Talent to Burn (Hidden Talent #1)

by Laura Welling

  “Nothing.” I was surprised this big guy with the leather pants and tattoos carried a white pocket-handkerchief. If it had been a red bandana, I wouldn’t have blinked.

  I lay back on the bed, unable to stay upright any longer, and stared into space. My gaze traveled over the bedside table and the old brown phone, and then came to a halt. From where I lay on the flat motel pillow, I could see something under the phone. Reaching out, I shifted the phone and pulled out a business card.

  “Jamie,” I said, “I may not be a Finder, but I think this might be more useful than the medal.”

  He came over to look. “Renee’s Tattoos,” he read. “And our mystery girl has a big one. Perhaps there’s some relationship.”

  “If we’re lucky, this card hasn’t been sitting here for the last six months. I suspect the maid doesn’t clean under the phone particularly often.”

  “I have a feeling both of the things we found will help us.”

  “You’re the Finder,” I said, trying not to sound too grumpy. “Are we done here?”

  “I think so.” Jamie walked over to the door and reached out to the handle, then snatched his hand back. “It’s hot.”

  I sat up fast. “Don’t open it.”

  He looked through the peephole as I spoke. “The hallway is on fire. We can’t get out this way.”

  Fear struck through me like lightning. Adrenaline had me on my feet and halfway to the door before he’d finished speaking. “Is that why we smelled kerosene? Someone starting a fire?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know we should get out of here, now.” Jamie strode over to the window. “This doesn’t open.”

  Terror reached out, grabbed my heart, and squeezed. “We’re screwed.”

  Chapter Seven

  I couldn’t believe this. Putting my hands over my eyes to hold back the tears, I wished I knew how to pray. My adolescence hadn’t exactly included a lot of community activities like going to church.

  A loud crash broke into my fatalistic thoughts, and I jumped, dropping my hands to see Jamie throw aside the chair he’d used to smash the window.

  “You’re bleeding,” I said.

  “Better than cooked,” he replied, clearing the glass from the lower sill with his elbow. Turning, he grabbed the cheap bedspread and laid it down it over the remaining shards.

  “We’re on the second floor.” I hurried over to look out. The parking lot lay below, seemingly miles away and made of hard, white concrete.

  “It’s not far.” Jamie climbed over the sill and lowered himself with bleeding hands, then dropped the remaining distance to the ground. He landed in a crouch, steadied, then stood up and opened his arms. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll catch you.”

  Between a rock and a hard place, to use a cliché, I drew a deep breath and put my leg over the sill. I lowered myself as carefully as I could, each movement bringing me closer to a fall. Moments later I hung by my fingertips, not trusting the ground below.

  “Come on,” Jamie said again, urgently. “I don’t know who started this, and I don’t know if they’re coming back. Don’t look down. Let go.”

  Shutting my eyes, I let go of the windowsill and trusted him. He caught me against his chest, rough, my back against him, his arms closing around me. His scent filled my nostrils—leather, spice and fresh sweat. I inhaled deeply, wanting to draw it into my memory for later, and then opened my eyes. There wasn’t time for this right now. “I’m okay. Let’s go.”

  We scrambled into the car, and Jamie took off with a squeal of rubber.

  “Careful,” I said, “you don’t want to draw police attention. They might think we started it.”

  “Now that brings up an interesting topic.” He turned onto the highway and we blended into the traffic, one anonymous beige rental among thousands. “Not how the fire started—I have a fair idea of that—or who started it. But why it was started, now that’s an interesting question.”

  “You think tattoo girl was trying to kill us? But why?”

  “That’s one possibility, although scaring us off seems more likely.” Jamie shoved his fingers through his dark hair, mussing it further, if that were possible. “Another is that they were trying to dispose of evidence. Yet another is that they wanted to make it look as though Eric torched the place.”

  I started. “But why?” His brain worked in some twisted ways.

  “Too many whys, Cat, too many whys.”

