Kitty Steals the Show (Kitty Norville) Page 11

  He swung it open and went inside.

  The attic was exactly how I imagined the attic in an old English manor house to be like. The slanted ceiling, bare wooden framework exposed and decorated with dust and cobwebs, forced us to stoop. All along the short walls, and in islands throughout the space, stood wooden crates, antique leather traveling trunks, abandoned pieces of furniture—small tables, worn-out chairs, cabinets, more trunks, some draped with graying, dust-covered drop cloths, some not. Also stored here were odds and ends—coat trees, some with coats on them; a stack of round hatboxes; a pair of saddles set one on top of the other; a weathered sign with a boar painted on it that might have come from a pub. Hazy light seeped in through a ventilation grating and gave off a ghostly, otherworldly gleam.

  Nick was right, the family seemed to have kept everything. Surely we should have expected the house and anything inside it Amelia was looking for to be destroyed—nothing survived that long, did it? But here we were, in a country where a two-hundred-year-old building was on the young side.

  We crowded into the attic, lingering by the door while Cormac went to one end and counted off boards in the framework, then stopped and counted again. Giving a curt nod, he hauled a large travel trunk, almost as big as he was, away from the wall. The thing must have been full of more artifacts, and my hands itched, wanting to dig through it. But he ignored it. Kneeling, he felt around the floorboards, searching by touch.

  The heat closed in; the air was thick, ripe, and didn’t move at all. I wanted to pace, but there was no room. Claustrophobia threatened; Ben and Nick blocked the stairs. Nick was fidgeting, tapping fingers on the edge of the open trapdoor.

  He whispered, “If this has been a mistake—”

  A tiny click sounded, and a square of the floor—flush with the other boards and invisible—lifted out. From the cavity, Cormac drew out a polished wooden case the size of a shoebox and bound in brass, coated with a film of dust. He set it aside, put back the section of the floor, and pushed the trunk back in place. Tucking the treasure box under his arm, he returned to the trapdoor.

  Nick looked wonderingly at the box. “I had no idea. No one did.”

  “That was the point,” Cormac said and gestured down the stairs—he couldn’t exit until they did.

  Nick guided us back to the kitchen and offered a place on a stainless steel prep table.

  I imagined a situation where the box had a key that Cormac and Amelia would now have to hunt down, but it didn’t. It did have a trick to unlocking it, though, and Amelia remembered. It was a kind of puzzle box; he ran his fingers over it, sliding a brass knob at each of the corners until the latch at the front of the box clicked, and the lid opened. We all leaned forward.

  He took out four small leather-bound journals, wrapped shut with twine; a small stack of loose pages with smudged colored drawings on them; an embroidered handkerchief; and a collection of small artifacts: tiny yellowed envelopes, metal amulets on knotted cords, a carved stick, a star woven out of grass.

  “This is what you were looking for?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, and sighed. He looked at Nick. “Thank you.”

  He was staring, expression slack. “You’re welcome, I think.”

  Cormac returned the items to the box, business-like, focused. Mission accomplished.

  Nick was still gaping. “I have so many questions—about the family, the history of it all.”

  Pausing, Cormac looked at him, impatient. I couldn’t tell if the expression was his or Amelia’s. “What do you want to know?”

  Faced with the question, he seemed at a loss. “What was the family really like? I’ve heard stories about my great-great-grandfather, that he could be quite the tyrant. What was the house like then? Why did Amelia leave? Where did she go? What really happened to her—how is any of this possible?”

  Cormac seemed to gather himself, looking into the distance, the corners of the room, considering what to say. He wasn’t used to explaining himself. But this wasn’t about him. “Amelia left because she didn’t feel welcome. It’s a little weird for her thinking she’s got family that might be interested in her after all this time.”

  “As you say, it’s been a long time. The family’s not what it was.”

  As he sealed the box again, Cormac looked around at the kitchen, lips pursed and thoughtful. “She’d been expected to marry a friend of the family, but she turned him down. Her parents—and her brother, I think—never forgave her, so she left because she figured she might as well. She couldn’t do anything more scandalous than she already had. She assumed they’d be happy to get rid of her.”

