True Colors (4 page)

Speaking of what he could do to help. He moved to the kitchen. A tea kettle sat on a gas stove. He filled it with water and set the burner to high, then opened and shut cabinets until he found her tea supplies. That was where he got lost—she had so many weird teas he had no idea what to pick out. They were sitting in her cupboard, so she had to like all of them, right? He grabbed a box at random and prepared a mug, and when the kettle emitted a piercing whistle, he poured boiling water into it.

He knew the moment she stepped into the doorway to watch him, but he made himself take his time as he turned to look at her. She wore soft gray flannel pants, a loose, blue cable-knit sweater with the edge of an old white t-shirt peeking at the neckline, and house slippers. He was glad to see she had decided to get comfortable and knew he had made the right decision to bring her home. She looked calmer but still so sad, it wrung at his old battle-hardened heart.

He said, his voice gruff, “You were so chilled, I put the fire on and thought you might like something hot to drink.”

She glanced at the mug and the kettle warming on the stove, and her expression softened into a gentle gratitude of such sweetness, it slipped past every cynical barrier he had ever constructed to keep the world separate from himself.

“Thank you,” she said.

He gave her a curt nod as he fought to keep his feet in a world that had gone reeling.

The world had tilted on its axis.

And she was his true north.

Chapter Three

Hearth

Alice stared at the powerfully built man in her kitchen and fought the urge to twist her fingers together. His face was marked with rough lines and stamped with an edged maturity that could, from one moment to the next, turn dangerous. There was no softness anywhere in his features. They showed he had gone to many places and seen unimaginable things, and faced them all with intelligent, competent composure, and he didn’t know what it meant to give up.

His presence spiced the air with exoticism and turned her familiar surroundings strange. She had thought her peaceful two-bedroom apartment was spacious, but somehow he filled the entire place up with his strong male energy. It bathed her tired senses with vitality and a renewed sense of purpose.

He had worn just a faded black t-shirt under the leather jacket. The cotton stretched taut at the bulging biceps and deltoids in his upper arms, and strained across the heavy width of his pectorals. He wore a gun in a shoulder holster. Her gaze snagged on it. For long moments she couldn’t look away from the weapon.

As she had left her bedroom, she had noted with disconcertment that he certainly knew how to make himself at home without being invited. He had turned on the fireplace and was making tea.

Then he had looked up at her, and his icy blue gaze speared right through her. She would have said it was impossible, but that frighteningly ruthless face of his gentled, and she felt all her insides turn to mush. When he told her the fire and the tea were for her, it was the last thing in the world she expected to hear him say. She had to press her lips together hard to keep her mouth from quivering.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked. “More comfortable, at least?”

The sound of his deep, rough-and-tumble voice rubbed along her skin. The tiny hairs along her arms rose. She nodded wordlessly.

He continued. “Where do you want to sit, in the living room in front of the fire, or at your table?”

Still wordless, she indicated the dining table. He carried the mug over, set it on the table and held a chair out for her. She eased gingerly into it as she asked, “You’re not having any?”

He gave her a sideways glance that revealed a hint of roguish charm so potent it hit her point-blank between the eyes. “I’m not a tea drinker.”

Devastated at the intensity of her reaction to him, she swiveled her gaze downward in the direction of the mug and blinked at it blindly. She wrapped cold fingers around its welcome warmth and cleared her throat. “I have beer and soft drinks in the fridge, if you’d like something to drink.”

“I’m good for now, thanks.” He took the chair opposite hers and leaned his elbows on the table. He said quietly, “You do realize I’ve got to ask you some tough questions now, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Ask me anything you need to, Detective.”

“Hey.” He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze, and she let him. He gave her a quick, coaxing smile. “Please call me Gideon.”

A small sliver of warmth worked its way into her constricted heart. She managed a small, brief smile back. “And I’m Alice.”

