That someone even considered laying a hand on her was enough to start a dull red climbing up behind his eyes. At least now he was with her to add a measure of protection. Relief flowed through him but he told himself it was only because of his pride. It would be deflating if she was injured while he was Watcher.
“Not often,” she said, eyes still closed.
“You do get them, then.”
Now she met his gaze. Her eyes were almost black and fringed by thick lashes that tipped very slightly downward. He wanted to trace his finger along them. “If I did, it would be neither new nor unusual.”
“Despite that, you still think Hiro was the intended target?”
“Since he is the one who is dead, yes.”
She was lying.
Michaela stood. “Tea?” She shut down the conversation and he let her go, watching her straight back as she left the room. She didn’t think Hiro was the target. Why was she pretending that he was? Michaela never did anything without a reason. Perhaps she was covering for Rendell. A feeling of discontent rolled over him that she might be in league with his enemy.
“Sit down, Cormac.” Her voice floated out from the kitchen. “I can hear you thinking from here.”
He did, and finally let himself take stock of her apartment. Then he blinked, a bit stunned. Michaela’s place was a collector’s wet dream. An exquisite jade melon sat in the center of a beautiful carved lacquer table. To the left was what appeared to be an entire herd of Tang dynasty ceramic horses, their distinctive glazing perfectly lit by a small light. He stood and wandered in awe, categorizing her treasures before ending up in front of an achingly lovely brush painting of a crane about to take flight. The Chinese characters on the side evoked a similar sense of movement. Kiana would have loved it. He took his time examining it, then wandered slowly through the rest of the room before returning to the painting. It had a poignancy that attracted him powerfully.
“Here’s your tea.” Michaela gave him a handless cup of flowered tea. “Imperial jasmine.”
He inhaled the steam. “This painting is extraordinary.”
“Thank you.” She stood beside him and tilted her head to the side. Even here, safe in her domain, she stood straight and her hair was still tied tight. “It took me some time to decide how to place the bird.”
“You did this?”
“Yes.” She said no more. “I’m going to bathe. It’s been a long day.”
With that, she left him in a cloud of jasmine-scented steam. He forgot the crane and instead thought about how she would look with her skin pinked from the bath.
Never mind.
Chapter 7
Michaela checked the time and rose from her bed. The evening had been quiet and the two had bid each other an early good night. Was Cormac planning something? He didn’t even try to annoy her once.
The whole experience had been far less aggravating than she’d expected, but still uncomfortable. Having him in her space was far beyond dealing with him as a partner in an investigation. This was personal. Her home was where she could be herself, where she could lower her guard and relax.
Still, it was preferable to risking her life at a hotel, where she could be easily tracked by one of Iverson’s followers.
She dressed in the chilly room. Her silk pajamas slid to the ground with a whisper and she pulled on black pants and a black jacket, tucking her long braid down the back. Cormac had joked about watching out for Ivy, but he didn’t know the half of it. She’d played invisible guardian angel to Yao’s descendants for over a hundred years and would until the end of her long life.
Of course, she thought wryly, Ivy had many times the freedom and independence of her mother and grandmother. Not that Michaela was complaining—she wanted Ivy to lead a life unfettered by expectations—but it did make being a guardian a little more difficult, especially now that she had to worry about idiots prancing around who thought killing Michaela might in some way advance their cause of domination over the humans. She could never lead her opponents to Yao’s family. Not that it would happen. She was a masquerada, after all, and confident she could fool her enemies.
Cormac’s door was closed; he’d never even know she was gone. Michaela slid out of the apartment on light feet and ran down to her car. Sneaking by Cormac had given her a silly sense of naughtiness that she hadn’t had in years, like a kid who snuck a cookie out of the jar. You’re over five hundred years old. You should be more mature than to enjoy sneaking around at night.
Should be, but then she hadn’t had much of a childhood. Her first marriage had been at age fourteen and the old man had kept a close eye on her. Even the beautiful garden had been off-limits. Instead she’d been dressed like a doll and forced to sit and sing endless songs to old Zhang as he coughed and wheezed.
Never mind. That marriage, and all the others, were long past.
It was almost one in the morning and drunk people stumbled out of the bars as she parked a few blocks away from the pub where Ivy worked. All Michaela had to do was check that Ivy caught a cab. The alley to the left was dark and Michaela slipped in. When she came back out a block down, she was in what she thought of as her invisible masque. It had taken her multiple tries to discover that no one in the city seemed to notice an older, heavyset black woman dressed in dark clothes.
Today was as true as any other. She walked down the street and saw the eyes of the mostly young crowd skate right over her as if she didn’t exist. How different than when she took on other masques. When she was a man, most people gave her space as she walked, moving out of her way unless they wanted to make some sort of point. As a young woman, it seemed that every eye on the street was on her. She’d spent years experimenting with clothes, hair, skin, and attitude in cities around the world, gauging reactions to her various masques. The only ones she couldn’t use were the very young and very old. Her power, unlike Eric’s, wasn’t strong enough for that drastic a change.
Ivy’s pub was across the street. Michaela bought an orange juice from a hot dog vendor—Toronto’s street food of choice was hot dogs, of all things—and sipped it slowly as she waited on a bench. Ivy usually came out at exactly fourteen minutes past one. Michaela could watch Ivy hail the cab, then get back to her own apartment by half past one. There was no remorse at leaving Cormac ignorant. This had nothing to do with the investigation, so there was no need to involve him.
There was Ivy, right on time. Michaela stood, her body moving slowly against the twinges of age and hard work that came with taking on the masque’s persona. On the sidewalk, Ivy yawned, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, glanced at the sky, and smiled.
She walked east.
Michaela groaned. It was a lovely night and not surprising Ivy wanted to stroll home in the fresh air. Well, it wasn’t a long walk. She limped down the street and crossed to keep Ivy in sight. The walk was pleasant until Ivy decided to take a shortcut through an alley to the right, forcing Michaela to hurry her step. The alley appeared empty, but there could be people hidden in garage niches or in the shadows. Night was a time for arcana as well as humans. Not all of them were sweethearts.
“Check out that one.”
The call came from the other end of the alley as Michaela came up behind a rank, rusted dumpster. A group of young men had appeared at the end of the street. Even at this distance she could tell they would reek of alcohol.
“Out all alone, huh?” The tall one with the ball cap moved forward with a nauseating smile. Ivy had half-turned and eyed him cautiously. A short blond in the back snorted nervously.
“Hey, guys, she’s—” he started, but shut up when the leader elbowed him hard enough to cause a cry of pain. Michaela focused on the tall one. He had something to prove. The others would break if she took him down. Would she wait until he touched Ivy, or do it now? Ivy’s eyes were huge and Michaela could almost hear her heart thumping.