I couldn’t actually sleep on the couch or I’d never get up without an alarm clock, so I dragged myself to my feet again, turned off the light, and padded through the black house. I backtracked to scoop up my backpack and my holster—the latter because I didn’t like leaving firearms about for my daughter to run into—and headed down the hall. Prudence’s door was closed, light off, and I figured she was asleep before she even got in there; both her disorder and her meds made her tired. My own bedroom door waited at the end of the corridor, open and dark. Em’s door was open a crack, spilling a faint blue glow across the floor.
I hefted my backpack over my achy shoulder and continued toward the welcoming darkness of my bedroom.
A sniffle in the next room paused my steps. Then: “Mommy?”
I smiled, shook my head, and took two steps back to glance in her room.
She had a four-post bed with a white canopy and loads of pillows that seemed to swallow her whole. The dark spherical thing curled at the foot of the bed on the white comforter was her cat, the ever-diligent Giles.
I eased into the room without touching the light and crept to her bed. Giles glanced up once, green eyes flashing briefly, then dropped his head and descended into a throaty, contented purr.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” I whispered as I perched on the edge of her bed. My eyes adjusted to the near darkness and her face took shape, pale against her dark, dark hair. Her favorite stuffed unicorn was clutched in her arms.
“You didn’t come to the school tonight.” Her tone was somewhere between disappointed and unsurprised, and it pinched my heart.
“I know. I had a problem with my Jeep and couldn’t get to the airport on time.”
“What happened to it?”
“Your Uncle Marty blew it up.” I personally don’t believe in lying to children when the truth will suffice.
Em gave a little tsk sound and probably would’ve followed it up with a plaintive, drawn out “Mom!” but was interrupted by a yawn.
“Time for you to sleep, little miss.”
“Did you bring me back something?”
“Maybe.” I had and it was in the knapsack slung over my shoulder, but I figured I should try to resemble a responsible parent by waiting. “You can have it after I have that progress meeting with your teacher.”
She said nothing. That suggested I wasn’t going to like what Miss Jennings had to say, but I wouldn’t push it. No arguments before bed: it was One of the Rules.
“Sleep now. Present soon. I’ll take you to school.”
She clutched her unicorn tightly and rolled onto her side, facing the door as I rose. “Did you know you got a present?”
“That’s what Pru said. Did you peek?”
Em shook her head, yawned again. “Can I see it tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Unless it’s a bomb. One upside of being poor was that she hadn’t had to worry about abductions for ransom or bombs or anything, just basic good-touch/bad-touch discussions and “how to get away if someone grabs you in a mall”. “Night, baby—love you.”
“Love you too, M...” The rest faded into a long, noisy yawn, and I backed out of the room silently, easing the door mostly shut.
I paused in the hall. The right: my bedroom. Bed. King-sized, comfy. Clean sheets I’d leave bits of Arizona dust on because I was too tired to shower first. Thick pillows. Mmm.
Left: the kitchen. And the mysterious present.
I hung a left because I’m like a five-year-old when it comes to curiosity. Throw a red button with a sign over it proclaiming DIRE CONSEQUENCES IF PUSHED, and I’ll damn well push it just to see if it’s my definition of dire.
My eyes had fully adjusted to the dark house now, and as I approached the kitchen this time, I easily saw the long narrow box on the breakfast bar. A simple dark ribbon crossed it horizontally and it looked like a traditional flower box.
Hmm.
I approached, gripped the edge of the counter, and leaned down to listen. No tick-tock. Nothing odd. No card, either, which wasn’t promising. I turned the light on over the stove and eased the ribbon off the box, then the lid. Tissue paper waited within, crinkling under my touch as I folded the layers back.
A single red rose lay within and a large piece of cardstock with artfully scalloped edges sat on top of it. Black cursive writing demanded a closer look, so I lifted it and read.
You’re Invited to the Children’s Hospital Gala Event at Kent House.
Interesting. I didn’t normally receive invites to galas anymore, what with my lack of ability to pay the thousand dollar dinner fee. This one was slated for tomorrow evening—Wednesday. The address put it in the city, about an hour from the suburb where I lived.
I turned the card over to see elegant handwriting on the back, a custom note scribbled for yours truly.
I have great interest in hiring someone of your abilities to retrieve an item of importance. Your plate at the gala has been paid and you’re on the list of attendees. Do come so we can discuss business.
The invitation itself wasn’t addressed to me personally, but with a note like that on the back, it might as well have been.
I flipped it again and studied the front. Gold filigree around the edges. No RSVP information—apparently I was fully expected to be there at seven in the evening and dinner was at eight. No question about it.
Of course, I had questions—many of them. One was who wanted to hire me. Another, whether it would be worth my while.
Okay, mostly the second.
3
Daddy Dearest
I slept in and got Em to the school just as the bell was ringing, so didn’t have time to speak to her demon teacher. Pru still didn’t have a line on who hired Martin to retrieve Locust’s knife, but there were only so many museums he regularly worked for so I figured she’d have it narrowed down soon. Odds were he’d obey silly international laws and leave it within the country he found it, which would mean another hop across the border into the US for me.
