Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (18 page)

Joss had met her in person the night before when dinner was being served. A petite brunette, perhaps a full foot shorter than Joss, Circe was all business, and dressed like the manager of a luxury resort: light, monochromatic skirt suit, medium-height heels, hair parted to the side and pulled tight into a ponytail, walkie-talkie in hand. The only thing missing was a nametag.

“Does your radio need new batteries?” Circe’s eyes flicked to Joss’s bare midriff.

“Oh, no,” Joss said. “Markus had said we could come here if we needed anything.”

“Of course,” Circe said. Joss couldn’t put her finger on just what made this woman so scary. “We do, of course, prefer to come to you whenever possible. What can I do for you?”

“Actually, is Markus available? I need to ask him something. I didn’t want to say it over the radio … sort of a surprise for Matt.”

“You could use the hardwired telephone in your quarters.”

Circe wasn’t coming off outright suspicious—probably just annoyed she wasn’t allowed to deliver a particular standard of service—but it had Joss discombobulated, nonetheless.

What if they
had
heard what she’d come for … some sort of advanced listening devices on the beach eavesdropping on her conversation with Matt? Entertaining world leaders here, it wouldn’t surprise her to learn of spying gear hidden in the island’s remotest nooks. And on that note, what about her room? Were there cameras in her bathroom? Could people see her changing and showering and making stupid-ass faces in the mirror?

These paranoid thoughts had to go. She wasn’t here to steal goddamn nuclear launch codes or the Hope Diamond.

“Not really,” Joss replied, and decided to wrap her nerves in embarrassment. “See, I was hoping to bring this case … from Markus, the case he brings … Sort of an excuse to go to, um, Matt’s room. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” She coughed out a sheepish laugh. “It’s really not that important.” She turned to go.

“No, not at all, Ms. Leland.” While outwardly accommodating, Circe’s tone conveyed zero warmth. “I do hope I didn’t give you the impression you would ever be a bother. We’re here to exceed expectations. Follow me, please. Markus is in the office.”

With short, quick steps Joss associated with an old-timey nurse, Circe led her across the short bridge to the staff quarters, koi fish below them splashing and piling atop each other in anticipation of food. Rounding a corner to a hallway inside, a long wall muffled the sound of a sports stadium crowd on TV, along with the bassy voices of some unseen staff members in a discussion. Suddenly, she was smacked with the enveloping scent of a garlicky soup cooking.

“Something smells good,” she said as Circe stopped at a door, and knocked.

“Are you hungry, Ms. Leland? I could have a snack sent.”

“Oh, no thank you. I can wait for dinner.”

“Nai?” came Markus’s voice through the door, with an unfamiliar tone.

“Circe. With Ms. Leland. We have a special request.”

The door swung open, revealing Markus without a jacket, tie loosened, and top button undone. “Ms. Leland. What can I do for you? Is everything all right?”

Circe bowed slightly and took her leave.

Joss rubbed her neck, eyes wandering as she
“found the courage”
to speak.

“This is so embarrassing,” she said, glancing up to meet Markus’s gaze. His eyebrows ascended his forehead. “I’ll just say it.”

Markus pulled his arms behind his back. “Please.”

“I was hoping you could give me the case thing to take to Matt. I was going to sort of surprise him with it, like ‘Hey, Markus said to give this to you!’”

He didn’t get it. He just sort of frowned and chewed on the remains of whatever he’d been eating.

She went on, “‘Cause he’s, um, showering right now, probably finishing up. Christ, I’m sorry. Never mind, I’m gonna go drown myself-”

“No, please,
I’m
sorry, I simply don’t …”

Her fingers wriggled at her waist. “You know … sometimes guys can be afraid to, um,
make a move
.”

He half-smiled, half-grimaced—a pained expression—as he finally grasped what she was saying. Mercifully, he stopped her. “Yes, yes, no need to explain, Ms. Leland. Just give me a moment, please.”

“And I’ll be like ‘whoa, hey, I didn’t realize you were, um, busy,’ and then, if he’s in a towel or whatever, I cover my mouth a little like this and go ‘
ohh … I…
’”

Markus muttered as he closed the door, leaving Joss alone in the hall.

Yes!

She inhaled deep, gathered herself, and the door reopened a moment later.

Markus appeared with the metal case in a gloveless hand. “Dinner will be at seven.” He handed it to her. “I’ll come by at six-thirty to retrieve this.”

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I hope you don’t think-” He stopped her with closed eyes and a hand:
Please. No more
. “Sorry … Okay … Thanks again-” The door clicked shut.

Joss led herself out of the staff building and walked back to the house—a casual stroll for the cameras, but with a triumphant brass section blasting in her head. She stood at the door to Matt’s room for a moment, listening, then hovering a fist, too reticent to knock. She was certain at least Markus was watching. Finally, she rapped twice and stepped back.

