American Quest Read online

  5

  NEW YORK

  THE REACH OUT AND READ fundraiser wasn’t one of hers, but Gloria’s boss asked her to go anyway in the hopes that she might meet new benefactors. They were always on the lookout. Gloria felt as though she was pitching potential Woven Hillside donors in her dreams.

  A table bearing flowers, hors d’oeuvres, and a champagne fountain stood at the center of the room. Above it, a grand chandelier hung so low that Gloria could reach up and touch the luminous crystals. She thought about her coming wedding and imagined how nice it would be to offer such a sparkling display to the guests.

  Not exactly in the budget, though.

  This event showed up on her calendar at the last minute. Ordinarily, either Bruce or Candace would tag along. But she hadn’t had a chance to speak to Candace and Bruce was busy with the show.

  Still, she scanned the crowd expecting to find Bruce. He said he was staying at the theater, but with Bruce, you never knew. Perhaps he was planning to surprise her.

  She smoothed her little black dress. Even if his back were turned, she’d know the posture. No, no Bruce here.

  However, something did catch her attention. In a shard of crystal from the chandelier, she saw the reflection of a pale golden eye in a luminous face. The white lady! She gasped and spun around.

  Partygoers milled about, laughing and plucking dainty bites from the buffet table, but no one or no thing seemed to resemble the image she’d just seen in the crystal.

  She cast furtive glances into the throng. No way would Gloria allow that strange glimpse to evaporate into crowds and tricks of light again. This time she was determined to find the origin of that haunting face.

  Can’t you see he’s sent the yellow-eyed canteshrikes to watch you?

  Canteshrikes. The man in the subway had said “canteshrikes.” What was a canteshrike? Gloria shivered at the odd sound of the word.

  But as she scanned the revelers, saying hello and pressing forward, she found no one dressed in white. No pale golden eye.

  It must have been some form of suggestion, similar to how a hypnotist plants an idea into someone’s head. Maybe the vagrant in the denim shirt had caused her subconscious to conjure images of strange people with yellow eyes. Yes. A likely explanation.

  A good one, even. Except for one thing: she and Bruce had both caught that first glimpse before the vagrant ever spoke of yellow eyes.

  She scrutinized the crowd. Hands balanced cocktail napkins and glimmering stemware, and people clamored their gossip with shoulder pads hunched. Lots of suits, lots of dresses; most in black. None in white.

  She reminded herself that she should be socializing. After all, she had come with the intention of nurturing contacts. Nevertheless, she scanned the room once more.

  No use.

  And yet she still felt its eyes. As if a voyeur were watching from the darkness. But when she looked toward that darkness, all she found was her own reflection staring back.

  She fixed her gaze inward, looking into the room instead of around it, and let her eyes fall again on the chandelier. She stared for a long moment.

  And saw the briefest flash of white.

  And with it, a whispering rush.

  It sounded almost as if someone had caught her breath in surprise. That lone gasp rang with such musical strangeness, it could not be a human voice.

  Gloria stared, knowing better than to look away from the crystal. She waited for one more glimpse. Just one. If she could only . . .

  And in the farthest reaches of her awareness, she felt a shift. It began in the crowd itself. Bodies turned. Chins lifted. She saw their collective reactions echoed in the glass. And then she herself felt it. A kind of heat.

  She refused to be distracted. She sharpened her gaze on the chandelier, studying and searching among each bend of light that relayed from one crystal to the next.

  The heat washed over her. Came from all around. And with it, a quickening in her pulse.

  She dared not tear her eyes from the glass, knowing that in another moment, just one more stir of time, she would catch another glimpse. One more and she would know for certain what was happening around her.

  She focused.

  “You could get lost in there.”

  Gloria stiffened. The voice, rich and deep, came from just over her shoulder. Gloria hesitated, but she’d lost her delicate moment.

  She turned toward the person who had interrupted her. “I beg your pardon?”

  The man nodded at the chandelier. “Lost in the hall of mirrors.”

