The Skeleton Key (17 page)

Vlad dropped me off on Park Avenue at ten past seven, and as if reading my mind, he drove away before the door was answered, so as not to frighten anyone (axe or not).

Beneath my coat I wore a vintage, off-white dress my great-aunt had helped me choose for the date. It had a demure crossover neckline and long sleeves, and was cinched at the waist with a thin red belt, to match the ruby shoes on my feet. Celia said it used to be one of Ingrid Bergman's favourites, and it had the tailored, slightly padded shoulders of the classic 1940s designs she favoured. The sleeves, which were loose and closed at the wrist with three neat buttons, covered the scrapes and darkening bruises on my forearms. I had tucked the strap on my satchel inside it and was holding it like an oversized clutch hoping it looked okay. What I was wearing was what they called ‘smart casual', so if we ended up somewhere fancy I figured I wouldn't look underdressed. (I'd been worried a bit about such things since the party on Saturday night.)

I took a breath and knocked on the door, and in seconds Jay Rockwell answered, wearing jeans with a smart collared shirt and leather shoes. He must have heard the car. He wore a dash of cologne as well, I noticed – the same scent he'd worn at the party – the party he and his father had thrown for New York's A-list. (I still couldn't believe I'd spent hours here without even realising it was Rockwell Mansion. Had Pepper purposely kept that information from me? She hadn't put him on the list of people to photograph, which in hindsight seemed odd. Or perhaps she'd assumed I would know?)

‘Good evening,' Jay said, and flashed his handsome smile at me. ‘You look wonderful.'

And so do you
, I thought, gazing back and trying not to grin like an idiot. ‘It's good to see you. Sorry I'm late.'

‘Not at all. Did you park nearby?' he asked.

‘I took a . . . car,' I said.

‘Would you like to come inside? Our reservation is for seven thirty but we still have a few minutes.'

‘Sure. Thanks,' I said, and stepped inside Rockwell Mansion as he held the door open.

The grand mansion felt very different without the bustling crowd, the live jazz music and the flash of cameras. It was very quiet and even though the furniture in that magnificent main room was back in place, arranged elegantly, there was something lonely about the impressive space.

‘Have you lived here for a long time?' I asked, following Jay across the huge Persian rug to a bar cabinet near the curved staircase. He had two champagne glasses set out, I noticed uneasily.

‘I grew up here, and I moved back recently,' he explained.

‘Oh?'

‘I sold my apartment in midtown late last year,' he explained, and though he could have been living alone I immediately wondered who he'd been living with. Something told me it was an ex-girlfriend, or even a fiancée. Perhaps if I knew more about the New York social scene I wouldn't be wondering. It didn't seem like my business, or polite to ask, either, so I didn't press.

Jay pulled a bottle of chilled Veuve Cliquot from a silver ice bucket and I wrestled for a moment with what to do.

‘Um, I don't drink, actually,' I said, intervening just before he popped the cork. ‘But you go ahead if you like,' I added, though I knew people didn't drink champagne alone, as a general rule. We'd been through this before on our first date when he'd ordered wine. At nineteen I wasn't of legal drinking age. If we took a trip across the border into Canada, things would be different, though a night like this – a first date and an already eventful Friday the thirteenth (how had Celia known?) – didn't seem like a good moment to try alcohol for the first time, regardless of the law. Jay was six years older, old enough to drink what he wanted.

‘Oh, of course,' Jay said, recovering smoothly. ‘What can I offer you?'

‘I'm fine, really,' I said, feeling a bit dull despite having just stopped a plummeting elevator with the power of my mind, an hour earlier.

Jay poured us both sodas with a squeeze of fresh lime and after a few minutes it was time to go. He pulled on his beautiful leather jacket and we left the mansion together, and when he opened the door his silver Ferrari was impossible to miss, now waiting at the kerb. The butler must have brought it round for us, I thought. This might have dazzled me a little had I not already been familiar with his car, and had I not myself had a stoically unbreathing chauffeur waiting for me while I'd got ready for this date. After the door opened upwards like a space pod, I slid quickly into the low, leather seat, careful not to flash the passersby on the footpath. The door came down and shut me in.

