The Sign of Seven Trilogy (18 page)

“Twenty-one years.” Cal pushed up to pace. “This July makes twenty-one years.”

“Three, like seven, is considered a magickal number. It sounds like she was telling you it was always going to come now, this July, this year. It's stronger, you're stronger, they're stronger.” Quinn squeezed her eyes shut.

“So, it and this woman—this spirit—have both been able to…”

“Manifest.” Quinn finished Layla's thought. “That follows the logic.”

“Nothing about this is logical.”

“It is, really.” Opening her eyes again, Quinn gave Layla a sympathetic look. “Inside this sphere, there's logic. It's just not the kind we deal with, or most of us deal with, every day. The past, the now, the yet to be. Things that happened, that are happening, and that will or may are all part of the solution, the way to end it.”

“I think there's more to that part.” Cal turned back from the window. “After that night in the clearing, the three of us were different.”

“You don't get sick, and you heal almost as soon as you're hurt. Quinn told me.”

“Yeah. And I could see.”

“Without your glasses.”

“I could also see before. I started—right there minutes afterward—to have flashes of the past.”

“The way you did—both of us did,” Quinn corrected, “when we touched the stone together. And later, when we—”

“Like that, not always that clear, not always so intense. Sometimes awake, sometimes like a dream. Sometimes completely irrelevant. And Fox…It took him a while to understand. Jesus, we were ten. He can see now.” Annoyed with himself, Cal shook his head. “He can see, or sense what you're thinking, or feeling.”

“Fox is psychic?” Layla demanded.

“Psychic lawyer. He's so hired.”

Despite everything, Quinn's announcement made Cal's lips twitch. “Not like that, not exactly. It's never been something we can completely control. Fox has to deliberately push it, and it doesn't always work then. But since then he has an instinct about people. And Gage—”

“He sees what could happen,” Quinn added. “He's the soothsayer.”

“It's hardest for him. That's why—one of the reasons why—he doesn't spend much time here. It's harder here. He's had some pretty damn vicious dreams, visions, nightmares, whatever the hell you want to call them.”

And it hurts you when he hurts, Quinn thought. “But he hasn't seen what you're meant to do?”

“No. That would be too easy, wouldn't it?” Cal said bitterly. “Has to be more fun to mess up the lives of three kids, to let innocent people die or kill and maim each other. Stretch that out for a couple of decades, then say: Okay, boys, now's the time.”

“Maybe there was no choice.” Quinn held up a hand when Cal's eyes fired. “I'm not saying it's fair. In fact, it sucks. Inside and out, it sucks. I'm saying maybe it couldn't be another way. Whether it was something Giles Dent did, or something set in motion centuries before that, there may have been no other choice. She said he was holding it, that he was preventing it from destroying the Hollow. If it was Ann, and she meant Giles Dent, does that mean he trapped this thing, this
bestia
, and in some form—
beatus
—has been trapped with it, battling it, all this time? Three hundred and fifty years and change. That sucks, too.”

Layla jumped at the brisk knock on the door, then popped up. “I'll get it. Maybe it's the delivery.”

“You're not wrong,” Cal said quietly. “But it doesn't make it easier to live through it. It doesn't make it easier to know, in my gut, that we're coming up to our last chance.”

Quinn got to her feet. “I wish—”

“It's flowers!” Layla's voice was giddy with delight as she came in carrying the vase of tulips. “For you, Quinn.”

“Jesus, talk about weird timing,” Cal muttered.

“For me? Oh God, they look like lollipop cups. They're gorgeous!” Quinn set them on the ancient coffee table. “Must be a bribe from my editor so I'll finish that article on—” She broke off as she ripped open the card. Her face was blank with shock as she lifted her eyes to Cal. “You sent me flowers?”

“I was in the florist before—”

“You sent me flowers on Valentine's Day.”

“I hear my mother calling,” Layla announced. “Coming, Mom!” She made a fast exit.

“You sent me tulips that look like blooming candy canes on Valentine's Day.”

“They looked like fun.”