“Alice, I’m not going to make any secret about this—I’m very glad to meet you, but I’m sorry it had to be under such terrible circumstances. I’m sorry about the loss of your friend,” Gideon said, holding her gaze with his own pale blue eyes. They had seemed so icy not that long ago. Now they were filled with grave compassion. A dark understanding lay at the back of the expression. Alice thought,
he knows what it’s like to lose people close to him
.

“Friends,” she whispered.

“Friends,” he amended. “I wish you hadn’t had to see Haley that way. I would have protected you from that if I could have.”

Somehow he said the exact right things. His simple words acknowledged his awareness that something lay between them, but the condolences placed the emphasis on what they needed to focus on at the moment. It steadied her as nothing else could have done. “Thank you,” she said, sitting straighter in her chair.

“I want you to tell me everything that’s happened to you over the last couple of days,” Gideon said. “Take your time, and don’t worry about whether you think it’s important or not. I’ll decide if it is.”

“Everything?” She regarded him in puzzlement. “You’re not going to ask me questions?”

“You mean like in a TV show, where the cops get what they need to know in three or four minutes of directed dialogue?” Warmth touched her cheeks and she lifted one shoulder sheepishly. He gave her a faint smile. “I’ll ask questions later. Right now, I don’t want to lead you or impose my agenda or opinions on you. There’s always the possibility that you know more than you think you do, and things that I can’t know to ask about yet.”

“Okay.” She sipped her tea to take a moment and collect her thoughts. Not half an hour ago she had been a terrified, all but incoherent wreck. Now she was certainly grieving, but she felt calmer, supported, no longer alone and vulnerable in the dark.

She felt safe.

She thought back a few days ago to how different life had been when she had gone blithely to work without a clue what horrors the week would hold. “I’m a teacher,” she said. “I work at a private elementary school, Broadway Elementary. Haley worked at the same school. The principal, Alex Schaffer, is a friend of ours. At lunchtime he came to tell us that a mutual friend of ours, Peter Brunswick, was dead.”

At first the words came slow and halting. Then they sped up and came fast and hard. Gideon remained a silent listener, his steady gaze and strong, sure presence a lifeline she could hold on to when she hit the rough bits.

She cried. She didn’t want to but she couldn’t help it. When she reached the point where she had looked on Haley’s poor, violated body for the first time, she took off her glasses and covered her eyes with one hand as tears streaked down her face.

Gideon’s chair scraped the floor. He came around the table, knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms. It felt like it had the first time, a sense of not just being hugged but enfolded.

Neither one of them remarked on the fact that, as a police officer questioning a potential witness, many people would say his actions were inappropriate. He had crossed that line already outside the precinct.

Alice gave herself a gift—she let herself do what she needed to. She wrapped her arms around him, tucked her face into his sturdy neck, and sobbed her heart out.

He rubbed her back and held her with immaculate patience, only loosening his hold when she had calmed and made as if to straighten. He asked in a quiet voice, “Better?”

She nodded and touched the back of his hand in thanks. Then she collected her glasses and stood to splash her face off at the kitchen sink. The cool water felt good against her over-hot, puffy skin. She patted her face dry on a towel and slipped her glasses back on her nose. As the world came back into focus, she noticed the clock built into her stove read 9:05 pm.

She looked at Gideon who had risen to his feet. Every time she laid eyes on him, the sheer size of him came as shock. Neither of them had had any chance to get supper that evening. He hadn’t even started to ask her questions, so he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. She didn’t think she could handle food, but large male Wyr, especially those with his kind of intense physicality, needed to eat.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

He froze. She could tell he was trying to decide what would be the right thing to say and, unbelievably on such a horrible night, her lips curved into a real smile.

“Of course you’re hungry,” she said. “I’ll fix something to eat.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Gideon told her.

“I know, but I want to,” she replied. “I like to cook when I’m stressed.” His eyebrows rose. She chuckled a little. “I guess that might sound strange, but cooking calms me down. I find it comforting.”

“As long as you’re sure,” he said cautiously. “I could eat something.”

