A Taste of Ice (27 page)

Could Michael have Secondary ancestors, too?

The way he stared at her unnerved her. She felt like prey. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort, and remained that way the entire lunch.

Jim Porter was terribly elitist but well connected, and had encouraging things to say about her paintings. Jim wasn’t a geyser of compliments like Helen, but assessing and critical. Art was business and status to him, and he seemed interested in what Cat had to offer. The lunch ended with his business card in her hand.

“White Clover Creek is one thing,” Michael murmured in her ear as he helped her with her coat. “L.A. and New York are another. See what I can do for you?”

She carefully stepped away, shivering.

Outside the restaurant, a black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb. Michael turned to Helen and Cat. “Given the direction of events over the past few days, I think the three of us would benefit from a quiet talk. Away from the crowds.” He nodded at the car. “Why don’t we head up to my house?”

Cat’s first instinct was to decline—she’d promised Xavier she’d return to Shed—then she thought about her future. And her past. How Helen and Michael had launched her career, and how it would help them all to clear the air. They did have a lot to discuss. Gwen had told her to stay in public with people she knew, so that’s what she’d do.

“All right,” she said, and Michael smiled. “But how about the bar up at the ski resort? I hear the views are lovely.” Michael peered at her for a moment, then nodded. Helen agreed, too.

Michael threw his coat in the front with the driver and took a seat in the back. Cat wedged in next to him, giving Helen an easier in and out since she’d seen the older woman favoring a hip on occasion. She peered at the driver. A young guy, nice looking but nowhere near the beauty of Xavier. He seemed really familiar, too. Gave off almost the same vibe as Michael, and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

They’d just pulled away from the curb and into traffic when Helen’s phone beeped. She turned it on and gasped.

Michael leaned over. “Everything okay?”

“No, no. An emergency at the gallery. Water leakage in the basement storeroom.” When Cat gave a little cry, Helen amended, “None of yours are down there. The ones not on exhibition are kept off-site. But I have to go. Driver, can you pull around to the Drift? Take a left on Begonia Street and drop me off at the corner.”

The driver did as she asked, and Cat couldn’t help but feel sorry for how distraught Helen looked. Helen jumped out at the corner of Begonia and Waterleaf, apologizing, and was swallowed up by the crowd on her way into her gallery. Left alone with Michael in the backseat of the car, Cat prepared to make her own excuse and ask the driver to circle around to the back of Shed on Groundcherry.

Michael turned to her. The leather seats gave a slow creak, echoing the sudden sinking feeling in her stomach. That
tingling sensation of familiarity clicked up several notches in intensity, turning into something else entirely, freezing her in place.

“Cat,” he said, calm as ever, “I’d like to introduce you to some people who are very special to me.”

What?

He gestured to the Town Car driver, whose narrow-set blue eyes watched her in the rearview mirror. “That’s Sean, my brother.”

Cat couldn’t say anything, couldn’t move. Dread slammed into her.

The door on Cat’s right opened and a strange woman slid onto the seat. No, not a stranger. The blonde from Shed, who’d been sitting at the bar with the script. The blonde who was now making Cat’s mind buzz and her skin prickle.

“
You thought you recognized me
,” Xavier had said.

“Yes.”

“Because you did. In a way. Your kind…Ofarians…can sense other Secondaries, other magic-users.”

The blonde yanked the door shut. The Town Car pulled away from the curb. The doors locked as one, sounding like a gunshot. Secondaries surrounded her. This woman. Sean.

And Michael.

Oh no.
No no no no no.

“And this is Lea,” Michael said, all casual. “Lea, this is Cat Heddig, the artist I was telling you about.”

Lea’s smile was positively chilling.

The front door of the Drift chimed open. Xavier shot off the
metal folding chair he’d been sitting on at the back of the gallery and barreled down on Helen.

“Where is she? Have you seen her?”

Helen jumped, her half-unwound scarf dangling in her hand. “What?”

“Cat,” he barked, eighteen hours of fear packed into his voice. “Tell me you’ve talked to her.”

“Sorry, Helen.” The curator’s assistant hurried out of the side office and over to them. “He came by last night after you’d gone, and now he’s been sitting in here all morning. Waiting for you.”

