She let herself out of the apartment.
* * * * *
Asher had dressed and was almost out of the apartment, when he realized that what was driving him was an old habit. He had been about to step out the door and head for Oslo. For Sindri’s dark salon and the depthless mugs of mead to be found there.
He stood with his hand on the door, while Torger sat panting, watching him curiously. He spun his keys on his finger, looking down at Torger. “I’m a fool,” he told the dog. Torger slurped and brought his jaws together with a snap, as if he was in full agreement.
Asher turned and leaned against the door, dropping his keys onto the desk next to it, and made himself deal with bald facts instead of operating on auto-pilot. He’d been doing way too much of that lately.
(Since Charlee had kissed him.)
Charlee had gone back to her life at Ylva’s, he assumed. He hadn’t heard from her. Which was the way it was supposed to be. He had his life—his secret life, that Charlee couldn’t be part of. She had her odd life that she was building for herself, that didn’t make sense to him, to Darwin or even Lucas. But she was happy.
Leave her alone, he told himself. Let her have that life.
I’m just thinking about stopping by. Is she happy? I should make sure.
Asher pressed his fingers to his temple. “Stop it! You’re trying to justify yourself.”
I’m the one that upset her.
“She’s not upset.” He said it to the air. Defiantly.
But the idea had got hold of his brain now and wouldn’t let go. What if she was brooding over what she thought of as a rejection? She was fragile.
Charlee is made of teak, he argued to himself, while Torger sat panting, the drool almost reaching the floor, his small black eyes watching Asher for a command, a prompt so that he would know if he was on duty or not.
Charlee has lived through much more than a kiss gone wrong.
But it hadn’t gone wrong. Not at all.
Asher shut his eyes and jammed the heels of his hands into his sockets, trying to rid himself of the pervasive images. The reaction she had provoked in him. This was why he had been heading for Sindri’s. Enough mead and the memory and the fantasies would go away.
She’s just a girl. A young girl!
But it hadn’t felt like that at the time. Charlee had sat there with him over lunch, and he had forgotten her actual age. She had seemed at times to be older than the gods. Her responses had been, as always, unexpected and original. Charlee could think for herself. But wrapped up in the woman she had become, it was a lethal combination.
So when she had kissed him, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He had fought not to react, to not take control in any way, but he had given in just for one sweet moment.
“Aaagh, damn it all to hell!” he raged.
Torger jerked, almost flinching away from him.
“Sorry,” he said, holding out his hand. “Sorry, my friend.”
Torger sat back down, but his eyes were wary.
“I’m going to stay home and watch television like humans do, alright?”
Torger almost stood up, but realized he hadn’t been dismissed, so he sat down again.
“Yes, television and a glass of wine,” Asher said, trying to sound like it was a delightful prospect.
Instead, he reached out his hand, picked up his keys and opened the door.
Fool! he raged to himself as he hurried down the stairs. But calling himself names didn’t quell the happy expectation rising in him.
* * * * *
Charlee stepped into Ylva’s day room and shut the door. It was past eight in the evening, but Ylva used the room to greet guests and conduct business. Her office, which was the inner room accessed from this one, was a workman-like place that outsiders rarely saw. Even the Amica were granted entry only under limited circumstances.
“Ylva, you asked to see—” She didn’t finish the rest of the sentence, for Asher was standing there, his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching her.
So was Ylva, who got to her feet. “This is ill-advised, Asher. She is not Amica.”
Asher didn’t speak. His gaze was on Charlee.
“May I know the nature of the disagreement, as it seems to be about me?” she asked.
“Asher wants to take you out for the evening,” Ylva said shortly.
“And you don’t think it is a good idea because I am not one of the Amica?”
“No.” Ylva said it flatly. She was angry and even though she was far too gracious to take that anger out on anyone, it did tend to make her speak with more bluntness that usual.
“Asher is a friend,” Charlee said, using the same flat tone Ylva was. “Why would being one of the Amica make any difference?”
“Thank you,” Asher said softly.
Charlee didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze on Ylva.
“The details do not affect this discussion,” Ylva said.
“If it is something you choose not to disclose, then it cannot be considered in the discussion at all,” Charlee said. “Therefore, as I am well over eighteen and legally an adult, I’m free to choose to go out with Asher.” She gave Ylva a moment to respond.
Ylva looked surprised. Then concerned.
“Do you now want to expand on why being one of the Amica would make a difference?” Charlee asked.
After a moment, she shook her head.
Charlee looked at Asher for the first time. “Give me five minutes to change?”
He nodded.
“I’ll meet you by the birdcage.”
Ylva sighed.
* * * * *
Asher took her to a pub on Fulton, within spitting distance of Broadway. It was tucked away on the second floor of the building, accessed by a narrow set of wooden steps that were unadorned, but scuffed smooth by many feet. At the top of the stairs was a wooden sign that had been hand-painted, declaring that this was Heidrun.
Heidrun looked like something out of a medieval movie, but the details weren’t exactly right. There were benches and stout tables, and massive fake beams across the ceiling that were dark with age. Beer was served in mugs and the waitresses wore dresses with straps over their shoulders and white collarless shirts beneath.
