Roulette, p.13
Roulette, page 13
He wasn’t hard on the eyes. An elf, he wore his chestnut hair tied back over an embroidered robe much like the ones I’d seen on DPP’s executive floor. His dark eyes narrowed in irritation as he watched something behind me, and I turned to search for the cause. Yes, this was definitely our restaurant…and there, far in the distance, was our table. I stared at my own body, watching me give myself a head massage, and resisted the urge to open my eyes and hunt for my own ghost. Neither Yven nor Vul noticed my doppelganger. When I shifted my focus back to the dark-haired man, however, a certainty unlike any I’d ever known came upon me. I knew what the problem was.
Releasing the vision, I looked up again, momentarily disoriented to find myself in my chair instead of hovering somewhere near the table, and cleared my throat. “Hey, Vul?” I said.
She couldn’t suppress her irritation as I stole her attention from Yven. “Yes?” she snapped, halfway turning in her seat.
“Just a little advice,” I murmured. “It’s really not a good look for you to be draping yourself over one ti’Ansha while out to dinner with another.”
Vul stiffened, and when I pointedly cut my eyes in the direction of her date’s table, she rose. “I, uh…it’s good to see you, Yven. Call me,” she mumbled, and hurried back to her abandoned companion.
Once she was out of earshot, Yven beckoned for the nearest waiter. “The bill, if you please,” he whispered. “Quickly.”
Five minutes later, turning out of the parking lot, Yven couldn’t contain his laughter any longer. “Damn, she’s obnoxious,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry about that. And for leaving without dessert. Can I make it up to you at my place?”
“You have chocolate cake lying around, do you?”
He sucked his teeth. “Cognac?”
“Eh, close enough. And who is she? Your ex?” I asked, holding my breath.
Leaning his head back, he groaned. “No. Much to my parents’ disappointment, we’ve never been a couple.”
The pressure within my chest began to abate. “Is she a family friend or something?”
“Not so much. Her parents and mine run in the same circles, and she’s an eligible woman from a good Hall—it would be a suitable match. Vul’s made it known that she could be interested, but…” He grimaced in the glow of the streetlights. “No.”
“She’s gorgeous,” I offered, which was less a compliment than a blatant truth.
Yven snorted and rounded the corner.
“What? She’s objectively pretty.”
As we pulled up to a traffic signal—which, to my consternation, lit blue instead of green—he shot me a sly grin. “You didn’t think we used masking just to get around in your world, did you?”
“Seriously?”
“Most people who use it keep it subtle—little cosmetic enhancements, perhaps. Or there are people like my older brother, who has a big birthmark on one cheek. It bothers him, so he keeps it covered. Others take it to an unrealistic extreme.”
“How unrealistic, exactly?”
“Let’s just say I’ve seen family pictures of Vul from when she was a teenager, and I wouldn’t have known her had her mother not pointed her out.”
Sensing a twinge of sympathy for Vul welling up within me, I did my best to snuff it. “Guess that’s easier than plastic surgery.”
“Considerably,” Yven agreed. “And she’s not unattractive with the mask off—she’s a society writer. I suppose pretty people are more likely to be invited to events and have an easier time sourcing gossip, so Vul keeps up appearances. And really,” he said, chuckling, “with the amount of masking I do in the field, I shouldn’t talk, but…”
“I mean, I never mistook you for a model.”
“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest, but his smile gave him away. “I was trying for minimal modifications, but I do hope my mask isn’t hideous…”
“I wouldn’t worry,” I said, grinning back at him. “You didn’t see me recoiling in horror, did you?”
He mimed wiping his brow. “Oh, good. But I do have one question for you: how did you recognize Afim?”
“Who?”
“My cousin.” He made a sharp right turn through a gate, then followed the driveway down a ramp to the parking garage beneath the ten-story building within the fence. “Vul’s dinner date. He’s a stage actor—moderately successful, but his face isn’t plastered everywhere. How do you know him? Did Pars mention the more exciting branches of my family?”