In the meantime, I could either twiddle my thumbs or go to the charity gala. Prudence also gave me the rundown of main players going to the party—that she could find, at least—and of the names I vaguely recognized, no one stood out as private collectors of supernatural artifacts.
Going in blind and thinking on one’s feet sadly went hand in hand, and often resulted in me colliding with walls.
I gathered Em from school right when the bell rang and took her with me to get ice cream and get my hair done. We both got a fresh trim, I had my roots touched up and had to endure her complaints that she wanted blue streaks, and I was the meanest mom ever for not permitting her to bleach her hair to accommodate it.
Mommy-daughter mani-pedis followed. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, supposedly there were memories of doing that with my own mother; back when he was speaking to me, my father claimed Mom took me to the salon with her when I was a little girl. But she’d left us when I was young, and of the memories I retained of her, that wasn’t among them.
Em didn’t get a new dress when I did, but was sure to not complain, as she was still angling for the souvenir I hadn’t given her yet. As soon as we got home, she went straight to help Pru with dinner while I dressed and a rented limo picked me up half an hour before the gala.
Not that I could particularly afford limos and salon trips and new clothes, but the dress I’d return tomorrow after skillfully returning the price tag to it—I hated feeling cheap, but I wasn’t going to wear it twice—and the limo was borrowed half price because the driver owed me a favor.
Kent House was someone’s home, once upon a time—a manor converted into an art gallery in recent years, and an ideal spot for charity events. It was in the heart of New Bristol’s “traditional” district, a sprawling mansion on almost no property. My ride couldn’t park with so many vehicles on the road, but idled on the corner long enough for me to slip out. The driver had a real job to get to immediately afterward, and I would have to more than likely stay lat
er than was customary to wait for him to pick me up off-shift.
Ah, the lifestyles of the formerly rich trying to mingle with the currently famous.
A handful of people walked ahead of me along the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. I did a mental check of each dress the women wore; nothing is worse than being seen in something everyone else is wearing, and it’s especially a danger when shopping right off the rack. My gown was a rich shade of purple—in itself unique, as most women at these events went for black or something in a modest tone, unless they were looking for attention and then red was the choice. Strapless with a sweetheart bodice showing off the reason I mostly gave up dance come puberty, long flowing skirt that made me feel quite girly and a total change from the shorts and pants I wore in the field. I wore a loose, gauzy white wrap over my shoulders—while my arms weren’t quite Linda-Hamilton-in-Terminator-2-esque yet, I clearly had more definition than the average woman at one of these functions.
I carried a clutch with nothing important in it aside from a Taurus 605 .357 Magnum.
The mysterious invitation didn’t say I couldn’t be armed and while I wasn’t a fan of the fact it kicked like a shotgun, it would only be needed on the rare chance I had to make a very loud, very permanent point, so I’d manage. Having a backup gun is just as important as picking the right shade of lipstick.
It felt like time traveling, walking up the wide steps to the ornate door held open by a man in a tux—like I’d stepped back half a dozen years and never left the life I used to have. The world I once knew opened up as I stepped inside: elegantly dressed people mingling in the grand foyer, large open doorways leading left and right to more rooms of quietly chatting socialites and millionaires. Music drifted in the air, definitely a live band and playing vaguely familiar classics from the forties somewhere within the manor.
Glittering lights shone from sconces and a crystal chandelier, striking champagne glasses and expensive jewelry. I did feel slightly naked with nothing around my neck, but then I’d sold nearly anything worth something that I didn’t care about back when Em was born, and anything I did care about was locked up in a safe deposit box. My hair hung in wide, loose curls around my shoulders and covered my lack of earrings quite well, at least.
Immediately I snatched a class of champagne from a passing waiter and wandered about, pretending to eye the art on the walls while scoping out the guests. Whoever wanted to hire me had to at least know what I looked like—I supposed he’d come to me at some point. In the meantime, I’d see if I could identify likely candidates.
I made a right from the main foyer, scanning faces as I walked; when my gaze caught one in particular, I stopped abruptly, heels clacking loudly on the floor and drawing the attention of a grouping of people each twenty or thirty years my elder who looked on in distaste at my lack of grace. Still, I couldn’t spare them a glance of apology.
A man had caught my attention—tall and broad, fine sandy hair just long enough that it brought to mind a surfer, cheekbones to die for, and a wide smile of perfect white teeth. His black suit looked like the others but the cufflinks, I imagined, were platinum, and his tie was a pale silver. He was in his thirties, the cliché of “ruggedly handsome”, and the three women in his orbit suggested I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
Richard Moss stood across the room.
Dick Moss. My heartrate kicked up a notch or three. The damn invitation—it had a rose. It could be him...couldn’t it?
And maybe that’s why he’s been stalking me—he wants to hire me.
Strangely, that did not make me feel any better.
I backed up and turned, crossed the foyer again, and took the left hall out this time. I squeezed my clutch, wanting nothing more than to pull out my cell and contact Pru, but though it had been a lot of years since attending such a function, I was relatively certain they frowned upon texting. It would have to wait. I’d give the party half an hour of avoiding Moss—if no one else had approached me by then, I’d chalk it up to him and leave. Call a cab and make a spectacle of my exit, no doubt, but whatever.
