The Artisans (17 page)

His eyebrows slam down; shoulders straighten. I don’t know what he might have said, but it doesn’t matter. With his emotional walls firmly in place, he takes a step back and places both hands on top of his cane. A hiss escapes through his teeth as his head jerks toward the hall leading to my room. “Go.”

Two steps away and I break into a run. There’s no stopping me until I hit my bed. Throwing myself down on the soft quilt, the tears come freely. I curl into a ball and weep until long after dark.

***

When I wake, three things are immediately clear. First, it’s tough to sleep with a really tubby feline on your chest. Second, I’m wearing flannel jammies and a tank top without a bra. Last, and maybe most important, a solid, long leg is propped up next to mine, and it’s connected to the body of Gideon, who takes up residence in the chair next to my bed. The same way he did the night I fell from the tree.

Perfect.

I shove Edgar off of me and roll to my feet. Moonlight floods the room, enough to see by, so I don’t bother with the light. With what little stealth I have, I tiptoe across the room to my dresser and slide the top drawer out. Pulling my favorite gray sweater on over my head, I sigh, wondering what the heck Gideon is doing in my room. Keeping me company, watching me sleep? Glad that’s not creepy or anything.

When I pivot toward the bed, Edgar meows in happy cat talk. “Shh,” I whisper.

“I’m not asleep,” answers a smoother more seductive voice.

I climb onto the bed and push the mass of black hair from my face. “What are you doing in here?”

“Of course you’re glad to see me. I would be, most everyone is. Why yes, my chair is very comfortable, thank you. And no, I don’t mind staying here with you and making sure you don’t kill yourself or someone else.”

Huh? “What?”

“Riddle me this, Batgirl. Who runs around snooping in the west wing, makes herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at three
AM,
and sews like a demon half the night with no idea that she’s doing said things?”

Gulp.

“I’m sorry, your time is up. The answer is: Raven Weathersby.”

“I did? I mean, I do, yes. Sleepwalk. Sometimes, but …” I didn’t know to what extent. I do, however, realize I’m rambling, and that I sound like a complete and blithering idiot. “I’m sorry.” A rustle precedes my bedside light switching on. I’m acutely aware of how hideous I must look having fallen asleep after a long, hard cry. I picture a puffy face and scag-witchy hair. That thought is immediately followed by the fact Gideon must have trailed me all night to know so much about my nocturnal activities. “How did I get into these clothes?”

His grin is his answer.

“No you didn’t!”

“Sadly, no, I cannot take credit for your stunning sleepwear ensemble. Though dressing you does sound like fun. You were wearing that at midnight when you climbed into bed with me.”

What? Shit. “I did no such thing!”

“You did, snuggled right up next to me like a lost little kitten.” The grin fades to that tantalizing half-smile he owns, wicked and super-hot. “Every guy’s dream actually, waking up to a beautiful girl in his bed. Imagine my shock—and disappointment—upon the realization you had no idea what you were doing. Of course, it also occurred to me you planned to slit my throat as I slept.” I gasp, and he chuckles. “I’ve heard it’s dangerous to wake a sleepwalker. I thought you’d break your neck on the stairs, jump out a window, cook and eat your cat. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He shakes his head. “Can’t have that now, can we?”

Oh my gosh. I fall back in a dramatic slump on the bed. The muscles in my legs burn, my back aches. The way they did sometimes when I— “Did you say I was sewing?”

“I did, though I’d rather talk about the part of your subconscious that wanted in my bed—and why.”

“Shut up, Gideon.” Jerk. I force myself up and wander into my office. The sight takes my breath. There are brand new outfits on each of my three manikins and another three lying on the tables. The clothing is finished, perfect down to the last buttonhole, shoelace, and hemline. I’ve outdone myself, and I have no idea how. “Did you watch me do this, Gideon, the actual sewing part?” It hurts me to ask Gideon for anything, but I’ve always wondered about my sleepwalking. I’ve never dug too far into
how
I accomplish so much in a night, and I’ve never sewn this much at once before. My curiosity overcomes my pride. “Can you tell me what you saw?”

