Knight Predator (8 page)

I nodded. “I know. It’s superb.”

“Where are you going to put it?”

“Where do you think it needs to be put?”

“How about at the bottom of the stairs near the front door?” She blushed. “I really like looking at it.”

I laughed. “I have no problem with that at all. I think it would be stunning.”

As I opened the car door for her, she turned and slipped into my embrace. “Thanks, Crowley.”

My arms tightened around her. “You’re welcome, Bronnie.” I finally pulled back and gazed into her eyes. “I promised you an early night and that’s one promise I intend to keep.”

She nodded. “All right. Sounds good. I really don’t feel like partying tonight.”

When we were safely back in my house, I beckoned to Bronwyn.

“I
do
have a fun idea if you’re interested.”

“If it involves slow dancing with you I’m more than interested,”

she said. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “It’s not because you’re hot or because I love you. I want to do it because it feels good.”

I nodded as I went to my stereo. “I get it.” I grinned as I put in one of my favorite compact discs. Slow music filtered through the speakers.

Before either one of us really knew what was happening, we were tangled together and moving in time to the music.

“So, beloved angel,” Bronwyn murmured against my chest. “What was this fun thing that you wanted to do?”

“You like terrible movies?” I asked with a grin.

“Depends on how bad.”

“Absolutely rotten. Scum of the earth. So bad you can’t even be bothered to puke.”

She giggled and nodded. “Yep. I also like lotsa blood and guts.”

I laughed. “Oh, yeah, I’m right there for that one.” I pulled her to a halt. “Come with me.”

I took her by the hand, and she stayed close to me as I led her to her room. I pushed her onto the bed, pulled out a remote from a dresser drawer, and flicked on the television. I tuned it to my favorite horror movie channel. We just hit the start of the evening horror show.

“Oh, geez,” she said with a groan. “This isn’t
The Thing With Two
Heads
?”

“You betcha,” I replied. “Or would that be—if you listen to Elvira—The Head With Two Things.”

“Who?”

“Watch.”

Elvira appeared on the screen, and Bronwyn’s eyes goggled.

“Good lord,” she said.

“Stacked, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” she said in a strangled voice.

“I know,” I said, patting her arm. “Lovely. I really like this show.”

Bronwyn mock glared at me and playfully slapped my arm. “I’ll just bet you do.”

I laughed and pulled her into my arms. She rested her head on my shoulder and put her arms around me with a happy sigh.

We watched for a little while, and I heard Bronwyn whisper, “I love you,” before her breathing deepened as she sank into a deep sleep.

I stayed with her until the wee hours of the morning, holding her close. Every time I tried to leave, her grip tightened, but as the night lightened she let me go. I leaned over her and smoothed her golden hair away from her forehead. I brushed my lips across her temple.

“Relax, Bronwyn,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of you for as long as you need me to.”

I wanted to kick myself for that statement as I spoke it, but I really couldn’t. I meant it.

I really liked my fierce, mortal friend.

The next night our new clock was delivered by two large, burly men. One of them looked remarkably like the clock maker, and I was amazed at the delicacy he displayed in placing the clock and hanging the weights inside it. When they were done, Bronwyn and I sat side by side on the stairs, hearing it tick, gazing at its beautiful face.

“Looks great, doesn’t it?” I asked, nudging Bronwyn.

She put her head on my shoulder. “Oh, yeah, sure does.” She glanced at me. “Thanks, Crowley.”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

I put my arm around her and pulled her in close. “You’re welcome.”

We were quiet for a moment or so, simply enjoying the feel of one another.

“What do you want to do this evening, angel?” Bronwyn finally asked.

“You want to go for a ride on the bike?” I had slipped out of the house and fed before she knew I was awake, so I was really only offering a ride.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes?” I asked, nudging her again, very gently. “You wanted to do something else this evening?”

“I’d like to go out, all right,” she said. “But not as far as the city.

How about to the Civic Center?”

“What’s in the Civic Center?”

“There’s an art display by all the seniors from the local schools. It’s a parents and friends thing, and I promised one of my friends ages ago that I’d go.” She braced herself. “I was kinda wondering if you were interested in going?”

