The Promised One (The Turning Stone Chronicles) (11 page)

Chapter 19

One good thing had come from her deceit: Rhys had stopped dogging her.

Alexi raised her fist and pounded on Sylvia’s room door. She wanted answers . . . and she wanted them now.

A perfectly coiffed Sylvia appeared at the door, a frown marring her flawlessly made-up face. Alexi wished she’d dressed better for this confrontation—something more than a hint of blush, mascara, a tee shirt, and jeans.

“Do you always bang on doors at six a.m.?” Sylvia asked.

“Too early for you?”

“Not at all. I was merely considering my fellow hotel mates.” Sylvia opened the door wider and snapped her fingers. A man, with the demeanor of a weasel, scurried past Alexi.

“Entertaining?” She watched him slink down the hall.

“
That
is none of your business.” Sylvia folded her arms across her chest, her body language emphasizing her crisp rebuttal.

Alexi maneuvered her way into the room. “It is now. If you’re screwing the likes of him, and Rhys, I’ve a right to know what kind of diseases you might have infected my partner with.”

The door shut with a bang. Sylvia confronted Alexi, eyes glittering like black diamonds, mouth drawn into a red slash.

Faced with Sylvia’s anger, Alexi inexplicably thought about apologizing. That crack about the clap might have been a bit uncalled for. In spite of her low-class associates, she didn’t really believe Sylvia would be screwing the likes of “weasel man”.

Remorse only lasted a second as a vision of Rhys entangled in Sylvia’s mimic shifted arms kicked Alexi’s anger back into high gear. She glared back, determined to win this argument. Sylvia had talked her into shifting against her better judgment and condemning an innocent man. Rhys was the proverbial line in the sand.

“You little ingrate.” Sylvia spit the words out like bullets. “I saved your wretched butt.”

“You screwed my partner. I don’t think that is something I should be grateful for.”

The red slash on Sylvia’s face curled into a smug smile. “He was.”

Balling her fingers into a fist so tight her nails bit into the flesh, she resisted the urge to slug Sylvia, staring her opponent down. Sylvia stood balanced on the balls of her feet like a cat ready to pounce, her fingers curled into claws. As much as she wanted to have it out with Sylvia, the conversation couldn’t digress into a catfight. Violence never solved a problem, only elevated it. She’d seen that so many times in her job. Besides, she needed Sylvia, guarded as the relationship might be. There was safety in numbers, and as a solitary hunter she didn’t feel safe.

“Don’t touch him again, Sylvia. He’s mine. He’s off limits.”

Sylvia’s gaze shifted from Alexi’s face to her hand. “I figured as much.” Her cat-like stance melted into a more relaxed position. “Let me know when you’re done with him. I’ll take my shot then.”

Her fist rose of its own volition and struck Sylvia’s jaw. Sylvia reeled backwards against the door. Alexi stepped out of range and cradled her fist in her other hand.
The woman has an iron jaw.

“That’s for slugging me the other day,” Alexi said, as Sylvia moved her jaw side-to-side checking for broken bones. “As for Rhys . . . I’ll do more than slug you if you pull another shape-shifting stunt on him. You’ll get no shot at him . . . ever. Understood?”

Sylvia nodded, but Alexi recognized the dissent in her eyes. “And that will be the last free shot you get at me. Understood?”

“Got it.” Alexi said the words, but knew they would have more battles down the road.

She only hoped she could win.

Sylvia waved her toward the room’s overstuffed chair. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I’ve got some news for you. The Council contacted me. They want you to hunt Baron’s killer on your own. I’ll mentor you in the areas where your skills are lacking and give you any tips I receive. But that’s where it ends. They all agree it’s too risky for me to get further involved.

Alexi’s stomach plummeted to the floor as all hopes of enlisting Sylvia’s Turning Stone talents dissolved. “I can’t do this alone. I’m not ready.”

“You come from a long line of shifters, Alexi. Shifters with enhanced powers. If anyone can do this, it’s you. When were you born?”

She stared at Sylvia in disbelief. She’d just given the woman a swift uppercut to the jaw and here she was talking like nothing had happened and prying into family history. “I don’t understand what my birth date has to do with the problem at hand.”

Why did she need that kind of personal information?
“And why would they want me to hunt the killer alone? If they know the ring is missing, why don’t they send someone—who isn’t a security risk—to help me recover it?”

“They’re testing you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. Tests by the Council couldn’t possibly be a good thing. “For what?”

“Baron’s kept you hidden ever since your family was murdered and their rings stolen. The Council doesn’t know anything about you.”

And that’s just the way I like it.
“So?”

“They want to find out if you have Promised One potential.”

“Promised One potential?” She
definitely
didn’t like the sound of that. Hunting Baron’s killer had upset her life enough. She didn’t need to be the savior of the Turning Stone Society.

“Yes, Promised One,” Sylvia replied irritably. “Baron
did
educate you about that, didn’t he?”

“Everyone knows the myth of the Promised One. But I don’t want that job.” Alexi scowled. “Uniting the warring factions of the Society is a job for someone bigger than me.”

“You can’t fight the prophecy. If you are destined to be great, you will be great.”

Baron’s words came back to her.
You are destined for greatness, dear niece.
She’d heard that from Baron and now from Sylvia and the Council. She didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn. Besides, the Council couldn’t possibly want a reluctant Promised One.

“What’s your birth date?” Sylvia asked again.

Sylvia’s face told her this conversation wouldn’t end until she got the information. Better to give her
something
than have her prying around in personal records. “June 21
st
,” she lied.

“Six twenty-one,” Sylvia whispered. “That would make . . . twenty seven and you’re thirty now, right?” A crease furrowed her forehead. “Those dates don’t match the prophecy. You’re too old.”

