Chapter
4
“SO, WHY HAVEN’T YOU
EVER MARRIED?” SLADE ASKED.
Charlotte sipped
some of the white wine and considered her answer while she watched
Slade arrange the salmon on the outdoor grill. He dealt with the
salmon and the fire the same way he seemed to do everything else:
competently, coolly, with a minimum amount of fuss. Rex, perched on
the porch railing, was watching the activity around the grill with
rapt attention.
“You’re really
interested?” Charlotte said finally.
“Damn curious,”
Slade admitted. “Over the years, whenever I thought about you, I
told myself you’d be married by now.”
“Remember me telling
you that my talent had a few downsides?”
He paused, the metal
spatula in midair, and looked at her. “Fifteen years ago you said
something about having panic attacks when you run hot for any
length of time. Didn’t you outgrow those?”
“Not entirely. I
have much better control now. But I still get them if I get super
jacked for too long.”
He shook his head.
“Definitely a downside. But what does it have to do with the fact
that you’ve never married?”
“It’s complicated.”
She swallowed some more wine. “Let’s just say that, as far as
professional matchmakers are concerned, I’m a difficult
match.”
“So you did go to an
agency?”
“Oh, sure, I went
with the best, at least the best one for a member of the Arcane
Society.”
“Arcanematch?”
“Yes.”
“I take it that
didn’t go well?” he asked.
“I was reminded that
no match is ever one hundred percent guaranteed perfect and that
goes double for strong or extremely unusual talents. Turns out I
fit both categories. Evidently that makes for a para-psych profile
that has too many unknown or unpredictable elements.”
He frowned. “You
told me that your ability was useless for anything except reading
aura rainbows and tuning antiques.”
“That’s all it is
good for. I happen to have a heck of a lot of talent for doing it.”
Time to change the subject, Charlotte thought. “What about you?
Ever try a match-making agency?”
“Remember that
Marriage of Convenience I mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“We met through a
matchmaker. The counselors said we had an eighty-two percent
compatibility rating.”
“Not bad for a
strong talent,” she said.
“But not exactly a
slam dunk, either. Susan and I didn’t want to take any chances. We
decided to try an MC first.”
“Good plan, since it
turned out you two weren’t a great match. What
happened?”
“Things changed,” he
said. “I changed. Let’s just say I no longer fit the profile that I
had registered with the agency.”
“I see.” She didn’t
but it was obvious she wasn’t going to get any more information out
of him. Fair enough. This was a first date, after all. There were
protocols.
For some reason
she’d had a hard time making up her mind about what to wear to
dinner that evening. It should have been a simple decision, given
the venue—a backyard barbeque. Slade’s weather-beaten cabin stood
in a clearing on a tree-studded bluff overlooking a rocky beach and
the dark waters of the Amber Sea. In the near distance a scattering
of islands, some so small they were no more than oversized rocks,
floated in the mist.
The temperature had
been in the mid-eighties all day. It was just now starting to dip
down into the seventies. The sun would not set for another three
hours. Her wardrobe selection should have been a no-brainer. Jeans,
a pullover top, and maybe a sweater to wear when she walked back to
her own cottage later in the evening were the obvious choices. But
she had dithered, rummaging around in her small closet far too long
before choosing jeans, a dark blue pullover, and a sweater to wear
on the way home.
First-date syndrome,
she thought. A woman never outgrew it. She wondered if men had the
same issues. If Slade had agonized over his own attire this
evening, there was no evidence of it. At least he was not wearing
his uniform. That boded well, she thought. He was dressed in jeans,
a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms, and a pair
of low boots. She was pretty sure that he had shaved again, too.
There was no sign of a five-o’clock shadow.
“No such thing as a
hundred percent in anything, I guess,” Slade said. Satisfied that
the salmon was off to a good start, he put the spatula aside and
picked up the bottle of beer on the table. “Are you good on the
wine?”
She glanced at her
half-full glass. “Fine, thanks.” She picked up the glass and took a
small sip. “Something I’ve always wondered.”
He looked at her.
“Yeah?”
“How did things work
out for you at the FBPI?”
Slade lowered
himself onto one of the picnic table benches. “Good, for the most
part. You could say I had a talent for the work.”
“What, exactly, did
you do for the Bureau? I realize you were a special agent, but what
kind of bad guys did you go after?”
He was silent for a
time. Then he started to talk. “Here’s how I work, or how I used to
work. Set me down in the middle of what appears to be the perfect
crime or an old cold case and I can tell you if the perp committed
the crime by paranormal means. I could usually find the evidence,
too. I was so good at it that I eventually wound up working for a
special department within the Bureau. It was known as the
Office.”
“Never heard of
it.”
“Which is exactly
the way the Bureau wants it. The Office exists for the exclusive
purpose of profiling and taking down the worst of the worst, rogue
psychics who use paranormal talent to commit crimes.”
“The Ghost Hunters’
Guild is rumored to have an agency that does something along the
same lines.”
“It does but its
agents work almost exclusively down in the catacombs and the
underground rain forest. The Office handles the aboveground cases.
But in the past few years a solid working relationship has
developed between the two. Some situations require
coordination.”
“Makes sense. Bad
guys who commit crimes on the surface sometimes try to escape into
the Underworld.”
“And vice versa,”
Slade said. “It’s not uncommon for a bad actor who violates the law
underground to try to hide in a city or town where he knows the
Guild can’t easily track him.”
She raised her
brows. “Or apply its own brand of justice if it does find
him.”
Slade smiled his
rare, fleeting smile. “I can see you’re not a great admirer of the
Guilds.”
“They do have a
certain reputation,” she allowed.