  Nick turned up a wry smile. “If you’d come to the parlor, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  We left the kitchen and entered a wood-paneled hallway that led past several doorways with polished molding. Through them I saw dimly lit, sparsely furnished rooms.

  In the parlor, though, chairs, sofas, and tables crowded around. When the family did come to visit, this must have been where they spent their time.

  Nick brought us to the far wall, decorated with faded red wallpaper in a floral pattern. A couple dozen portraits and photos hung on display—obviously of the family. The square, dark painting of a stern gentleman puffed out in his cravat might have been of Amelia’s father or grandfather. There were paintings of women in luxurious Victorian gowns, their hair perfectly curled and their faces as dainty as dolls. Most of the photographs were black-and-white, and must have been more than a hundred years old. They rested safe in wood and gold-colored frames.

  Nick pointed to one of a young woman, stern and unhappy looking in the way that people always seemed in old photographs. She wore a dark, fitted dress, and her hair was coiled under a simple hat. Her face was pale, and the way she looked at something just past the camera seemed particularly sad.

  “That’s her, Lady Amelia,” Nick said. “They never took her picture down, even after word came of her trouble in Colorado. The stories I heard of her—she was a black sheep, the skeleton in the closet that every family has. I’m not sure they understood her. But they never disowned her. Now—it’s old history, I think.”

  Cormac studied the picture for a long time, finally reaching out to brush a finger on the bottom of the frame. He turned his gaze to the rest of the pictures, then the rest of the room, and his smile was tired. “Yeah,” he said. “Old history.”

  Nick made apologies—he had an appointment in the village that afternoon and needed to shut up the house again. We made our way back to the front porch.

  He said, “How much longer are you in London for? Perhaps we could meet for lunch or dinner—I’d like to introduce you to my wife and children. I’m not sure they’ll believe you any more than I did at first, but … I want to give them the chance.”

  I looked at Cormac, who had insisted that Amelia didn’t need her family, just her things. He pursed his lips, his brow furrowed.

  “I think we’d like that,” he said finally.

  “Thanks again for bringing us out and going through this,” I said, keeping the warm feelings going.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. And do call me if you need anything during your stay in London.”

  Nick drove us back to the train station—he had the timetable memorized and the next departure was scheduled in fifteen minutes.

  Ben had to go and break the cheerful mood. “I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but as one lawyer to another I have to ask if you’re going to let him walk away with that box or if you’re going to claim some kind of ownership. You’d have every right to. We can’t prove any of this about Amelia in court.”

  Nick smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “Mr. O’Farrell, I’m a criminal prosecutor. I think my legal talents are better spent in other pursuits.”

  “Great, I’m in criminal defense. We should talk.”

  “Oh dear,” he said, laughing.

  We said our farewells, and Nick Parker drove off to his meeting. As promised, we we
re on the train back to London within minutes.

  Cormac put the box on the table in front of him and went through the contents again: along with the journals the box held homemade charms made of scrap metal, nails, and the like; lengths of knotted yarn; nuts, acorns, shells, pebbles with holes in them, sea glass in blue and green; dried leaves carefully preserved between folded sheets of paper. They might have been the odds and ends and found treasure that any girl would keep secretly in a box hidden from all prying eyes, especially those of a domineering older brother. But I didn’t think so, or I didn’t think that was all. It all seemed vaguely familiar—they looked like charms, amulets, talismans. Bits and scraps of magic stored away.

  When he finished looking at the pieces and skimming the journals, he put them carefully back in the box, which he sealed, then went back to staring out the window. I couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

  “You going to be okay?” I asked.

  Glancing over, he seemed thoughtful. “Yeah. It’s weird. There’s Amelia, now her family—a lot more family than I ever thought I’d get.”

  “Like acquiring in-laws,” Ben said, and feigning offense I said, “Hey!”