“No,” I said as he whipped into a parking space near the elevators. “I’d never seen him before, but…I got this feeling…” Pausing, I tried to condense the experience into coherent words. “Like…I saw him, but it was kind of an out-of-body moment—I could see all of us, too, which was freaky—and I didn’t know who he was, exactly, but I knew he’d come with Vul and that he was a ti’Ansha. That’s it.”
Yven tapped the dome light on and regarded me with wide eyes. “You do realize that’s farsight, yes?”
“That was my assumption.”
Gripping my hand, he leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s amazing, Rosie. How did you do it?”
All I could offer him was a shrug. “And there’s the problem—I didn’t do anything. It just happened. So,” I said with a sigh, “we know my farsight works when trying to get rid of annoying people in restaurants, but when it comes to finding the person who got my friends locked in quarantine…”
“It’ll come,” he assured me, and turned off the light. “Well, uh…can I get you a drink?”
Yven’s fifth-floor apartment wasn’t massive, perhaps two-thirds the size of the downstairs floor of my home, but it was far neater than any bachelor pad had a right to be. Abstract paintings in muted earth tones offered pops of color to the eggshell walls. The tan three-seater couch in the den looked as fresh as if it had just come from the delivery truck, while the minimalist metal bookcase on the flanking wall was neatly stacked with botanical reference manuals. His kitchen—which, given his facility with cooking, was far too small—seemed spotless, the stone counters bare of even a drying rack.
The one feature of the place that reassured me I hadn’t walked into the apartment building’s model unit was the dozens of orchids. They grew in little pots in front of the wide window, on the coffee table, on the buffet counter, on wooden shelves installed around the den like an oversized chair rail. Reds and pinks, purples and whites, yellows and brilliant blues, the blooming orchids put a hothouse to shame. A trellis tacked to the wall opposite the bookshelf supported a climbing vine with flat green leaves and long pods, and when I passed my hand near the living display, I felt like I’d stuck my fingers into a sauna.
“Vanilla planifolia,” Yven explained. “That one’s finicky, and I’ve got a spell going to keep it warm and humid.”
As we sipped the nicest cognac I’d ever tasted, he gave me the indoor garden tour, excitedly telling me about the provenances and pointing out the nuances of his many orchids. He’d been growing them for twenty years, and like any proud parent, he proved eager to brag on his darlings. Sure, my black thumb and general unease with houseplants left me with almost nothing to contribute to the conversation, but I couldn’t help but smile. I’d apparently never seen Yven in full horticultural nerd mode, and…well, it was adorable. Then, like a kid showing off his science fair project, he brought out the dark glass bottles of vanilla extract he’d created from his own beans—the pods on the laden vine, I realized. He whipped up a second round of drinks, switching to a concoction made from warm milk, his homemade extract, and a liqueur that tasted faintly of honey, and we settled in on the couch to unwind.
I don’t know how long I was there before I began to yawn, and Yven soon followed suit. Having not slept well in days, I found myself fighting my creeping fatigue despite the welcome company, and the booze wasn’t helping.
“You could stay here tonight,” Yven suggested. “I’ll call Pars and let him know not to wait up.”
“What if someone sees me?”
“So what if they do?”
I shot him a look of disbelief. “You regularly have colleagues sleep over, do you?”
“There’s always a first time…”
“And my sketchpad is back at Pars’s house,” I continued, searching for the will to extricate myself from the couch cushions. “I should be drawing—”
“You’ll fall asleep over the pad,” he said, which seemed more likely by the second. “We’ll get it in the morning. Come on,” he coaxed, offering me a hand. “You can sleep in my room. The sheets are clean.”
“I’m not taking your bed,” I protested, kicking off my shoes and pulling my legs onto the couch. “Got an afghan I could borrow?”
