He lowered his shirt and stepped back.
“They’re not as bad as they look. Didn’t need to sit around all night in an ER. Save that for the people who really need it.”
She looked at him and fought the urge to hold him. He was injured, and she had seen enough injuries to know his were serious. She smiled to herself and gave a small shake of her head, as she recognized her desire to care for him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked?
“Nothing,” she lied.
“Are you hungry?”
“A little, I guess. I flew out of the city without stopping to eat.”
He motioned toward where he said the kitchen was located.
“We’ll be expected at Mother’s for dinner, but I have a fridge in there. I’m not sure what all is in it, but I’m reasonably sure there is something that isn’t rotten.”
She smiled, “And to drink?”
“Water, of course. All I have is water.”
“What do you serve when your dates come over? Don’t you have a wine you save for the special lady?”
“Is that your clever way of asking if I have a girlfriend?”
She snorted a laugh.
“I would think more than one. You forget. I went to college. I’ve known professors like you.”
“And what kind of professor is that?”
“The kind that makes a freshman girl fall in love with him and when she’s a sophomore and the new class arrives, he’s suddenly concerned that he’s holding her back. She can accomplish so much more without him being a hindrance.”
“And this professor hurt you and now you want to punish me?”
Andee opened the refrigerator door and scanned the interior. She closed the door harder than what was needed. He slid stiffly onto a stool along the breakfast counter. She saw him grimace.
She opened a pantry door. She searched the shelves and withdrew holding a loaf of bread and peanut butter. She set them on the counter.
He pointed to a drawer, “Knives are in there.”
She pulled the drawer open and lifted a spreading knife.
“Do you want to know what I don’t understand?” she asked.
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”
She turned and pointed at him with the knife.
“I don’t understand if Miranda acts as your social organizer with all the girls or just those of us who are not students.”
His eyes became cold. He took one deep breath, held it and then let it go.
“Special Agent Trakes, you can say what you will about me. My skin is thicker than your fangs are sharp. We can play word games and exchange insults if you would like, but under no circumstances do you insult, belittle, or demean my family. Especially not my mother nor my niece Miranda.”
He stood and did not remove his eyes from her.
“Finish your sandwich. Enjoy it. When you are done, please leave my home.”
He turned and left the room.
Andee suddenly didn’t want to eat. She dropped the uneaten sandwich into the sink, turned on the water and the garbage disposal and watched the soggy mixture of bread and peanut butter get sucked into a vortex that would end in its total destruction. She watched the sandwich spin in the throat of the drain. She watched it try to stay afloat in a tempest that would suck it in and make it no more.
She knew exactly how the sandwich felt.
As the last of the crust of the bread disappeared, she turned off the blades of the machine, then the water, and she turned off the lights above the counter.
She walked into the living room, and saw Lloyd’s back as he stood at the end of the other hallway and leaned on the balcony. He didn’t turn to acknowledge her. She picked up her suitcase and exited the apartment.
Lloyd heard the door close and realized his life would forever be less than it might have been. He allowed himself a sigh as he wandered close to self-pity. He promised he would only visit the self-destructive emotion for a short period of time. There was no point in staying longer. He had been born into the mission of his life, selected while still in the womb. From the time of his earliest memories, he had been prepared to be the Unum.
He carried the expectations of his family. There were but fifty like him, one for each clan, and he was his. He had sworn an oath at puberty that he would dedicate his life to the service of his clan, his kind, his species. He would not allow a woman of impure breeding to sway him from his calling. He would not allow the temptress to fog his focus.
He leaned against the railing and slowly rotated the crystal water glass in his hand. His life was made up of such finery. He was surrounded by the most expensive of everything, the rare, the unique, and as he looked at the glass, he realized his life was just as empty. He spun away from the balcony, the tidal wave of anger driving him, and without thought he threw the glass the length of the hallway. It crashed into the far wall and shattered. It was now what it always had been, only no longer disguised. It was junk.
He allowed his knees to weaken and sank to the floor of the balcony. He rested his head on his chest. He closed his eyes.
Lloyd heard the doorbell and shook his head. Whoever it was, he knew he did not want to see them. He did not want conversation. He did not want company. He ignored the sound. It rang again.
Anger grew within him. He shook his head. Another reason to stay far from self-pity—the only way back was through anger. Anger was dangerous. Anger was deadly, if not for him, for someone else, a stranger even. He felt the vibration, the soothing rumble of a growl in his throat. He lowered his head to his chest and resisted the urge to howl.
The doorbell sounded a third time, and he was on his feet. He enjoyed the anger. Anger was strong. Anger was power. He felt the tightness of his jaw, tension pumping extra blood into muscles. He inhaled, and the rush of air into his lungs intoxicated him. He grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, threw open the door and stood looking at Andee.
She stood tall, strong, confronting his anger. Her dark eyes met his gaze without flinching. Her jaw was set and though her lips were full, they formed a straight line, an expression that silently told him she had things to talk about.