“Sure.”

“Look, it’s okay if you . . . what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’d go with me to a school function?”

I chuckled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She blushed and fidgeted. “I don’t know.”

I looked at her curiously. “That’s not the only one, is it?”

She shook her head.

“Ah,” I said. “Which other one is there that’s so important?”

“I have my graduation ball in a couple of months.”

“And you want me to be your partner? Sure. Why not?”

Her beautiful face lit up. She had a broad smile as she finally met my eyes. “Could I ask for a special favor, just for me?”

“Okay . . .”

“Would you consider wearing a top hat and tails for my grad ball?”

I laughed. “Sure. Any particular reason why?”

“Is there any reason you keep agreeing to what I’m asking you to do?”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

She hesitated, studying me closely. Her eyes misted. “Yeah, I guess we are,” she murmured and chewed her lip.

“Hey,” I said, cupping her chin. “Why are you chewing your lip?

And you haven’t answered my question yet.”

“I just think you’d be hot in a tuxedo . . .”

“Yes, but I’m sure I’m hotter in an evening gown.”

Her face darkened as I expected it would. “Stop teasing me with that beautiful body of yours.”

I smiled. “I’m a grown woman and a free spirit.”

A thin sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, god, I know. Stop baiting me.”

I flinched. “Look, you’re the only person I’ve ever agreed to wear a tux for.”

She slipped her arms around me and buried her face in my chest.

Hot tears stung my cool skin, and I stroked her back.

“C’mon,” I said, pulling back and smiling into her slightly bloodshot eyes. “Let’s go to this exhibit of yours. Sounds like a lot of fun.”

She nodded. “Some of the work is pretty good.”

“Okay, what are we waiting for?” I asked, standing and pulling her with me.

Half an hour later, I was parking the car, and we were looking at the thick crowd of parents and teenagers milling around the front of the Civic Center.

As we approached them, Bronwyn scanned the crowd for her friends, while adults glanced at us, some dismissing us, some looking at us curiously. One or two older brothers eyed us from top to bottom, and I returned each stare, taking in the blushes and dropped eyes with an internal smile.

One of the onlookers kept his eyes on us. He was about my height, and seemed to be all of nineteen years old. He had a handsome face, one that would be rugged in later life, and stylishly unruly hair. There were a cluster of girls Bronwyn’s age surrounding him, but he ignored them and focused on me.

“That’s Chris Carlton,” Bronwyn said, following the direction of my gaze and moving in closer to me.

“Okay.”

“He’s the big brother of one of the most popular girls in school. All the girls are after him.” She rolled her eyes.

I gazed into his eyes and saw something flickering in them that I didn’t like. Perhaps it was a species of young arrogance, or the reflection of the cruelty lurking around his mouth.

“I don’t know why,” I said.

“Don’t you think he’s cute?”

I glanced at Bronwyn. “No.”

Her brow furrowed. “Okay.” She looked back at the doors. “You want to go inside and stare at the art work?”

I nodded, and she took my hand. She led me through the throng of hot, throbbing humans and into the cool interior of the Civic Center.

An older man approached Bronwyn. He was balding and had a thin mustache. He glanced at me. “Bronwyn, it’s good to see you.”

“Hi, Mr. Rowland,” she said cheerfully, as we brushed past him.

He gave her an odd look.

“Thanks,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “Like I’m going to forget your rules any time in a hurry. ‘Do
not
tell anyone about me.’”

I laughed. “Like I said, thanks.” We continued through a field of bizarre and sometimes wobbly and self-conscious sculpture.

“Where do you want to start?” I asked as she pulled me into the main hall. There were less humans in there, and I was glad for the break from my prey.

“How about down the back corner?” She blushed. “I think I want to start where it’s quieter.”

She pulled me forward again, and I found myself in front of a painting that would have done Michelangelo proud. It seemed a cross between Whistler’s Mother and the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It was a picture of a man on his death bed, surrounded by family, eyes closed and features limp. All the onlookers—and it was a mix of young and old—were in varying stages of mourning. Naturally enough, it was entitled “Last Moments.”

