The Gathering Dark (4 page)

“Keira? What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.” Her father stood squinting in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. His face was marked with ridges from the throw pillows. He was sleeping on the couch. Again.

“I fell asleep before I finished my homework,” she said. “I needed a snack to wake up enough to do it.”

She gestured at the counter, which was empty and worn and scratched. There was no weird fruit. No weird shadows, either. It had all disappeared.

Her father scratched at his stubbly chin. “Well, hurry. I don’t want you exhausted tomorrow. You don’t get enough sleep as it is. It makes me worry, you know.” He shuffled back into the living room, not even bothering with any pretext of going back into the bedroom.

Her empty stomach forgotten, Keira walked over to the light switch. She flipped off the light and stared at the counter while her eyes adjusted to the dark. The shadow was gone. The fruit was gone.

It was never there in the first place,
she reasoned.
A trick, like some sort of eyestrain. Or migraine. Maybe I was sleepwalking or something.

She clung to all of the rational explanations, ignoring the sense-memory in her fingers of the cool, liquid dark of the shadow.

It. Was. Just. A. Fluke.

Limericks
.
That’s what I need to be thinking about.

Keira walked back to her safe, normal, lamp-lit room. On the bed, her history book waited. When she reached for the cover, it was smooth and hard beneath her hand. Solid. Normal.

It was the only time Keira could ever remember feeling relieved to open a textbook. With a sigh, she settled down and started to read.

•  •  •

“He might not be working today,” Keira warned Susan. In front of them, Take Note’s glass door shone in the almost-warm March sun. “It’s not like he told me his schedule or anything.”

“I know. But if he
is
here, I can force you to flirt with him. And if he isn’t, I can still tell my flute teacher that I looked for some music. It’s win-win, really.”

Susan opened the door and Keira stepped in behind her, scanning the shop for Walker. Her shoulders fell when she saw Mr. Palmer sitting behind the counter, a catalog open in front of him and listening to the classical station on the bent-antennaed radio.

You will
not
be disappointed that some random guy isn’t here.
Keira gave herself a mental slap. She shouldn’t have come. She shouldn’t even have told Susan about Walker. She
should
be home practicing, like the rest of the people who were applying to Juilliard.

Mr. Palmer’s wrinkled face, all jowls and disapproval, softened when he caught sight of Keira. “Oh, hi,” he said. “You need help?”

“No thanks—just looking today.”

Susan headed to the far corner of the store, disappearing behind a stand of instrument cases and special cleaners for brass and ivory.

Mr. Palmer made a gruff noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough. “Well, don’t be getting things out of order,” he warned her.

“We won’t,” Keira promised, following Susan.

Susan stood in front of a wobbly bookcase stuffed with bound music. Her lower lip was pushed out into a pout. “I’m never going to find anything in here,” she complained.

“You will,” Keira promised. “Because I’m going to help you. Come on.” She lowered herself to the floor and grabbed a stack of music. “Let’s get started.”

The two of them flipped through the pages, laughing quietly over some of the stranger pieces—the idea of “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the saxophone was beyond ridiculous.

“Hey, this might be something.” Keira leaned over to show Susan the plain white cover with the name “Syrinx” and a flute on it. “Listen.” She flipped the book open and began to whistle the melody. It was simple and haunting.

“Do you really think I can play that?” Susan wrinkled her nose. “It sounds . . . hard.”

Keira gave her a pointed look. “You can play it, you’ll just have to practice. It’s not that you’re not good enough, Suz, it’s just that you want the flute to get better all by itself.”

Once upon a time, Susan had matched Keira’s practicing minute for minute. But then Susan had discovered French club. And guys. And all sorts of other things that took up her time while Keira still logged hour after hour on the piano.

Before, they’d talked about going to Juilliard together. Now Susan talked about going to a school near Juilliard, so they could visit each other. Seeing how fast Susan’s dream had evaporated only made Keira cling more tightly to her own, afraid that all her hard work would vaporize if she so much as looked away from it.

