Homecoming (19 page)

She closed her eyes and began to drift. When she came back to consciousness a few moments later, he was in the driver's seat, smiling at her.

“Hey there, out-of-it girl,” he said, touching her arm. “Where do you belong?”

“Athens,” she murmured, starting to feel a little bit more alert.

“Like the Athens in Greece?” he asked, as he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.

“Like the one in Georgia,” she said. “But you only need to take me a few blocks to Curran.”

“You staying with someone in the neighborhood?” he asked, curious.

“My great-aunt,” she said, as she watched the houses on Echo Park Avenue rush past her window. “Eleanora Eames. Do you know her?”

“You're Eleanora's kid?” he said, turning his head, so he could get a better look at her.

“You know her?” Lyse asked, surprised.

“Of course I do,” he said. “Everyone in the neighborhood knows Eleanora.”

“Well, I'm not her kid. I'm her grandniece. I'm visiting for a while.”

He gave up trying to look at her as he drove, returning his eyes to the road.

“My sister was talking about you,” he said, putting on the turn signal as he approached Curran. “Well,
talking
isn't quite the word. She's got this sketch pad—”

“Wait, Lizbeth is your sister?” Lyse said, and this time it was her turn to be surprised.

“Yeah, I know we don't look anything alike,” he said as he pulled up to Eleanora's bungalow. “Half siblings with different mothers.”

“Why doesn't she talk?” Lyse blurted out before she could stop herself. “Shit. That was rude. I'm sorry.”

He waved off her apology.

“She's had . . . a pretty rough time of it,” he said, pulling the Volvo over to the shoulder and putting it in park. “Her mom, Helena, divorced our father when Lizbeth was a baby. When she died, he got custody. He's a real fucking piece of work—a bastard the likes of which you've never seen—and from the beginning he couldn't handle Lizbeth's developmental problems, so he just acted like she didn't exist. Had her institutionalized.”

“Jesus,” Lyse said, frowning.

“She was seven when he did it,” Weir said, “and she really wasn't that bad. She had temper tantrums, couldn't socialize with other kids . . . but she was super-loving . . .”

He paused.

“What happened?”

“She was catatonic when I got her out of there,” he continued. “It's taken three years just to get her this functional.”

“I'm sorry,” Lyse said. “I had no idea.”

“How could you?” he replied, shrugging. “Look, Eleanora's been wonderful to Lizbeth. Invites her over for tea, helped her get an internship with an herbalist in the neighborhood. As far as I'm concerned, that woman hung the moon.”

“She's got the biggest heart,” Lyse said, but she knew this didn't even begin to cover how amazing Eleanora was.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. There was an effortless intimacy between them, and Lyse felt comfortable with Weir in a way she hadn't with a man in a long time. She wasn't sure if this was because he was easy to talk to, or if, in her mind, she'd already had sex with him, getting some of the awkwardness out of the way.

“Well, I guess this is where I get out.”

“Let me help you inside,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt before reaching over to help her with her own. “The buckle can be a little tricky—”

“Wait, I don't want to go inside,” Lyse said, suddenly.

“You don't?”

She shook her head.

“Is that all right?”

“Better than all right,” he replied, grinning. “I didn't want to say good-bye yet.”

She blushed, feeling giddy with the high of having a new crush.

“So, we do need to get that leg disinfected and bandaged—”

“All-night drugstore?” she asked.

“Look, I'm not being forward and I'm not trying to take advantage of you, but why don't you come back to my place, and let me put a little bandage on you—”

Lyse cracked up, laughing so hard she was almost crying.

“Oh my God, that was, by far, the most sexual-sounding non-come-on I've ever heard,” she said, gasping for breath in between giggles.

He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair, so bits of blond stuck up every which way.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “You're right. That sounded terrible.
Put a little bandage on you
sounds kind of S and M—”

“Totally,” Lyse said, still giggling. “But what's
not
okay is that we haven't done this yet.”

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“What? You're kidding,” he said, pulling back and looking chagrined. “We didn't do that already?”

“Nope.”

“No wonder you weren't itching to get out of this car,” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Where are my manners?”

He leaned in and kissed her again, wrapping his hand around her neck so he could pull her closer.

The touch of his bare skin on hers was like fire. He must've felt the instant connection, too, because as soon as they pulled apart, he lifted her hand to his lips and gently brushed his mouth across her knuckles.

