by Amelia Oz
"Alaric, did Stella tell you she sometimes does dance demonstrations at our studio? We're having a party there next Saturday. It's fun. You should come," Midora suggested with a sly smirk in my direction.
Silvan jumped in. "Hey, yeah. I'll be there, too."
I almost failed to hear his response over the roar of blood in my ears.
They didn't acknowledge me with a farewell, just turned to go in a cloud of spice-filled, musky perfume. Good riddance. Silvan returned to work.
Self-conscious, I tucked my sketchpad under an arm, grabbed the stool, and entered the store. Alaric moved out of my way without comment.
I placed the wooden seat near the counter and rested my sketchpad upon it. Inexplicably cold, I hugged my waist and studied the artwork hung on the wall. Typical of the bright colored posters in the manga store, this one featured a girl in a sailor suit with blond pigtails.
I snapped my gum, imagining Alaric walking down the lane, probably shaking his head at the odd exchange. It may have been impolite to walk away without saying goodbye, but I couldn’t bear the look of disdain in his eyes and it was better to avoid an awkward end to our second meeting. Better that he just remember me as some strange girl he bumped into twice—or likely not at all.
Silvan appeared in my peripheral vision, talking to a young woman. "No, way. That work was done by Osama Tezuka himself..." His palm appeared beneath my chin and I spit my gum into it. He withdrew to wrap it in a piece of paper, never losing track of his conversation. I was glad he noticed before Jing, but it cost me my last piece of Big Red.
"Why don't you want to see your grandmother?" a deep voice murmured near my ear.
Relief weakened my knees just as nerves pulled me taut. I turned and gazed at his profile. He examined the same poster I'd been staring at. His jaw was defined, his profile commanding. What would he think if I opened my pad and began to sketch? He looked in his early twenties, but the confident way he carried himself made him seem much older.
"You're still here?" My voice sounded thin, even to me.
He appraised me coolly. "Do you want me to leave?"
Confused, I shrugged. "I figured after meeting my cousins and witnessing our usual fireworks that you’d find better things to do."
He parted his lips, closed them and then started again, a questioning look in his eyes. "You don't like your family?"
This was a difficult question. The correct answer was that I didn't feel I had one outside of Sam and Silvan. Silvan was the younger brother I wished I'd had—but without having to actually live with him. Maybe Alaric came from one of those big, close-knit families and couldn't understand how a person could be completely satisfied with just a few but very important people in your life.
"Well. Long story short, my parents were killed in a car accident when I was a baby. Placed into adoption until my mom’s dad found me.” I found it hard to meet his eyes, the exposure too much.
"Mahari and her extended family, including Silvan, are from my dad's side. They're Romany and kicked my dad out of the family when he ran away with my mom, who was a gadji, or non-Roma. I heard they had big plans for him, and he just threw them away for my Mom." Alaric’s intense interest as I spoke threw me off. Nervous, I rambled on.
"We're not close. They've never come to my house, for example. They do try to make me come to them all the time. Just to punish me for my mom. I don’t trust them."
For the love of all that is holy, stop talking!
Alaric tilted his head, hanging on every word. Was he just being polite?
"So, it's just my grandfather and me, outside of Silvan. I wish Mahari and the others would just leave me alone."
His silence was drawn out, and I began to think desperately of other things to talk about. "I'm sorry, petite etoile." I recognized the phrase—little star—from French lessons. His voice sounded hurt. For me?
"Family is everything," he said simply.
"Family is who you choose," I countered.
"You think DNA is all that connects you?" His question was sincere, as if he were trying to understand. Much better than being judged or pitied.
"Obviously. We have nothing in common. I didn't know my dad. I've never even seen a photograph of him, because my grandmother had them all burned when he ran away with my mom."
This was a far deeper conversation than I wanted to have with a practical stranger. I had no idea what was compelling me to share such deep family secrets.
"You're bleeding," a sharp, feminine voice accused.
Startled, I discovered Jing standing at the counter.