He fought the impulse to grab her, to drag her into his domain, to ravish her. His kind had done so for generations, and the urge was strong. He saw the recognition of his desire in her expression as her chin rose, her lips curled ever so slightly, and her eyes silently challenged him, “Take me if you can.”
He shuddered. He resisted. He sighed.
“Did you forget something?” he asked.
She ignored the question.
“You and I have to talk.”
She walked past him and carried her suitcase into the room. She saw the shattered glass and turned back to him. She said nothing, but arched an eyebrow as if she recognized a minor victory. She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. He sat across from her.
“Can I get you some water?” he asked.
She glanced again at the broken glass and answered, “I don’t think so.”
He forced himself not to acknowledge the mess.
“I thought you didn’t care for my kind of professor.”
She looked away and focused on a glass display case against the wall. Among the several items mounted on the case’s rear wall were two pistols. Andee looked at Lloyd and then back at the display. She rose and crossed to examine the pistols as closely as she could. Without thinking, she rested her hands on the case and left fingerprint smudges as she traced the outline of the guns on the glass. Lloyd rose and crossed to stand to her left.
“A brace of Harper’s Ferry 1805 US Marshal pistols,” he said.
Without answering, she lowered her eyes and scanned the items on the shelf beneath the display of guns. A powder flask, complete with funnel. A leather pouch, molded around the marble sized balls inside it, though none showed. Cuts of cloth in small round patches, and a wooden rod about eighteen inches long, which was used to ram home the ball after the charge of
powder had been poured.
“Are they… what I think they are?” she asked without looking at the man standing next to her.
He studied the design of her left ear and decided it was exquisite.
“And that would be?” he replied.
“I’m going to guess that those guns have been modified since leaving the foundry that made them.”
He watched her jaw move as she formed words. He found it mesmerizing.
“You would be correct. The balls are made of silver, the barrels lined the same, and the cloth is silk. They are what you might call a werewolf execution kit.”
Her voice tightened as if she was afraid of the answer as she asked, “Do they work?”
He allowed a grin.
“Not in their current state. If a person wanted to use them, he’d first have to load them. Which is not a difficult task. He’d take that brass teardrop-shaped flask, which holds the powder, and measure out thirty grains into a measure. But if he was in a hurry, he could just hold the flask over the muzzle of the weapon for a count of two.”
“Two,” she asked, as she turned to watch him speak.
“Yes,” he said, “one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two. The diameter of the flask opening pours right at thirty grains in two seconds. Your count would be close enough.”
“I see,” she said and hoped he didn’t notice her voice was tight. “And then?”
“Then you’d have to hold the muzzle up so the powder didn’t fall out, and take one of those patches of cloth and one of the silver balls, set the two of them over the muzzle. Use the ramrod to push both into the bore. Make sure they’re seated all the way to the rear. Don’t want any gaps. Now, lower the weapon horizontal to the ground, and using the flask, pour a little bit of powder into that dish on the side. That’s called the pan. Once done, lower the lid part, the frizzen. Pull the hammer to full cock, make sure the screw is holding the flint tight, and you’re set. Find a werewolf and put him down.”
He watched her nostrils flare as she caught scent of him. That scent dilated the pupils of her eyes, and for a moment, she caught her lower lip in her teeth. His chest felt tight.
“I don’t suppose you would be willing to allow me to have them tested for ballistics? You know, just to exclude them from the search.”
He heard the quiver in her voice, and the sound caused his chest to tighten more. His breathing came in small gasps. He hesitated struggled to maintain control, then cleared his throat.
“I would be more than happy to allow you to examine the weapons. I believe citizens should always support their government.”
She swallowed, and the action drew his eyes to her throat. She had such a long, gracious throat. A throat that belonged on the statues of Egyptian goddesses. For a second only, he allowed himself to envision kissing it, licking it and nuzzling it.
“That’s very patriotic of you. I’ll have some lab boys drive up and secure them.”
He nodded and forced his gaze to her eyes.
“That’ll be good. Be sure they bring a properly issued search warrant.”
Her eyes clouded, and a touch of tension showed in her brows.
“A what?”
He masked his emotions.
“A search warrant, with proper documentation of probable cause.”
She tried to move a step back from him to increase the distance between them, but she couldn’t. She was backed into the corner of the display case and a wall. He stayed his position.
“An innocent person doesn’t have to worry about being searched,” she said, the confidence of her voice waning.
He leaned into her slightly.
“Where does the Fourth Amendment say that? It was written to limit government intrusion into the lives of citizens. We are under no obligation to make your job easier. Not at the cost of jeopardizing our liberties.”
She slid sideways, brushing against his chest as she escaped the corner. Once free of confinement, she turned to face him.
“What was all that bull about you supporting your government?”
He stepped toward her, closing the distance.
“I believe your oath of office requires you to support and defend the Constitution. By requiring a search warrant, I’m helping you uphold your oath.”