“Things are
changing. You should know that. You’re from Frequency. That Guild
had the most notorious reputation of all. It will be different now
that Adam Winters is in charge, trust me.”
“You know Winters?”
she asked.
“We’ve worked
together a few times in the past. Good man.”
“Well, he’s
certainly a local hero back in Frequency, I’ll give you that. If
you can believe even half of the news reports, he and Marlowe Jones
apparently saved the Underworld from certain destruction. Their
wedding will be the biggest social event of the
season.”
“One thing’s for
sure, by marrying into the Jones family, Adam has forever linked
the Guild to Arcane.”
“For better or
worse,” Charlotte said dryly.
“I can see the
Frequency Guild has some public relations work to do, at least in
your case.”
“Yes, it does.” She
lounged back in her chair. “If you liked your work with the FBPI
and this Office you mentioned, why change your career
path?”
He drank some more
beer and got to his feet to check the salmon. “It was time for me
to move on.”
Something bad had
happened, she thought. But she knew she would not get the truth out
of him that evening.
“You mentioned you
had a project going,” she said. “What is it? Or is it a
secret?”
“I’m keeping quiet
about it here on the island.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And
I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything. I don’t want the word
to get out that I’m a short-timer. Bad for morale at the
station.”
“I understand. I
won’t tell anyone. What’s the new career plan?”
“I’m going to set up
a private security consulting business. Hire the talents I need.
I’ve got some connections from my days with the Bureau. Figure
those will help land the first clients.”
“How is the plan
going?”
“Slowly, but it’s
going.” He turned back toward the grill. “The fish will be ready
soon.”
“I’ll get the
salad.”
She went up the
steps. Apparently sensing that dinner was fast approaching, Rex
chortled excitedly at her as she went past him. She opened the
screen door and moved into the small spare front room of the cabin.
It was clear immediately that Slade was making no attempt to turn
the place into a home. Everything was neat and orderly. That did
not come as a surprise. But aside from the computer on the desk,
there was almost nothing of Slade in the room. He was treating the
place like the short-term rental he obviously intended it to
be.
The cabin was
typical of many of the small rentals on the island. The furniture
was sturdy but battered. The well-worn couch and the pair of
reading chairs set in front of the fireplace looked as if they had
been around for several generations. The two framed pictures on the
wall were faded generic landscapes of Amber Island scenes that had
probably been in the house as long as the furniture. There was a
bedroom and bath but the cabin also boasted a sleeping loft in the
high-ceilinged front room designed to accommodate additional
guests. The loft overlooked the main room and was accessed by a
narrow wooden staircase.
She crossed the old
braided rug and went into a vintage kitchen. Opening the elderly
refrigerator, she took out the bowl that contained the cucumber,
tomato, olive, and basil salad she had brought with her. She poured
the dressing that she had made earlier over the salad and tossed
everything together. When she was ready she picked up the bowl of
salad and the loaf of zucchini bread she had brought and went back
outside. The sun was sinking fast. The evening was growing cooler.
By the time she left she would need the sweater, she
thought.
“Devin Reed stopped
in to see me today,” she said. She set the salad and the bread on
the picnic table. “I assume that was your doing?”
“I may have given
him a push in that direction. I figured out he was the most likely
suspect.” Slade eased the fish onto a platter. “Devin just turned
thirteen. He is obviously coming into a talent of some kind. He’s
attracted to the energy in the shop. But I’m sure he didn’t steal
anything.”
“I gave him one of
the antiques.”
“Yeah?”
“An old Damian
Cavalon compass.”
“An
original?”
“Yes.”
Slade whistled.
“Nice gift. Was he thrilled?”
“He seemed pleased.
I did a little tuning work on the compass. It suits him
now.”
“The way that
pocketknife you gave me suits me?”
She shrugged. “It’s
what I do. Speaking of young Devin, I’ve noticed that he hangs
around you every chance he gets. Looks like he even managed to find
a pair of sunglasses that looks exactly like yours.”
“I talked to him
today about what’s happening to him.”
“The development of
his talent?”
“Right.” Slade sat
down on the opposite side of the table. “He doesn’t have any idea
of what’s going on and he’s afraid to talk to his grandmother for
fear she’ll think he’s got mental health issues.”
“It’s a reasonable
concern. He wouldn’t be the first kid to get sent to a shrink after
coming into a nonstandard, non-amber-related talent. What kind of
ability do you think he has?”
“Not sure,” Slade
said. “It’s still unfocused.”
“He lost his mother
a few months ago. That kind of trauma can delay or even totally
screw up developing senses.”
“He’s a good kid but
he’s caught some bad breaks.”
“I understand that
there’s no father in the picture.”
“No,” Slade said.
“The kid’s got his grandmother but that’s it.”
“Myrna isn’t going
to have an easy time of it. It’s hard enough to raise a teenage boy
alone. Trying to deal with one who is showing some serious talent
will be even more complicated.”
“Especially if the
person doing the raising isn’t comfortable with the concept of
nonstandard talent, herself,” Slade said.
“Who is, unless you
happen to be Arcane? And even within the Society, very strong
talents tend to make other sensitives nervous.”
“That’s the thing
about power of any kind,” Slade said. “It can be scary. I told
Devin that what was happening to him was normal but that most
people wouldn’t think so. I advised him to keep quiet about his new
senses until he’s older and until he’s figured out how to control
them.”
“Good advice.
Meanwhile, he needs guidance. No matter how you label it, what he
did last night certainly fits the definition of illegal
entry.”
“It won’t happen
again.”
“A kid like Devin
could go either way,” Charlotte said.
“I
know.”
“Sounds like you
speak from personal experience.”
“I do.”