Touch Page 28

  Girls have been giggling and sighing over me since I hit the sixth grade. I won’t lie. I like girls, and I like the attention they pour on me. A lot. But as soon as I get attached to one, we leave. Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt. To play the field. Life is less complicated that way.

  I shrug and look at Mom. “I’m not strictly a one-woman guy, right, Mom?”

  She blows out a thick stream of smoke before pitching the spent butt on the ground and grinding it out. “No, you’re not.”

  Grandma’s eyes twinkle. “A Romeo, huh?” When I start to pull away, her fingers intertwine with mine, and she leads me back up the dirt road toward the house. “Trust me. A time will come when one special person is all you’ll want.”

  Mom snorts and lights another cigarette.

  God, I hope not. The last thing I want is to become like Mom; chasing the one and always slinking away with the taste of burnt ash in my mouth.

  Forced Behavior

  In Kera’s opinion, there was nothing worse than being forced into a corset and yards of expensive fabric. She looked like a fragile china doll. No one understood her desire to be free, to walk where she wished, to dress as she chose, yet, the traditional mindset of her people made change nearly impossible. You risk too much, her father always said, but he didn’t stop her from scampering off to Faldon’s home, where she learned about the ways of the world outside her staid, dried-up sphere.

  Faldon, her tutor, taught her everything from alchemy to self-defense. He talked of places so secret, even her father would gasp at his daring. The old sage treated her as if she had a purpose far greater than being the perfect daughter of a nobleman.

  It was because of Faldon that she knew the extent of the violence sweeping her land. Teag was struggling, steeped in a hidden battle for control. And the prize for the victor? A magic so powerful, few had dared to grab it in all the years it had lain in wait for its next host. Now, the warlord Navar, the boldest of those seeking that power, silently crept along the land, spouting the virtues of tradition. Of isolation. Of elitism. Dredging up the Lost King’s dreams of a perfect society.

  For her people, Navar’s offering was as seductive as the most beautiful woman. With each stop on his campaign, the man successfully secured a false sense of well-being. Of being special. And his campaign, his every step, every signed decree, was killing those Kera loved.

  At the sound of company, Kera glanced up from the piano’s keyboard and out the manor’s parlor window to see Navar’s well-appointed carriage. It slashed through the rain and up their graveled drive, his black horse tied behind it. It was just like him to arrive unannounced.

  Kera rose from the bench so abruptly, their dog, who had been lying peacefully by the fireplace, jerked awake. She heard the butler order a room prepared and saw the housekeeper fly by the open door toward the kitchens to make sure their evening meal would surpass even Navar’s jaded tastes.

  Why had he come? Lately, something about him had changed. She couldn’t put her finger on what it could be, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. At least he still talked, which he often did, without expecting her to offer an opinion, which she never did.

  She couldn’t stay and listen to him carry on his one-sided conversation. The far door offered an escape, and she kicked the multi-layers of skirts out of the way. If she were quick enough, she could leave without him knowing she’d ever been in the room.

  She’d barely taken a step when her father snapped his fingers, stopping her, and pointed to the piano bench.

  She reluctantly sat. “What is he doing here? And why must I stay? It’s gloomy enough outside without having to entertain the likes of him.”

  “I would guess he comes for my counsel, and you must stay because you’re this home’s mistress.” Her father stood, presenting himself in fine clothes to match his dignified bearing. He was a scholar, brilliant even by their people’s standards. He folded his spectacles and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  That simple action said it all. No need to invite the appearance of weakness in front of their future king. Kera concentrated on flattening the pleats in her skirts. “I would rather be this home’s master and bar the doors.”

  “Kera…”

  She let out a long, venting sigh. “I’ll behave.”

  Her father didn’t understand her reaction to Navar. Most thought him handsome, with his dark good looks and perfect soldier bearing, but the more Kera learned about him, the less attractive he became. Her father believed his guidance would cure Navar of his self-centered ways.

  Kera didn’t share his optimism.

  As soon as Navar strutted into the parlor, his clothes painstakingly pressed and shoes polished, the cheerful mood in the parlor evaporated like water in the desert. His dark eyes found hers and wouldn’t let go. Not a drop of rainwater had dared to fall on him, yet he moved to their empty fireplace, waved his hand, and wood appeared, along with a crackling fire. The air turned unpleasantly hot. Her day dress smothered her skin, and the tight stays pinched her torso. No amount of comfort could be had in the man’s presence.

  She produced the required nod to his crisp bow and returned to her music, her fingers searching out the keys to a well-known song. Sadly, there wasn’t a lively enough tune to block out the deep, aggressive staccato of Navar’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sit in a nearby chair, put ankle to knee, and rub a non-existent spot of mud from his shoe before settling in.

  Kera let loose a weighty sigh and turned the page of sheet music. She’d die of boredom if she were made to stay put much longer. Her father’s quiet voice became lost in the drone of Navar’s egocentric comments, which were accompanied by the slap of his riding gloves against his knee, an annoying punctuation mark to his words. To those who looked, he was a lord in waiting. A king in the making. A conqueror in the flesh. Only she saw him for what he truly was.

