Deceiver's Bond: Book Two of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (31 page)

The drive proved to be more entertaining than usual with Kieran staring out of my car’s passenger window and peppering me with questions about the city in his reserved, formal manner. Although he’d visited on several occasions over the past five decades, he told me he hadn’t stayed long.

At the museum, one of the curatorial assistants escorted us to the large conference room where the production team was gathering. Along the way, Kieran—clad in his designer khakis and body-conscious Rugby shirt—drew sidelong stares from at least six women in practically as many yards. Even two giggly teenage girls, along with their wide-eyed mother, whispered furtively to each other, no doubt discussing Kieran’s striking looks and underwear model physique. After examining Kieran, their gazes inevitably fell to me, walking at his side, and my unmistakable black gloves. I caught snippets of whispered conversation that went something like, “Look there. She’s a … !” and “Wasn’t she the one who … ?”

It was a relief when we arrived at the cavernous conference room where Gina, Randy, Phil, and various other production personnel poured over the day’s schedule. The museum’s Collections Coordinator, whom I’d known for several years, nodded her head and listened while Phil pointed to something on the schedule and asked whether it would be possible to clear one of the display areas of spectators during shooting.

Gina, Phil’s assistant, rushed over as soon as she noticed me. She smiled, and her warm brown eyes scanned me up and down approvingly. “Lire, so nice to see you again. You look great, as usual. Good choice on the blouse. It’ll look terrific on camera.” She shoved the schedule into my gloved hands, casting a curious expression toward Kieran.

“Hi, Gina. I hope you don’t mind me bringing an associate. This is Kieran. He’s sort of acting as my bodyguard.” I shrugged, trying to feign embarrassment, which wasn’t difficult. “Long story, but I’ve had a little difficulty with a stalker, so he’s keeping an eye on me.” I looked up at him. “Kieran, this is Gina. She’s the director’s assistant and location manager for Flint Line Productions. She keeps everything running smoothly and on schedule.”

Over breakfast, I’d told Kieran as much as I could about the television show and why I was doing it, so he had some sense of what was going on. The bodyguard story was essentially the truth, and we couldn’t think of any other compelling reason to explain his company.

He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Gina. I’ve promised Lire to stay out of the way of things. I’ll do my utmost to keep you from noticing my presence.”

She gazed up at Kieran, her mouth affixed with a lazy smile. “Oh … of course, of course. I’m sure that will be fine. Yes … fine.” After a moment, she blinked several times in rapid succession and finally looked back at me, eyes going wide. “Gosh. I’m sorry to hear you’re dealing with some creep. I hope everything’s all right.”

“I’m probably just being overly cautious, but after what happened …” I shrugged.

“Oh, yes. I completely understand. Gosh, yes. You’re being smart, for sure. I’d do the same thing in your shoes.” She contrived a dramatic shiver, causing her nested hoop earrings to issue a soft metallic clatter, before regarding Kieran again. She pressed her well-glossed lips together and tossed her wavy dark-blonde hair behind her right shoulder, drawing attention to her slender neck. “Well then … welcome to the chaos, Kieran. Just sit tight. We’ll be starting soon. We’re fine-tuning the schedule for our guided tour through a few of the collections and maybe a storage room or two after Randy and Lire finish the appraisals.” She tore her gaze away from Kieran to look at me. “You know how everyone loves getting a peek at undiscovered treasures.” She winked at us, aiming most of her brilliant smile at Kieran. “It’s going to be a fantastic episode.”

She admired Kieran for another moment before Phil’s yell grabbed her attention. She gave me a wry glance and muttered, “I live to serve,” before raising her voice and turning toward the group, “Yes, coming! What’s up?”

As she bustled away, I wondered whether Kieran had worked his glamour on her or if it was just his striking looks that made her seem more … flirtatious was too strong a word. Preeny?

I shook my head, dismissing the thought, and then turned to Kieran. “Now, we wait.”

I’d come to learn, ninety-five percent of my time participating in a television show was sitting, or standing, and waiting for my cue. Normally, my excitement at being a part of the production and anticipating the revelations of Randy’s intriguing items made the time pass quickly. This morning, however, Kieran’s presence, along with being away from the safety of my building, had me feeling more than a little anxious.