She swallowed, her body lighting up with attraction.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured, rubbing the underside of her wrist with a callused thumb.

“I'm soft everywhere,” she heard herself whispering back.

The purr of her voice and the intent of the words she'd just spoken shocked her back to reality.

“I'm sorry,” she said as she went for the door handle. “I don't know what that was—”

“Wait!” he said, but she already had the door open and was sliding out, careful not to put too much weight on her bad leg.

“Thank you for the ride,” she said, and closed the door in his face.

She could hear the Volvo idling behind her as she limped toward the stairs, her eyes on the arched wooden bridge that would take her over the koi pond and back to the safety of Eleanora's deck. She didn't turn around, didn't dare look to see what Weir was doing. She knew if she did, it would all be over: He'd be out of the car and at her side before she could do anything to stop him.

Just let me get up to the deck,
she thought.
If I can get to the deck, everything will be okay.

She couldn't help herself; she turned around.

She saw the car door open, heard his footsteps on the sidewalk, and, as she'd predicted, moments later he was at her side, his strong arms encircling her waist and lifting her into the air.

“Just wait,” he said, his lips against her ear. “I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to, but I need you to let me take care of you.”

He shook his head and amended: “I need you to let me take care of your leg.”

She laughed despite herself. He turned her around to face him, their bodies mere inches apart.

“I'm a gentleman, and I won't take no for an answer.”

She was having trouble thinking straight, but this time it wasn't because she was in shock.

“I'm okay,” she murmured. “I can take care of myself.”

“Nope,” he said, tucking an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I can't let you. As a friend, even, I feel like I need to do this for you.”

“Please,”
she whispered.

“I can't,” he murmured, running a finger along the line of her jaw, then letting it trail down into the hollow at her throat. “Man, you weren't kidding.”

“What?” she said, distracted by his lingering touch.

“You really
are
soft everywhere.”

Fuck it,
she thought, lifting her chin to look at him.

Their eyes met for a split second before his lips were all over her, tasting her mouth with his tongue, nipping at her lip with his teeth.

Lust
kicked
pain
right out of her head, and she threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body down the length of him. He moaned into her mouth, his hands roaming across her back and waist and hips before cupping her ass with both hands.

“This is insane,” she growled, as his lips continued to devour her.

“If this is insanity,” he murmured into her ear, “then lock me up.”

D
aniela left the moonlight behind as she entered the dimly lit bar. It wasn't an unfair trade—the moon for candlelight and wine—but given her druthers, she'd have asked the wine bar to add a patio, so she could enjoy all three at once, and smoke, too.

The bar was hopping as she weaved through the crowd. She was careful not to get too close to any of the young hipsters and neighborhood cool cats, all here to listen to the three-piece jazz trio that always seemed to be playing whenever she came in for a drink. After her last experience with Eleanora, she didn't dare touch anything human—even with gloved hands.

Eleanora,
Daniela thought, and sighed. With her plainspoken, no-nonsense manner, the master of the Echo Park coven was by far Daniela's favorite blood sister. Eleanora meant what she said, and said what she meant, which Daniela appreciated.

Boy, it's a real bitch she's dying,
Daniela thought.
Hits too fucking close to home.

She'd just lost her mother, and now this whole thing with Eleanora . . . well, it was one of the reasons she wanted a drink—or three—and hadn't gone home after she'd taken both Dev and Lizbeth back to their respective residences. Instead, she'd walked over to Echo Park Lake, braving the drizzle to wander aimlessly around the little park, sitting in one of the playground swings until the rain eased up and the moon came out.

During the day, the lake was overrun with people and Daniela avoided it at all costs. At night, though, when the park was as devoid of life as a graveyard, she would find herself drawn there, eager for the solitude. She could close her eyes and
almost
pretend she was the last person left on Earth—but then a homeless person would amble by with a shopping cart full of glass bottles, or she'd stumble across a horny teenaged couple making out on one of the park benches, and the illusion of solitude would be shattered.

Daniela sidled up to the long, polished wood bar and, staying far away from her nearest neighbor, lifted her chin to get the dreadlocked bartender's attention.

“Lambrusco. Two glasses,” she called out, and he went to grab a bottle of the sparkling red wine.

For a tough chick, Daniela loved super-girly drinks. Piña coladas piled high with fruit and topped off with tiny pink umbrellas, sparkling dessert wines so full of sugar they might as well have been candy—if it screamed “Bachelorette Party” or “Girls' Night Out,” then Daniela had probably ordered it.

