Marked by Passion (2 page)

Jerry whacked his arm. "She knows that, moron."

"I'm just saying I could get Murphy to look at it. We don't want Gabe to get cheated." He shrugged a little too nonchalantly. "And if when they meet and they like each other..."

Smiling, I shook my head. He'd been trying to set me up with Murphy for years. I might have been tempted if he weren't a lawyer. I wrinkled my nose. Stuffy guys weren't my thing.

I grooved on guys like Jesse. Everything about Jesse screamed naughty, from his Colin Farrell looks to his job as a mechanic. Not that being a mechanic made you a bad boy, but I'd stopped by his shop once and accidentally overheard enough to know some of the cars they were "fixing" were "relieved" from their original owners.

Of course, Jesse and I didn't date anymore. We used to get together for no-strings sex, but then things changed. He'd started to hint that he wanted more. I hadn't been sure I had more to give him, so I broke up with him.

I glanced at the table by the door. In appearance, the British guy was the complete opposite of Jesse. Why did I feel like he'd be so much more exciting?

"You know"—Jerry leaned across the counter— "there's a new guy at work who I think you'd like."

Returning my attention to the conversation at hand, I tipped my head and asked, "What's he look like?"

Frowning, he scratched his head. "He's tall. I think."

"Are you talking about the Meyer kid? Hampton?" Milo snorted. "He's no taller than me."

"That's what I meant. He's tall."

"I'm only tall compared to you. He's not tall enough for Gabe. What if she wants to wear high heels?" Milo shook his head. "She'd tower over him."

I thought of pointing out that five nine was hardly Amazonian proportions, but I decided to stay out of this one. They'd get distracted soon enough.

"That's why Murphy is perfect for her. He's six feet. Almost."

Height didn't matter as much as, urn, size, but I didn't tell the guys this. I didn't put it past Milo to make Murphy whip it out for a quick measurement—he was
that
intent on hooking me up with his nephew.

"I told Murphy about you." Milo winked at me. "He thinks you sound beautiful. I told him the real deal was even better."

"She's not only beautiful, she's exotic. Like those Eurasian models on your calendar, only her blue eyes aren't fake." Jerry turned to me. "You didn't tell us the terms of your deal. When's the show?"

"In a couple months. I still have some canvases to finish for it."

"We're so proud of you, honey," Milo said. "You're going to knock 'em dead."

"She's going to be the next Matisse," Jerry declared proudly.

Maybe not quite Matisse, but one of the greats of this century.

Wu, my father, once told me I'd never make it as an artist. I smiled in grim satisfaction at the box. I almost wished I were still speaking to him so I could rub this deal in his face. He'd never believed I was good enough at anything. Not a good enough artist. Not a good enough daughter. And certainly not a good enough Guardian.

A lump formed in my throat when I remembered his harsh words the last time I'd seen him, at Mom's funeral. That even my brother Paul would have made a better Guardian, and maybe he should have been marked instead of me.

Yeah, well, that would have been okay with me. Because maybe then Mom would still be alive.

My nose tingled with the onslaught of tears, and I ruthlessly suppressed them. Mom would want me to celebrate my win today. She wanted it for me as much as I did— maybe more. So I raised my glass. "To me. And to the two best guys in the city."

As we toasted, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned in time to see the mysterious Brit slip out of the Pour House. I frowned, which was silly—what did I have to be disappointed about? That he didn't ask me out? Like I had time to date with the paintings to finish for the show.

"Hey, Gabe." Milo's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "You know the paintings you gave us a couple years ago?"

"Yeah." They were bar scenes with dark shadowy figures and red swirly depths. I'd still been struggling to define my style at that time, but they'd been my breakthrough paintings. Only someone who knew them would recognize the two figures at the end of the bar in each painting as Milo and Jerry. It was in the way they slouched over the counter.

"You think they'll be worth some serious cash in a couple years?" He blushed. "Not that I'd sell mine."

I grinned. "Wouldn't that be cool?"

Jerry perked up. "You mean like we could auction them off and then buy a Greek island or something? I always wanted a Greek island."

