Eye of the Storm (4 page)

Maybe Alicia Fairstone planned it that way? The heiress certainly craved the adoration of the public and her own social group. Would she go so far to stage a publicity coup?

Surely not. But she liked the prospect of seeing Alicia Fairstone jailed for arson and maybe insurance fraud. Cassie stood before a small, delicately brushed Renoir, considering. It was difficult to feel so angry when faced with such beauty.

What had the arsonist felt as he looked upon
Steadfast
? Why hadn’t he felt the beauty of Drake’s creation? What had fueled the rage that led to his act of destruction?

She gave her statement to one of the police officers ensconced in the gallery’s employee lounge. Detectives from Major Crimes and the Arson squads were using the more lavish executive offices upstairs to interview Pittsburgh’s rich and famous.

Drake wouldn’t leave the crime scene until he was certain every last detail had been extracted from it—even if officially this wasn’t his case. She ducked into the ladies’ room, thinking she’d find a little peace and quiet there.

Wrong. Women glittering with jewels thronged the mirrored counters, adjusting their makeup and hair as they recounted the excitement of tonight’s events. Cassie listened from the doorway as the tales of heroics and danger grew more and more preposterous. To hear them tell it, they or their brave husbands had each put out the fire with their bare hands.

“That Tony Marinelli from Channel Four is just so cute,” one taut-faced brunette crooned as she wiggled her cleavage into a more enticing position. “The police made all the reporters move across the street, but he promised an exclusive interview—said he’d wait for me.”

“Honey, that’s what he told us all,” one of her companions replied as she elbowed for mirror room. “They’ll film us then pick and choose the best sound bite.”

“Can you believe Alicia’s luck?” another voice pitched in. “First, finding those spectacular paintings and then—”

“Hosting an equally spectacular viewing,” a world-wise blonde finished for her. She licked her lips and checked her profile. “I heard the artist is the hunky piece of work in the dinner jacket. Talk about spectacular.” She slid her hands down, smoothing her dress over her hips.

“I heard he’s actually a cop.” The first woman giggled. “He can come investigate me anytime.”

“Only if he promises a strip search.”

Cassie listened to the banter as more women joined them, crowding the lavish facilities. Finally, she jostled to a space in front of a sink and washed her hands and face. The water soon ran black with soot. Silence settled over the room.

A dozen or so eyes stared at her, raking over her dirty appearance and the scorched patches that marred her dress. Abrasions covered her arms and shins from when she tackled Drake. And she’d lost her shoes—at least something good had come from the night.

“And what did you think of tonight’s unveiling?” the bitch blonde asked her, hands on her hips. “Don’t suppose you and your friend the artist set it up in order to generate commissions, rev up some word of mouth?” The crowd parted as if for a western style gunfight. The blonde stood by the toilet stalls, hands on her hips, ready to draw.

Cassie’s lips twisted into a half-smile as she regarded the blonde in the mirror. The towels were all gone, so she shook the water from her face and hands, marring the pristine surface of the mirror and marble topped vanity. And not caring.

Never start a fight, the voice of her grandfather Padraic Hart came to her. But if one comes your way, always, always finish it.

Cassie took a deep breath. It would be too damned easy—almost like picking on a senior citizen, she thought, noticing the wrinkles that even skilled cosmetic application and Botox couldn’t hide. And it might cost Drake in the long run.

That reined her in. Used to be she’d let her temper flare, getting the best of her before she’d think twice about it. But that was before she’d met Drake.

Instead, Cassie merely smiled and borrowed a line she’d been dying to use for years. “You talking to me?” she drawled, arching an eyebrow and speaking to the woman’s reflection in the mirror.

Before the blonde could answer, Cassie turned and walked away, her bare feet leaving small footprints on the Italian marble.

The door closed behind her and she leaned against the wall, giddy with triumph. She never knew that walking away from a fight could feel almost as good as winning one outright. She’d have to remember that. Hell, maybe she was finally outgrowing her temper. It was about time.

