God. Maybe three or four times a year.’ I hesitated. ‘But they do seem to be getting more frequent – and worse. This one, and the one the night before, was…extreme.’
Logan sat back on the bed, his spine up against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. He picked up a pen and fiddled with it, turning it over.
‘So, are there any…triggers you know of?’ He sounded too casual.
I tensed. What hid behind that question? I’d been asked the same thing by countless naturopaths and healers of various ilks. I couldn’t see any danger in answering.
‘Not that I know of,’ I admitted, ‘apart from you poking me in the head.’
‘How about…’ He tilted his head. ‘Associations.’ I must have given him blankness in response because he explained. ‘You know: things that happen at the same time – like that dream, for instance?’
The pen blurred, moving so fast I couldn’t see it.
‘Yes.’ I answered without thinking. ‘I had that falling dream the last three times.’
‘Ah.’ His soft, almost-triumphant exclamation brought my eyes back to his face in fear. He flicked the pen aside. It landed neatly back in the cup he’d plucked it from. ‘Who are you, I wonder?’ He eyed me with increased intensity.
That soft question brought all my caution surging back. Why was he so interested in my headaches, but not about the attempts on my life? It made no sense.
‘No-one special. I should go.’
‘I beg to differ,’ he said.
‘With which bit?’
‘Both.’ He smiled. ‘You are special and you need to stay here.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’ I lurched back to my feet.
‘Nope. Statement of fact.’ Logan sprang up, lithe and silky in his movements; a big cat stalking me. I edged towards my handbag, sitting on a chair nearby. He followed, eyes gleaming in the half-light.
I snatched at my bag. He was faster. I tried to grab it back. He tossed it onto the bed and locked strong fingers around my wrist. I twisted free, turning it into a wrist lock on him. He countered and reversed it with another. I countered. Our hands blurred as I tried again and again to break free, but he eluded me. I had never moved so fast in my life; never been allowed to.
Faster still, he grabbed my arm, twisting it up behind me in a painful lock. I could have freed myself, although maybe not, given how strong and fast he was. Shock held me prisoner more effectively than he did, anyway. No-one, ever, beat me if I didn’t let them.
Ever.
He turned me around so my back pressed against his chest; his arm wrapped loosely around my throat. We faced a long mirror, which revealed stark astonishment in my face; thoughtful triumph in his.
‘How did you do that?’
‘Never met anyone faster than you?’ He grinned mirthlessly, eyes mocking.
‘No,’ I said, made honest by fear. ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt me. You’re hurting me now.’
He released his grip. I turned to face him, massaging the skin where his fingers left white imprints, now turning red.
He nodded at the marks. ‘Any normal person’s shoulder would have dislocated. You barely winced. And you threw off the effects of that sedative last night in fifteen minutes. It would have put anyone else out for a day.’
I backed away until my shoulders hit a wall, but it still wasn’t far enough in this small room. He stood between me and the door.
‘Who are you?’ I whispered around the lump threatening to close my throat.
‘Yes, we keep coming back to that, don’t we? Thing is: I know who I am. And I gave you my real first name, so you should feel privileged.’ He quirked a half-smile at me. ‘But you…who are you and why did they want you alive? If you’re serious about getting them off your back, then that’s the question you should be asking.’ He studied me, his patience inviting honesty. ‘Are you serious? Do you really want to stop running and be free of them?’
Gazing at Logan’s darkly handsome face, seeing his inherent self-confidence and utter surety, I decided: he was right. Last night I’d passed the point of just running away again. I had to make a stand; had to find out what was going on and how to stop it. Logan might not know what the ocair was, but I’d never met anyone faster and stronger. If I was different, so was he. And he knew why. Which meant he might know who was chasing me and how I could find them. That made him useful.
He’d said I had nothing to fear from him and I believed it, although I doubted his reasons for helping were purely altruistic. Still, he knew. I didn’t. That was reason enough to stay.
Logan sat down at the small, round coffee table. He snagged my bag and turned it upside down, emptying the contents onto the glass.
I yanked the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around my chest like a sarong, and shuffled closer. I sat opposite, with the – regrettably small – width of the table between us. Logan continued, quite coolly, to go through my bag.