I winced. The technique was brilliant but the subject matter was too close to home. I had seen my father die like that, and it brought back the sting of memory. I closed my eyes and sighed.

“Are you all right?” Bronwyn asked, concerned.

I opened my eyes and gazed at her. Her green eyes were gentle and kind, and I smiled at her. “I’m all right. This picture just brought back some memories, that’s all.”

“Oh. You want to talk about it?”

“No, I really
am
all right.” I felt a little embarrassed. “It just reminds me of my father, that’s all.”

“Is he still alive?”

I snorted. “Oh, no, he died a long time ago.”

“You were there when he passed?”

“Yes, right by his bedside. He was a good and kind man.”

She slipped her arms around me and gave me a gentle squeeze.

“How long ago was it?”

“A long time ago.” I couldn’t tell her it was going on fifty years.

Her eyebrows shot up at the sharpness in my tone. “You must have loved him very much.”

“I did.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You really don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?”

I looked at her and sighed. “There really isn’t much to tell even if I wanted to.”

“I really wish you would tell me more.” She must have seen the traces of exasperation in my eyes. “It’s not because I have a crush on you, and officially I don’t. I love you. There’s a difference.”

“God, Bronnie,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Let me finish, will you? As I was saying, it’s because despite your prickly, unapproachable exterior, your eyes are so gentle. You’re not a bitch, and I don’t understand why you keep yourself so isolated.

You’re so beautiful, why don’t you take advantage of your youth and loosen up a bit? I don’t get it.”

I sighed and moved closer to her, cupped her beautiful face, and stroked her soft cheeks. “My life is very complicated, and I don’t really feel young anymore. I’m also not as young as I look. I’m old and tired.” I think it was the distress in her shining green eyes that forced the words from me.

“You look young enough to me,” Bronwyn replied, sinking into my caress. “You’re so beautiful and you’re alive. What more could you want?”

“Peace,” I said. “One day I think you’ll understand.”

“I want to understand now,” she said.

“In time, I’ll tell you more, if you’re still around. But until then, leave a girl some secrets, will you?”

“In time? God, I want to be around you forever,” she whispered and stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.

I smiled at her. “Let it go and enjoy the moment, my young charge.”

I pulled her toward the next painting, a surrealist piece involving a peach, a bicycle, and something else I couldn’t quite identify. It looked almost geometrical.

I tilted my head. “What the fuck, people? Seriously, what the fuck?”

Bronwyn burst out laughing and blushed. “Shit, I thought it was just me. I had no idea what the hell it was, but people have been ooh-ing and aah-ing over it all week. I figured I was just an idiot.”

I laughed with her. “Then we’re both idiots.”

“What about this one?” she asked, moving to the next painting.

“Cool,” I said. “If I ever get the urge to paint a bowl of fruit, shoot me, will you?”

“If you ever put one on our kitchen table I’ll shoot you. How’s that?”

I laughed, letting the reference to “our” kitchen table slide by. We continued along the paintings, chuckling or exclaiming as the mood proclaimed. I became aware of eyes on us and extended my senses to see who it was. Bronwyn shifted beside me and glanced at me.

The stare was coming from our left, behind us, so I looked in that direction to find Chris Carlton’s eyes on us. He was surrounded by a gaggle of schoolgirls, but he paid more attention to us.

I met his eyes.

He did not drop his.

He was the predator, we his prey.

I would have to watch for him, now that he had seen us.

“Crowley,” Bronwyn said.

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong?”

I gave her an easy smile. “Nothing.”

“You want to get out of here? I do. I think I’ve seen enough art to last me a lifetime.”

“You don’t like art?”

“I like the stuff I can understand.”

“You ever feel inclined to go to the Art Gallery?”

“Only if it’s with you. Otherwise it would be y’know . . . daggy . . .

to go with any of my friends.”

I laughed. “Does that mean that if you go with me I’m stodgy and staid enough for you to get away with pretending it was a forced excursion?”