Stealing Time (11 page)

“Now James…” she began in a reasonable voice.

“This is non-negotiable and I expect you to handle it.”

“If your work wasn’t in such high demand, you know this would never fly. Buyers spending this kind of money expect to press flesh with the artist.”

“Lilith…” His voice was soft, but the warning was clear.

“All right, all right.” There was a sound as if she were inhaling from a cigarette. “I hear you.”

“Goodbye, Lilith.”

“Wait! Ira finalized the design layout and needs your approval. He wants to start with
Monday Night’s Wash
and put
Ladies Shopping
next to it, balancing images of the working class and the affluent throughout the exhibit. Something about the socioeconomic juxtapositions at the turn of the century, blah blah blah.” There was the sound of a cigarette being ground out. “I have to say, your study of New Yorkers in the early 1900s is brilliant. Easily one of your best series.”

“Ira should just set up this exhibit the way he did last time…” James began, exasperated.

“He can’t. They’ve changed the floor plan since then and put in some special track lighting…really, it would just be simpler if you’d go look at the damn thing.”

James was silent, debating. He looked at me and spoke subaudibly. “Evie, do you mind if we go to the gallery this afternoon? It shouldn’t take long.”

“I’d love to,” I said, excited to get a peek into his life.

Speaking into the handset, he muttered, “All right, Lilith. What time?”

From the sound of his voice, you’d think he was making an appointment with a firing squad.

At odds with the thrill of my first daylight outing was my anxiety over seeing Tom, since we’d have to walk right past his doorman’s post. He may not remember my having almost killed him, but my memory worked just fine and the guilt rode me hard. He was, however, blessedly absent when the elevator doors opened onto the lobby—maybe it was his lunch hour, but I suspected James had called down while I was freshening up and sent him on an errand. It would be in keeping with James’s kindness and his awareness of me. Whatever the reason, though, my step lightened to not see the human.

As James and I crossed to the ornate front door, he handed me a pair of dark, wrap-around sunglasses. I looked at them for a second, perplexed, and glanced up at him. “Um…thanks?”

He grinned and tilted his head at an angle, allowing the overhead lights to strike his face full-on. I startled as his eyes flared like a cat’s.

I remarked, “That’s actually pretty creepy, you know?” I put on the glasses he’d handed me as he donned his own.

“I don’t know about it being creepy. But it’s the one telltale we cannot hide, except with sunglasses. Today is the first time we’ll be close to humans, so we must be cautious.”

My feet froze. “Close? James, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Maybe I should stay here.”

“Your energy signature is like mine now. Because I am mature, this will give you relief from a changeling’s rougher edges so the instincts are more easily controlled.”

I swallowed hard. “There won’t be another Tom incident?”

“The instincts will not take you so forcefully again, no. Not unless you allow it.”

He held the door for me and, after a moment’s hesitation, I went out. Humans walked within easy reach and I breathed a relieved sigh that James was right—while my throat burned at their luscious scent, it was manageable.

Mostly.

Eyeing two mortals who appeared to be tourists, I noticed that they were shivering. I remarked on this and said, “I’m perfectly comfortable. So I’m guessing cold doesn’t bother us?”

“Not even fire bothers us. So we must always be aware and react as humans would. It’s the small things over time that can give us away. Things like not wearing a coat on a cold day.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Anything else I should know?”

He smiled and took my hand. “Other than not to bite the tasty mortals?”

I made a face at him and he laughed.

“Once you become accustomed to the thirst’s burn, it’s rather simple. Just remember to move at human speed, to mask your strength and your grace.”

The day was beautiful and clear, and it was a long, pleasant walk to the gallery. Well, except for the liquid flames melting my throat and stomach, fed by the enticing scent of all the people around us. It helped that it was midafternoon—although the streets were busy, they were not packed shoulder to shoulder with commuters. So far, James had needed to distract me only once when a guy texting on his cell phone bumped into me.

Still, my throat was tight and dry, and a diversion was called for.

“You have an art agent?” I asked.

“Yes, Lilith has represented me for about seven years.”