Given the care with which he was treating her, no doubt that meant he was famished, so whatever she made would have to be hearty. She was glad she had gone to the store to stock up on supplies when she heard the forecast for the winter storm.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a Corona and handed it to him. He took it, his eyes lit with a tentative gratitude. Good heavens, he looked like nobody had offered to feed him before. She turned back to assess the contents of her fridge as she tried to decide what to make. “You’re a canine of some sort, aren’t you?” she murmured. He would want a lot of protein.

“I’m a wolf,” he said.

She paused as she absorbed that. A wolf, not a dog, which meant he was not quite tame or domesticated. Yes, that fit. He would be breathtaking as a wolf if his fur was the same white-blond as his hair.

“And you’re a rainbow chameleon, right?” he asked.

The handle of the fridge door slipped out of her nerveless fingers. The door swung wide as she turned to face him and backed against a counter.

Gideon’s expression changed. He said in a calm voice, “Alice, it’s all right. Remember, you’re quite safe.”

Again, he played it to perfection. He didn’t physically advance but instead leaned back against the dining table, his massive body relaxed, one foot kicked over the other. He regarded her with the same steady calm he had shown her all evening.

She relaxed with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That felt like it came out of nowhere, and—we don’t like to talk about ourselves or advertise what kind of Wyr we are, you know. Some of that’s instinctive behavior, and some of it’s… Well…” She made an all-encompassing gesture.

He nodded and rubbed the back of his head, looking thoughtful. “History has not been kind to the chameleon Wyr.”

Like most of the Elder Races, Wyrkind were not only from earth. Some of the stranger species were native to the Other lands, those magic-filled places that had been formed when time and space buckled at the earth’s formation. Rainbow chameleons were such Wyr. Rare, shy creatures, they came from a remote Other land connected to the Amazon rainforest.

Rainbow chameleons had no non-Wyr counterpart. They were also unique among other, mundane species of chameleons that typically could make only a few changes in color. Rainbow chameleons had the ability to change into any color and could do so at will to blend into their surroundings.

One of the earliest explorers of the Amazon inland, Spanish conquistador Francisco de Orellana, made the first known European contact with rainbow chameleon Wyr in early 1542 as he traveled the length of the Amazon River and searched for the mythical city of El Dorado. Upon discovering the rainbow chameleon’s unique ability to undergo radical and complex changes in color, Orellana proceeded to commit some of the greatest atrocities in either Spanish or Elder Races history. He systematically hunted chameleon Wyr and had them dissected in an attempt to discover the source of their ability. The exact number of Wyr he murdered was unknown, but historians estimated the total to be anywhere from 3,000 to as many as 5,000, which were catastrophic numbers for such a rare species.

In his experiments, Orellana discovered the chameleon Wyr had a gland similar to the human pituitary gland. Extractions produced a fluid that, when it was used to treat textiles, could produce an arresting effect on items of clothing. Orellana never found El Dorado, but he brought vials of the chameleon extract back to Spain that he sold for a king’s ransom while keeping secret its origins. Spanish royalty and a few certain wealthy nobles flaunted elaborate court attire made of fabulous cloths that changed colors with liquid fluidity to match their surroundings.

The secret of the chameleon extract was discovered in Orellana’s papers after his death, whereupon King Carlos I and his mother, the mentally unstable Queen Joanna, outlawed the wearing of chameleon-dyed clothes upon pain of death. The Spanish monarchy made a great play at being morally outraged, but the political reality was, whatever their real reaction might have been, they had to make some gesture of public repudiation or run the risk of being destroyed by the infuriated rulers of the Elder Races.

However, rumors of the existence of such clothing had whispered through the succeeding centuries, in particular when connected to famous unsolved acts of theft. Whether those historical rumors were true or not, chameleon Wyr remained rare—Alice knew of only fifty or so currently living in the continental U.S.

The critically low numbers of chameleon Wyr made the crimes that had been committed seven years ago even more terrible. A small colony of chameleon Wyr had lived in Jacksonville, Florida, where seven of them had been found murdered the week before that December’s Festival of the Masque. Despite a much-televised, nationwide manhunt by several cooperating agencies, the chameleon killer had never been caught.