Hour of the Dragon - Heather Killough-Walden Page 0,30
fear whatsoever in his unevenly green eyes, and there was no change in his expression. He didn’t look away either, but held James’ gaze steadily. Unnervingly.
“The photograph, Mr. James,” he simply repeated with as much calm as before. Then he added a touch more quietly, the way the wind before a hurricane is a whisper, “I won’t ask you again.”
James had indeed been doing this job a long time. But even so, there was a first time for everything. As he stared back into those soulless eyes and mechanically returned the photograph, for the first time in his supernatural life, James the undercover-werewolf-superhero experienced chills of fear.
“Thank you.” VanGogh took the photo, lowered his arm, and turned his attention to someone or something in the shadows of the deep dark room behind him. “If you’re satisfied, I believe I’m finished here.”
James narrowed his gaze, focusing his inhuman vision. But he still couldn’t see anything more than absolute darkness in those disproportionate shadows.
It must be a spell, he thought, one of distortion. Or maybe it was simply an identity shield. One thing he did notice however was that VanGogh was looking upward into those shadows.
Tall, James thought. Whoever or whatever the probable serial killer was talking to was very tall.
Maybe it’s the chaos god himself, he suddenly thought. And his body went cold.
“Understood,” said VanGogh suddenly, as if the figure in the darkness had spoken to him. He glanced back at James, smiled a strange and eerie smile, and said, “Thank you for your time, Detective James.”
James felt his heart tumble over itself in warning. He’d never told the man he was a detective. He knew that now for sure.
“I have a message for you to deliver to Lady Katrielle from a devoted admirer,” VanGogh continued. “Please advise her against any travel by rail in the next few days. The tracks are just not what they used to be.”
VanGogh stepped back from James, moving further into the shadows behind him. “Have a good night.”
Two more steps and just like that, James knew VanGogh was gone. The detective-werewolf-superhero had been left alone in the warehouse and the darkness, and the strangely ambivalent feeling that he’d just failed at catching death.
Chapter Seven - Australia
Annaleia had no idea how long she’d been staring at the scar in the mirror when she heard her friend’s voice from down the hall of her apartment. The front door slammed shut before the rubber soles of beach shoes were squeaking along a polished hardwood floor, coming in her direction.
“Anna! I got your mail for you on the way up! You are ready, right? No chickening out!”
Anna looked at the scar a few slow seconds longer. It was one of the few scars she’d already possessed before her accident, the accident. And it was the only scar that if given the choice, she would keep. She would keep it because of how she’d gotten it and what it reminded her of. Or rather, who it reminded her of.
For the briefest moment, she saw eyes like the cosmos staring back at her in the mirror. They were deep, mesmerizing, and as endless as light-years. But she blinked, and they were gone.
She’d been doing that a lot lately, remembering his galactic gaze. Anna rolled back her shoulders and straightened. She needed to stop doing that, though. She couldn’t turn back time. What was done was done. Wherever Antares was, he was either dead or he was an old man now. Well, older anyway. Probably long since married with ten kids and twenty grandkids.
No, it was me who wanted the kids, she thought waywardly. Antares was a lone wolf.
She smiled at the thought. She would sometimes tease him about the way kids were drawn to him despite his distaste for them. It reminded her of the way cats seemed to be drawn to people who were allergic to them. At the diner where they’d worked together, kids would often come in with their families. It never failed to make Annaleia laugh behind her hand or shake her head in wonder when some random child would attach itself to his leg and ask for a ride or tag him and then run, expecting him to take chase and tag them back. There he was, tall, imposing, and dressed all in black with hair and eyes to match – and a three-year-old girl in pink and pigtails wrapped tightly around his calf, grinning unabashedly up at him.