Milo smacked his arm, but I just laughed. "If the paintings become that valuable, hell, sell them and I'll paint you new ones. But I get to visit your island."

"Deal." He stuck his hand out and we shook. I counted my blessings that he didn't spit first.

My cell phone rang. Johnny didn't care if we took personal calls during non-peak hours. Not that he was around much to care. The past year he'd been traveling more and more with his young stud of a partner, Steve.

I looked at the screen. It was Madame La Rochelle, my surrogate everything. Fate had smiled on me the day I went to the Shakespeare Garden at Golden Gate Park and sat next to her on one of the benches. Aside from offering me friendship and being a replacement for the mother figure I'd lost, she became my mentor.

This one-woman show was all due to her. Well, her and my talent, but my talent wouldn't have been noticed without her connections. Madame La Rochelle was known as the "master maker." She'd brought dozens of great artists into the public's eye. Including Yves Klein, who was famous for having women roll around in paint and throw themselves at canvases.

I flipped open my phone and said in the French my mom had taught me,
"Bonjour, Madame."

"Gabrielle, j'ai parlé à la directrice de la galerie,"
she said without preamble. She was like that—to the point. She always said that she was too old to tiptoe around things. I wasn't sure what "too old" was in actuality, but I figured it had to be close to eighty.
"Elle va t'envoyer le contracte."

"I know. I have the contract here." Too excited to maintain French, I picked up the box and waved it as if she could see. "I just got it like half an hour ago."

"What do you mean you got it this afternoon?" Madame said in her heavily accented English.
"La directrice
said she was sending it
demain."

Tomorrow? I frowned at the package. "Are you sure?"

"Mais oui, Gabrielle.
You think I lie?"

"No, Madame, of course not," I said quickly. To incur her wrath was to take your life into your hands. I'd heard she'd once made Picasso crawl on his hands and knees to apologize for forgetting a rendezvous with her.

"Alors, le contracte
will arrive tomorrow. Bring it and I will have my lawyer look at it,
d'accord?"

"Oui, Madame."
I stared at the box on the counter.

"Je te verra demain à deux heures. Ne sois pas en retard. à tout à l'heure, mon chou."

"Tomorrow at two. Got it.
A demain, Madame."
I hung up and picked up the package. My stomach roiled with that nervous feeling I'd had earlier. If this wasn't the contract, what was it?

"One way to find out," I muttered. I ripped off the easy-open tab and upended the package. The contents of the box tumbled out onto the counter as if in slow motion.

A scroll.

My heart stopped, and my breath caught in my chest. It couldn't be. Forcing myself to breathe, I closed my eyes for a long moment and then reopened them, fully expecting to see something different before me. But it was still there: one tattered, ancient scroll tied with a strap of leather. Wu's obsession and the bane of my existence. The reason my mom died.

And then it hit me—there was only one reason the scroll would be delivered to me.

It meant my father was dead, too.

W
u was dead.

An unexpected wave of sadness and regret swept over me. My father was dead. I'd never feel him brush my hair out of my face or see him give that brief nod of approval on the rare occasion he thought I did something right.

But those moments had been few and far between, especially once I'd become a teenager. And the problems between us had culminated in that last exchange when he said point-blank that Mom died because I was careless and out of control.

The bitch of it: he was right. And as much as I rationalized that it had just been a tragic mistake, I didn't blame him. I didn't think I'd ever forgive myself, either.

I looked down at the scroll and felt the old resentment rise inside me, coupled with a new fear that I might screw up again and get someone else killed. I'd told him I wanted nothing to do with this. Mom's death should have proved I wasn't suited to be the next Guardian. I scooped the parchment to put it back into the box before anyone saw it.

As I touched it, electricity shot up through my feet. Strange. I'd never felt a static shock like that. Plus, I shouldn't have felt anything through my boots. I looked down right as the earth started shaking.

Earthquakes were commonplace in San Francisco. Most of them went undetected, but every now and then one hit that made you stand up and take notice.

Like this one.

The liquor bottles behind me rattled, the glasses on the bar danced in place, and the earth rolled under my feet. I grabbed the bar with my free hand and prayed the ground wouldn't open up and swallow me. Because it felt like it might.