“Come here.” Gideon’s voice is low and husky. It frightens and excites me at once.

When I turn, he’s sitting on my bed. He’s wearing navy, drawstring pants, and a gray T-shirt that hugs his body in all the right places. His hair is a perfect mess of corkscrew curls falling around his face. He’s all confidence, and ease, and grace.

As if in another dream, I walk toward him, afraid of what he’ll say, yet needing to know. When I sit on the bed, he slides nearer. I stiffen as he lifts his hand. “I’m going to touch you, Raven, because I want to, and you’re going to let me. Do you understand?”

No. I nod. He takes my hand in his and gently rubs it with the other. So not what I had pictured happening between us right now and the letdown surprises me.

He shakes his hair from his eyes and smiles. “I knew you were different, special, but I had no idea …” His fingers give mine a squeeze. “When you work, sew, you … damn, I don’t even know how to explain it. You speed up.”

“Speed up?”

“Yes.” His hand continues to hold mine and the electricity shooting up my arm is exquisite. “Not when you came to me in the night, or created the biggest mess I’ve ever seen erecting your triple-decker PB&J. It’s when you sew.” When his voice softens, my stomach flutters. “You are robotic, the ‘times two’ fast-forward on a TV remote control, Raven. The shutter on a camera lens, so fast it’s hard to imagine.”

I’d accuse him of lying but it’s clear he isn’t. “How is that possible?”

He lifts his head, eyes hooded. “I’ve already learned there are things in this world beyond explanation.” His voice has a hard edge. “Some good we must exalt and some bad that must be punished.” Gideon releases my hand. Placing a finger beneath my chin, he lifts my face. “
You
are good.”

We’re inches apart. I continue to allow his touch, I can’t help myself. “Only God is good, Gideon. I merely have a talent.” Albeit one that is freaking me out right now, but it’s just a talent. “It doesn’t make me better, only different.” He slides his finger along the line of my cheek. The space between our bodies crackles with energy.

When he drops his hand I’m almost sorry. “No,” he says, head shaking.

“Yes. Any gifts we have, any good thing, that all comes from God.”

“The Bible was full of judges, Raven. There’s a whole chapter devoted to them. Someone has to keep a balance between good and evil.”

I remember the long line of judges in his family tree. “I don’t think that’s the same as—”

“Yes it is. Wrong must be dealt with.”

I cross my arms. “So stubborn.”

His eyebrows wing up. “Me?”

“Uh huh.” I lean forward and poke him in the chest with my finger, impressed by how firm his muscles are. “You.”

“Obnoxious, is what you are.” He shakes his head, but there’s a small smile. He slaps his thighs, then stands suddenly. “There’s another reason you are graced with my presence."

I stare, waiting.

“Yesterday, when you came home, you were … Well, understandably, you were very, uh … ”

My eyes narrow. “Upset?”

He thrusts a hand out pointing. “Exactly! Yes, upset. So, I’ve made a decision, or amended one, actually. Call your friend, Maggie is it? I’ll leave a form on the kitchen table for her parents to sign.”

I lift a brow, suspicious. “Because … ”

“Because I’ve reconsidered your request to have her spend the night.”

I feel my eyes bug. “You have?”

He’s smiling again, a cat with a canary smile. I sort of like it when he does that. “Indeed, but not here, in New York. That’s what the consent form is for. I’m flying the pair of you to the city for a fashion show.”

“When?” My heart is racing. A tiny voice in my head warns I’m selling out. Seduced by the lure of my first airplane ride, my first real fashion show, my first a lot of things, makes all my lofty principles paper-thin. I stomp on the tiny voice with my five-inch stiletto heel and grind it to dust. Who said I had principles? Not me.

“Tomorrow night.” His eyes dance. The smile he displays is panty dropping.

He seems almost happy. For Gideon. A warning bell goes off. “Wait, why?” Why would he do all this for me?