She looked up and was surprised to see she wasn’t alone in the corridor. A trim, medium-height, gray-haired man lounged against the opposite wall, regarding her with a knowing gleam in his eyes. He appeared to be in his late-sixties, but his eyes were much, much older. His gaze moved slowly from her head to toes, dark hazel eyes drinking in everything with a voracity that brought a flush to Cassie’s face.

She turned to leave, but he moved faster than she guessed he could, reaching a hand to take her left arm. The touch of his skin on hers jolted through the sensitive flesh of her scar and she whirled, yanking her arm from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” he purred in a vaguely European accent. He gestured with his other hand, holding a thick and expensive-looking cigar. “I wondered if smoking was permitted?” His inflection emphasized the question but his gaze held hers with an intensity that made Cassie certain the query wasn’t foremost on his mind.

“No, I don’t think it is.” She took a step away but a shiver on the back of her neck warned her against turning her back on him or running. He grinned like a wolf and pocketed the cigar with regret.

“Ah, dear.” He sighed dramatically. She continued to edge away, but he moved toward her with a predator’s grace. “You were the angel, no?” he asked, his accent thickening, making Cassie certain he was dramatizing it. “In the beautiful paintings.”

She nodded, acknowledging the clench of fear his presence brought to her gut, but refusing to yield to it. Or him.

“And you are?” she asked, trying for the offensive.

He waved off her question as irrelevant. “An admirer. My what a beautiful ring.” His fingers lifted her left hand, his thumb stroking her sapphire engagement ring. Cassie felt thick callouses across his palm and noticed he had a strange-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. Smaller, straighter than any of her scars, dagger shaped—too regular for an accidental laceration, she thought as she stared with a clinician’s eye. Not surgical either.

A brand? She glanced up and saw he had noted her reaction. She tugged her hand away from his.

“Thank you,” she murmured, listening for any other people. All those giddy society matrons in the restroom and not one of them done yet? But the corridor remained stubbornly empty.

Except for Cassie and the wolf-man in front of her. His eyes narrowed and his grin widened as if he read her thoughts. Cassie’s weight shifted automatically into a fighting stance and it was all she could do to keep from balling her hands into fists.

“Give Drake my congratulations on your upcoming wedding,” the man drawled, his accent mysteriously vanished. He allowed Cassie to back away, remaining in the shadows while she moved toward the lights near the entrance to the restroom. “And my condolences.”

With that, he was gone. How did he know Drake? she wondered, but the knot of fear and prickling on the back of her neck convinced her that following him into the shadows would be a mistake.

A big mistake.

She shook her head as the door to the ladies’ room opened, disgorging a bevy of jewel-studded women who swarmed around Cassie as she stared at the spot where the man had disappeared.

She allowed the tide of women to carry her to the main entrance. They collected their various spouses and companions and chattered their way through the door and across the street to the restaurant where the TV crews and fifteen minutes of fame awaited.

The coat check staff had already been sent home, leaving all the outerwear on racks, but it was easy to find Cassie’s wool coat Drake had bought her after she’d fallen in love with the rich, scarlet color. She grabbed it and rushed out into the night air, hanging the coat over her shoulders like a cape, leaving her arms free. She stopped—where was she going? Nowhere without Drake, but she couldn’t stand going back inside, breathing any more of the perfumed air that couldn’t mask the stench of ashes.

Other patrons streamed past, a few with sidelong glances in her direction. Ignoring them, she sat down on the steps to the museum, hoping to clear her thoughts.

Should she tell Drake about the man’s threat? Except they weren’t really threats, were they? Not even insinuations. No. He’d be certain to overreact, want to do something like send her to Antarctica to keep her safe, argue that they were better off separated until any threat was past. Maybe even want to postpone their wedding.

Who was that man? She’d seen that mark on his wrist before—no, no, she’d heard about it. From Gram Rosa. A dagger branded onto the inside of the wrist, the mark of the Lowara. The gypsy clan who had betrayed Rosa and her family to the Nazis back in 1936.

The man wasn’t old enough to be a part of that. But on a night like this, artwork targeted, burned for no reason, lives placed at risk, she wondered if somehow the past had pierced the veil of time to target the present.