  The concrete barriers flew past the window as I slumped lower in my seat, trying to hide from the glare of the desert light that made my head hurt. All I wanted was to sleep.

  “Let’s find somewhere to hole up and think,” Jamie said.

  And sleep, and shower, and eat. I thought longingly of the cheap motel bed. Any bed at all would do. “Good idea,” I said.

  I glanced over at Jamie. He’d smeared blood—now dried—on the steering wheel, and on his face. He hadn’t said a single word about it. “Your hands,” I said.

  “Ah, it’s nothing. Paper cuts,” he said, watching the road.

  I closed my mouth over my retort, figuring it wasn’t going to buy me anything while he had his tough-guy face on.

  Our eventual destination surprised me, as we pulled into Samurai, one of the newest casino hotels. Definitely a step up from Eric’s hotel.

  “When in Rome,” Jamie said, handing the rental’s keys to the valet.

  “Rome? More like Tokyo,” I murmured as we made our way into the lobby. I’d never seen anything like it in real life, only in the movies. The reception area was decorated with round white stones lining the floor, a carefully arranged stream winding through, and dark wood shaped into Asian archways leading to different parts of the resort. I hoped they had beds in this place, somewhere.

  Jamie took care of checking in and then we sought out our room. The maze-like areas of the casino floor teemed with people. The reception desk had given us a map to find our way to the elevator bank for our tower, but I had trouble following it.

  Every step I took got smaller and harder, and it seemed like an eternity until we finally found our elevator, and another eternity walking down the endless corridor to our door.

  Inside the room at last, I stopped, as tired as I was, to take it all in. The bed crouched low to the ground. The whole room shone with black and red lacquer, the walls filled with Asian art, elegant and beautiful. I focused on the bed. My feet walked to it of their own accord, and I lay down and passed out.

  The sound of the door slamming shut woke me and I sat up, not knowing where I was or what was going on.

  “Hi, sleepy,” Jamie said, dropping a handful of shopping bags to the hardwood floor. They landed with a soft rustle of plastic.

  “How long was I out for?” I had no sense of the time of day. A week could have passed, or a hundred years.

  Jamie checked his watch. “A couple hours. I took a shower and went out to get you a few things. You didn’t start this trip with a lot of luggage.”

  I looked down at myself, still wearing the green T-shirt, worn jeans and faded black denim jacket I’d left work in yesterday, and couldn’t believe only a day had passed since this whole thing began. “Thanks. I need a shower,” I said. “I probably smell bad.”

  He laughed. “I hadn’t noticed. But don’t let me stop you.”

  I grabbed the bags he handed me and headed into the bathroom. The shower was huge, the shower head the size of a dinner plate. Sighing in pleasure, I shucked my clothes, turned the water on and slipped into a steamy paradise.

  Half an hour later, there was a knock and the bathroom door cracked open. I froze, and then tried to cover myself with a washcloth.

  “I’m not coming in,” Jamie’s voice said plaintively, “but do you think you might be out soon? I’m starving.”

  My stomach rumbled in answer. “I’ll just be a minute.” After I got out of the shower and dried off with a luxurious white towel, I looked through the shopping bags. There were jeans, a couple of T-shirts, underwear, and
a nice Asian-style embroidered red silk shirt with a mandarin collar.

  The red shirt slid over my skin like a lover. I didn’t usually wear a lot of red—it drew too much attention—but it actually looked pretty good with my hair, made me look blonder even with my Pacific Northwest non-tan. I could have done with a haircut to get my hair as boy-short as I liked it.

  The bags also held a toothbrush and deodorant, no makeup, but I was lucky to have what I had already. No bra, either. Probably too hard for him to figure out. I considered putting mine back on, but a sniff convinced me otherwise. I had little enough up top that I could get away without one anyway.

  I needed to thank Jamie properly for his kindness. When was the last time someone else had bought me anything at all, or the last time I’d dressed for dinner? Or gone on a date? Was this a date? I widened my eyes, smiled at myself in the mirror.