“What does an art agent do?”

“Aggravate the daylights out of me,” he growled. “What she’s supposed to do is keep me from having to deal with anything or anybody.”

“I don’t know much about the art world. How does all of this work?”

He nimbly dodged a jogger who was adjusting the iPod on his arm and not paying attention to where he was going. The sight of him running ahead of us triggered the instinct to give chase and I closed my eyes until the urge passed. James took my elbow and guided me until I opened them again, half a block later.

He continued talking as if nothing had happened. “I paint and Lilith manages the business side of things. She represents the paintings I’m willing to sell, and negotiates with galleries and buyers on my behalf.”

“It sounds like your paintings sell well,” I ventured.

“Yes.”

We had to stop abruptly to keep from running into two men in suits who cut across in front of us. They were jockeying for a cab sitting at the curb, oblivious to everyone on the sidewalk. My anger flared and a growl built, unbidden.

James said mildly, “It’s not worth getting upset about.” He put his arm around my waist and drew me close to his side. “Evie?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“You never talk about your friends or family, and I admit to being curious…”

I smiled. “Collecting infinite details, are you?”

He grinned. “Just chipping away at your objections. I’ll have you marry me yet, woman.”

Laughing even as a blush crept across my cheeks, I said, “It’s no secret, I just don’t talk about my life much. My dad died in a car wreck when I was young and my mom couldn’t handle dealing with a young child on her own, so she left me with my grandmother. My dad’s mom. Gran was already pretty old when she took me in and she died just after I graduated from college. Like you, I own the home I grew up in. It’s in Dallas and Gran left it to me in her will.”

James’s expression had gone opaque. “Your mother abandoned you?”

“Abandoned?” I repeated softly. “Yeah, that’s the word for it.”

“I’m very sorry, Evie.” His voice was rough. “I didn’t intend to stir up painful memories.”

Shrugging, I worked to keep my tone light. “It’s probably why I focused so much on work and never got involved with anyone. Seemed easier that way. Less complicated.” A brief image filled my mind—the rusted Buick’s briefly illuminated brake lights as Mama ghosted the pedal, the sound of tires taking the turn too fast on hot summer streets. I forced a deep breath and willed the image of that afternoon far away. “Gran had her own issues, but she did her best for me. She hung on long enough to see me graduate from Georgetown. After her funeral, I went to England as a Rhodes Scholar. The change of scenery helped a lot.”

“I read that in your bio. I’m impressed.”

“I loved every minute of it.”

We stopped with a crowd to wait for the light to change, then crossed the street with a group of uniformed teenagers, fresh from school. They were only a little younger than the college boys at the rave and it took me a few minutes to shake off the thought.

“Did you ever hear from your mother again?” James asked quietly.

“Nope.” The admission always brought a sting of tears. Except, of course, that I could no longer cry.

He kissed the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”

There was really nothing more to be said about it, so I just shrugged.

“During the time I followed you, I noticed that you spent a lot of time alone. But I assumed you’d withdrawn from friends in order to deal with the illness.”

“No, that was pretty much my life.” The admission was difficult.

“There is no one who would miss you? No one you would miss?”

I shook my head, ashamed at how I’d spent my life. The endless hours in search of a hot story that, once written and put into print, would end its brief existence lining a parrot’s cage or filling a dumpster. The lonely, restless nights waiting for the sun to rise so I could begin the never-ending search all over again. The silent phone. The messageless voicemail. The mailbox, void of everything but the occasional bill or coupon flier.

Such a damn waste.

The light changed and we started across the street, humans all around us. Their scent filled my head and my throat was tight and dry, but I held my own.

“I was too focused on work to have more than casual acquaintances,” I said, hearing the emptiness in my voice. Clearing my throat, I tried again, “When I became sick, I went on sabbatical. Some of my coworkers may wonder what became of me, but they knew the leave was for a serious illness and will probably just assume I didn’t make it.”