Before Kieran and I had left my apartment, I spoke briefly to Michael. He’d looked haggard, like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep, but insisted he was fine. I hoped my decision to keep my appointment today didn’t turn out to be another huge mistake. If so many people hadn’t been counting on me to show up, I might have feigned illness. At least with Kieran around, I felt safe, which was probably the only reason Michael didn’t argue with me about it.

I examined the schedule. Randy and I were at the top, starting at 9:45 am and going through noon. There was a lunch break planned between noon and 1:00 pm, followed by two hours of filming with Randy and the Collections Coordinator. Another two hours was allotted to examining two of the many basement storerooms. I wondered what wonderful items they’d found down there to highlight.

After checking the time, I glanced around for somewhere to sit. “Over here,” I said, motioning to Kieran. “It’s going to be at least twenty minutes. They still have to get all the equipment ready.”

I sat in one of three chairs that had been placed against the wall, away from the long rectangular conference table, and crossed my legs. Kieran took the one to my right.

While we waited, he asked, “Do women no longer wear dresses?” He frowned, looking at the cluster of people on the other side of the room. “Or skirts?”

I evaluated the group. The women in the room, Gina, the Collection’s Curator, and another museum employee, all wore either jeans or khakis. Even I had elected to wear a pair of sleek black trousers this morning.

“Sure they do, but I guess pants are a lot more common now than they used to be.” I shrugged. “It depends on what you do for a living. Women who work in a professional setting, like an attorney’s office or something like that, might wear skirts or dresses more often than I do, for example. And then, some of it is just personal preference.”

He eyed me. “You find pants to be more comfortable?”

I chuckled at his bewildered expression. “Well, yeah. Pants protect me better anyway. I’ll wear a skirt on a nice occasion with tights, like out to dinner or to a party or something, but most of the time I just wear jeans or slacks. It’s easier and safer for me.”

Who knew I’d end up discussing fashion with a sidhe on the set of a television show? Life was sure crazy sometimes.

I thought of Maeve. Her gown had made haute couture look second-hand. If that was what she wore for a kidnapping mission, I couldn’t imagine what she’d wear to a formal event. A dress made entirely of diamonds, maybe. “What do the women in the Otherworld usually wear? Gowns like the one Maeve had on?”

He snorted. “No. Maeve is part of the royal class. Most common women wear blouses not much different from the one you’re wearing.” He glanced down at my body, appraising me, before adding, “Except out of a different material and not as … fitted, and usually with a laced vest of some kind. You don’t often see sidhe women wearing pants, although some do, especially if traveling or going to the surface or in armed service.”

“Is it objectionable for a woman to wear pants otherwise?”

“No.” He tilted his head in contemplation. “Perhaps it is more that sidhe men don’t prefer them to.”

Boy, I was running a twofer, today, wasn’t I? Wearing pants and a too-tight commoner’s shirt, without a vest no less. I tried not to sigh.

“And what about the men?” I asked. “Do they wear leather tunics and leggings, like what you had on yesterday?”

“More or less. Those in the upper classes typically wear robes.”

“Ah. Does that mean you’re not part of the upper class or royalty, like Maeve?”

He frowned at the floor for a moment before admitting, “My position is … somewhat complicated.”

When he didn’t elaborate, I examined him. He had leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, expression somewhat stony. Keeping his gaze averted, he said, “That man—the very short one in the black tennis shirt. He’s been ogling you for the past few minutes. Is this something that bothers you?”

I glanced over. The two camera operators were both checking the settings on their equipment while nodding and talking to the sound guy. One of Gina’s assistants, who wore white gloves, hunched over a rolling cart and rearranged several of the items Randy and I would be examining for the episode. Near the door, Gina stood with Randy, who was sporting his signature black polo shirt and black jeans. At just over five-and-a-half feet, he was definitely on the short side, although, with his Bowflex body and outgoing personality, I tended not to think of him that way.

“It’s fine. That’s Randy. He’s half of the team of brothers who are the principals of the show. They own and run the pawnshop I was telling you about. He and Gina are probably talking about the items I’ll be reading for the episode. Nothing to worry about.”

The door opened, and Phil, the show’s director, came back into the room. He gave Gina a nod and strode over to where Kieran and I were sitting. I stood to greet him. Kieran joined me.