  Opening the door, I kept my eyes down and walked over to the bed, sat and put my black ankle boots back on. They may not have been the newest shoes, but they went fine with the outfit.

  “You look nice.” His voice was gentle.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “And thank you for shopping for me.” My cheeks heated. I knew from previous experience my face, my neck, even my chest would be bright pink.

  “I thought you’d be more comfortable.”

  “Thanks.” I looked up and discovered he’d changed as well, into a crisp white linen shirt and black jeans, with the motorbike boots as before. This was the first time I’d seen him clean shaven, and I found my gaze following the line of his square jaw, to his dark eyes, and up farther to his still messy, although now more artistically, dark hair. I wondered if he ever combed it with anything other than his fingers. Mine twitched. I put my hands in my pockets.

  “Shall we eat in the hotel? These casino hotels have plenty of restaurants. Sushi, teppanyaki, I think there’s even an Italian place here for some reason…”

  My stomach grumbled loudly and Jamie laughed. This blush seemed unlikely to retreat anytime soon. “Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll eat whatever’s closest.”

  We ended up at a darkly hip fusion place with little booths. It was minimalist and private, and I found myself with nothing to look at but Jamie. I inspected my fingernails instead. I cut them almost painfully short, and even the half hour shower hadn’t miraculously transformed them into a French manicure. We were playing dress-ups. I didn’t belong here, or with him, so it was safer to keep my eyes and my thoughts off him as much as possible.

  The menu though, oh, the menu. I couldn’t narrow it down to one thing to choose, but I didn’t want to appear greedy. I also didn’t recognize half of the things on it. My budget didn’t run to seafood, and my culinary vocabulary didn’t run to most of the rest of it.

  “Small plates,” Jamie remarked, flicking through the menu. “We should order a whole bunch of things. Like tapas.”

  “Why don’t you order for us both?” I suggested, relieved.

  Jamie nodded, and took the liberty of ordering me a glass of white wine. I knew beer—well, anything domestic—and I knew my basic cocktails, but the stuff we sold in the bars I had worked in had convinced me I didn’t like wine. I sipped at the glass, trying not to screw up my face, and was shocked at the taste. The liquid was like silk in my mouth, filling my senses.

  “Is there something wrong with your drink?”

  “No, um, no. The contrary.” I put my glass down, not wanting him to watch me, or to realize how gauche I was. Little plates began to appear and I stuffed morsel after tasty morsel of seafood into my mouth, interspersed with sips of the incredible wine. I closed my eyes between bites, feeling the textures on my tongue, drawing in the scents of the food.

  “This is fantastic,” I said, warming up. “Thank you so much for bringing me to dinner. I thought you were like me. I didn’t think you would know about fancy foods and things like this.”

  Jamie laughed. I flushed. Again. The taste in my mouth turned sour, and my eyes burned. I would not cry at the table. I didn’t cry when I broke my wrist, or when I couldn’t pay the bills, and I sure as hell wouldn’t cry now.

  His face softened as he looked at me. “I’m not laughing at you, sweetheart,” he said. “There was a time, and it wasn’t too long ago, when I didn’t know about, as you put it, fancy food. I suspect our upbringings have more in common than you think.”

  “You didn’t spend yours on the run, I’ll bet.”

  “That chip doesn’t become you.” He sat forward. “I spent some of it in an orphanage, and most of the rest of it in foster care. You had your father, at least.”

  My hand went to my mouth. I was an idiot. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Or be ungrateful. I am incredibly grateful for this.” I waved my hand. “All of this. This isn’t my life. It feels like a dream. I know soon enough I’ll be back to my beer and burger budget.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  What was he suggesting? I deliberately kept my face blank, but my fingers traced the base of the wineglass. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You can come back with me, if you’d like. There’s always room for one more at the Order.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. He must be joking. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do the un-Talented do? Maid service?”