  He backpedaled. “I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with your family, just that there’s a lot of them. Cormac and I were both only children, and our folks weren’t exactly gregarious. The screaming kids thing takes getting used to.” My sister Cheryl had two kids who were firmly into the running and screaming phase. I actually sympathized.

  Cormac added, “That, and you see your father killed in front of you you start to think you don’t deserve a family.”

  The train hummed along during the long pause before I ventured, “What do you think now?”

  He gave an offhand shrug, glanced at the two of us before looking back out the window. “I think I’m doing okay.”

  Ben had tensed beside me, watching his cousin. After his answer, he let out a sigh and relaxed again. I smiled, because I thought he was doing okay, too.

  I had a sudden thought. “Hey—you should come to dinner tonight. We’re meeting Luis and his sister. Just a small group thing. It’ll be fun.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said reflexively.

  I looked to Ben, pleading for help in persuading his cousin.

  “It’s up to you,” Ben said. “But you have to eat sometime, might as well get a good meal out of it.”

  “I just don’t think I’m up for much more togetherness right now.”

  “Mr. Badass hunter guy who isn’t scared of anything is scared of dinner?” I said. He just looked at me sidelong, smirking.

  “She’s got a point,” Ben said.

  “You’re supposed to be on my side,” Cormac grumbled. “I just don’t see the point in trying to … domesticate me.”

  Interesting choice of word. I considered for a minute and realized I would probably never stop worrying about Cormac. “I’m not trying to domesticate you. Just … don’t you think you should get out more?”

  “I’m okay. I’ve always been okay.” He almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  I said, “Ask Amelia if she’d like to meet a couple of were-jaguars from Brazil.”

  The train clacked on the rails as we waited for Cormac’s response. His lips were pursed, like he’d eaten something sour.

  Finally he said, “Amelia thinks it would be interesting to meet a pair of were-jaguars.”

  “So you’re coming?” I said, bouncing.

  He didn’t say yes, he didn’t say no, but he stopped trying to weasel out of the evening.

  Chapter 11

  LUIS PICKED the restaurant. Feeling some trepidation, I wondered what trendy/sexy place he’d chosen, and if he would hire a guitarist or violinist or an entire mariachi band to serenade and embarrass me, or have roses delivered, as if any of his come-ons were more than teasing. He wasn’t so crass to carry it so far. I wasn’t so crass as to let him.

  In fact, he’d invited us to a steakhouse, naturally. Simply decorated in a clean modern style, black chairs and white tablecloths, it was filled with the familiar and comforting scents of blood and cooking meat.

  “This Luis of yours has class,” Ben said at the restaurant’s entrance.

  “You sound surprised,” I said.

  “I really didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Now are you willing to admit that my taste in men might actually be pretty good?” I looked at him.

  “Well, it used to be anyway,” he said, putting his arm around my waist.

  Cormac didn’t have commentary to add. He kept looking around like he expected something to jump out at him.

  At the bar near the front door sat the two young women from the conference who’d asked for my autograph. The ones who confused Emma and me by their apparent lack of presence. They waved at me, still giggling and excited. I smiled politely, trying to get some kind of sense or feel for them and what they were. The food and alcohol smells of the restaurant might have been interfering with my nose.

  “You know them?” Cormac finally asked.

  “I ran into them at the conference. It’s just … I couldn’t get a scent off them.” I wrinkled my nose.

  “They’re Fae, you know.”

  “What?” I said, then lowered my voice. “Like Elijah Smith? Like Underhill and Puck and crap?” I tried not to stare, but the young women were looking right at us, and their grins seemed … conspiratorial. Not at all cute anymore.

  Elijah Smith had advertised himself as a faith healer with the ability to cure lycanthropy and vampirism. What he really did was enslave said lycanthropes and vampires and feed on their powers. He’d been a different kind of otherworldly than I’d ever encountered—fairy, according to the experts. Old-school, ancient stories, nothing cute about him.

  We were in England, of course there’d be fairies. I should have known.