  His soot-colored eyes rested on hers briefly before he turned away. A simple comment to a stranger. For him, an off-hand remark; and yet for her, a broken spell. Already his attention had moved on. A bug-eyed fellow in a tweed suit engaged him, attempting to draw him away.

  “Mr. Vance,” the other man said. “A word if I may.”

  Gloria eyed the chandelier again, feeling a bit foolish now for chasing yellow-eyed phantoms. She looked back at the two men. Then she realized that this man standing next to her—this Mr. Vance—embodied the shift in the room moments ago. The glances from the crowd. The heat.

  She studied his face, noting the precision of bone structure that squared his cheekbones and angled sharply at the chin. Older than she was by about twenty years. He seemed impatient with the one wearing the tweed, and stood in such a way that rejected any advancing steps from the onlookers. And then—right there—he glanced her way again. His eye color repeated in the charcoals of his hair and brows. And in that heartbeat when he’d looked at her, his air of impatience lifted.

  He was definitely attractive, but the crowd’s reaction to him truly set him apart. Even as she stood by, they began to form around him, practically lining up to bask in his aura though he exuded a vibe that somehow blocked them. And though she’d been there first, she began to feel self-conscious about where she stood, as though she were lining up along with them.

  Gloria looked away. In fact, she stepped away. She had no business sizing up a stranger as though he was some finely tailored suit in a shop window. What would Bruce think?

  Actually, Bruce would be gawking, too. It was only natural when in the presence of a powerful person. And this Mr. Vance, whoever he was, seemed a definite power player.

  Gloria backed from the thickening circle and the bug-eyed man in the tweed suit grew more animated as he spoke. His gestures flourished suddenly and he knocked Gloria sideways. She stumbled and Vance grabbed her arm.

  The bug-eyed man lurched. “I’m so sorry, Miss! I didn’t see you there!”

  He reached for Gloria, but Vance maintained his grip on her, shifting with subtlety to block the other man’s touch.

  She felt too embarrassed even to look at Vance’s face. Instead, her eyes traveled the vast breadth of his shoulders as they narrowed to a steep angle at the taper of his waistband. Her eyes flickered upward and again she found herself fixed within Vance’s ashy gaze.

  “Are you quite all right?” Vance asked.

  She shrugged with a discomfited smile. “I’m fine. Except . . .”

  She touched the hem of her dress and turned her leg, looking down at what was now a fractured black high-heeled pump.

  The bug-eyed man gasped and seemed about to launch into another barrage of apologies, but Vance blocked him once more. This time, verbally. “Please excuse us.”

  Vance turned his back to him and the gawkers who’d gathered around. Supporting Gloria with one hand, he steered her away from the throng, leading her to a quiet alcove and seating her on a plush armchair while he settled opposite her.

  “I’m Aaron Vance, by the way. Please call me Aaron.”

  “I’m Gloria.”

  He shook her hand and the simple gesture sent a wave of sensation from her palm to her shoulder.

  “It’s a pleasure, Gloria. Now let’s have a look.” He removed the injured shoe before she even realized what he was doing.

  Gloria gaped, lifting her eyes to the larger ro
om beyond the archway where people continued to steal glimpses. Somehow, though, this Mr. Vance had managed to assume ownership of the little nook in such a way that no one dared cross the barrier of the arch.

  Earlier she had hoped to find Bruce among the crowd, showing up unexpectedly to surprise her. Her eyes moved from her naked foot up to Vance as he flexed the broken heel and she suddenly thought it better, after all, that Bruce was not here at this precise moment.

  “It’ll be all right,” Gloria said. “I’ll just walk with extra care.”

  Vance peered inside the shoe. “Let’s see, our Gloria wears a ladies’ size seven. There’s bound to be a shoe store somewhere nearby. I’ll send someone out to pick you up a fresh pair.”

  “What? Oh, no! That’s not necessary, really.”

  Vance tilted his head. “What were you peering at, anyway?”

  “I’m sorry? Peering?”

  “Before I was ambushed by the tweed fellow. You were peering into the chandelier as if looking for something.”