  Jamie leaned across the table and took hold of my wrist. My fingers stopped their circuits of the glass. “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, I am convinced you have Talent.”

  I almost spat the words. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I don’t have a Talent. What you don’t seem to understand is that Talent is the last thing I want.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jamie’s attention focused on me now, intent. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why not?”

  I leaned across the table, wanting to get my point across this time so he wouldn’t ask me again. “Look where it got Eric. I’m better off normal. I’d rather not kill anyone.”

  “And if it turned out you did have a Talent?”

  “I don’t. The chance of that is so low that if it happened, I’d also ride my unicorn to the end of the rainbow to collect my pot of gold.”

  His fingers opened slowly and I lifted my glass, tipped it to him and had another sip of the wine, putting on a bravado I did not feel. I hated talking, or even thinking, about any of this. I swirled my glass, and changed the topic. “Tell me, how did you end up at the Order?”

  Jamie sat way back in his chair, stretching out his long legs, and folded his hands over his flat stomach just above the hunk of metal he called a belt buckle. “It’s not as exciting a story as you might think.”

  “Go on.” Sounded like a topic he didn’t want to talk about, therefore worth pursuing.

  “When I was old enough to get out of fostering, I had managed to avoid acquiring any sort of reasonable education or reputable skills. I had, however, learned some disreputable things along the way.” He chuckled. “I was lucky enough to be caught pickpocketing a man who turned out to be even more disreputable than myself, and he taught me a lot.”

  “About Talent?”

  “Grifting. We worked various cons together, up and down the east coast, New York and Atlantic City, down to Florida in the winters. He got sent up for writing bad checks, and then I was on my own. I found a new con then, a better way to make money.”

  This was a thousand miles away from my own dirt poor but honest upbringing. I was fascinated. I couldn’t even imagine how you would go about choosing crime as a career. “What was that?”

  Jamie waved his long-fingered hands through the air, and adopted an air of mystery, deepening his voice to an oracular boom. “Summoning the spirits. Speaking with the dead. I became a medium, running séances for rich women and their bored friends.”

  “I didn’t know you had that Talent.”

  He laughed, deep and rolling. It was impossible not to laugh with him. “I didn’t and I don’t. But con teach
es you to cold read people, and I’ve always had a way with a story. My Talent helped me find two things: first, easy marks, and second, their valuables.”

  “You didn’t see any, um, ethical problems with this?”

  “Nope. I was Robin Hood. I took from the rich, and gave to the poor—the poor being me.”

  I shook my head. “How on earth did you end up at the Order?”

  His gaze flicked away from me to his glass. “They’re always looking for Talents. One evening I ended up with a Talent scout at my séance, who didn’t believe a word I said, but knew something was up. They called me to come in to the Order to run another séance. That was my usual approach, you see, word of mouth. Helps avoid trouble.”

  “And then?”

  “When I turned up there was no séance. They were on to me, but they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  This was a world I had never experienced. Hard to imagine it even existed. “What was that?”

  “A job offer. I would find things for them, for constructive purposes, and in return they would pay me well, and give me a generous expense account. The only condition was that I had to give up my various less legal income streams.”

  “Was that hard?”

  “At first.” He picked up his glass, took a sip, and then cradled it in his fingers. “Habit of a lifetime. I got comfortable pretty quickly. And Finding things—that’s an addiction once you sharpen up the Talent.”

  There’d been no one with a Talent for Finding at the Institute when I was there, but I remembered Eric saying much the same thing, that the use of power was addictive. Interesting. “What kind of things do you find for them?”

  “These days it’s mostly missing people. On the sad side, children, teenagers, natural disasters. On the light side, absconded husbands, embezzlers and so on. The occasional stolen family treasure, but mostly people. That’s my specialty. Others are better at divining for water, gold, oil and things like that.”

  Such a job had never occurred to me. I rolled the wine glass stem between my fingers, thinking. “How did you find me? I don’t understand how looking for Eric brought you to my door.”