I took a few sips of champagne that turned into the entire glass, deposited the empty cut crystal with others on the tray of a passing waiter, and grabbed another.
Music grew louder the deeper I went into the house and soon I saw the platform with the small orchestra set up. Too often there would just be string quartets and purely classical music at these events, but this one had a singer in a stunning silver gown crooning “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” She managed to come across as authentic and not lounge singer, so I’d give the organizer props for that.
The room was dome-shaped with three walls and a ceiling entirely made of glass, as if it had once been the manor’s conservatory. High above, hard pricks of starlight in a velvet sky and a nearly-full moon shone. All in all, it might’ve been rather romantic and glamorous, if I wasn’t now the kind of woman mostly comfortable climbing cliffs and driving really fast cars.
Very good thing I avoided Mr. Moss. I did not need to be nostalgic and vulnerable around his type tonight.
Across the room, I caught the gaze of a man staring at me. Youngish—perhaps slightly older than me. Black hair, east Asian features, refined charisma coming off him in waves. He was the kind of man who could be a prince or a stripper and women would throw themselves at him regardless.
Probably gay.
If he was, however, he was studying me awfully closely. He raised his glass and cocked an eyebrow at me.
He could be my client. I’d prefer it over Dick Moss, but in that case I assumed he would’ve approached me by now. And he didn’t. Since I wasn’t there to ogle the pretties, I glanced away and moved in the opposite direction, sipping my drink, eyeing my companions—
And promptly saw my father.
Oh, this night officially sucked.
Regardless of a girl’s age, something about the sight of a disapproving parent knocks her to about two inches high. Given that Oliver Talbot could take disapproving to its own art form, I felt even lower than that.
My heart sped, stomach turned. The ground could’ve given out below me and it would not’ve been a surprise. He stood with small group of men I didn’t recognize, tall and proud and grayer around the edges from when I’d last seen him. Of my brother and me, I’m the one who looks like our father through and through. Oval face, brown eyes, straight nose and full lips. Certainly if I walked up to him right that moment, whoever he spoke to would immediately guess I was related whether they knew about me or not.
And that temptation was just too much to pass up.
A smile plastered on my face, I walked easily toward him; he glanced my way, his gaze barely flickering before returning to his companions then shooting back to me for a longer look as it just dawned on him who the woman approaching him was.
I should dig out my phone and take a picture.
He pointedly turned, giving me his back.
I wasn’t daunted, but instead hung a left to squeeze between him and the elderly gentleman currently speaking.
“Hi, Daddy,” I said brightly and took a sip of my champagne, batting my eyelashes innocently.
None of the, “Oh, this is your daughter, Oliver?” ensued, so they must’ve known our history; instead everyone stood there quietly, looking awkward.
It was entertainment that served as a balm to my many hurt feelings.
My father deigned a look at me; while I might resemble him, the high-and-mighty almost-sneer he gave me was all Martin.
“Quite the shindig. I think I saw the mayor over there—I should totally take a picture for Em.” I looked at the man I’d interrupted. “Say, do you know where the little girl’s room is? I’ve had, like, a lot to drink.”
Dad’s companions swiftly excused themselves. I couldn’t imagine why.
My father’s hand lashed out for my arm and dragged me back several steps to an empty corner. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
I blinked up at
him blankly. “I was invited.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tsk tsk. Such language, Daddy-Dearest.” I tactfully disengaged him from my arm and went back to sipping my drink. “Do you really want to cause a scene?”
“I am not causing a scene. You have no business being here.”
“I’m pretty sure you stopped being privy to my business the day you kicked me out of my home. Would you like to know how your granddaughter is doing?”
“I have no granddaughter.”
It stung. Still. Years later and I felt it still, that harsh little prick of his words and the feel of them driving under my skin. Disown me for my wild child, slutty ways, fine. But for having a child out of wedlock who you then deny exists? Not cool. Not at all.
“Wow, Mom would be so proud of how you handled all this,” I said.
And instead of responding, he turned to stalk away, disappearing into the next room.
That didn’t seem fair—surely he should give me time to get in a few more jabs, making up for that comment about his granddaughter. Indeed, decidedly I wasn’t quite done bothering my dear father that evening.
My focus narrowed on the direction he’d taken, something cold and calculating settling in my veins as I started to follow.
Fingers wrapped around my wrist, drawing me back. I tensed, about to react in a rather negative fashion, and hesitated initially by the remembrance that this wasn’t the environment for a scrap—
And then by the sight of the man who stopped me.
4
Cat and Mouse
I blinked. Twice. And he didn’t release my wrist.
I had a much more focused view now of the stranger who had attempted to engage me with a smile from across the room. His hair was a short, unruly mass of glossy black, and his handsome face had a sculpted look, almost too perfect to be real. Perhaps Korean, and yet his eyes were a light, clear blue. Blue and predatory, like he’d already assessed me before going in for the kill, and in seconds he’d be at my throat.
Solomon's Seal Page 3