‘So,’ he said, ‘headache and dreams aside, how are you feeling about the last couple of nights?’
The crunch of bone and ligament under my hands; the crack of a skull against pavement. The feral, intent, arrogant sneer on the half-shadowed face staring down at me. I picked up a set of lockpicks that fell out of my bag. My fingers trembled and my stomach knotted. I concentrated on slowing my heart. Turning the tools over, I focussed fiercely on them, unrolling and re-rolling the leather bag, rearranging the picks.
‘You know they’re illegal to carry outside the house in this state, don’t you?’ Logan gave a soft laugh.
I shrugged. ‘So are quite a few things I own. I have a very low care-factor and I don’t plan on being caught.’ I certainly wasn’t going to mention the additional set of picks sewn into the underwire of my bra.
He plucked my wallet out of the pile of loose change, papers, lipsticks, pens, and hair ties, and flipped through it. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t plan to get caught last night, either. They were pretty serious, though. You handled it nicely up until the dartgun, but you must’ve been pretty scared. Want to talk about it?’
‘Look.’ I set the picks down with a snap and glared at him. ‘Just stop, will you? I’m fine. This is not my first rodeo.’ I shut my teeth, annoyed with myself for saying that much.
He paused in the act of picking up my passport. ‘Oh? Ever had to kill anyone?’
I turned my face away. Dust dancing in sunbeams, soul-deep fear, roaring blackness, falling stone and timber. Pawing hands. The slowing of life’s energy beneath my palm.
No. It wouldn’t happen this time. I would not be taken again. I would put the fear of me into them, but there would be no more deaths. Not if I could help it.
‘Not intentionally.’
He continued to regard me calmly, showing no shock or judgement at the admission of manslaughter.
I rose and walked to the window, putting space between myself and the aftermath of my actions. Twisting open the white shutters, I peered into the morning glare. Outside, a wide verandah shaded the window from the rising sun, framing the view into a narrow panorama of rolling grassy hills, green trees and distant, wandering cattle. A small flock of tiny brown birds skittered and jumped around on the broad green lawn
surrounding the house. The next visible building was a house at least half a kilometre away.
There was no-one close to hear if I screamed for help.
‘Not a very good likeness, is it?’ Logan held up my passport, inspecting it then me in turn. ‘Were you hung over?’
‘Nice. Thanks.’ In control again, I sat back down and reached for it but he pulled it away. ‘I figure the photographer was trying to make me look like someone just off an eighteen-hour flight.’
A spark of genuine amusement flickered. ‘In which case, it’s probably a good likeness. Is Greene your real last name?’
‘What?’ I tugged on a short lock of hair curling in front of my ear. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Really?’ He raised sceptical brows. ‘Meghan’s not your first name. What’s your real last name?’
I weighed up the pros and cons. I knew nothing about him and he knew way too much about me. The moment stretched into awkwardness as he continued to watch me in silent expectation. A small, superior smile twitched at one corner of his mouth. His grey eyes gleamed with cool, derisive humour, daring me.
I had to take the risk.
‘Gilmore,’ I admitted, suppressing a flutter of fear. ‘Rowan Gilmore.’
Outside, the kookaburras laughed again, mocking me.
‘Nice to meet you Rowan Gilmore.’ He inclined his head. ‘I am Logan, although my current passport says I’m Fynn, so you’d best call me that if we’re in public.’
‘Why are you travelling under an assumed name?’ I was determined to get some answers of my own. ‘Who are you? How did you know my first name?’
He ignored me, riffling through the mostly-blank pages of my passport. I’d used this one for about six months now. It said I was a UK citizen. In truth, I wasn’t sure which country I could claim. It didn’t matter. It was time to change again, anyway. He paused at the latest, Australia-stamped page then returned to examine my photo again.
‘Who was your father? Do you know? Where is he?’ He shot the questions at me and I answered, reactively annoyed again.
‘Of course I know!’ I glared at him for implying my mother didn’t know who my father was. ‘He left us when I was four and then died a couple years later. His name was Calain Gilmore.’
Relics and Runes Anthology Page 68