She threw a twenty and a ten down on the bar—which got a big smile from the bartender—and took her drinks over to an empty table in the back of the room. It had an obstructed view of the jazz trio, but Daniela wasn't interested in the music, so it suited her fine.

She draped her leather jacket over the back of her chair, putting a barrier between her damp shirt and the metal crosshatching of the seat back, and sat down. She closed her eyes and sighed, happy to be alone but ensconced within the frenetic energy of an anonymous crowd.

She sipped the first glass of wine, the sweetness fizzing on her tongue, and let her mind relax.

Lyse.

Of course that was where her brain went.

It was hard to see past her physical attraction to Eleanora's grandniece. Those melancholy bedroom eyes peeking out from beneath disheveled black bangs, the winsome face, full lips, and slim body. What drew her to Lyse could not be ignored.

“I wanted to speak to you in private. I hope you don't mind.”

Daniela opened her eyes to find Arrabelle standing over her table, beer in hand, dark eyes inscrutable.

“What'd you do? Follow me here?”

Arrabelle shook her head.

“I figured if you weren't here, you'd be at the lake.”

Great, she was getting predictable in her wanderings. She was gonna have to mix it up. Stake out another bar or two in the neighborhood—which was a bummer because she really liked this place.

“Don't you know privacy is just an illusion?” Daniela asked. “There's no such thing as a private conversation these days.”

Arrabelle raised a manicured eyebrow, then sat down beside Daniela.

“I know that if anyone can hear our conversation over the music, it would be a miracle.”

Daniela laughed.

“Touché,” she said, leaning closer to Arrabelle.

It was true. The place was loud, but, in Daniela's experience, there were always eyes watching, ears listening.

“So, who the fuck are you?” Arrabelle said, launching in without any preamble.

“Excuse me?” Daniela said, downing the last dregs of wine in her first glass and reaching for her second one.

“You make those awful abstract paintings that you don't sell,” Arrabelle said, “and you have no other job that I can see. Yet ten seconds after my blood sister Dezzie dies, you get sent here to join us—like you were being called up from the army reserves or something, by the way—and you can afford to buy the old Zeke Title house? Where the hell does your money come from? Not your mother's estate—everything she had belongs to the Greater Council. Couple that with the way you keep tabs on Eleanora and the rest of us, and it makes me think you're a fucking spy.”

“Why did you drag my paintings into this?” Daniela asked, deflecting.

“Because they're terrible and you know it,” Arrabelle said, taking a swallow of beer. “And because I was annoyed and felt like being an asshole about something. Look, am I right? Are you a fucking spy or not? You went chasing out of the circle tonight to go protect Lyse. I want to know how you know so much about all the weird shit that's been going on.”

“No, I'm not a fucking spy,” Daniela said, and finished her glass. “Let's get out of here. I need some fresh air.”

She grabbed her leather jacket and headed for the door—away from prying eyes and curious ears. When she paused at the threshold, Arrabelle was hot on her heels.

*   *   *

To the others, Daniela was supposed to be a “normal” member of the coven. Only Eleanora knew her secret. She wasn't just an empath who painted abstract landscapes (paintings that
Daniela
thought were pretty good, actually), participated in coven activities, was pleasant to be around, and, for the most part, did as she was told—but otherwise kept a low profile.

Daniela was embedded in the Echo Park coven for one reason, and one reason alone: to protect the last of the Dream Keepers.

*   *   *

Daniela remembered the day her mother had called her to the Council's apartments in Rome. She'd been vague on the phone, mentioning “a personal matter” they needed to discuss, and that was all.

Marie-Faith was only supposed to stay in Italy for a few weeks, but for some reason the visit lasted more than two months. At the time, Daniela didn't know this was because her mother's life had been threatened—and only later, after her mother's death, did she realize how close she herself had come to being buried in a shallow Roman grave.

But that day, she merely found it strange to be summoned so far for something personal when her mother was going to be returning to the States at any moment.

Daniela had arrived at the Council's apartments in Trastevere, feeling only slightly jet-lagged by the nine-hour flight. She dropped off her overnight bag and, at her mother's behest, joined her for an afternoon constitutional. They walked in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, until they found themselves standing in front of an old ruin, its crumbling façade overrun with feral but friendly cats.