“Then you’d better ask the Council for help finding Baron’s ring,” Alexi said with a sigh of relief. “Guess I don’t have what it takes.”

Sylvia’s brow smoothed out like it had been injected with wrinkle filler. “I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, I’ll help you work on your shifting skills. Have you obtained the third alter ego stage?”

“No,” Alexi lied. No way would she let that information out. Baron urged her to keep her third alter ego a secret from everyone except trusted family members. “Besides,” she continued, “I
really
don’t know how that would help catch the killer.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But I did hear you express surprise at how quickly I mimic shifted.”

“The day you sucker-punched me?”

“We’re even on that.” Sylvia gingerly touched her jaw. A purple bruise, mirroring the one on Alexi’s chin, peeked out beneath Sylvia’s make-up. “I’ll give you some lessons. The ability to mimic shift quickly can come in handy.”

“I’m not sure I should take that risk.”

“You’re a cop, Alexi. All your motives are for good.”

It didn’t seem like that now. Revenge for Baron’s death topped the cop motives at the moment.

“Finding Baron’s ring is for the good of the Society. You won’t become a conglomeration of people.” Sylvia waved her hand in front of her body. “Look at me. I mimic shifted to you and I haven’t kept any of your physical features.”

“If that’s an attempt to make me believe you had pure motives in seducing Rhys it won’t work.”

“Then do it to protect your alter ego identity. If he appears too many times, he’ll become recognizable to the killer.”

And Rhys. Sylvia had a valid point
.
“Okay, I’ll take some lessons.”

“We can start this morning.”

She shook her head. “Rhys is expecting me back for breakfast.”

“So he’s the cozy house husband now?”

“As you so succinctly put it earlier,
that
is none of your business.”

Sylvia acknowledged the put-down with a curt nod. “This afternoon, then?”

“I’m back on the job, but I could come in the evening.”

“Come as your alter ego.”

She raised a questioning brow. “I thought you said not to use Garrett.”

“Then mimic shift to someone else . . . in case macho man decides to follow you.”

“You took care of that problem.” Guilt assaulted her again over the condemnation of an innocent man.
How much time would it take to get rid of that?

“Good,” Sylvia said. “That will make it easier to get down to business.”

For the first time in days, Alexi wished Rhys still tailed her. She could have put off the inevitable a bit longer.

Chapter 20

Rhys flipped the pancake from the griddle . . . a bit too high. The somewhat raw dough stuck to the ceiling as Alexi walked in.

“Orange juice, strawberries, and champagne,” she said as she set the grocery bag on the counter. She followed his sheepish gaze to the ceiling where the half-baked pancake hung precariously overhead. Without warning, it dropped, draping over her head like a French beret. Alexi slapped her hand on top of the sliding pastry, slid it off, and wiped the sticky mess on his
Kiss the Cook
apron.

“Bucket,” she said, pointing under the sink. “Disinfectant. Ladder in the garage.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” He set the griddle on the stove and saluted her. “This swabbie’s at yer command.”

She laughed. “After the mess you made, you’d better say that.” She flipped the remainder of the pancake squishing through her fingers into the sink. “And, Rhys?”

“Yes?”

“Next time use a spatula.”

He grinned so big it hurt. The fact that there would be a next time, and a next time, made him feel good. He kissed the top of Alexi’s head and went to the garage singing. It didn’t matter that their third and fourth and fifth times making love last night weren’t as earth shattering as time number two. All that mattered was that they were making love.

After finagling the aluminum ladder off the garage wall and placing it in the kitchen, he scraped the last of the pancake batter off the cottage-cheese ceiling plaster.

“I like the ceiling without those bumps.” He ran his hand over the patch of smooth ceiling. “We should take the rest of this off. Redo the ceiling.”

Alexi whirled away from the stove and panic filled her face.

Sheesh. She looks like a groom at a shotgun wedding . . . afraid of the commitment.
The remodeling comment had gone too far. He clambered down the ladder, the metal clanking with each step.

“Forget it. Stupid idea. It’s your house, not mine.”

As the happy househusband disappeared, Alexi wanted to call him back. Tell him he could flip pancakes on every ceiling and whistle while he worked on
their
house until the day he died. Tell him he could redo every room . . . in plaid . . . if it meant they could stay together. But she was terrified that all she’d have left in the end would be a house full of reminders of what could have been.

“I like the cottage cheese ceiling,” she lied. Returning to the stove she flipped a pancake, watching the batter bubble around the edges, bubbles growing bigger and bigger until they burst open and disappeared—just like she suspected their relationship would burst when all the lies she hid came to the surface. Things had to stop before that happened. She flipped the pancake over and pressed it down, squashing the rest of the exploding bubbles as though removing them would make her own fears disappear.

“Sure.” Rhys folded the ladder. “I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t bother. It’s just a tiny spot. No one will notice.”
No one but me. Every day. As a reminder of this bit of happiness we’ve snatched.
“Pancakes will be ready in a minute.” She struggled to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“I’ll set the table after I put the ladder away.”

The kitchen door closed with a bang that echoed in her heart. If Sylvia had told her the truth—that the Council expected her to be the next Promised One and she couldn’t escape her destiny—there would be no happily-ever-after for her and Rhys. If hunting Baron’s killer didn’t destroy their relationship, becoming a Promised One certainly would.

That level of secrecy and magic and danger could never be kept from Rhys. He could become a pawn in a very dangerous game.

She slipped the pancakes onto a platter and placed them on the table. Rhys sat across from her and gave her a wistful smile. His green eyes had lost the spark they had while he cleaned the ceiling, but deep within his gaze, a glimmer of hope remained.

Before he could recognize her longing, she stabbed a couple of pancakes and poured syrup over them, watching the sweetness cover the top. Too bad she couldn’t cover the problems in her life as easily.