Xavier rounded on her. “If you’d given me her damn phone number I wouldn’t’ve had to.”

“Do you want me to call the police?” the assistant asked Helen.

Helen removed her coat, draped it over her arm. So slowly it was pissing him off. “No, Alissa. I’ll talk to him. Come.” She beckoned to the office.

“Christ, just fucking tell me you’ve seen her.”

Helen spun and eyed him with disgust. “There’s no need for that language. I said I’ll speak with you, but we’ll do so in my office.”

He followed her in and she closed the door behind him.

“She had a late lunch with you yesterday,” he said. “She was supposed to come right back to Shed when she was done. She’s not answering my calls. The Margaret says she checked out last night. I’m going out of my mind.”

Helen licked her lips and pressed them together, taking a moment to ponder something inane on her desk. He knew very well how he was coming across: the stalker townie boyfriend. The jealous type who’d rough up another man in the middle of someone else’s party and then steal the girl away.

He couldn’t care less. He hadn’t slept at all last night; instead, he’d scoured White Clover Creek. This morning he’d asked in every single shop and restaurant and bar.

Helen looked up. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” he shouted.

Helen held up a hand and glared. “I’m sorry to be the one to say it, but she’s gone home.”

“What?”

Helen jumped again. Good. She was starting to understand. He was livid. He was scared shitless. And he wasn’t leaving until he got answers.

“Apparently she had an emergency back home and left yesterday evening.”

“No.
No
.” He shoved fingers into his hair and pulled so hard his scalp stung. “I don’t believe that.”

She sighed and dug into her purse for her cell phone. She tapped a few keys then turned it to face him. “This is what she sent me last night at around six thirty.”

Helen, I’m sorry, but my landlord called and said there was a fire at my place. I’m flying home tonight. We’ll talk soon about the show and the new deals. Thanks for everything.

Yep, that was her cell phone number, but there was no way Cat had sent that message.

Home, she’d typed. Cat had told him she’d never called the Keys home. And Xavier knew how she cherished her opportunity with Helen. She wouldn’t just take off after sending a text message.

“That’s not from her,” he growled. “I know it isn’t. What happened after you had lunch with her yesterday?”

She was actually considering not telling him. She squinted and glanced at the phone. The Primary police were just a quick call away, and he couldn’t afford that.

“I got pulled away. I left her with Michael Ray.”

Michael
. Xavier fell forward, arms braced on her desk, staring her down. “And then?”

She crossed her thin arms, meeting him stare for stare. “And then I don’t know. They dropped me off here; I got that text several hours later.”

“No. Don’t you see? She’s not…she didn’t just up and leave Colorado. Not without telling me.”

Helen’s expression softened. “Look.” He despised the condescension in her voice. “Maybe whatever you thought you two had, she didn’t feel the same way.”

He knew exactly how Cat felt, but what the fuck was he supposed to say to Helen? That he was descended from goddamn aliens, and so was Cat? That she had all sorts of freaky water magic and that her kind were being hunted? That Helen never should have left her side yesterday?

“Michael,” Xavier sneered.

“I know you two have had your differences, but he knows Cat isn’t his. They’ve moved past that. I talked to him last night; he helped Cat get a last-minute flight out.”

Xavier laughed in Helen’s face. “Of course he did. Where’s he staying?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

He pushed off the desk and pressed the back of a hand to his mouth.

“Do I have to be the one to say it?” All sympathy left her eyes; all kindness departed her voice. “To Cat, it’s over between you two. And from what I’ve seen from you today, and the other night at my house, that’s a good thing.”

“No.” Xavier drove his boot into a plastic wastebasket by the door, cracking it and sending papers and leaking Starbucks cups spinning out onto the hardwood floor. “It’s
not
over.”

He stormed out. Stomped into the big room filled with Cat’s paintings. The great, beautiful canvases filled with her Ofarian heritage. They surrounded him. Reached out to him. Cried out to him for help, in Cat’s voice.

