Inked Destiny (32 page)

“We spoke briefly,” he said. “About inconsequential things. I’m not sure why she asked to see me at all.”

But Etaín 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. Etaín 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.

What do you think? Is this a good place to find answers?
her mother had asked, and those long-ago questions were a beautiful, wrenching melody in Etaín’s mind.

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?

Etaín 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, Etaín,” 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, Etaín. 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.

Maybe it’d be better to let Eamon win this argument. To stop touching victims when asked, to not see either Parker or the captain unless it was a social visit
.

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 café 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.”

“College fund?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll look good driving a soccer mom van.”

“You mean the coach’s wheels, doubling as the team equipment vehicle.”

He got on 101, heading out of the city. She experienced a brush of fear, wondering where Eamon’s territory ended, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror and pulse skittering when she could almost believe she saw Liam about to materialize there.

“How far are we going?” she asked.

“Foster City.”

Not too far then.

She caught Greg staring at her, as if he’d picked up on her fear. Saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel like he was arguing with himself. Finally he said, “Anton did me favor years back, a life-changing one. I owe him. Otherwise he wouldn’t be staying with me.”

“I owe him a favor too.” Truth, but not the purpose of this visit.

Twenty-four

H
ome sweet home, Cathal thought. It’d been that when he was growing up, despite where the money came from, despite the presence of his father’s mobbed-up soldiers and his mother’s fixation with society and her place in it.

He couldn’t shake the family loyalty, couldn’t shake the lessons learned here. Scratch the surface and he could be what his father and uncle were, a stone-cold killer. He’d almost become that very thing in the presence of the Harlequin Rapist.

He parked across from his parents’ house rather than having the gate opened so he could pull around back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen his mother or father enter or exit through the front door, though given his father’s security, the chance of being attacked here was slim. He doubted the neighbors had as much of a handle on their own schedules and routines as the Dunne personnel did.

Paranoia? Deterrent? Or necessity? Because he didn’t know the details of his father’s business, he couldn’t be certain which it was.

“Hold,” Heath said, getting out as down the street a car door opened and a woman emerged, long, curling black hair shielding her face.

A glint of sunlight drew Cathal’s attention to the ring she wore, the red flare of it as unnatural today as it had been at Saoirse. She
twisted it on her thumb, hiding it in a fist as she turned toward him, steps faltering at seeing Heath approaching with rapid, smoothly menacing strides.

Her chin lifted in defiant courage and surprise hit Cathal at how much she resembled Brianna from a distance. Remaining in the car became impossible.

He got out and jogged forward, unsure what Heath was capable of if he determined the woman was a threat. He was there seconds after Heath intercepted her.

Jesus
. Up close and personal it was more than something as tame as a resemblance. With her blue eyes and thick, black lashes, she could pass for a female version of Brian, the cousin who’d died less than a year ago in a car wreck, not a twin, but a sister one of his uncle’s affairs had resulted in.

Christ. What was she doing here?

There was only one possible reason. She’d come to find out where her father was.

Did Denis even know she existed?

Heath grabbed her wrist. She tensed, shooting a look at Cathal, fear and defiance combined in blue eyes that were far too familiar.

“Let her go,” he ordered.

“It would be best if I see the ring first.”

Magic. It didn’t even surprise him.

“Do you mind?” he asked this stranger who was probably his cousin.

She remained stiff but turned her wrist in Heath’s grip, opening her fingers to reveal the ring.

Heath’s eyebrows went up. He released her. “An interesting artifact,” he said and walked away after having apparently decided there was nothing to worry about.

Fuck, if only that were true. “I’m Cathal.”

“I know. My name is Mirela.”

“Denis is out of the country.”

“I’d still like to meet your father.”

That answered Cathal’s question about whether or not Denis knew about her. If his uncle did, then his father would.

Shit. This was bad timing given everything Brianna had gone through in the last year. Then again, when would the time ever be good?

Brianna could do the math. She’d know her father cheated on her mother.

Cathal glanced toward the house. His arrival had been noted. One of his father’s bodyguards now stood in front of the door to usher him in.

“Your mother left about an hour ago.” Meaning there’d be no witnesses.

Did Mirela know his mother preferred to remain blissfully ignorant of anything that might dirty her world or impinge on her enjoyment of it?

It was probably safe to take Mirela inside. Probably. No guarantee.

“You sure you want to do this?”

“I know what he is. I know what
they
are. My mother told me.”

There was a slight accent, Eastern European maybe. The careful way she spoke nearly masked it.

A nod said he believed her. It was far too easy to imagine his father and uncle away from the United States, where there were plenty of beautiful women willing to consort with men seen in the company of powerful, dangerous, known criminals.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

They wouldn’t take his father by surprise. Mirela’s car would have been noted. Whoever was monitoring the security feed had probably written her off as a cop stationed outside the house. But the minute they got a good look at her, they’d have summoned the boss.

“You vouching for her?” the guard asked when they reached him.

Fuck.

“That is unnecessary,” she said, holding her arms out in an invitation to be patted down for weapons.

Not a thing to bluff about here despite their being in plain sight.

The bodyguard was thorough and totally professional. A search outside, then just inside the front door a wand looking for listening devices, and still a misunderstood move or too quick gesture would land anyone, even him, on the floor in a heartbeat.

“He’s in the sitting area attached to the formal living room,” the guard said, motioning for Cathal to lead while he covered the rear.

The position meant Cathal couldn’t witness Mirela’s expression as they traveled through his mother’s domain, a testament to taste and what could be done when a top-of-the-line interior decorator was not limited by budget. Then again, maybe she’d look around her and compare this house with its limited history to places in Europe.

The sitting room was done in whites and browns and beiges, the furniture a luxurious cluster positioned in the center of a room whose sole purpose, other than to impress, was to take in the view of the bay through windows that stretched the twelve feet from floor to ceiling, the strips of wall necessary to support them always making him think of an ancient Roman coliseum. Like the rest of this part of the house, the smell of flowers dominated, drifting upward from an arrangement delivered fresh earlier in the day.

His father rose from the sofa as they neared. Cathal said, “This is Mirela.”

“My mother was Jaelle Dvorak,” Mirela said, causing a flash of surprise in his father’s eyes, and then the shock was his when she added, “On her deathbed she finally gave me the name of my father. You.”

She thrust her hand out, the ring appearing ordinary against the backdrop of the San Francisco Bay. “In case you doubt me, here is your proof. You gave this to her in Prague.”

Fuck
. Not Brianna’s sister.
His
.

Niall motioned to the furniture in a gesture to sit. When they had, he looked at Mirela and said, “Why did you come here? What do you want?” His voice was cool, his eyes assessing, in that moment, the mafia don Cathal knew him to be.

Mirela’s chin lifted, and if her hands tightened marginally on the material of her pants, he still gave her props for bravery, and he admired her for it. “I came to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Not always a smart move.”

“Dad—”

A glance in his direction said this was between his father and,
Jesus
, his sister.

She sent him a glance too. “I wanted to meet Cathal. I have no other family now that my mother is dead.”

Bad timing, Cathal thought for the second time since getting a look at Mirela. “We need to take this into your office, Dad.” Code for
I have something to tell you and it’s not something for the authorities to overhear
.

“It have anything to do with why you’re traveling with a bodyguard now? From the look of him, one of Eamon’s?” Proof his father had been called to watch what was going on outside.

“Yes.”

Niall’s focus shifted to Mirela. “Coincidences make me itchy. Now more than ever since I have a son who’s hooked up with a policeman’s daughter.” Meaning he wasn’t convinced she wasn’t working for the authorities.