“That's what you wrote on the card. ‘These look like fun.' Wow.” She scooped a hand through her hair. “I have to say that I'm a sensible woman, who knows very well Valentine's Day is a commercially generated holiday designed to sell greeting cards, flowers, and candy.”

“Yeah, well.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Works.”

“And I'm not the type of woman who goes all mushy and gooey over flowers, or sees them as an apology for an argument, a prelude to sex, or any of the other oft-perceived uses.”

“I just saw them, thought you'd get a kick out of them. Period. I've got to get to work.”

“But,” she continued and moved toward him, “strangely, I find none of that applies in the least in this particular case. They are fun.” She rose up on her toes, kissed his cheek. “And they're beautiful.” Then his other cheek. “And thoughtful.” Now his lips. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'd like to add that…” She trailed her hands down his shirt, up again. “If you'll tell me what time you finish up tonight, I'll have a bottle of wine waiting in my bedroom upstairs, where I can promise you, you're going to get really, really lucky.”

“Eleven,” he said immediately. “I can be here at eleven-oh-five. I—Oh shit. Sweetheart Dance, that's midnight. Special event. No problem. You'll come.”

“That's my plan.” When he grinned, she rolled her eyes. “You mean to this dance. At the Bowl-a-Rama. A Sweetheart Dance at the Bowl-a-Rama. God, I'd
love
that. But, I can't leave Layla here, not at night. Not alone.”

“She can come, too—to the dance.”

Now her eyeroll was absolutely sincere. “Cal, no woman wants to tag along with a couple to a dance on Valentine's Day. It paints a big
L
for loser in the middle of her forehead, and they're so damn hard to wash off.”

“Fox can take her. Probably. I'll check.”

“That's a possibility, especially if we make it all for fun. You check, then I'll check, then we'll see. But either way.” She grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and this time brought him to her for a long, long kiss. “My bedroom, twelve-oh-five.”

 

L
AYLA SAT ON HER BRAND-NEW DISCOUNT MATTRESS
while Quinn busily checked out the clothes she'd recently hung in her closet.

“Quinn, I appreciate the thought, I really do, but put yourself in my place. The third-wheel position.”

“It's perfectly acceptable to be the third wheel when there're four wheels altogether. Fox is going.”

“Because Cal asked him to take pity on the poor dateless V-Day loser. Probably told him or bribed him or—”

“You're right. Fox certainly had to have his arm twisted to go out with such an ugly hag like yourself. I admit every time I look at you, I'm tempted to go: woof, woof, what a dog. Besides…Oh, I love this jacket! You have the best clothes. But this jacket is seriously awesome. Mmm.” Quinn stroked it like a cat. “Cashmere.”

“I don't know why I packed it. I don't know why I packed half the stuff I did. I just started grabbing things. And you're trying to distract me.”

“Not really, but it's a nice side benefit. What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Besides, it's not a date. It's a gang bang,” she said and made Layla laugh. “It's just the four of us going to a bowling alley, for God's sake, to hear some local band play and dance a little.”

“Sure. After which, you'll be hanging a scarf over the doorknob of your bedroom. I went to college, Quinn. I had a roommate. Actually, I had a nympho of a roommate who had an endless supply of scarves.”

“Is it a problem?” Quinn stopped poking in the closet long enough to look over her shoulder. “Cal and me, across the hall?”

“No. No.” And now didn't she feel stupid and petty? “I think it's great. Really, I do. Anybody can tell the two of you rev like engines when you're within three feet of each other.”

“They can?” Quinn turned all the way around now. “We do.”

“
Vroom, vroom.
He's great, it's great. I just feel…” Layla rolled her shoulders broadly. “In the way.”

“You're not. I couldn't stay here without you. I'm pretty steady, but I couldn't stay in this house alone. The dance isn't a big deal. We don't have to go, but I think it'd be fun, for all of us. And a chance to do something absolutely normal to take our minds off everything that isn't.”

“That's a good point.”

“So get dressed. Put on something fun, maybe a little sexy, and let's hit the Bowl-a-Rama.”