  “Oh, that!” She felt a blush at the full, bald-headed foolishness of her phantom hunt. She shook her head. “That was nothing. I just . . . thought I . . . saw something. A reflection, some beautiful woman, very pale, with eyes the color of—I could swear I even heard her catch her breath. But she wasn’t really there.”

  Vance studied her. It seemed as though he knew precisely what she’d been doing. Gloria’s blush deepened and she dropped her gaze.

  “Looking for angels?” he said.

  She looked up at him again. What an interesting choice of words. What she’d glimpsed had been no angel. But then again, perhaps that stemmed from the subway vagrant’s warning. She remembered the strangely musical inhalation she’d heard along with a flutter of wings. Could it have been the voice of an angel? A few moments with this stranger Aaron Vance and her entire perspective was changing.

  Gloria shook her head. “I don’t know much about angels.”

  Vance smiled at that, something at once disturbing and enticing. It was as though he owned a secret that he might be persuaded to share if she behaved according to his bidding.

  He rested back on the chair, her shoe still in hand. “I have studied a thing or two about angels and their counterparts.”

  Her brows lifted. “Oh?”

  He nodded with a shrug. “Historically, the demons and angels maintain a balance. In the texts of ancient Zoroastrianism, they call it asha, truth and order, at odds with druj, falsehood and disorder.”

  Gloria’s lips parted in rapt confusion.

  His voice continued in a baritone so deep it pushed the limits of the natural human scale. “Conflicting primordial entities represent each. And they attempt to guide humanity toward their own end.”

  She drew in her breath and opened her mouth, but could think of nothing to say to this.

  “If you believe in such things,” he added with sudden mildness. “For me it’s not so much the entities, but more a fascination in the context of aesthetics, really. Angels in literature, art, and architecture.” He paused, watching her eyes. “And demons, of course.”

  Gloria moved into the conversation, happy that it had shifted to art, a topic she knew well. “Yes, of course. Aesthetics. Like the serpent who seduced Eve. So often portrayed in the paintings as a destructive demon.”

  Vance all but rolled his eyes at this. “Unflattering images, usually. You know, I always liked the simple woodblock prints they used for elaborate typesetting in earlier times. Adorning the initial letter of a chapter in a fancy pictorial. You often found a demon crouching between the styles of a capital E.”

  “Yes!” Gloria delighted at the way her brain flexed to keep pace with this man. “In Celtic knots. Or just scrolling letterforms. You found angels in them, too.”

  He appraised her for a moment. She considered the intensity of his gaze. For a flash, she wondered whether the skin beneath his collar would burn her fingers if she touched it. Excitement coursed through her.

  She tried to offer another comment, to add something to whatever it was she’d just said, but she found she couldn’t reliably follow the train of thought. It was as if he and only he held control of this conversation.

  “You have an active mind, my dear. A rarity these days. So.” His voice lowered. “Is that what you found in the chandelier, then?”

  She laughed, feeling more comfortable about this. “I don’t know. The crystals cast such strange reflections. It’s like you said, a house of mirrors; you could get lost in there.”

  He rose to his feet, handing her the torn shoe. “I don’t believe in getting lost. Actions should always be deliberate. Excuse me for a moment.” He removed his cell phone. “Though if a house of mirrors were to cast reflections as becoming as yours, it would be a pleasure to get lost.”

  The heat. It radiated from him. Gloria felt a strange weight in her lungs, almost a vibration, though slow and heady.

  He started to tap out a number on the keypad. “Wait here while I get my assistant. If you won’t allow me to arrange for new shoes, the least I can do is offer you a car home.”

  “Honestly, Aaron, that’s not necessary. I appreciate the gesture but I’ll be fine.”

  “After you came rushing to my aid with all those people crowding in? I won’t hear of it. You threw yourself on your shoe for me!”

  She laughed aloud, bending forward with the hilarity of his imagery. But while he was obviously teasing her, he himself did not laugh nor smile. The darkness in his eyes simply shifted slightly.

  “I’m not getting any cell reception. Very strange. Excuse me; I’ll only be a moment.” He turned and left her seated and holding a broken shoe.

