Ricochet Through Time (Echo Trilogy Book 3) (24 page)

I was committed. All in. I was going to hunt down anyone who was even remotely involved in my mom’s death. I was going to interrogate them. Hurt them. Punish them.

Sitting up straighter, I stared at the tablet’s screen and pressed play.

27

Batman & Robin

I plucked the earbuds from my ears and dropped them on the table, then stretched my arms high overhead and arched my back. It was the first time I’d changed my position in hours. A groan, low and guttural, escaped from somewhere deep inside me. I expected some sort of commentary on the noise from Nik.

When none came, I glanced sidelong at the beaded curtain, eyes narrowed. “Yo, Nik!” I called through the doorway to the main part of the shop.

There was no answer. In fact, I couldn’t hear anything other than the usual signs of colorful Capitol Hill life out on the street. No whooshing of breath. No shushing footsteps. I closed my eyes and concentrated. Nothing.

Had he left?

I checked my phone quickly—just a handful of unread texts from Dom, but nothing from Nik—then stood, frowning. It irritated me that he’d left without letting me know. I wouldn’t have used headphones if I’d known I was alone. Anyone could’ve come in here. Anything could’ve happened to me. Not that I thought anyone was after me; it was simply a matter of common courtesy.

And, of course, the definition of
anyone
and
anything
was much more disturbing now that I’d watched the first four video files. They’d been long, two over an hour, and packed full of useful, totally insane information. The things these people could do with their sheuts . . .

Mind. Blown.

I pushed through the beaded curtain, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Nik?” Darkness had fallen outside, making the shadows within the shop murkier and more deceptive. But still, thanks to my heightened eyesight, I could see well enough in the dark.

A quick scan of the area showed no sign of him. But my mom had designed the layout of the shop with hidden nooks and crannies to make customers feel like there was always something new to discover if they just poked around a little longer. Sure, it enabled the occasional shoplifter, but it had been my mom’s theory that the experience—especially the
prolonged
one—would lead to a profit in the long run.

Nik was in the last place I looked—duh—tucked away in one of my mom’s favorites of those hidden nooks.

He was kneeling on the worn hardwood floor in the center of an alcove created by three towering bookcases, their shelves laden with Tarot decks, sets of rune stones, fortune sticks, and a wide variety of books on the myriad forms of divination. It was one of the few places besides the back room and the bathroom that passersby couldn’t see into through the windows. He was sitting on the heels of his black boots, his back to me and his head bowed.

I understood instantly why I hadn’t heard any sign of him, or why he hadn’t heard me calling out to him. A thin sheet of At surrounded Nik, shimmering and iridescent.

I walked into the alcove, sidestepping around his little cocoon until I could see his face. His eyes were closed, his features relaxed. His short black hair was messy, but in that way that looked semi-purposeful and really not all that bad.

I’d never seen him like this, totally unaware, his eyelids shutting away his haunting, too-pale eyes. He looked peaceful. Hell, kneeling and head bowed like that, the soft iridescence of the almost-glowing At surrounding him, he looked damn near angelic—the fallen-angel brand of heavenly creatures, of course. I mean, I could still see the tattoos on his arms and neck, after all.

“Nik?” I knocked on the transparent dome, watching his face closely. “Can you hear me?”

There was no response, not even a twitch. Certainly not his usual smirk.

It dawned on me that this was a crazy-rare opportunity, something I couldn’t possibly pass up. Much as I hated to admit it, Nik was as stunningly beautiful as Marcus, only his personality and generally dickish attitude hid it most of the time. But not when he was like this.

Like this, he was breathtaking.

“Well . . . don’t take this the wrong way or the right way or whatever, but do you mind if I sketch you? Speak now, or forever hold your peace . . .” I held my breath and waited a few seconds, eyes locked on his face. “I’m taking your lack of response as assent. Cool.”

I retrieved my sketchbook and pen from the back room, then rushed back to the alcove. “Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move,” I muttered over and over, like the words might somehow keep him in his apparent trance.

Maybe it worked, because he was still there, exactly as I’d left him.

I tiptoed around his bubble of At and sat on the floor before him, back against a shelf and sketchbook resting on my knee. I studied the lines of his face, his supine posture, the blacks and grays of his ever-fading tattoos. There was so much to see, to study, to capture. Too much.

Like tended to be the case with our kind, Nik was in prime physical condition thanks to a combination of regenerative Nejeret genes and a tireless workout schedule. I often found him with Marcus or Aset in the training room, either just finishing up or just about to start at the beginning or tail ends of my sessions with Dom. I never actually saw him spar with anyone or move through any kind of practice routines, but it seemed like he was always there. At least, all the times that Dom hadn’t blocked out the room to train me.

I sketched Nik’s hands first, palms upturned and fingers curled in relaxation on top of his thighs. I love drawing people’s hands, especially those of people I know. They say so much about a person, and yet it’s so easy to
not
notice them. Are their fingers long or squat? Their knuckles bulbous? Their nails flat or curved? Long or cut short? Manicured? Do they have calluses? Scars? Freckles or moles? Are they veiny? There were so many things to look for, to notice . . . so many tiny differences making each person’s hands unique.

Nik’s hands were sturdy. So very different from Dom’s elegant, long-fingered pianist hands. Nik’s appeared made for a maker, for a craftsman. They were large, but not with bulging knuckles or sausage fingers, and his nails were flat, close-trimmed, and clean. Being a Nejeret, he didn’t have any calluses or scars, but the lines on his palm ran in long, deep grooves, as tended to be the case with the older Nejerets.

I filled two pages with a collage of images of his hands before flipping to a fresh page and raising my eyes to his face. I followed the line of his neck, capturing the supple curve with pen and paper, then his sharp jawline and squared chin. I drew the gentle curve of his bottom lip, finding myself lingering on that lone feature.