 

T
HE BAND, A LOCAL GROUP NAMED HOLLOWED
Out, was into its first set. They were popular at weddings and corporate functions, and regularly booked at the center's events because their playlist ran the gamut from old standards to hip-hop. The something-for-everybody kept the dance floor lively while those sitting one out could chat at one of the tables circling the room, sip drinks, or nibble from the light buffet set up along one of the side walls.

Cal figured it was one of the center's most popular annual events for good reason. His mother headed up the decorating committee, so there were flowers and candles, red and white streamers, glittering red hearts. It gave people a chance to get a little dressed up in the dullness that was February, get out and socialize, hear some music, show off their moves if they had them. Or like Cy Hudson, even if they didn't.

It was a little bright spot toward the end of a long winter, and they never failed to have a full house.

Cal danced with Essie to “Fly Me to the Moon.”

“Your mother was right to make you take those dance lessons.”

“I was humiliated among my peers,” Cal said. “But light on my feet.”

“Women tend to lose their heads over a good dancer.”

“A fact I've exploited whenever possible.” He smiled down at her. “You look so pretty, Gran.”

“I look dignified. Now, there was a day when I turned plenty of heads.”

“You still turn mine.”

“And you're still the sweetest of my sweethearts. When are you going to bring that pretty writer to see me?”

“Soon, if that's what you want.”

“It feels like time. I don't know why. And speaking of—” She nodded toward the open double doors. “Those two turn heads.”

He looked. He noticed Layla, in that she was there. But his focus was all for Quinn. She'd wound that mass of blond hair up, a touch of elegance, and wore an open black jacket over some kind of lacey top—camisole, he remembered. They called them camisoles, and God bless whoever invented them.

Things glittered at her ears, at her wrists, but all he could think was she had the sexiest collarbone in the history of collarbones, and he couldn't wait to get his mouth on it.

“You're about to drool, Caleb.”

“What?” He blinked his attention back to Essie. “Oh. Jeez.”

“She does look a picture. You take me on back to my table now and go get her. Bring her and her friend around to say hello before I leave.”

By the time he got to them, Fox had already scooped them up to one of the portable bars and sprung for champagne. Quinn turned to Cal, glass in hand, and pitched her voice over the music. “This is great! The band's hot, the bubbly's cold, and the room looks like a love affair.”

“You were expecting a couple of toothless guys with a washboard and a jug, some hard cider, and a few plastic hearts.”

“No.” She laughed, jabbed him with her finger. “But something between that and this. It's my first bowling alley dance, and I'm impressed. And look! Isn't that His Honor, the mayor, getting down?”

“With his wife's cousin, who is the choir director for the First Methodist Church.”

“Isn't that your assistant, Fox?” Layla gestured to a table.

“Yeah. Fortunately, the guy she's kissing is her husband.”

“They look completely in love.”

“Guess they are. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. They're moving to Minneapolis in a couple months. I wish they'd just take off for a few weeks in July instead of—” He caught himself. “No shop talk tonight. Do you want to scare up a table?”

“Perfect for people-watching,” Quinn agreed, then spun toward the band. “‘In the Mood'!”

“Signature piece for them. Do you swing?” Cal asked her.

“Damn right.” She glanced at him, considered. “Do you?”

“Let's go see what you've got, Blondie.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her out to the dance floor.

Fox watched the spins and footwork. “I absolutely can't do that.”

“Neither can I. Wow.” Layla's eyes widened. “They're really good.”

On the dance floor, Cal set Quinn up for a double spin, whipped her back. “Lessons?”

“Four years. You?”

“Three.” When the song ended and bled into a slow number, he fit Quinn's body to his and blessed his mother. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me, too.” She nuzzled her cheek to his. “Everything feels good tonight. Sweet and shiny. And mmm,” she murmured when he led her into a stylish turn. “Sexy.” Tipping back her head, she smiled at him. “I've completely reversed my cynical take on Valentine's Day. I now consider it the perfect holiday.”