  A danger to all.

  The thought sent a chill through Kera. She abandoned the piano and paced the edges of the room. Still, Navar’s eyes followed her. She lifted a book from a table and hid behind its pages. Navar’s gaze never wavered.

  Irritated, she returned to the piano, clutched her necklace and muttered a tiny spell. A rank odor engulfed Navar, sending him out of his chair. He glared at the aging dog lying oblivious by the fireplace, before moving away.

  Much better. She resumed playing.

  He paced, then stopped and faced her. “Is everything well with you, Kera?”

  Kera’s fingers froze on the ivory keys. To anyone listening, Navar’s inflection held just the right dash of interest without any real concern. She didn’t want to answer him. Didn’t want to encourage a new custom of verbal intercourse. A quick glance at her father told her she had no choice.

  Staring sightlessly at her sheet music, she said, “I’m fine, my lord.”

  She was always fine. It lent an air of banality that had kept him at a distance, so far.

  The clock on the mantle chimed. Quarter past five. Dinner was hours away. Would this day never end? Navar’s appearance had already ruined her afternoon plans. After a lesson about the aspects of using the earth’s energy to perform magical feats, Faldon had planned to let Kera practice archery.

  She sighed. If only they could refuse Navar their hospitality.

  An idea formed. A deliciously evil idea that had Kera smiling despite herself. She rose, sweeping the bulk of her heavy skirts behind her, and crossed the room to a clear ball the size of a dinner plate. She stroked it and brought forth the image of their housekeeper.

  “Agnes,” she whispered, “add another layer of cotton to Lord Navar’s mattress. You know the kind. We wouldn’t want him to suffer unduly tonight.”

  Agnes grinned. “I’ll stuff it nice and tight, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted her han
d and the image disappeared.

  Installing him on the lumpiest mattress should see him off soon. She turned and encountered her father’s questioning gaze and smiled. “Lord Navar’s accommodations are progressing nicely.”

  Her act didn’t fool her father, but before he could corner her and beg her to be civil, Granel stormed into the parlor, his eyes bright with triumph. “My lords.”

  Though Granel tried to appear commanding, his clothes always leaned toward dishevelment, which pointed more toward a common man than a courtly one. The stocky lieutenant-at-arms shoved his hat beneath his arm and bowed, displaying a tiny patch of baldness on top his head. Kera waited for him to acknowledge her, but he purposefully ignored her. Nothing new there, and highly desirable as far as she was concerned. The more invisible she became, the sooner they’d leave.

  Navar scowled. “Well?”

  “You were right.” Granel offered up a too-wide smile, more disturbing than any frown. “In the woods, not four leagues from where we stand.”

  Navar slapped his gloves on his thigh again and stood. “Excellent.”

  Kera’s father rose, a wary expression on his face. “What brings on such good humor?”

  “We’ve found one of the tainted.” Navar peered at her father. “In your woods.”

  Her father’s face reddened at the suggestion. “I thought you said the last of that plague was eradicated months ago.”

  Kera moved to join them, but her father caught her eye. She could see the warning behind his calm gaze, could almost hear it. Stay put.

  Navar pulled on his gloves. “Some will always fight their fate.”

  “Are you sure it’s one of them?” Her father’s probe was a risk. If he pushed too hard, Navar could easily become suspicious. It was his nature.

  Navar tossed Granel a questioning look.

  The little toad croaked on cue. “She’s been tested.”

  Her father leaned out the door and called to their butler, “Barton, my horse, and bring me—”

  Navar cut him off. “There’s no need, Hadrain. We shall attend to this and be back before dinner is announced.”

  Navar strode to Kera, grabbed her hand, and lifted it to his mouth. The wetness of his lips repulsed her; it was all she could do not to pull her hand away. His dark eyes, so beautiful yet so hate-filled, peered into hers, completely unaware of her disgust. “Make sure your dinner setting is placed next to mine, Kera.”

  Her stomach soured. She hadn’t missed the threat of impending intimacy. Without waiting for a reply, he dropped her hand and left, cutting a grand figure that would have many women swooning at his feet. Not her. Never her.

  Kera gripped her father’s arm, her fingers wrinkling his sleeve. “What should we do? Tell me it’s not too late.”

  His face had grown haggard, as if the weight of the moment would tear him apart. He cupped her cheek and sighed. “There’s nothing we can do now.”

  “How can you say that? They are our friends. They’re counting on us to protect them.”

  “I know the extent of this problem better than you. I’ll go to Faldon. If anyone can help, he can.”

  Kera followed her father to the door, her fingers crushing the fabric of her skirts. “My tutor? He is a seer who conjures nothing more than tricks to delight a child.”

  “There is more to him than he lets you see, Kera.” With his hand on the door, he turned and leveled a serious gaze on her. “Be at peace. There’s nothing you can do.”

  He leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and left.

  She stood, mouth agape, and watched him go. Be at peace? That was his fine counsel?

  There was no time to change out of her restrictive clothes, not even to step out of the cumbersome bustle strapped around her waist. Kera took to the outdoors, not to follow her father on his empty quest, but to find Navar.