He raised his eyebrows, while his widely-set, gray eyes studied me. “Morning, Lire. Nice to see you again.”

“Hi, Phil. Good to see you too.” When his gaze shifted to Kieran, I introduced them. It was difficult to keep from ducking my shoulders at labeling Kieran as my bodyguard. I’d be glad when this job was over and we could go back home.

After they shook hands, Phil said to me, folding his arms and leaning back on his heels, “Sorry to hear you’re having troubles. A stalker, Gina tells me. Is this because of your time on the show, do you think? Or the murder thing?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe both.”

Although Phil’s demeanor was amiable enough, his apology didn’t fool me. He wasn’t the least bit sorry to hear I had a stalker. In fact, he probably hoped I’d make it into the news again to build up additional hype for his show. Maybe I was being unfair, but I’d never gotten a good feeling from Phil. He was blunt and exacting, and his calculating stare kept me on edge. Also, his unmoving helmet of gray hair got on my nerves. It was impossible to trust a man who never seemed to have a hair out of place.

He nodded at my response. “Well, we’re glad you made it through your recent ordeal and agreed to work with us again. Randy is excited, as always, for you to examine his recent finds.” He turned and raised his voice, “Ladies, gentlemen, let’s get it going.”

In short order, the sound guy wired me up and then Randy and I greeted each other as though I’d just arrived, for benefit of the cameras. Afterward, I sat across from him at the conference table to begin examining the items for the show. I’d just learned at least two were from the museum’s own collection, which explained why one of the curators sat behind Gina and watched us with rapt attention.

I had a feeling the first item didn’t belong to the museum, though. From under the table, Randy pulled out a beat up black guitar case and placed it on the table between us.

“This came into the shop, a couple of weeks ago,” he said as he unlatched the chrome buckles that secured the case. “And whenever one of these babies crosses my counter, I jump on it if the price is right, because … well, you never know. This one, though, has more potential than most. I’m not going to give it away, but I’ll be honest, we’re all dying to know what you can tell us.”

Randy always played things close to the vest with me, for the benefit of the show, but I think he also got a charge out of surprising people. Of course, he knew the rules—no body parts, no deathbed items, no weapons of torture. Guns, swords, and knives were negotiable. So far, he hadn’t come up with anything I’d refused to read.

With gloved hands, Randy opened the case. Inside was a modest white electric guitar. He drew it out of the worn velvety interior and placed it, lengthwise, in front of me. To my untrained eye, the body possessed a more conservative shape compared to some of the more jagged, aggressively styled electric guitars I’d seen in music videos. Black double pinstripes followed the body’s edge, outlining its humble contour. The guitar’s neck appeared to be crafted from mahogany and all of its strings were missing.

I don’t think I’d ever seen Randy look so expectant. I’d watched enough episodes of the show to know he had a predilection for acquiring vintage guitars and some of them, like the ones produced by Gibson in the late 50’s, were highly valuable, but this was the extent of my knowledge on the subject.

I removed my gloves, happy my blouse’s wide cuffs hid the scars on my wrists. If Phil knew about them, he’d probably halt filming just to push up my sleeves. During the filming of my first episode last year, the schmuck had told me he was thrilled I’d never removed the government’s tattoos even though the tracking policy had been ruled unconstitutional years ago. Since the stark blue designs on each thumb marked me as a clairvoyant, they ‘added drama’ to my readings. As if that’s why I’d never had them taken care of. It was one of the many times I’d wanted to strangle him.

“Right,” I said decisively, “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Grasping the guitar’s neck in my right hand and running my fingers over the body with my left, I closed my eyes and allowed the object’s essence to spiral into my mind. I dove in at the stream’s beginning and sifted through the memories of the instrument’s builders, music store employees, and various customers, until I found myself inside the mind of a sixteen-year-old boy. In an instant I remembered …

 … holding my new, gleaming guitar, an honest-to-fucking-God real guitar … caressing it … restringing it … tuning it … experimenting … calling Carmen, unable to contain my excitement, telling her, showing her … plugging in for the first time … for now just playing bass parts but that’s okay … constantly listening, tuning, plucking, stroking … Ulysses showing me new licks … nervousness tying my insides into knots, playing at Birdland for the first time … so many people looking at me, watching me … taking over lead guitar …