He started to argue, then yawned again and shuffled off to the linen closet to find a blanket for me. The last thing I remember before passing out was the soft weight of fleece landing on my body as Yven clumsily tucked me in. Warm, snug, and still tasting vanilla, I slept dreamlessly until first light.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
I hadn’t had to do the walk of shame since college, and leaving a guy’s place with my teeth unbrushed, wearing the previous night’s clothes and smudged makeup, was never a great feeling. For once, however, I had a willing conspirator. While I showered, Yven whipped up the biscuits I’d been craving for the last week and packed them to go. Unwilling to experiment with magic that early in the morning, I let Yven cast my hair dry, and we sneaked into the garage without his neighbors noticing.
If Pars and Canna suspected we’d been fooling around, they kept their innuendos to themselves. I finished cleaning myself up and dressing while Yven entertained the girls, and then, with a promise to Canna that we’d call if we planned to be out all night, we loaded up the Jeep for another day of supermarket stakeout.
All morning, fortified by biscuits and Canna’s strong coffee, I sat in the back of the vehicle with my sketchpad and pencils, hoping for lightning to strike. Now I knew what my talent could feel like in action—I just had to figure out how to trigger that bizarre second sight. But as I doodled to give my restless fingers an outlet, I racked my brain for the trigger. Was it the relaxation of a night out? Something in the fish? My annoyance and jealousy? Random chance? When I studied my drawings, hoping for a sign, all I found was a sketchy rendering of my neighborhood, a convenient exercise to pass the time but unhelpful in our search for the elusive Goobers.
By noon, with our stomachs growling and our bladders complaining, we beat a retreat to my house for a break. To avoid the Monday lunch rush, I offered the boxed lasagna in my freezer, and the guys weren’t feeling picky. “I think I’ve got a bagged salad, too,” I said as Pars turned onto my street. “We could eat that before it gets slimy.”
“Never has lettuce sounded more appetizing,” he deadpanned. “Seldom have I turned down the opportunity to indulge in a bowl of vegetables on the verge of rotting.”
“None for you, then, smartass,” I retorted. “Slow down, you’re about to miss my place.”
As Pars angled for the driveway, I glanced across the street toward the Fosters’ house. Now that we were four days into November, I fully expected to find the usual herd of light-up deer arranged on the front lawn and maybe the first of the Christmas inflatables. Instead, I saw a middle-aged woman switching the wreath on the front door, exchanging the festive greenery for what looked like a circle of puffy black burlap.
“That can’t be good,” I muttered.
“What’s that?” Yven asked.
“I don’t know. Y’all go ahead—lasagna’s in the bottom of the freezer. Preheat the oven, and I’ll be back in a second.”
Leaving the agents to start lunch without me, I headed up the Fosters’ front walk. As I neared, the woman at the door turned around, and I recognized Bridget, their daughter and my occasional babysitter. “Hey, there,” I said, lifting a hand as I hailed her. “What’s going on?”
Bridget smiled weakly, the sort of expression that suggested she was holding herself together out of sheer manners. “Hi, Rosie. How are you?”
“Fine,” I fibbed. “Is everything okay?”
She shook her head. “Mom, uh…” she began, then paused to take a long, shuddering breath. “Mom died Saturday night.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry—”
Accepting my hug, she squeezed me tightly, and I felt her chest hitch as she pulled herself under control. “Where’s Mr. Eddie?” I asked.
“Hospital,” said Bridget. “The stress over Mom…he started getting chest pains, and they admitted him, just in case. He’ll be all right,” she said, though she sounded as if she were convincing herself instead of me.
I hesitated, trying to tread the line between concern and rudeness, then asked, “Was it sudden? I didn’t know Ms. Dot was sick.”
“She wasn’t. I drove her to her checkup last month, and she had better blood pressure than I did. Watched her diet, barely drank…Mom was going to outlive us all,” she said as her eyes turned glassy.
Bridget had a point. Ms. Dot ran charity races, grew her own produce in the garden behind her house, and extolled the virtues of green smoothies to anyone who’d listen. For a woman in her late seventies, she’d been active and spry, her sole concession to time having been the surrender of her driver’s license three years before.
