Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell) - By Jenn Bennett Page 0,59

drinking and smoking God knew what. I smelled valrivia, and weed, but I didn’t smell the very distinct burnt-soil scent of sømna, the highly addictive fungi-derived drug that Hajo was addicted to. Possession of any amount of the drug would get you slammed with the harshest drug laws in the state. He told me he never smoked it at home for that reason. He also told me he was in control of his addiction. I had no idea how true that was, but I never saw him out of control or strung out.

I asked someone if they knew where he was and was pointed in the direction of a room next to the balcony. A long column of golden light stretched from a crack between double doors. I figured if he wanted privacy, he’d shut them all the way, so I pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside. It looked like it was supposed to be a library or home office, with built-in bookshelves, crown molding, and a Persian chandelier in the center of the ceiling. Only, the bookshelves were filled with objets d’art instead of books, and there was no desk. Just some stuffed chairs and more floor pillows.

Three large paintings of women were propped against the bookshelves at the far end of the room. With his short, dark hair combed back all Rebel Without A Cause, Hajo stood in front of them, his tall, lean frame dwarfing a man at his elbow. The waif who’d answered the door was draped around his shoulders, her small halo looking pale against Hajo’s ultra-watt blue one.

“I like them all, but I only have room for one,” he was telling the guy, who was either the artist or the art dealer. From the way he was dressed, in expensive slacks and a button-down shirt, I was going to assume the latter.

The paintings were life-sized: a redhead, a blonde, and a dark-haired Asian woman wearing a surgical mask and a nurse’s cap. They were painted with angry strokes, and none of them were particularly attractive. In fact, I’d go so far to say that they were dark and depressing.

“I like her the best,” I said.

Hajo turned to look at me, dark, heavy brows lifting. He had great bones and miles of sooty lashes that ringed his eyes like kohl. “Hello, Bell. Which one?”

I pointed to the painting of the Asian nurse.

“Interesting. Why her?”

I studied the paintings. “She doesn’t seem as lost as the other two.”

“Interesting,” Hajo said. He kept his dark sideburns styled into diagonal points, which seemed to stretch when his chiseled face drew up into a slow smile. Then he spoke to the buttoned-up man. “Let me look at them tonight and I’ll give you a decision tomorrow.”

The man scribbled something on a card. Hajo glanced at me while he waited for it. Light from the punched-metal and glass chandelier cast shadows on his elongated face that made his cheekbones seem impossibly sharp. He could trace his paternal ancestry to the missing Roanoke colony, like the majority of Earthbounds in the US, but his mother was Turkish, or so he said. His mismatched heritage combined pretty pleasantly.

He took the man’s business card and jerked his head toward the door. “Out.”

The guy looked a little put-out, but he made no comment and retreated as Hajo pried the waif’s hands from around his shoulders. “Go on,” he told her.

“Hajo—”

“Are you deaf? Get the fuck out of here. And close the door behind you.”

The girl seemed genuinely offended, and not for the first time, I thought it was kind of a shame that all this tall, brooding handsomeness went to waste on someone so miserable and douche-y.

Hajo’s chest and shoulders broadened as he crossed his arms, stretching the dark fabric of his shirt. His jeans were expensive and Euro-trendy, sitting low over his flat, polished loafers. Everything about his look projected the image that he was some sort of continental business mogul who ordered five-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne in the VIP section of a hipster nightclub. It was the first time I’d ever seen him without his black leather racing jacket. Guess this was Hajo in his natural environment. Or maybe the other Hajo was real, and this was show. Hard to tell.

“Why are you having a party if you don’t want to socialize?” I asked as the doors clicked shut.

“The football quarterback suggested it,” he said dourly. “I’m worried he knows I deal. He asks too many questions. He’s got a