It was crowded and noisy, and the air was rich with the smell of beer and wine and a lot of bodies crammed into the small space. The lighting was a low, golden yellow and there was a huge fireplace at the far end of the room, flickering with low flames even though it was a mild evening.
Asher nodded to one or two people who waved at him, including some of the waitresses.
Charlee looked at the decorations curiously. There were paintings of Viking ships at sea, round shields with axes strapped to them. “What is this place?” she asked as Asher pulled out one of the wooden bar stools for her and patted it.
“A bar.”
“No, really. What does Heidrun mean?” She knew he would know.
His mouth lifted at the corner. “The Viking Place.”
She nodded, absorbing the noise, the atmosphere, and the details. She didn’t need confirmation to know that many of the people here were probably Kine, just like Asher. There were humans, undoubtedly, for this was a public bar. But the Kine would use this place, too, because it was homey. This is what they were used to.
“I like it,” she declared. And she did. It would be very easy to relax here.
The barman put a glass of wine in front of both of them.
“No mead?” Charlee asked.
Asher raised a brow. “Have you ever tried mead?”
She shook her head. “It’s not something you can get easily.”
“Probably just as well.” He picked up his glass. “The home brewed stuff can knock you around if you’re not used to it. Wait for a special occasion, Charlee, and I’ll get you some to try.”
“Okay.” She picked up her own wine glass. “What shall we drink to?”
He looked her in the eye. �
�To friends.”
She took a deep breath and let it out. Relief. He was going to ignore the kiss. They were back to normal. They were back to being friends.
Thank the gods, she mentally whispered and touched his glass with her own. “Friends,” she agreed wholeheartedly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Asher didn’t take her out every night, or even every week. He would appear abruptly, without warning and at any time of the day, sometimes even for breakfast. He would whisk her out to somewhere novel, to do something interesting. One breakfast had been a champagne picnic in Central Park. There were meals at some of the fanciest restaurants in New York and other meals in the dingiest little dives, where the food was excellent, even if they did have to eat it with their fingers.
There was skating at Lincoln Center. Strolls through the West Village. Picnics in Central Park. Shopping in Soho. Hiking High Line Park. Ice creams on Coney Island. Asher seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of the city, every little nook and cranny and hidden treat, and he took her to all the interesting ones.
They had fun. She grew to look forward to their outings. Even in her own mind she refused to call them dates, for Asher was the friend he had declared himself to be. They laughed a lot. They talked a lot, but always about general things. The hidden side of both their lives had returned once more to the realm of the unspoken.
But things were different from the years when Charlee had been dropping in to see Asher and Ylva at the restaurant each day. Back then, their friendship had been simpler. Now there was an awareness, bubbling below the surface of all their interactions. She would sometimes catch Asher studying her with a watchful gaze that would evaporate the moment she saw it. Sometimes their conversation would stumble to a halt, as the awareness rose to the surface and rippled the peace. There would be a look. Or a touch that left invisible electric print-marks in her flesh, making her shudder.
But most of the time, Asher was scrupulous in avoiding physical contact. It worked, most of the time. It worked well enough for Charlee to continue to go out with him and to look forward to each occasion, even if she did lie awake in her narrow bed at night, sleep far away and her body tight with need.
It was not all good times. The bubbling tension below the surface sometimes seemed to be unbearable, and it was usually during those times that Charlee found her restraint sliding. One of the more memorable occasions was at the opera. She had never been to the opera, and the little opera music she had ever listened to seemed to be incomprehensible, but Asher had insisted she try at least one opera, and he had tickets to the opening night for the season at the Met. It was one of the few occasions when he had given her advance warning.
The gown she had worn was a strapless velvet that reminded her vaguely of the black velvet prom dress she had worn many years ago. But this dress was a deep, dark green and it clung to every inch of her between her breasts and her knees, then flared out to drag behind her by an inch or two. The dress was finished off with satin gloves that ended above her elbows. Opera-length gloves, Ylva had called them.
Charlee had felt over-dressed and uneasy, until they had arrived at the opera house and she saw that on the contrary, she was most suitably dressed. She should have trusted Ylva, who had never been wrong about appropriate degrees of dress the entire time Charlee had known her. So she had tried to relax as much as the dress would let her.
Asher had looked exceptional in his formal tuxedo, with a white tie at his neck, and there had been a light in his eye as he looked her over that made Charlee catch her breath. But he had said nothing other than his usual offhand comment. “You look beautiful as always.”
Charlee had long ago figured out that he said it as a way of reassuring her, to compensate for her scar. She hadn’t forgotten their one kiss and the conversation that had preceded it. But one kiss was all that he would allow in order to prop up her confidence.
Asher had another surprise: their seats were in a private box on the second tier. Feeling pampered and extravagant, Charlee had slid onto the chair behind the balcony rail. She couldn’t stop smiling.
The opera was in sung in Italian, even though it was set in nineteenth-century Paris. That was because the composer, Giacomo Puccini, had written the lyrics in his native language. The story, Asher assured her, would speak to her despite the language barrier. Music was universal.