The right corner of his mouth tensed, then lifted into that all-too-familiar smirk. “Kitty Kat . . .”

I watched his lips form the sounds, entranced but not able to actually hear his voice through the At. The barrier melted into a wispy, colorful mist that dissipated before it reached me.

“It’s not polite to stare.”

My eyes flashed up to meet his. “I, um . . .” I fumbled my sketchbook closed. “You should be more careful. The Kin might have other people like you and Carson. What if one of them came in here and you were all zoned out and—”

“I knew it was you out there.” His pale eyes twinkled. “You knocked. Said you were going to sketch me . . .”

“But—but you didn’t respond.”

“Because I was finishing up my conversation with Re.”

“Oh.” I chewed on my lip. “Did he say anything . . . about
me
?” I dreaded the answer, but the question had to be asked.

Nik shook his head.

Both disappointed and relieved, I scrambled to my feet, hugging my sketchbook to my chest and sidestepping around the very edge of the alcove. My butt and shoulder blades brushed against the edges of the shelves as I made my way free. “So, um . . .” I alternated between looking at Nik to make sure he stayed in the same place and avoiding eye contact as he tracked my progress.

He watched me, expression bland, bored, even. “Are you finished?”

I froze. “Finished?” I sure as hell wasn’t going to keep staring at him and sketching while he was conscious.

“With the videos?” He shifted so his feet were under him and stood gracefully. Facing me, he raised his eyebrows. “Or are you planning on watching more?”

I shook my head, backing away when he started toward me. “I’m done. For today, I mean.”

“Good.” Nik brushed past me and headed to the checkout counter. He hopped onto the counter with ease and hunched forward, elbows on his thighs. Sometimes he acted so normal—so human—he made it impossible to believe he was over five thousand years old, just a handful of years younger than Marcus and Aset, and far too easy to forget that one of the actual creators of our universe cohabitated with him in his body. “I’m starving. Get your shit together and we’ll grab something to eat.”

I stared at him, owl-like. “Why?”

His right eyebrow twitched, the silver piercing glinting red from the light of the traffic signal outside. “Because I’m hungry . . .”

I opened my mouth to ask why—why was he still here? Why did he want to get food
with me
? But the questions caught in my throat when I realized that I didn’t want him to go away, to leave me alone. I was relieved he was still there. I blamed my sudden change of heart on the disturbing information I’d learned from my mom in those first few videos.

“Oh, um, okay. Cool.” I crossed the shop and headed into the back room. “Just give me a sec.”

A few moments later, I was hoisting the strap of my messenger bag over my head and passing through the beaded curtain. “I just want to grab one thing,” I said, weaving around display tables to the nook in the back corner of the shop where the majority of the books and journals lived. I picked up a distressed leather-bound planner with a dandelion seed head engraved on the cover. It was the kind that had an alphabetized address book section and small binder rings, making it easy to add, remove, and reorganize pages. Perfect for cataloging members of the Kin.

I tucked the leather book into my bag. “Alright,” I said, walking to the door. The sound of Nik’s boots told me he was following. “Where to?”

“Dick’s?”

Grinning, I turned the lock. “I was so hoping you’d say that.” I used to eat at the Seattle staple so often that a burger and fries from Dick’s Drive-In qualified as my main food group. “It’s been
forever
.” I opened the door, letting in the noise of a bustling Friday evening on Broadway, and stepped outside.

“How many videos did you get through?”

“Four,” I said, waiting for him to shut the door. “Four and a half, technically.”

Nik chuckled, the sound making the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

I fit the key into the lock and eyed him over my shoulder.

“Guess you’ll be coming back . . . especially if you want to fill that little hunting book without the others figuring out what you’re up to.”

I froze, head bowed and key turned partway. How did Nik know that was what the dandelion planner was for?

He laughed under his breath, a dry, humorless sound. “Thought so.”

He hadn’t known, but he’d suspected. And I’d just confirmed his suspicions. Carefully, I finished locking the door, then faced him. “I have to do it,” I said, defiant.

Nik nodded to himself. “Sure.”

“Dom knows. He said he’d help me however he can.”

“However he can . . .” Nik sneered.

I crossed my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll never be Dominic l’Aragne’s main priority, Kitty Kat. He’s oath-bound to Heru and Lex. Honor and duty will always come first, with him. You can’t depend on him.”

“I’m not depending on him,” I said. I lied. Cheeks growing hot, I turned away from Nik and strode down the sidewalk toward the intersection. Dom had been the ace up my sleeve.

“You know, self-deceit really is the worst kind of treachery.”

I spun around and stomped back to the storefront, stopping just a few feet from Nik. “Oh, just shut up, would you?”

He shrugged and leaned his shoulder against the broad storefront window.

“The only person I need to depend on is
me
,” I said, poking myself in the chest. “That’s the only person I want to depend on . . . the only person I
can
depend on.”

“Maybe.”

I scoffed, arms crossing over my chest once more. “And what’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“There’s always me . . .”

“You?” My mouth fell open, and I snapped it shut. I snorted a laugh. “Are you kidding me?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Nik pushed off the window and strode past me, toward the intersection that would eventually lead him to glorious, greasy food.

I stared after him, struck dumb and feet cemented in place. It took painfully long seconds for me to be able to respond. “Nik! Wait!” I jogged after him, catching up to him halfway across the crosswalk leading to the west side of Broadway. “Were you serious? Do you really want to help me?”

“Honestly, Kat, I don’t give two shits what happens to you.”

I stopped a couple steps from the curb. A car waiting to turn right honked, and I flashed the driver an equally abrasive hand gesture before leaping onto the sidewalk.