The muscles worked along James’s jaw. “How could anyone not miss you, not care enough…”

“No one had a chance of getting to know me. I brought it on myself.” My lips compressed tight. This was a difficult topic and one I was never even tempted to discuss. Still, it was interesting I’d shared as much as I had. It felt momentous.

We went around the end of a long line of people waiting to buy hot dogs from a street vendor. The smell of food was unpleasant. The humans, themselves, however…

James glanced sideways at me. “I read your work.”

“You did? But my last article was on the investigation in Chicago.”

“I googled your name and read all of your back articles.”

“You have a computer?” I asked, startled.

“Of course. And a television, although I rarely watch it.”

I had to laugh at my continued misconceptions. A little self-conscious, I asked, “What did you think?”

“Of your writing?” he teased, knowing full well that’s what I meant. I swatted his shoulder and he chuckled. “I liked it very much. And it’s clear from the subjects you covered that you had no sense of self-preservation.”

“You’re referring to the drug cartel series?”

“Among far too many others, yes.” He shook his head. “It’s amazing you didn’t get yourself killed.”

I could only laugh. “Turns out the Medellín was nowhere near as deadly as a New York City cab.”

James snorted. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of an elegant brownstone that stood three stories tall. Its broad steps led up to a double set of spectacular leaded-glass doors. From the sidewalk, I easily read the tiny plaque by the entry: Seagrave House, Built 1875. A larger sign said The Neuwirth Gallery of Fine Art.

“James, right on time.”

I recognized the voice from the phone call and turned as a tall, painfully thin woman got out of a cab and walked toward us. Lilith’s black hair was slicked tight into a bun at the nape of her neck and her glacial-blue eyes missed nothing. Her features were sharp and pinched, and she was dressed head to toe in black. As she strode toward us, she stuck a large portfolio under her arm to shake James’s hand, then mine. Her gaze on me was penetrating and reminded me of a raptor, sizing up a fat, juicy rabbit.

Little did she know this rabbit had fangs.

“Evie, this is Lilith Bathory,” James said. It was interesting that he did not share my last name.

“Hello, Lilith,” I said, trying hard not to give her the stink eye. No sense offending James’s agent.

“Evie,” she responded, making no attempt to mask the once-over she gave me.

Right, then.

I returned the favor, turning up the vampire wattage a smidge and allowing myself a small smile as she blanched. In a clear attempt to hide her flinch, she raised her right hand to catch a loose strand of hair and a flash of color on top of her wrist caught my attention. Lilith didn’t strike me as the type, but she had a tattoo there of two crossed daggers. When she noticed it was exposed, she snatched her hand down and shoved it in her jacket pocket, then turned abruptly to James. Her voice was curiously brittle. “Ira will be expecting us.”

James took my hand and gestured Lilith ahead. When her back was turned to us, I bared my fangs at her and he cracked up.

“You hate coming here, don’t you?” I spoke for his ears alone, retracting my canines.

He nodded. “But I enjoy painting and the financial freedom it gives me. I very rarely ever deal with this side of it, so I can’t complain.”

He held the heavy door for me and I stepped into the beautifully renovated brownstone. The old wood floors had been refinished and shone under the track lighting. Many of the internal walls were gone, giving a surprisingly airy feel to a building that should have felt solid and heavy. The remaining walls were painted soft white and, at the moment, were bare.

In the center of the room was a large reception desk. An elderly man stood beside it, talking with a blond woman about my height. Her back was to me as I studied the man. He was slight and stooped, and so frail-looking I wondered at his age. He looked up and his faded brown eyes met mine, before he turned to Lilith as she walked over to him.

“Ira,” she cried and kissed his cheeks, European style, before taking his elbow and bringing him to us.

The elderly human’s face broke into a broad smile, his eyes almost disappearing in the folds of wrinkled skin. “James, you have come. I can’t tell you what a treat this is.”

“It is good to see you,” James said warmly as he shook Ira’s hand. “I hear you have been busy redesigning your gallery.”

Ira shrugged expansively. “A little of this, a little of that. I hope you like what we’ve done.”

“I do.” James put his arm around my waist and drew me forward. “Evie, this is Ira Stein.”