THE BOY WATCHED
the dark-haired woman sitting on the steps without shoes, her coat not even buttoned, yet impervious to the cold. She wasn’t like the others, not with the proud carriage to her spine, the way she held her head high. Obviously not a rube. More like a lioness on the prowl. He should ignore her, concentrate on finding another mark before Natasha got angry that he wasn’t bringing in his fair share of the night’s bounty.

Rich people draped in fur dribbled out the museum doors and down the steps in pairs. They all studiously ignored the woman in the dark, flowing dress, her skin glowing like moonlight. Just as Vincent should have.

Natasha would have his hide for allowing so many potential targets pass by. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The woman was just another
gaje
; what made her so special anyway? She didn’t have any of the sparkling jewelry or soft furs of the other women who exited the gala. Plus, she was alone, which should have made her especially vulnerable.

Instead, her aloneness seemed to empower her, as if she possessed the strength to create her own reality and carry it with her, surround herself with herself, shutting out the ugly reality of the world beyond.

Vincent was irresistibly drawn to that power, wanted to learn it for himself. He took a step toward the woman, was half-way to her before he realized his mistake. His attraction had alerted the others. Suddenly, Natasha appeared before the woman as if conjured from the dark night.

Conjured forth from hell was more like it, the boy thought, trying to hurry without appearing concerned as the old woman took his lady’s hands into hers.

Natasha pulled his lady to her feet. His lady was short enough that even though she stood on a step higher than Natasha’s, they stood eye to eye.

Vincent arrived at her side, breathless with anticipation and fear as Natasha brought one of his lady’s hands to her heart, pulling his lady close as the others gathered silently behind her.

“Let me offer my services. I can glimpse into the shadows of your future,” Natasha crooned, swaying hypnotically, pulling his lady with her.

This was their cue and the others to begin to lightly race their fingers over the woman’s body, searching every nook and crevice of her clothing for valuables. Usually the mark had his eyes closed by now and felt the children’s light touch as palpable manifestations of Natasha’s psychic powers. Natasha’s banter was designed to encourage this as well.

“The spirits hover all around you,” she intoned, pulling the woman back and forth, the better to access inner pockets and purses.

To Vincent’s astonishment his lady—he knew she was no mark—merely laughed, shrugging off the searching hands.

“I don’t have anything,” she said, her voice clear and without anger. He’d never heard a
gaje
speak like that, especially not one who caught them in their act of larceny.

Natasha started, her face filling with anger, eyes blazing into his lady’s. His lady merely smiled, cementing forever her place in Vincent’s heart. No one could stand up to Natasha, at least no one that he knew. Not even Nickolai, the Royal, the leader of their little family.

The others stepped back into the shadows, the better to retreat and flee. But Vincent continued forward, circling to stand close by his lady, as if a twelve-year-old boy could offer her any protection from Natasha’s wrath.

His lady’s eyes gave her away—wide, dark eyes that looked into Natasha’s without flinching. The eyes of a Rom, deep, challenging, refusing to yield.

She shifted her weight slightly and he saw with amazement that it was she who now held Natasha’s hands. She lifted the witch’s left palm to her breast, resting it over her heart, pinning it there despite the older woman’s desperate squirming. Then she rotated Natasha’s right hand palm up.

“Perhaps I should read your future,” she suggested.

Natasha tried and failed to pull away. “
Marhime gaje
!” the curse emerged in a shrill, choked voice that was very much unlike Natasha’s usual barks of commands. “Who are you?” the witch snarled.

“My name isn’t important. My grandmother was Rosa Costello of the Kalderasha.”

Natasha froze. “That’s impossible.”

Vincent stared up at the two, mesmerized by the contest of wills. Sparks of power seemed to fill the night around them and he felt a chill settle over his body.

They’re just fireflies, he told himself. But fireflies had never scared him so much that his entire body trembled. And how to explain fireflies appearing in the midst of a Pittsburgh December?

Vincent wasn’t afraid of anything, he told himself, forcing his body to stand straight and tall. None of the family were.