Susan tugged at the end of her braid. “I know I don’t practice enough. You’re right. Sometimes I wish I could give up music—focus on my grades and French club and hope that’d be enough to get me into a decent college. I’m not ever going to be a pro. Not like you will be.” She took the book out of Keira’s hands. “But you know my parents would kill me if I ended up at a state school, and I need the extracurriculars.” She looked down at the music. “At least this one sounds pretty. I’d better go pay before Mr. Palmer accuses me of illegally memorizing music or something.”

“I’ll put the rest of it back,” Keira said. “That way, if I mis-shelve something, he won’t blame you.”

“He’d still blame me,” Susan said, ducking her head as she slung her messenger bag over her shoulder. “You can’t do any wrong according to him.”

Keira turned back to the bookshelf, listening to Mr. Palmer’s grumpy exclamations as he put aside his crossword to ring up Susan’s music. The grumbling increased when Susan pulled out a credit card instead of cash.

“Hey.” Walker knelt down next to her.

Keira stared at him. His unexpected presence made the world feel suddenly unsteady, like she’d stepped onto a boat without realizing it.

“Where did you come from?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “It all started when my great-great-great-great-grandfather became dissatisfied with the options available to him and decided to go make a new life for himself.” His accent made the words dance.

“Smart-ass.”

His eyebrow arched, pleased, and he leaned across her to pick up a score. A row of inky dots circled his bicep, right below the sleeve of his T-shirt. The sight of them made Keira shiver in warning. They looked like the mark she’d seen on his wrist the day before—unusual, somehow. Like they were
under
his skin. Like they’d come from inside him, instead of being tattooed on.

Walker stacked the scores, tapping them against the floor and snapping Keira out of her uneasy reverie. She was suddenly all too aware that she’d been staring.

“Do you come in here just to mess up the music, or what?” he asked.

His arm brushed against hers and the hair on the back of Keira’s neck stood up. “I’m pretty sure I know the filing system at least as well as you do,” she countered. Behind them, she could hear Susan arguing with Mr. Palmer about whether or not she had to sign two copies of the receipt.

Walker smirked at her. “Maybe. Wanna bet?”

Keira stared back at him, her competitive streak glowing inside her. “Sure.”

“Fine. Loser buys coffee,” he said.

Oh, hell. Is this just some way to ask me out?

There was a gleam in his eye that dared her to refuse.

“I don’t date,” she said, reaching for her bag. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she hated them. It sounded so final, but she’d never had trouble saying it to anyone else who’d asked her out.

“It’s not a date,” he said firmly. His full lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “It’s a bet. But I’m flattered that you think of me that way. Unless you’re actually worried you might lose?”

His confidence made her want to stomp her foot like a frustrated kid.

“Fine. Movie scores—how are they filed?” she practically spat the question at him.

“Alphabetically,” he said.

Triumph spread through her, sweet and forbidden.

“Ha! Wrong. They’re—”

“By composer,” he interrupted. “Alphabetically by composer. Since the music’s the most important part of the movie, the composer’s more important than the title.”

“Mr. Palmer’s cinematic hierarchy.” Keira grimaced. Walker was right. “It’s your turn, then.”

“Raffi.” He said simply.

She wrinkled her nose. “Like—the children’s music guy?”

“Yep.” Walker leaned his head back against the shelves, eyeing her. Waiting.

It had to be a trick. Did he have a secret last name or something? Unless Walker assumed she’d leap to that sort of conclusion—that she was the sort of person who automatically overcomplicated everything.

Still, her only guess was the obvious. “Alphabetical. With the R’s.”

“Nope. It’s not here at all.” He smiled at her, victorious. “Didn’t you know? Mr. Palmer—”

“Hates kids,” she finished with a groan, thinking of the
NO UNATTENDED CHILDREN ALLOWED!
sign posted on the front door.

“Keira?” Susan called from the front of the store. “Are you ready?”

Mr. Palmer shushed her from his perch behind the counter.

“Uh, almost,” Keira called as quietly as she could.

“Miss Brannon!” Mr. Palmer protested. “Really! I’m surprised at you. This isn’t some sort of student union. Please keep it down.”