She stared at my shoulder—at a small darkened spot that could have been anything. My dress buttoned from a V neckline to the hem above my knees, which made slipping the cotton fabric from my shoulder easy to do. A small wound appeared, blood still bright within a short, deep scratch I recognized as the work of Midora's pointed nails.
Alaric's hand was suddenly there, holding the cloth from my skin, his face so close I could feel his breath against my exposed clavicle. Whoa. Taking advantage of the proximity, I inhaled the scent of his hair. Sandalwood and frankincense. My head swam and I started to lean into him.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I murmured. Actually, Jing making a big deal about it made me realize that it did sting a little. Alaric took a step back, his face devoid of expression as he stared at the bloody scratch.
“Is this normal? That your family hurts you?”
“Isn’t that what family does?” The muscle tic along his jaw was fascinating.
“Don’t worry, it was probably for something I did to her first, but can’t remember.” Actually, I remembered very well. I was lucky the beeotch hadn’t taken my arm off.
"It needs to be cleaned," Jing said. "Follow me." She marched away without waiting for agreement, leading the way to the back of the store. We followed. When a man stumbled into her path, she twisted quickly to avoid him, causing him to turn in a circle.
"What happened?" Ford asked, Jing's other employee.
Ford was a native Ohioan and resembled a young farmer with his ruddy complexion and ready smile. Pleasant looking, with russet hair and khaki pants, Ford was the polar opposite of the efficient, edgy Jing at whom he was now looking with eager, puppy dog eyes.
"Watch the front," Jing responded shortly. She could've at least said please. Ford smiled warmly, not appearing offended in the least. Jing entered the code into the keypad on her office door as Ford moved away to speak with a huddled group of boys.
The lights automatically switched on, her collection of swords and daggers gleaming against a stark white wall. She gestured to the only seat in the room; a swivel chair that rested before a freakishly neat desk. I took the seat as she opened a mini refrigerator and retrieved a first aid bag. She sighed at my raised eyebrow.
"I don't have a lot of room, so I keep the first aid in the fridge. Plus, your cousin is always getting paper cuts, and he likes when the ointment is cold." Her tone was wry, but a tiny smile appeared; rare evidence of her grudging affection for Silvan.
“If you like him so much, why not give him a raise? He’s the reason you have so many return customers.” My suggestion caused her eyebrows to shoot into her hairline.
“Who says I like him? Silvan already earns too much. He wastes time talking to people about the products and he can’t…”
Alaric made a coughing noise but I was already very, very aware of his presence.
"Oh, Alaric this is Jing. She owns this place. Jing meet Alaric."
"It's a pleasure to meet you. Jing is a lovely name. Is it Chinese?" Alaric asked, an odd mischievous smile on his lips that made my palms sweat. Jing peeked up at him. "My mother was Chinese. My father was Japanese. And before you can ask, Jing is a maternal family name that means gentle."
I snorted in disbelief. Putting aside the irony of her name, Jing had never shared this personal information with me and I'd known her for years. As she opened a packet o
f antibacterial ointment, Alaric touched one of the sheathed swords. Jing had threatened us all with certain death if we so much as breathed on her precious collection. He turned and met her eyes with a challenging smile, one eyebrow raised. My jaw dropped.
She would kick us out. Perhaps grab another sword and start swinging. Instead, her lips curved in a small smile and she gave an imperceptible nod. This man had mad powers over womankind. Perhaps humankind.
Alaric unsheathed the samurai sword from its black wood and leather casing, examining its oiled blade and intricate hilt. He expertly tested the weight with both hands as Jing pushed the dress from my shoulder and applied salve with a gloved fingertip. Did she just sniff my shoulder? I glanced over to see her press a bandage to my skin. Alaric grunted in appreciation and I returned my attention to him. His movements with the weapon were mesmerizing. The blade flashed in quick, controlled movements, as he kept the edge close to his own body within the small space.
His expression relaxed into a happy grin as he admired the steel. "So itsu, me o ake tama ma neru nda."