She stepped back. Not a retreat, but a strategic withdrawal.
“I don’t actually think you would have… could have killed Ferreira.”
He stepped to her, again. Closer this time. Close enough his breath teased escaped strands of her hair.
“If you doubt I could have, or would have, there is no reason to test the display.”
She stood her ground. She held his gaze and lifted a hand to his face. She touched the swollen and bruised side of his face. Her caress was butterfly soft with the tickle of manicured nails.
He felt his throat tighten, his voice turned raspy.
“You’re fighting unfair,” he complained. He stepped back and broke the contact.
“Are we fighting?” she asked and closed the distance. Her hand now rested on his chest. She felt the thump of his heart. Such a powerful thump, a powerful chest, a powerful man.
He lifted her hand from his chest. He used both of his hands, as if one would not be enough, and slowly shook his head as he held her at bay.
“We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
She stood her ground and allowed him to possess her hand.
“Why? Why can’t we do this?”
He looked away and released her hand. He stepped back yet again and said, “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I already don’t understand,” she said, frustration building in her voice.
“If we are a non-starter,” she continued, “why does Miranda constantly try to set us up?”
He sighed.
“Miranda is my niece, my friend, my assistant, and she is highly intelligent, talented and competent. Unfortunately, she also believes in the Easter Bunny.”
Andee scowled. It surprised her, but she didn’t like the man insulting her friend.
“Explain that to me,” she said. “Explain that comment.”
He studied her for a long time. His eyes, those beautiful, intense ice-blue eyes that always seemed so clear, so sure, were now clouded and confused. The stab of empathy stung as she watched his internal debate.
“I can’t explain it to you. I would have to violate confidences I have lived by most of my life. Even then, you might not understand. I can’t.”
He lowered his eyes to the floor and muttered, “I won’t.”
He retreated to the sofa and allowed the weight of his decision to collapse him onto the furniture. He studied the floor in hopes she would not see the fullness of his eyes. She thought he looked overwhelmed, and she struggled between the sadness of empathy and the anger of rejection. She turned away, picked up her suitcase and left the apartment. Both knew she wouldn’t be back.
He sat on the sofa for a long time. His knife wounds caused a sharp pain when he moved, and the bruised ribs and stomach ached if he twisted or bent over. He soothed the discomfort by refusing to move for over an hour. Sitting still, unmoving, was an ability his kind had developed eons ago. Such behavior helped catch game or outsmart pursuers.
After two hours, it dawned on him that while the lack of motion eased his physical pain, it did nothing to ease his mental distress.
Chapter 10
Andee sat on the cement bench, the same one she and Alwyn had occupied during her first visit, and watched the garden. It was mid-morning and warm enough to coax the bees to go about their business. She watched as the little insects flew from flower to flower, hesitating only long enough to pick up nectar.
How like her and Alwyn, she thought, the two of them circling, touching, lighting only long enough to torment the other. She shook her head. How like bees they were, darting from point to point, hesitating only to sip the sweetness, never stopping long enough to drink their fill of each other. She wondered if the bees were a
s frustrated as she.
She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. She loved the city, but the sun felt warmer here, friendlier. She allowed her mind to follow the humming of bees, the songs of the birds and the chatter of chipmunks as they worked in unison to transport her from the troubled reality into a fantasy where people did not have their faces removed by silver marbles. A place where young men were not ripped to shreds and didn’t die mangled in motels. A place where all unhappiness could be solved with a smile, a kiss, or a hug. A place her mother told her about. A place she had yet to find.
“Are you and Alwyn fighting?”
The voice startled her. She flinched as her eyes opened and focused on Gennadiya Lloyd. She had not heard the approach and glanced to see if the woman had walked on the crushed gravel. She had. Troubled by her lack of focus, she turned and watched Gennie cross the last few steps of crushed stone and join her on the bench.
“May I?” the older woman asked and indicated a place to sit.
“Of course,” Andee said, and slid a little sideways, even though there was an abundance of space. The woman sat.
Now seated, the woman asked again, with a slightly modulated tone, “Are you and my son fighting?”
Andee studied the face, but could discern no animosity. She allowed a slightly bitter smile as she said, “There is no ‘me and your son.’”
“You no longer care for him?”
Andee rose to her feet and turned to face her. The face was placid, and her eyes gave away no clue as to what the woman was thinking or feeling. Her coolness unsettled Andee even more.
“I’m sorry,” the agent said, lying, she was not sorry, “I don’t want to talk about this with you. I have a job to do. I’m supposed to be investigating murders, and I’m twisted all sideways for a man who, other than a few teasing looks, won’t give me the time of day. I’m sorry, but your son is a shit, and I don’t know why.”
She turned to the path and had taken two steps when the woman behind her asked, “Do you want to know why? Or would you rather storm off like a spoiled child?”
Andee spun and faced her tormentor.
Shadow of the Moon: A Fantasy of Love, Murder and Werewolves Page 14