“You know what her only real vice was?” Bridget continued, lowering her voice, then softly laughed. “God, she’d kill me for saying this, but for all the times she raided our bedrooms like a prison warden after contraband…”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Pot,” she confided.
“Really?” My imagination conjured up a vision of Ms. Dot in one of her tacky holiday sweaters with a loaded tray of Christmas edibles, and I quickly banished the image.
Bridget nodded. “My parents never quite got over the sixties. They sneaked joints for years in the basement and thought we didn’t notice, then acted all horrified when they found Virginia Slims in my sock drawer. Mom said her smoking these days was to stave off glaucoma, but that’s a crock, and we all knew it. Then again,” she said with a little shrug, “they raised six of us, so maybe they were entitled to a bit of relaxation.”
“And they could get it medically now…”
“Not in leaf form. My brother’s wife works at a dispensary in Manassas. You can buy capsules and lollipops and such, but not straight-up weed,” she explained. “We tried to get Mom and Dad to switch, but honestly, I think they just liked smoking, and after all these years, they didn’t want to mess with a good thing.”
By then, my internal alarms were beginning to chime. “Well, I’m really sorry about your mom,” I told Bridget. “If there’s anything I can do…”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she replied, misting up again. “I think it’s under control for now, but in case of emergency, let me give you my number.”
We exchanged contact information, and as I climbed the steps to my front door, I looked back and saw Bridget drive off. Letting myself in, I hurried to the kitchen, where I found Yven sliding the lasagna into the oven and Pars gamely tossing the sad bag of Caesar mix. “Might have another victim across the street,” I said without preamble. “My pot-smoking neighbor dropped dead last night, and she was healthy. The house is empty right now, so who wants to go poke around?”
Fortunately, Pars had replaced the black clean suits in his Jeep’s impossible storage compartment, and we carried them across the street with a squirt gun full of the potion that would make us less memorable and a handful of plastic baggies for potential collection. I had a spare key, having been called upon in the past to water the Fosters’ houseplants and vegetable garden when they went on vacation, and we slipped through the wooden gate and climbed the deck stairs. Once we were suited up, I unlocked the sliding back door, and we sneaked into the darkened house.
As I’d anticipated, Christmas was in full swing inside. One of the Fosters’ laden trees—artificial by necessity—occupied the space in front of the back door where a bench sat for much of the year. A train track encircled the plaid skirt, but the little locomotive waited motionless for someone to trigger its endless journey. The brown couch was festooned with holiday pillows in clashing shades of red and green, overburdened to the point that only a small child would have found room to sit. A nine-foot tiered display as big as the tree held part of Ms. Dot’s Snow Village set, while more of the diorama spilled over onto the top of the upright piano, the coffee table, and the floor like a metastasizing cancer of porcelain Christmas cheer. I ducked beneath the ceiling fan to avoid the bunch of plastic mistletoe dangling from the pull cord, then sidestepped the trio of child-sized magi and their camels making the slow journey toward the Nativity scene in the front window. Hooded and breathing portable air, I couldn’t smell the place, but memory hinted at an overwhelming odor of pine and cinnamon, judging by the jar candles scattered around the room.
“So,” I said, spreading my arms, “’tis the season at the Fosters’ house.”
As Pars considered the lifelike stuffed reindeer in the corner, Yven cleared his throat and jabbed a gloved finger toward the shelf above the old television. “Seriously?”
A glance revealed the source of his consternation: Ms. Dot’s collection of Christmas elves, poseable figurines with creepy smiles, fur-trimmed clothes, curly-toed shoes, and glitter-dusted cheeks. “Sorry, man,” I said.
“I don’t get it. Why do so many of you think we’re tiny? Or sparkly?” he muttered, peering more closely at the dolls.
“Eh, I don’t know,” said Pars. “There was that winter dance in fifteenth year…”
