from their hiding place, turning them and opening the fists to reveal the stylized eyes, the ink that marked the beginning of their estrangement. Though for
He sat heavily in his chair. “Why are you here, Etain?”
“You’ve got a two-sided picture of my mother. I need to see it.”
She spared him the knowledge that his wife apparently had him watched by a PI when he went out of town.
Or she meant to.
His lack of surprise had additional questions tumbling out of her mouth. “Did she tell you I’d come looking for it? Did she give you a message for me?”
Dread sunk into her at his expression. It arrived in a heart clawing instant before he asked, “How do you know I saw her?”
She shrugged, hoping casual would deflect. “I just know.”
His attention lingered on the necklace that clearly didn’t go with the jeans and shirt then dropped to her hands, a detective’s mind sorting possibilities. Hurt came, clouding his eyes. Resignation followed, deep-seated and painful for her to witness.
His gaze lifted, meeting hers, and there was only condemnation, an accusation that echoed Liam’s insinuation that she was out of control. “You assaulted Laura.”
Further evidence no doubt of her spiral downward into full criminality thanks to the Dunnes. It was childish. Etain knew it was but she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Laura started it. And she was on my turf.”
The ridiculousness of that last bit nearly made her laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t forbidden her from Aesirs.”
He rose from his seat and turned away, a fist squeezed her heart at the weight of his movement, the age and weariness he’d gained since meeting her downstairs and escorting her to his office. Was this what happened when humans got tangled in Elven affairs? Had her mother even cared about him? Or had she slept with him only so he’d believe later that he’d fathered the child presented to him?
The questions stung her, filling her eyes with tears she wiped away while his back was to her. And yet still her hands tingled with the desire to use her gift to capture his recent memories of her mother. She imagined herself reaching out, touching. Taking.
With ferocious concentration she envisioned one of the complex sigils Eamon had taught her. She imagined herself completely surrounded by the glyph meant to become a personal ward, a shield against more than physical danger.
It was enough to deaden temptation, though she wasn’t entirely certain whether she’d actually created a barrier or if the captain’s opening a cabinet drawer beneath the window refocused her desire.
Her mouth became dry. And in her heart, hurt and longing and hope clashed like tumultuous cymbals in the hands of a manic-depressive.
“We spoke briefly,” he said. “About inconsequential things. I’m not sure why she asked to see me at all.”
But Etain knew. And her eyes grew wet again on his behalf.
She took the picture when he offered it, noting the way he’d carefully patched the torn pieces back together, her mother standing in front of an emerald green lake. And on the other side, the image she’d come here for.
Her mother stood in the doorway of a bookstore specializing in the occult, one hand resting on the jamb, the other at her side. Etain recognized the store immediately, remembered the day they’d gone there because the shop was so out of the ordinary, so unlike the bookstores they’d haunted in each of the cities they’d temporarily called home.
It’d scared and thrilled her, going to this place specializing in things occult, though with adult eyes the exterior of the store was worn and dusty and faded, entirely nondescript and unworthy of even a first glance except for the woman about to enter it.
Was it? It hadn’t been then, not to an eight-year-old, though she’d loved looking at all the tarot cards and had re-created some of them from memory when her mother refused to purchase a deck for her.
But now? Did her mother mean for her to go to New York? To this store they’d visited shortly before Seattle?
Etain tensed at the prospect, causing the necklace to feel like a choke chain against her throat. Her gaze traveled down her mother’s arm to the doorjamb in a search for glyphs, some tangible proof of magic or a connection to the Elven world.
Not finding it in old wood and cracked paint, she moved to the tomes visible in the front window, and a jolt went through her at discovering a Dragon among the images there. Not a book, but a tarot-sized card seemingly dropped haphazardly in the back corner and not retrieved.
A hooded woman stood in front of a great dark beast with its wings spread. Only the gold trim on her cape kept her from merging into the Dragon and becoming indistinguishable from it. In the upper left corner, there was a sigil rather than a card name.
“Take it and go, Etain,” the captain said, his tone full of weariness, making her regret.
“I’m sorry—”
His raised hand stopped her. “My offer of protective custody stands.”
“No.”
“Then enough has been said today.”
She couldn’t let it go. “Laura wanted me to promise I’d stay completely out of Parker’s life. And yours. No calls. No contact.”
“Let it go, Etain. Just let it go.”
But hand on the doorknob she hesitated, fighting the urge to look back, to admit that it hurt, to have this relationship based only on her using her gift, on his accepting just a sliver of who she was, that the ache for more couldn’t fade when hope existed.
Words her heart didn’t believe. She cared about justice for the innocent even if her vision of it was closer to the Dunnes’. But then she’d lived the memory of every victim she’d touched. She left the office with focus, a purpose, calling Anton as soon as she stood beneath open skies.
“You got a tattoo for me?”
“I need to see you in person. Can we meet up?”
“Where you at?”
She gave him the name of a cafe a couple of blocks away.
“I’ll send someone to get you.” And a short time later a sports car pulled to the curb ahead of where she stood waiting, sipping a mocha that went down smooth but churned in her stomach.
She took a step toward the car as the door opened and a lean, attractive black man got out far enough to flash a smile and say, “Your chauffeur has arrived.”
The voice kicked her memory. He was one of Jamaal’s clients. He had devotional ink from shoulder to wrist on his left arm. Jesus. Mary. A cross that was beautiful.
“Greg, right?”
“Good memory.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while.”
He laughed. “Wife says I’m sporting enough ink. Besides that, I’ve got a new kid on the way. Got to be thinking about college funds. Hop in and I’ll take you to see my cousin.”
“Cousin? Small world.”
“True enough.” She didn’t miss the way the smile left his eyes and lips.
Getting into the car, she inhaled the scent of leather and care. “New?”
“Had it a couple of years. Writing is on the wall though.”