The drive was pleasant, as was the intoxicatingly normal small talk. And Little Italy was just as I remembered it. The streets were filled with glowing fairy lights and decorated with little Italian flags, restaurants nestled side by side, with patrons spilling out onto cobblestone streets to enjoy the turn of the weather – albeit still under heat lamps. Jay pulled up at the kerb and turned off the ignition, and it was then I realised we were right outside the same restaurant we'd dined at before.

It was like deja vu, and only I knew it had actually happened.

Jay hopped out and was waiting for me when the Ferrari's space-aged door went up on my side. I held my leather satchel and accepted his hand. ‘I hope you don't mind,' he whispered as he gently pulled me up. ‘It can be difficult to get out.'

I didn't mind.

Jay gave his keys to the valet and cupped his hand at my lower back. ‘I have the feeling we'll like this place,' he told me. ‘It's low-key, but the food is supposed to be very good.' He escorted me up the steps to the restaurant, where the door was opened for us by the same young waiter who had served us before. The mouth-watering smell of Italian cooking filled my nostrils and I realised I was pretty hungry. I'd been so excited that I hadn't had much for lunch. Plus, holding elevators in the air with one's psychic powers burned a lot of calories, I figured.

‘
Buonasera
. Welcome back,
bella
,' the waiter said, and flashed me a flirtatious smile.

Oops.

Jay frowned. ‘Oh, you've been here before? I wanted to take you somewhere new,' he said, sounding a little disappointed.

‘I like it here,' I said quietly, which was true, but mostly because we'd been there before – together.

The waiter helped me take off my coat and he left us to hang it up. Jay kept his jacket on. A few of the patrons turned to look at us – or to look at Jay, most likely, with his classically handsome face, dark head of hair and hazel eyes. The restaurant was packed full, every table occupied. Soon the maître d' came out. He was a short man with the round midsection one expects of someone who worked around food all day. I thought he seemed to recognise Jay, probably from our previous date, though Jay might have been used to being recognised. After the party at Rockwell Mansion, I had to accept that he was a far more prominent figure in New York than I'd realised.

‘Rockwell for two. Seven thirty,' the maître d' said. ‘I saved you a place at the window.'

We were led to an intimate table next to the glass frontage. It was set with a chequered red and white tablecloth, with a little candle in the centre, glowing in a red holder. The effect was romantic, if familiar. Cutlery was laid out, and a couple of glasses of water sat next to the upturned wine glasses. Jay pulled the chair out for me and as I took my seat the maître d' placed the menus on the table and left us.

Jay pulled his jacket off, draped it over the back of his chair, sat down and leaned forward. ‘I'm glad you took me up on my offer, though it seems I'm not showing you anything new.'

‘There's plenty I haven't seen in New York,' I said.
And plenty no one else sees.

‘How long have you been here?'

‘I moved here three months ago.'

‘Do you like it? Where do you live? No, let me guess . . . SoHo? Tribeca?'

‘Spektor,' I said, and took a sip of water.

‘Really? Where's that?'

‘Uptown a bit. It's not important.'

Jay absorbed my cagey response with a pinch of his brows, and picked up the wine menu to peruse the options. ‘I hope you don't mind if I have a glass?' he said politely. ‘I like a nice red with Italian. You're welcome to try it if . . .'

‘No. You go ahead.'

Though I was old enough to save Spektor, and Jay's life, I was not old enough to legally sip a glass of vino, I thought darkly, once again fixated on that uncomfortable fact. Sanguine blood, though, was fine. What a strange world I lived in. I shook my head.

‘What is it?'

‘Oh, I was thinking of something else. Never mind.'

This was normal time – a normal date. It wasn't a time to think about my troubles in Spektor, or Deus's blood. And I had to pretend we hadn't done all this before. I had to try to relax. ‘Do you come to Little Italy often? I mean, do you like this area?' I said, aware I was lacking some originality.

‘I don't come here a lot. But I do think it's charming. This place came highly recommended. Is the food as good as they say?'

I nodded.

The waiter moved past and Jay ordered us a bottle of mineral water, and himself a single glass of red. ‘Would you like anything else to drink, Pandora?'