  So different from Bruce, she thought. This Aaron Vance was so serious. And obviously not accustomed to being refused, even in the context of “No thank you, I’ll manage.”

  And yet, not entirely different from Bruce.

  Gloria’s reaction to him, sensing him, feeling the heat of his presence and the slow, heady wave in her lungs—that had only happened to her once before. The day she met the man who would become her fiancé.

  Now as she sat waiting, the alcove grew cooler and guilt stole in.

  It occurred to her that, since her engagement, this marked the first time she maintained a complete conversation with a stranger without once mentioning the man she loved. She felt unclean. Like those biblical artistic interpretations she’d so lightly referred to moments ago; she’d conjured the shame of Eve, suddenly aware of her nakedness and shielding herself with a fig leaf.

  Her cell phone rang and she cried out. No problem with cell reception for her. She was surprised to see her hands shaking as she retrieved it from her bag. The name on the display read Candace.

  She answered. “Hi, Candie.”

  “Hi, Gloria! I saw I missed a call from you.”

  “It’s—it’s nothing. I was just calling to see if you wanted to come with me to a fundraiser.”

  “Are you all right? Your voice is shaky.”

  It was indeed. All over a silly chance encounter. Gloria made an attempt at a dismissive laugh. “I’m fine.”

  “Where’s Bruce?”

  “He couldn’t make it. He’s at work.”

  There was a long pause. Then Candace said, “Where are you, exactly? I’m coming right now.”

  “No, really, it’s all right.”

  “No, I’m coming. Stay right where you are.”

  “Honestly, Candie, there’s no need because I’m leaving right now. I just don’t feel like schmoozing tonight. In fact I have to go.”

  There was another pause, and then, “Are you sure? You’re leaving right now.”

  “Dead sure. Bye, sweetie.”

  “All right then. Bye-bye.”

  Candie’s familiar voice did little to soothe Gloria’s nerves. In fact Candie sounded strangely over-protective, even for her. Or maybe it was a matter of intuition.

  Gloria’s hands still shook as she severed the dangling
heel from her shoe. She clenched her jaw and snapped the heel from the other one. Ballet flats now instead of pumps. She put them both on and slipped out of the alcove.

  Aaron Vance stood at the other end of the main ballroom speaking to a wide, slovenly, red-haired man who seemed to be taking direction from him.

  Gloria moved quickly, making a broad arc to avoid Vance. She couldn’t look at him again and hated that she’d already done so in the way that she did. She feared that excitement. So very wrong, the way her body and mind had reacted to this man, almost as if he had somehow marauded her spirit and found the very passions she had reserved for Bruce. She couldn’t leave soon enough.

  She exited to the street and hailed a cab.

  Enervata struck Isolde’s cheek.

  Rafe raised his head.

  Enervata glared at her, his tail twitching, having shed his human shell to once again recall his Macul form. Stricken though she was, Isolde’s canteshrike face was so fine-spun she did indeed look like an angel. Until one noticed the golden eyes lined in black. And the slender taper of a downy opaline leg that ended in a trident bird’s foot.

  Enervata bared his teeth at her. “Careless. To think you might rule the wild-lands with the same irresponsibility. They saw you on the street—both of them saw both of you—and yet you continued to remain careless. Please explain to me how that is possible.”

  Isolde turned her face from him. A burning smudge already wept red at the bone below her eye. She lifted her left wing in a movement ever so slight, cringing from his gaze.

  Enervata pressed her wing and leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “You have been caught on two occasions now, my dear Isolde. If I had not interrupted Gloria, she would have seen you yet again. She even heard you gasp. Even sensed the music in your voice.”

  “It’s because of the bond,” Rafe said. “It brings them heightened power. They are becoming more sensitive to the forces around them.”

  Enervata’s face darkened. “Indeed. Which is why I told you to take every precaution. I made it perfectly clear that there are to be no mistakes! And you, Rafe, you would have me show mercy upon Isolde?”

  “Mercy? I spoke not of that. It is my belief that Isolde’s recklessness requires actions that are punitive, not merciful.”