She snorted. "Fuminshou."
He knew Japanese? It was a difficult language. I'd tried to teach myself some profanity, for Jing's sake, and could never get the hang of writing the characters.
"You speak Japanese?" I asked Alaric. They exchanged a fond look, and I wondered at how quickly he seemed to put people at ease. He flashed me a smile, forcing my lungs to momentarily seize. "Are you impressed?"
"Don't be," interrupted Jing as she tossed the bandage wrapper in the wastebasket. "His accent is terrible, and he speaks like a baby."
Alaric said something else in Japanese and Jing laughed. I'd never seen her so relaxed. Jing was a pretty girl, but when she laughed, she became beautiful.
I stood abruptly. "I should go."
They shot me odd looks, but Alaric slid the sword back into its sheath and returned it to the wall. He snapped his feet together, hands placed on the sides of his legs as he bowed low and swift before the curved sword. Jing watched him with a wistful smile. The turnabout in her personality was creepy.
My attempt to leave turned awkward when I had to wait for Jing to enter the door code. Why would you lock yourself inside your own office? Alaric surveyed the television monitors above the desk as he followed. Jing was nuts about security for sure.
When the door opened Silvan appeared, his knuckles lifted to knock. "I saw Amanda. Only her back, and she was at her mom's store." Silvan shared my worry. He cared about Amanda, and it wasn’t like her parents to change their routine without telling someone.
I checked my phone and found a new text from Amanda. It was brief, consisting of two words. "The door." He jumped out of my way as I hustled to the entrance.
Outside, weary peddlers were packing up, and the crowds had thinned considerably.
I pushed past a group of young men in beanies smoking herbal cigarettes and ran the short distance to Marion's Mystical. The store front was dark, without movement inside. The lane in both directions revealed only thinning crowds, no sign of Amanda’s dark hair or shape. The blue door remained locked, its "closed" sign mocking.
"There," Alaric said softly. He bent and teased the edge of a white envelope from beneath the door. I crouched and pushed his fingers aside. He allowed it and I tugged the paper free with pinched fingertips.
I ripped at the envelope and Alaric leaned over my shoulder as I scanned the torn magazine page again and again.
It was a glossy image of ancient Stonehenge.
"She's gone to England?" Alaric asked.
I flipped the page over and scanned the beginning of an article about the prehistoric monument. Frustrated, I checked the envelope.
"There." Alaric pointed to four tiny pencil marks.
They were numbers. 0200. A flight number?
I knew her cell lock code and it was 6714—the number otherwise known as Kaprekar's constant, after a renowned Indian mathematician. My dearest friend was such a geek. A flight number would also be unlikely. Amanda hated to fly. When they'd gone to Alaska, they'd gone by car and then ship.
I folded the page, unbuttoned my dress a few inches and slipped it beneath a bra strap.
"I don't know what it means," I said honestly. Amanda usually gave too much information. She’d behaved like a completely different person in the last twenty-four hours. What would make someone so solid flake out like this?
"Do you think she could have been forced to leave this message by someone else?" I glanced at Alaric when he didn't respond.
Hands in pockets, he stared at the neckline of my dress. I touched my throat and he shook his head, refocusing his eyes on a point down the lane.
Had I accidentally flashed too much when I put the note away? My cheeks warmed. It was getting late and I needed to go home to think more on the strange message from Amanda. Which meant parting ways with Alaric. I would never see him again.
My stomach sank at the thought. Get a grip. You've known him one day! Remember how you mooned over Scott? One thing I'd learned was to let go of the impossible. My pride couldn’t handle another rejection and Alaric was so far out of my natural orbit he qualified as another stratosphere. But wasn’t life about reaching for the stars?
"It was nice to see you again. But I should get home and check on my grandfather." I don't know what I expected. Maybe that he would ask to see me another time. Perhaps ask to exchange phone numbers. Disappointment blossomed, dark and glacial, when he did neither.