La bohème was a tragic love story, and as soon as Charlee realized that the two principal singers were doomed lovers, her happiness dissipated like smoke before a breeze. She clutched the balcony rail, squeezing with all her might. What is wrong with you? she railed at herself. Get it together! Asher will notice.
When Mimi died, with Rodolfo bent over her, Charlee felt like she had been stabbed in the chest. Her heart actually hurt and she clutched at it, trying to ease the pain. As Rodolfo cried out his misery, Charlee could stand it no longer. She lunged to her feet, almost tripping over the hem of her dress as it tangled with the tiny feet of her chair.
“Charlee, what’s wrong?” Asher asked, softly so he wouldn’t disturb anyone else.
Charlee shook her head. She wouldn’t look at him. She didn’t want him to see the tears cascading down her cheeks, probably ruining her makeup. She stumbled to the box exit and down the carpeted corridor to the elevator. She needed fresh air. She need privacy. Above all, she needed to be alone in her misery because what she really wanted was to throw herself against Asher and weep her heart out while he soothed her, but he wouldn’t allow it.
Sadness struck her afresh, and she pushed out through the doors and into the night air, just barely holding back her sobs.
She found a dark corner away from the spotlights lighting the big square in front of the grand opera house, especially around the big fountain in the middle. The comparison to standing outside on her prom night was not lost upon her, and that made her feel even sadder and even more miserable. She turned her back on the world and battled to keep the sobs silent so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself.
“Charlee.” His hand came down upon her shoulder, warm and big.
She shrugged it off. If she could not have his comfort, she would take nothing from him at all, not even a token touch. She propped herself up against the wall, hiding her face.
“Charlee, for heaven’s sake…” He didn’t touch her again. Of course he wouldn’t. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She got her sobs under control by breathing deep and slowly. “Was that supposed to be a message? Some sort of object lesson for the particularly dense Charlotte Montgomery?”
“You and I both know you’re anything but stupid.” She heard him sigh. “It was just a night out. I thought you would like dressing up. I know I liked the idea.”
“Why did you think I would like such a story? It was horrible!”
His hand came down on her shoulder once more, this time firmly enough that she knew he wouldn’t let her shrug it off. He turned her so she was looking at him. “Not everything I do is a metaphor, Charlee.”
“You’ve never said anything in your life that wasn’t layered or a downright riddle!”
His freshly shaved jaw flexed. “You and I both know—”
“No! Don’t give me the big secret thing again. I’m so sick of it I could scream. I’m sick of not talking about it, I’m sick of only getting to share the leftovers of your life.” Her tears were running again, hot across her cheeks, but this time they had nothing to do with doomed Parisian lovers.
His hands were clenched. She saw it in a dim way, but didn’t process it. “The leftovers,” he repeated grimly, “are a perfectly normal life.”
“You’re not normal.”
“I’m as human as you.”
“You’re not human at all!” she cried.
He didn’t freeze like he normally did whenever she got too close to the truth. His expression darkened. “Charlee, if you have the sense of self-preservation of a gnat, for god’s sake, shut up now.”
“Why? So you can just s
hovel it all behind the curtain again?”
He looked around, over his shoulder. The opera was over. People were leaving in thick streams now. Some were looking at them curiously, Charlee with her ruined makeup and Asher with his fisted hands and taut posture.
Lovers’ quarrel, they’ll be thinking. It made Charlee abruptly sad and resigned. Her anger left like water draining from a sieve. “Could you find a cab?” she asked him. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you home.” They had come in the private limousine that Asher often hired.
“No. I want to go home alone.”
Asher looked at her for a long moment. “Very well,” he said flatly. Finally. He turned and walked away, heading for the road where he could hail a cab for her, without another word.
* * * * *
Asher wasn’t sober, but he wasn’t nearly close to drunk enough to suit his mood.
The barman whom everyone, even the human customers, called Eric the Red, was a black Nigerian, one of the very tall, lean and lanky types that so often did well in track and field. He kept a barrel of mead behind the bar for special occasions, and Asher was probably a quarter of the way through the barrel. It was a special enough occasion in his estimation, and Eric hadn’t argued with him.
It was getting late. Later than late. He had yanked out a chair at one of the few small tables not long after ten, waved his hand at Eric, whose real name was Aliko Azikiwe, and pulled at the ends of his tie with an impatient tug. Aliko had placed the mug of mead in front of him less than two minutes later.
“The enemy that slew you did me an untold favor,” Asher told him.
“The enemy that slew me died for his troubles three heartbeats later, or so my ancestors remember.” Aliko answered in pure, fluent Norse. He grinned. “Have a care with that vintage, my friend. It was a particularly potent brew, that one.”
“Good,” Asher said with feeling, picking up the mug.
That had been...how many mugs ago? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He took no notice of anyone around him, except to glare if anyone looked like even thinking about talking to him. He was left alone, the table to himself, as the customers thinned and time marched on.
The Branded Rose Prophecy Page 35