It was here that Marie-Faith handed Daniela a letter:

Dearest Eleanora,

The last Dream Keeper has been born. Unless things change, no others will ever follow her. Hessika was not the only one to dream of her. She came to me as well, and to one other, whom I will not name in this letter, should it find itself delivered into the wrong hands.

She will find you. She will be no more than a child and will not know who or what she is, but you will. Please keep her safe. She is the last of her kind and could be (can be) the one to save us all—though the dreams are murky where this is concerned.

I trust you and my daughter above all others. That is why I am sending her to you. Keep each other safe.

The Flood is coming.

Beware.

—M.F.

“What is this?” Daniela asked after she'd finished reading it.

“Metaphorically, it's the truth . . . and your destiny,” Marie-Faith explained, brushing a strand of pink hair behind her daughter's ear. “But literally, it's a letter I'm sending with you to California. I don't trust the post or the telephone, so I've booked you an evening flight to Los Angeles.”

Daniela did not understand, so her mother explained further:

At great danger to herself, Marie-Faith had used her standing as a member of the Greater Council to call into being a secret cabal culled from only the most trusted from each discipline—Clairvoyants, Diviners, Dream Keepers, Empaths, and Herbalists—to decide how best to protect a young girl, the only Dream Keeper born within the last fifty years, and the sole thing standing between the covens and the oncoming wrath of The Flood.

“The Flood?” Daniela asked.

“It's an image from my dreams. I've consulted with some of the other Dream Keepers, and, so far, I'm the only one—save Hessika—who's received the message. I think it started with her, she dreamed of it years before, but no one listened then. Now it's stronger and it's going to rush into the others' dreams, breaking over our world like a giant wave.”

Her mother's words chilled Daniela to the core.

“Sometimes there's a man riding the crest of this wave,” Marie-Faith said, picking up one of the stray cats—a white one with green eyes—and stroking it. “He commands The Flood, encouraging it to overwhelm the world. There's something missing inside him—but I'm never with him long enough to find out what it is. I just know The Flood is coming, and you're one of the few I trust to help stop it. If that can even be done.”

The task Daniela's mother laid at her daughter's feet was not an easy one. Daniela was to guard the last of the Dream Keepers—with her life even, if that proved necessary. At the moment, only a handful of people knew of the girl's existence, but once the secret got out, Daniela would need all the help she could get.

The question then became:
Whom could
Daniela
trust?

*   *   *

“So?” Arrabelle asked, catching up to Daniela on the sidewalk. “You didn't answer the rest of my questions.”

Daniela shrugged and kept walking.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Daniela asked.

Arrabelle sighed, her long legs allowing her to easily keep pace.

“If you're a spy, then you're a pretty shitty one.”

Daniela snorted as side by side they headed up the steep incline of Echo Park Avenue.

“So, maybe you're not a spy.”

“I'm not a spy,” Daniela said, exasperated. “Are you a spy?”

“No,” Arrabelle said, “but I don't go skulking around getting into fights with possessed dogs, either.”

Shit,
Daniela thought, surprised Arrabelle realized the feral dog that attacked Lyse wasn't rabid, but under the control of someone, or something, else. The same was probably true for the dead crows that penetrated the eternal circle—someone trying to breach their coven's protective spells by using an animal host.

“You caught that, eh?” Daniela asked, and Arrabelle nodded.

“I'm an herbalist, not an idiot.”

Daniela slowed down.

“These are dark times we're living in,” she said to Arrabelle.

“I know.”

“So if I'm not a spy,” Daniela asked. “What am I?”

Arrabelle zipped up her cable-knit sweater and shrugged.

“Don't know,” she said, slowing her pace thoughtfully. Daniela slowed hers to match. “But I like you better now. After this walk and talk.”

Daniela grinned, liking Arrabelle more, too.

“Thank you for walking back with me,” Daniela said, as they reached Curran and made the turn that would lead them to her house.

Across the street at Eleanora's house, all the lights were off, which was a good thing as far as Daniela was concerned. Eleanora and Lyse had both looked like shit warmed over when they'd left the clearing. A good night's sleep would help with that.

“No problem,” Arrabelle replied. “Thanks for letting me call you a fucking spy.”

There was no handshake or hug good-bye.

“See ya when I see ya,” Daniela said, and turned up the walk to her house.

The cats were waiting on the porch, and at the sound of the gate opening, they both came bounding to meet her. Closing the gate behind her, she knelt to pet them.

“My good girls,” she cooed, scratching behind their ears. “Let's go inside and feed you, shall we?”