He wasn't even paying attention to me, just standing there with eyes narrowed at the front of Mrs. Wither's map store. I cleared my throat, but he didn't so much as offer a handshake. Unaccountably offended, I didn't linger. I had no time for mysterious men, no matter how handsome. I had to know what was going on with Amanda, and whatever happened in the woods yesterday had to be part of it. I needed to get somewhere private and study the photo again. It didn’t sting at all that he let me walk away without a word. Not at all.
Chapter 6
The Hanged Man
Alaric
y fingers flexed as I fought the urge to sling her over my shoulder and take her to one of my many strongholds. This was turning into more than duty, and this could never be more than duty. If the plan worked, she would be claimed by another, if only in name. My brother.
And yet I could not stay away. Her loyalty towards those close to her was apparent. Despite what she claimed about trust, she’d forfeit her gum into the hand of the boy and tried to get him a raise. She'd lost so much in her young life, yet she still met the world with a raised chin. She was brave. She was anything but the docile girl I'd imagined her to be. Her female cousins, cunning and sharp, had all been wary of her.
Even with the potions Clara and her coven used to mask Stella's natural beauty and scent, she was hauntingly lovely. Even her hands were beautiful, with artistic, elegant fingers I imagined twisting in my hair while I ravaged her mouth...
Fury at my lack of self-discipline arose once more. She was a rose to be plucked by another. My role was clearly defined as her protector until she turned twenty-one or until the curse took her life. Her future might as well have been written in blood upon a page.
The growing distance between us left me feeling oddly empty. I'd sensed her confusion, but it was best—safer—that she leave the area. I needed the distance to clear my head. More importantly, I needed to assess the threat that lurked within the map store. The unique stench of magick emanated from beneath the closed shop door, and I needed to know if the witch was friend or foe. I stood before the door, considering.
How easily I'd nearly destroyed the barrier that masked my aura from the world, losing control for an instant when Stella's cousin assaulted her. The sight of Stella curling away from Midori's claws had very nearly brought out the beast. In a crowded human market, I'd nearly severed the stupid woman's hand, leaving her a stump as a reminder to keep her hands to herself. Only Stella's proximity to the beast an
d fear for her safety had kept my temper in check.
The First Law: Do no harm to the women and men of the Creator. Of course, unsanctioned violence happened. Humans disappeared or were injured by rogue demons and Primati all the time. But I was there to bring justice. Usually. There were years here and there when I'd been distracted with Murad's business or too busy with other realms to pay attention.
Within those gaps, my elite guard, led by Jing San, had kept the balance. I respected her too much to be entertained by the sight of the famous Samurai general operating a comic bookstore. She was my most loyal captain and I trusted her with my life—and Stella's.
For four years Jing had been embedded here as a personal favor, with almost no contact with me so that her location, and Stella's, was protected. This was the first I'd seen her in her new environment, and I was glad that she still had Ford, her blood companion, to keep her company. She might not have agreed.
It had been an honor to hold Dojigiri again. Made of steel so fine it could cut through demon flesh as easily as gossamer threads of sea silk, Jing had killed hundreds with the notorious katana blade since becoming an immortal Chishioni vampire.
Seeing Dojigiri on a wall like a common collectable in the manga shop had been startling. The infamous weapon had originally been crafted for her father, a powerful Shogun, by the great sword smith, and part fey, Muramasa. I possessed one of his swords myself yet kept it in a vault. Jing always did have a sense of irony.
She’d lived for two things since I'd found her covered in blood beneath a weeping wisteria tree: revenge on the Chishioni vampires who'd turned her and murdered her family; and serving the loftier purpose of the High Council by my side.
One thing was clear—we would not be able to hide Stella for much longer. Her eyes flashed silver when angered. I'd siphoned some of her energy by touching her back before her cousins noticed, yet it was something to discuss later with Clara. I ground my teeth with the knowledge that I would also have to speak with my brother about this turn of events. He was going to insist that we move to Plan B. The only allies we had here outside the water witches were the elusive TirieFliuch.