“Fine,” Susan huffed. “I’ll wait for you outside, Keira.”

Susan was the one who’d been dying to meet Walker, but she’d never see him back here behind the instrument-case display. Now Keira’d gotten herself roped into having coffee with him, and Susan had missed the whole thing.

I should have known this wouldn’t go well. I should have just gone home to practice. Damn!

Walker stared at her intently. His eyes met hers and the last of his teasing bravado slipped off his face. He stood up, his body a few inches too close to hers, but Keira didn’t back away. She had to tilt her head up to see his face. It made her want to buy a pair of high heels, so they’d be even again.

“I expect you to make good on our wager, Keira Brannon.” His gaze was dangerous and delicious at the same time. “Did you realize that your eyes are exactly the color of espresso?” he asked slowly, reaching out a careful finger to trace the hollow curve below her eye.

There didn’t seem to be any air left for her to breathe. “I don’t drink coffee,” she managed to choke out. “And I don’t go out with guys whose last names I don’t even know.”

“Andover.” His hand lingered by her face. “It’s Walker Andover. And I don’t mind that you don’t like coffee. There must be
something
you want?” The curve of his lips said that he intended every bit of the double meaning in his words.

“Tea,” she whispered. “And that’s all.”

“Tea. I’ll remember that.” He leaned in close. The smell of him, peat smoke and flint, wrapped around her, invisible and as heady as ether. She couldn’t think.

Walker watched her. His eyelashes were black as coal and close enough to count. “Friday? Three thirty? There’s a diner around the corner from here—I’m pretty sure they have tea. I’ll meet you.”

“Okay—fine,” she stammered, struggling to regain the
self-control she was always so proud of. She wrapped her arms around her middle protectively. “But only because I owe you, and I don’t like owing people.”

“Good enough for me.” He smiled a lazy smile. A
waiting
smile. “For now, at least.”

The front door clanged. “Keira? Are you coming or what?” Susan sounded distinctly irritated.

“Yeah.” Keira ducked under Walker’s arm. “I’m coming.”

“See you Friday,” he said, turning back to work like nothing had happened.

With a disgruntled snort, Keira turned on her heel and headed for the door, barely pausing to say good-bye to Mr. Palmer, who gave her a grudging wave in response.

Chapter Five

“I
T’S ABOUT TIME
!” S
USAN
stormed off in the direction of the parking lot. “You’d think it was the freaking Smithsonian in there, the way that old man acts! I don’t know why you shop there at all. And what took you so long?”

“I was talking to Walker,” Keira said, hating the way her lips tingled when she said his name. Two days in a row, he’d managed to set her internal compass spinning like a merry-go-round. She kicked a loose chunk of blacktop in frustration.

“You—there was no one else in there!” Susan protested.

Keira jammed her key into the driver’s-side door, unlocking it. “There was,” she said. “He appeared out of freaking
nowhere when you went up to pay for your music. And then he baited me into meeting him for coffee. His ego is the size of Montana.”

Susan flopped into the passenger seat, clutching her bag like a shocked old lady. “You have a
date
with him?” Susan turned and looked through the rear window.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”

Keira jammed the gearshift into drive and the transmission whined in response. “It’s not a date. I have a score to settle. He made me a bet that he knew Take Note better than I do, and I lost. You know how I feel about owing someone.” What she didn’t mention were all the other feelings Walker stirred up in her.

Susan let out a long, slow whistle. “So, when are you going to go out? Because what I really want to know is when we can all go out
together
. You’ll be my
chaperone.
Jeremy’s going to be supergluing his little heart back together but hey, any date without my parents is a good date, right?”

“Yes! That’s it! I’m not going to see him alone. You’ll come with me. And Tommy, too! You can have a momless date, and Walker’ll get the coffee I owe him and that’ll be all. It’s perfect. Friday afternoon, okay?”

“Friday? I can’t. I have my flute lesson. And besides, I think you need to see him alone first. Otherwise, what if he thinks the coffee is just a
friends
thing? He might, if all four of us are there.”

“That would be fine with me,” Keira said.