  Cormac handed me an object—one of the charms from Amelia’s box. An iron nail bent in the shape of a cross, with a dried-out spring of something bound to it with twine. A four-leaf clover? When I closed my hand around it, I had to squint and tilt my head, because a haze filtered my vision, like I’d suddenly entered a TV dream sequence. The two women glowed, carrying their own special effects. Also, I could finally smell them—fresh-cut clover, which clashed strangely with the cooking meat smell in the rest of the place.

  I might have stared at them all night if Cormac hadn’t taken the charm out of my hand and nudged me. I blinked again, and the haze vanished, noises rushed back, and everything was as it should be.

  “You okay?” Ben asked.

  I must have looked like I’d gone to another world for a moment. In a sense maybe I had. “It’s just … what are they doing here?”

  Cormac shrugged. “For the conference, like everyone else?”

  “Kitty!” Luis called, waving from across the restaurant’s main room. He and his sister sat at a table in a prime spot with a view of the room and through the window to the street outside. The kind of spot a lycanthrope would pick, to be able to watch the surroundings.

  We went to join them, and I looked over my shoulder at the two women—the two Fae. They had gotten up and were leaving, without a backward glance. Maybe Cormac was right, and they were here to enjoy themselves like everyone else. Their not being human shouldn’t have been anything to get excited about. Plenty of people at the conference weren’t entirely human.

  Luis stood and leaned in to kiss my cheek before I could duck, though the gesture seemed cosmopolitan and harmless, even with the dark look Ben gave me. He and Luis didn’t shake hands. Neither did he and Cormac. The two regarded each other warily.

  Luis presented his companion. “This is my sister, Esperanza.”

  She was short and fiery, with a round face and a spark in her gaze. I recognized the family resemblance in those eyes. She wore jeans and a beaded tunic shirt, and her long dark hair lay braided over one shoulder. She smelled of jaguar, like Luis.

  We made al
l the introductions, shuffled a bit around the table, jockeying for seats as Ben pointedly insinuated himself between me and Luis, which meant I ended up sitting next to Esperanza. Ben may have wanted to make sure I wasn’t sitting next to the charming jaguar, but it meant I was across from him, and he winked at me, dark eyes flashing. Oh dear. I had suddenly forgotten how to flirt. Cormac ended up stuck at the end of the table, probably by design. He could watch us all, and the rest of the restaurant. He’d probably go the whole evening without saying a word.

  “So you’re the wolf with the big bad mouth,” Esperanza said in a quick voice with a lilting accent. I liked her already.

  “That’s me. I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” I said, and we both looked at Luis.

  “I said you’d get along well because you’re both crusaders.”

  “What’s your crusade?” Ben asked her.

  “Loggers think half the jungles in Brazil are haunted, because of me. They can’t get anyone to work in some sections.” She smiled with pride.

  “Any of them sue you yet?”

  She glared. “What are you, a lawyer?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Don’t you dare give anyone that idea,” she said, pointing.

  He held up his hands. “Never.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Esperanza looked at Cormac.

  He hesitated a moment before saying, “I’m a consultant.”

  “In what area?” Luis asked.

  He twitched a smile. “Usually when nobody knows what the hell is going on, they call me.”

  “So can you explain British politics to the rest of us?” Esperanza asked.

  “I have limits,” he said.

  We ordered a bottle of wine; Luis and his sister argued over labels. We ordered food—all of us wanted steaks, rare as the chef would make them, and the server looked at us funny but didn’t say anything. I wondered how many lycanthropes from the conference had eaten here this week. The evening progressed nicely after that as we discussed the conference and whether or not we thought it was accomplishing anything, the protests, and the state of public recognition and acceptance of the supernatural in our respective countries. Regarding the conference, the jury was still out—while it was nice that everyone was getting together and talking with relatively little fur flying, so to speak, we’d have to wait until it was over to see what came out of it. The protests bothered us all but we were relieved that no actual violence had come of it, so far. Recognition of the supernatural—that was a stickier question.