I shook my head. ‘Thanks. Water is fine.'

After a bit of an awkward start, we ordered a couple of mains. Jay told me about his time rowing in college, which I pretended not to already know about. I spoke as sparingly about Gretchenville as I could. It was not a big town or by any means glamorous. I was worried he would think I was just some small-town hick, but he seemed genuinely interested and nonjudgmental about my humble origins.

‘Will you go back, do you think?'

‘No,' I responded a little too quickly. ‘To visit my aunt Georgia, yes, but not to live. I couldn't go back after . . . everything.'

‘Well, Gretchenville's loss is Manhattan's gain,' he said, and raised his glass.

Maybe
, I thought, as we clinked our glasses together. I smiled at Jay and rubbed my neck absent-mindedly.

A basket of bread arrived before our meals. We'd both ordered pasta, naturally enough. Mine was angel hair with crab, which I'd always wanted to try. (You didn't get a lot of crab or fresh seafood in Gretchenville. Or Spektor.) Jay ordered a thicker type of pasta with tomato and spicy sausage. It looked to me like a kind of penne. I was somewhat more accustomed to ghosts and talismans than I was with Italian dining or pronunciation, so I'd pointed my order out using as few words as possible.

‘
Buon appetito
,' the waiter said as he placed the steaming dishes in front of us.

We both tucked in and after the first mouthful I screwed up my face. ‘Gosh, this is a lot more garlicky than I expected.'

‘May I taste?'

After a slight hesitation I placed some pasta on my fork and put it in his waiting mouth, watching a bit too intently as his lips closed over it.

Jay chewed and swallowed, then sat back in his chair. ‘Oh, that's quite good,' he said. ‘Actually, there's not that much garlic in it. I was expecting more. You don't like it?'

Garlic.

The penny dropped.
Oh, hell.

‘Perhaps you'd prefer mine,' he suggested. ‘Do you like sausage, Pandora?' Jay held some of his meal out to me on his fork.

‘Umm.' After another moment of hesitation I opened my mouth and let him feed me a piece, flushing a little. We gazed at each other for a moment before I bit down. The sausage was very spicy. ‘That's delicious,' I said, and laughed at my obvious awkwardness.

‘We can swap if you like, though I think this one has a touch of garlic, too.'

He was right. They both had garlic in them. Of course. It was an Italian restaurant.

That blood of Deus's . . . What was it doing to me?

‘No, mine is fine,' I insisted. I'd eat sparingly and hope I didn't come up in hives or some darned thing. ‘Did you enjoy your party on Saturday?' I asked Jay to change the subject.

‘My dad throws it every year. I guess it's kind of fun.'

‘But?'

He hesitated. ‘But . . . I don't know. It's kind of stuffy for me. Sometimes I'd prefer something a little less formal.' He took another bite of his pasta. ‘You know, it may sound clichéd to say this, but . . .' He smiled to himself. ‘No.'

‘Go ahead. What?' I took another bite, trying to ignore the odd sensation of the garlic on my tongue.

‘It's strange, but though I've only just met you, I feel like I've known you before.'

I choked.

‘Are you okay?'

‘I'm fine. Just fine.' I took a sip of water to help the mouthful of pasta go down.

Something dark sailed past the window and I stiffened. That strange, cold feeling came over my belly. But though I scanned the street outside the window, I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

Jay noticed my changed expression instantly. ‘Are you okay?'

‘Sorry. Yeah, I'm fine.' I licked my lips and flicked my eyes to the window again. ‘Thanks.'

‘Is the crab okay for you? We can swap if you like. Or we can order you something else?'

My plate was still quite full. ‘It is really lovely,' I said truthfully. The dish was one of the best I'd tasted, or would have been if it wasn't for my unexpected issue with garlic. But I suddenly wasn't feeling hungry at all.

That feeling in my belly. That cold dread.

There was the sound of the front door opening and closing, and a collective murmur rippled through the restaurant, a jolt of awareness that went through each diner at the tables, followed soon after by a conspicuous silence. When Jay and I looked up to see what had caused it, I simply could not comprehend what I was seeing.