"Whoa." Jerry grabbed his pint glass before it jiggled off the counter.

"This is a big one," Milo said as his seat wobbled. "What do you think? Six-point-oh on the Richter?"

"Nah. Feels closer to the Loma Prieta quake in '89, and that was a six-point-nine."

I started to suggest we go stand in a doorway (lesson number one in earthquake safety that every Californian learned in school), only as I opened my mouth, more electricity coursed through me. It reverberated through every inch of my body and jetted out my fingertips and the top of my head.

My hair crackled with static, and I could feel waves from the earth undulate up into me, filling me until I felt like I couldn't breathe. I struggled to move—

I couldn't budge.

Wu's voice rose from my memory.
Gabrielle, remember the first rule. The Guardian who protects the scroll possesses its power.

Aw, hell. This wasn't an earthquake. This was
tu ch’i.

The waves turned into what felt like scalding molten lava oozing up my body. It built in me until I thought I was going to erupt. I felt excruciatingly full, every single cell in my body on fire and expanding.

I wanted to scream from the pain, but all I could do was gasp for air. Drowning and spinning wildly—just like I'd felt right before I lost control and killed my mom. Gritting my teeth, I fought against panic. I wouldn't let it get loose and hurt someone again.

And then it receded, a persistent throb of energy deep inside me.

Heart still thundering, I stared down at the scroll clenched in my hand.
Shit.
I stuffed it back in the box, warring between wanting to get rid of it and needing to hold it close and never let it go.

I shook my head. Next I'd be calling it "my precious" and slinking through dark caverns.

"Gabe.
Gabe."

Milo's voice broke through the fog, and I looked to up find them gawking at me with concern.

Jerry's brow wrinkled. "Is this your first big one, Gabe? You look shaken."

"A little. It's been a long time since I felt, um, that." I ducked out from behind the bar, knowing that the earthquake hadn't originated on a fault line, but from me. "I need to go to the back for a sec. Shout out if anyone needs anything."

Milo frowned at me. "You okay, Gabe?"

"Peachy." I tried to smile but knew I failed miserably. "I'm just going to make sure the stock back there is okay and put my, um, contract away."

"You sure you're okay?" Jerry asked with a frown. "You're walking funny."

Because I had to will my feet to move. My legs felt like they were encased in dirt up to my thighs. "Just off balance. Be right back."

I hurried away as fast as I could. Hugging the box to my chest, I closed the door to the closet Johnny called his office and slumped against it to collect myself.

What the hell had just happened?

Even as I asked myself, I knew. Wu was dead, I had the scroll, and now I possessed its curse.
Tu ch’i.
My knowledge of it was limited—I thought of it like the Force in
Star Wars,
only less ethereal and more tied to natural elements—but I recognized it nonetheless from the brief taste I'd had once before.

My birthmark zapped me. I thought I felt the scroll shift inside the box, too, but that had to be a figment of my imagination.

What wasn't my imagination: the current that still reverberated inside my body. As if on cue, it swelled, and that feeling of drowning overwhelmed me again. Closing my eyes, I wrestled to control it before it broke free and caused another earthquake.

Once I managed to will it down, I opened my eyes and found myself crouched on the floor, clutching the package.

I needed to hide it—a temporary safe place until I could figure out a longer-term solution. I searched the office, not happy about leaving it here unattended. I could practically hear my father's outrage at the mere thought.
The second rule, Gabrielle,
he used to say with a grave expression,
is that the Guardian must keep the scroll hidden at all costs.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered under my breath as I scanned the room. I understood that it was imperative to keep the scroll secret—not only from the population at large, since it contained knowledge humans weren't ready for, but also from uniting with the other four scrolls floating around the globe. Except I figured the chances anyone would come to a dive bar in San Francisco to look for one—tonight—were slim.

And hiding it in the office was better than keeping it behind the bar with me. I wouldn't be able to keep an eye on it and serve drinks all night, and I cringed at the idea of it being accessible to so many people. In the wrong hands...