Xavier cut his way down the sloping sidewalk, weaving around
slow walkers who, it seemed, had been deliberately placed right in his path. He shoved off the sidewalk and loped into the blockaded street, hoping to find a better passage there. Nope. Just as packed.

He was supposed to punch in at Shed in thirty minutes. He’d
never been so much as late in three years and now he couldn’t give a shit if he never showed up again. He wasn’t going anywhere without finding Cat.

She was still here in Colorado, hopefully still in White Clover Creek. He could feel it. Not in the way she could sense Secondary signatures, but in his gut. In his heart.

The music was pumping again around the square. Camera teams and circles of fans wound around the miner statue. None of the faces belonged to who he needed to find. He was tall but still not tall enough. He stalked toward a bench, launched himself up, and lifted his head high above the mob. A million and a half people swarmed the streets, all wearing basically the same thing. The noise made voices indistinguishable. Then…
there
.

Not just any random person, but the devil himself.

Across Waterleaf, Michael Ebrecht was exiting the Gold Rush Theater with a man who wore glasses. Michael was talking, the other man listening, frowning. Then the man nodded, gave Michael a wave, and walked away. Michael started across the street toward the Margaret, head dipped as he became mesmerized by his phone.

Xavier launched himself off the bench and shoved through the crowd, this time not caring who he offended or toppled over. Not even guilt would stop him now. He planted himself right in Michael’s path.

“Where is she?”

Michael halted, looked up. When he saw it was Xavier blocking his way, he grinned. “Dumped you, did she?”

Xavier leaned down, got right in his face. “Where is she?”

“Haven’t seen her.” Smug satisfaction smeared over Michael’s expression. He glanced casually at his phone, made a show of scrolling through something.

Xavier’s hands began to twitch at his sides. He wanted his knives, but this time for something other than cooking. “Bullshit.”

Michael dropped the phone into the pocket of his long coat. “Look, asshole. The last time I saw her was at Helen’s party. When she left me for you. Maybe I should be asking you the same thing.”

“You’re lying.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with your eyes?” Michael was trying to laugh, but Xavier heard the fear behind it. And the wonder. And something else.

He bent even closer to Michael, let him see the sickly silver irises that were probably pulsing with magic and anger. Let him be
all
that Michael saw. “You had lunch with her yesterday.”

Michael may have been an accomplished liar, but not even he could cover that one up. “Oh yeah. Forgot about that.”

“Where is she?”

“I. Don’t. Know.”

Xavier lifted a fist. Michael did exactly as scripted, flinching away. But he recovered quickly, glancing knowingly around to remind Xavier they weren’t alone, that a public assault would be on his head. Any other day Xavier wouldn’t have cared, except today Cat needed him, and getting busted would only pull him farther away from her.

“You thought she’d become yours after a week?” Michael scoffed. “Even I wasn’t that deluded. I’ve been working on her for two years.”

“We’ve already gone over this. She’s not anyone’s.”

That
brought out the strangest reaction, one that made Xavier shiver. Michael got in Xavier’s face now, his neck blotchy with rage. “Fuck you.”

Then Michael shoved past Xavier, knocking his shoulder hard.

Xavier gave him a good lead, watched him hurry up to the pudgy valet standing in front of the Margaret’s revolving doors. The valet ran around the side of the hotel to the parking garage. Three minutes later a Lincoln Town Car pulled into the Margaret’s horseshoe drive. Michael slid behind the wheel, his face twisted into something possessive and angry, and the car turned away from the square.

Xavier slipped around to the side street lined with waiting cabs. He ran for the first cab in line, tapping it on the roof as he fell into the backseat.

“Follow that Town Car. And don’t make it obvious.”

The cabbie enthusiastically threw his sedan into drive, grinning like he was stunt driving for one of the movies being shown here in town.

Xavier perched himself in the middle of the backseat and stared out through the windshield at the Town Car up ahead.

I’m coming for you, sweetheart
.

The two vehicles swerved higher into the foothills, only one of
them visible.

The moment Xavier’s cab pulled out of downtown White Clover Creek and away from other cars, he’d cloaked the entire vehicle in illusion. The cabbie had no clue; he just puttered away, whistling, following Michael’s car as it climbed farther and farther away from homes and civilization.