“Oh, well …” His eyes widen as though he got caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. His jaw squares and his expression hardens. “It’s not … uh, that is, in your case, you seem more productive when you’re less stressed. And I don’t want you reverting to that useless state I found you in a few weeks ago, that’s all.”

Ah, there’s the Gideon I know, always an ulterior motive.

A loose string on the hem of his shirt ensnares his full attention. He fiddles with it, without looking up. “You have something to wear, I assume?”

My smile is slow. “I think I can figure it out.”

The show we’re attending isn’t Fashion Week in Lincoln Center. It’s an invitation only, private collection at Saks Fifth Avenue. Ask me if I care.

There might be people taking pictures for magazines, so I pack a pretty pink dress for Maggie with a cuff bracelet and nude heels for height. For me, a white blouse, short black skirt, leather jacket, and wicked, red patent pumps. We’ll look so chic. While I love my designs, I’m flying under the radar for this show, in what apparel I wear at least. It’s not the time, place, or venue to make that kind of bold statement. My time will come.

Eat your heart out, New York. Here we go.

Actually, Dane
is
eating his heart out a little as he’s been effectively excluded. Not that he cares about attending some glitzy show in New York. He just doesn’t want us (Maggie) out of his sight, or more to the point, in Gideon’s. I was surprised and thrilled Maggie’s mother agreed, but once Mags started working on her, the poor woman was done for.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, applying the finishing touches to my makeup, while Maggie oohs and ahhs over the latest sewing creations in my workroom. The girl is good for my ego.

“Do you think these black stretch pants are okay for the plane ride?” she yells. “My clothes never look as good on my body as they do on the hanger or lying out on my bed.” Her voice lowers to a mumble, but I hear her. “My bubble butt gets in the way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I answer. “You’re adorable. You look great and you never care what people think. That’s why I like you. Don’t change that because we’re flying to a fashion show, and you’re worried you’ll be amongst the swank and snobbish. They’re just people, Mags. I bet they’re all really nice.”

“How much crack you been smokin’? Don’t you watch
Next Top Model?
Besides, I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I know I’m cute. Sometimes a girl wants to be more, though. Sometimes she wants … sophisticated, dazzling … ”

I roll my eyes as I replace the top on my mascara bottle and grab the water glass next to the sink. “You’re dazzling enough already, trust me. Dane thinks so, anyway.”

“What?”

I check my tongue. “Nothing. I’ll be out in a second. I still need to brush my teeth!” When I glance into the mirror a white flash catches my eye, followed by a hiss.

Free me
…

My eyes focus on the space to my rear. Desiree’s perfect, bloodless face hovers above my left shoulder. She presses against my back, jogging a memory. When her red lips pull back from her face in a snarl, her breath is as dank and foul as mold. “Free me, or you’re as good as dead.”

She lifts a hand and scrapes her nails over my bare arm. I think of the night I fell from the tree. Or was I pushed? The pressure on my skin is light, but enough I sense the hate dripping from her slow-moving, one-inch talons. Her eyes are black and lifeless. A doll’s eyes. As I gaze into their depths, my lungs compress. I feel the weight of her stare as I’m drawn inside. Helpless, I fall into Desiree, into her mind.

There’s a room inside her memory with a low ceiling and dirt floor. A chill snakes up my spine. Fear prickles the skin on the back of my neck. There’s a sense of evil here, a smell, something dark and oppressive. Or someone.

My gaze drifts over the clammy, sweating walls to a dozen crates stacked on the far side of the room. When I try to extract myself from the vision, my body won’t obey. I will my legs to step back and they move forward. Electrical impulses seem to have lost the connection between my brain and limbs. As I near the wooden boxes, I find they’re long and thin. Coffins.

Icy perspiration drips from my temples. My hands jut out without permission toward the first box. Stiff and mechanical, my rebellious fingers pry at the first lid, though I’m terrified of what’s inside. A fingernail bends and peels away exposing the soft, pink flesh beneath, then another until they are all gone. Blood seeps from the raw nail beds, spattering the wood and my feet.