  She would stop this madness herself.

  Though what could be done once he was found, she didn’t know. Kera only knew she couldn’t stand by and let him harm a woman whose only fault was to be born of mixed blood.

  Unanswered Questions

  “And this can be your room, Dylan.”

  Grandma opens an old paneled door and ushers me into a tidy bedroom situated at the back of the house near the kitchen. Mom’s upstairs, collapsed on her old bed, her eyes swollen and red as she relives the pain of being dumped. Again. I’d go anywhere to get away from her right now. A pile of rags scattered in the attic above the garage would’ve worked.

  The walls of the room glow a soft green in the strangely filtered northwest sunlight. Green’s not my favorite color—it makes me nervous. In fact, this whole place makes me nervous. We can’t stay here.

  I toss my duffel on the bed and watch it spring up and down.

  Seriously. We can’t.

  Grandma purses her lips. “The bed’s a little old, but still comfortable. And the room has lots of natural light,” she says, pointing to the open window. A slight breeze ruffles the curtains while Grandma gives the room a critical once over. “It’s the only room without a girly theme. I’d put you next to your mother upstairs, but we never bothered changing the girls’ rooms.”

  I freeze. “Mom has sisters?”

  A frown tightens her face, and her hands slip down the sides of her pants. It’s her nervous habit I’m beginning to notice. “Two. Did she never tell you?”

  “Mom’s not the sentimental type. There’s always been a detour around memory lane.”

  “I see.”

  Grandma doesn’t, and frankly, neither do I. I plop onto the bed and get swallowed two inches deep into a feather mattress. I struggle to sit up, and when I manage to find my balance, I glance back at her. “It’s…um…nice.”

  I shake my head, surprised I even bothered to reassure her. It’s got to be the look on her face. The obvious attempt to please me. The woman deserves some kindness. Mom certainly won’t be dispensing any.

  “It’s always been for guests, though we don’t get many here. You have your own bathroom right there.” She points to a door on the far wall.

  We stay that way for a moment, both staring at the bathroom door, until she turns toward me. “She really never mentioned us? Any of us?”

  “Don’t feel bad. She barely remembers me half the time.”

  Grandma gasps. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  She says that, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it. I can tell she knows Mom hasn’t changed. Her gaze slides around the room until it lands back on me. I can read the indecision that’s torturing her, so I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t know who knocked her up. She never said.”

  When I was younger, I made the mistake of asking Mom about him, wanting to tell my friends I had a dad, too. She blew up, slapped me around, and smashed things to bits. When the violence was over, she went into a deep funk. The lesson was painful and potent. Don’t ask. Ever.

  Grandma’s cheeks redden. “Oh no. I wasn’t—”

  “It’s okay. I’m not the sentimental type, either.” Mom cured me of that.

  Gentle understanding softens her face. “Few in life really are.”

  Why do I get the feeling Grandma is one of those few?

  She makes her way out of the room and pauses when she reaches the door. “Your mother didn’t say. How long are you here for?”

  No surprise Mom hasn’t dropped that bomb yet. I pull my duffel onto my lap, a protective gesture. “I’m not sure.”

  Even Grandma will be able to see through that lie. If she doesn’t, she’ll definitely know something’s up when I register for high school.

  She nods, and nibbles at her lower lip. “Well, then. I guess I’ll leave you to unpack. Come on out when you’re done. Dinner won’t be
long.”

  As the door closes, she eyes me with those strange, pale eyes of hers. I shiver. How weird to be creeped out by your own grandmother.

  I’d lay bets on Mom stalling the inevitable “talk” for a whole week, locked in the time capsule of her childhood bedroom, wailing about Jared, and ignoring me and everyone else.

  I’m not waiting for her to get all the drama out before I start my new life.

  I quickly fill the first two drawers of the old, knotty wood dresser, with its crystal knobs and chipped mirror, before making a quick exploration of my space. The wood smells like lemons, the bathroom like vanilla, and the bed sheets like flowers. I’ve never smelled so many different scents in one place before. Mom never dusts, uses cheap laundry soap, and tosses me a book of matches, telling me not to set myself on fire while I get rid of the stench. Nothing says “home” like sulfur and burnt sticks. I’m beginning to see how different Mom is from Grandma.

  Maybe it’s a generational thing? But when I think about it, Grandma isn’t that old. Mid-fifties, tops. She has old-lady taste, though. I run a finger along the bristle of an antique hairbrush sitting on the dresser. Beside it are a silver-handled mirror and a tintype photograph of a man and a woman wearing Wild West-type clothing, standing in front of this house. Neither is smiling.

  Something hard smacks the window, and I jump. Looking out, I don’t see anything. Only tiny, flittering bugs. Still…I glance around the room and shiver. I feel like I’m being watched.

  Okay, time to leave.

  When I step into the hall and close the bedroom door, the smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water. Mom’s a vegetarian—no way will she be eating. She’s been fasting for a few days, anyway. In her mind, it adds to the drama of the moment. Too bad, because eating meat in front of her while she tries to win me over to the “animals have feelings, too” philosophy is the only time she looks at me.