“Coming,” Matt said, and the door opened a few seconds later. “Oh, hey there.”

Joss held up the case as she took a step forward to enter. “I thought you might want to keep reading.”

He moved back, allowing her to invite herself in, and swung the door shut. “Here, let me put that over here.” He mouthed a
“shh”
as she handed him the case.

* * *

Standing over his desk in the office, Markus wonders if the enamored Ms. Leland will be successful in her endeavor. His eyes flash to one of his monitors, a split screen of four cameras: the hallway outside the master guest suites, the main sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. He wishes they’d installed temporary monitoring in the suites—primarily Matthew’s—but no doubt his powers would’ve sensed this as easily as any foreign official’s security team.

Markus opens the door and relinquishes the case to hands he may soon envy. Ms. Leland likely knows this…

* * *

Matt set the case on a table and turned to Joss. “Perfect. They don’t have cameras or monitoring in the rooms.”

“How do you-” Joss began. “Wait, that fast? You read it?”

“Yes. Markus’s imprint from just now. And—fun fact—he’s gay.”

“Well, yeah, no shit. You just figured that one out?”

Matt shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it. Anyway, good job. He give you any trouble? Say when he’d be by to take notes?”

Joss shook her head, uttering a vague “Hm.”

He went on, “He doesn’t seem to care too much about what’s been happening during my sessions. Just waiting for someone to start hiding scrolls from the Library.”

Something had occurred to Joss and her senses fogged. She’d stopped hearing Matt, now finding herself wondering what
she
’
d
just imprinted on the case. A few days ago, Matt said if he ever accidentally came across an imprint from someone he knew, he treated it like a diary, disregarding it. He’d specifically asked her to surprise Markus, hoping he’d forget to put on gloves, so Matt could gather everything Markus (or anyone else) had imprinted on the case. If he was now going to dig deep into that thing, how could he
not
stumble onto a few of Joss’s thoughts while he was at it?

“Sorry, what?” she said. Matt was staring at her, waiting.

He repeated himself. “I’m going to lie down for a bit—check a couple things in the Taria, then see if I can dig up anything else from Markus. You can hang out if you like.” He gestured toward the cushy sitting area.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine. I actually sort of hinted to him that I wanted the case so I could wheedle my way into your room. So, me being in here for a while kind of gives the right impression.” Matt stared at her, eyebrows raised. She continued, “Like it worked, you know?”

“Right. I gathered that from him. Good thinking.” He took the case to his bed, setting himself up with pillows. “If I end up taking longer, you can go back to your room if you like,” Matt said as he opened the lid. “Meaning, you don’t have to just sit there, bored and waiting.”

“Yeah, either way,” Joss said casually. “You want me to go?”

Matt didn’t answer. She stood up and saw his hand resting on the Taria, eyes closed.

“Okay, well, I guess I’ll just go to my room. Maybe take a little catnap of my own.” She headed to the door. “Just wake me up then…”

No response.

* * *

Patra’s imprints run like a fixed narrative, unwilling to yield to Matt’s deeper probing. It reminds him of reading of Irin’s journey through the mountains and across the plains.

In the Library’s scribes’ chamber, Patra has Atilius working on a tablet borrowed from Samaria, translating it from Hebrew to Greek. Matt resists the imprint’s forward momentum, finally pausing as Patra huddles over Atilius.

Now, deeper…

The process advances visually, dropping through the marble tabletop into a dark room. It’s Patra’s bedroom, lit only by moonlight splitting the sheer drapery. Flat on her bed, she stares at the ceiling. This is an odd scene; the fact that it’s a
scene
at all is unique. Subconscious and stored memories always presented themselves just as Matt’s own memories and thoughts appeared when recalled, with only minor variations in format.

Patra sits up, goes to her vanity, and lights a candle. She sits down, the Library key clutched in both hands against her belly as she gazes at herself in the mirror. A shuddering chill spirals down her spine—no, Matt’s spine.
He
is seated in the chair.
His
eyes are locked on Patra’s in the mirror.

“Hello, Steward,” she says.

What?!

She speaks directly to Matt. It isn’t a dream, or misinterpretation, or anything else reasonable. It’s a buried message—intentionally imprinted this deep—awaiting a capable reader.

Her face hangs with grief. “I hope your visit is timely, and your objectives in accord with our society’s timeless principles…”

* * *

After an indeterminate period of time on her bed—rolling over, getting tangled in her sarong, kicking it off, pulling on covers, kicking them off—Joss eventually fell asleep. Her dreams were horrible: first, she was walking on the edge of a cliff, loose soil beneath her bare feet, teetering, but always leaning more toward the cliff, just about to fall. Then, worse, a constant, quick-cutting replay of every interaction with Matt in which she came off mortifyingly desperate, fawning, dopey, and everything she said to him came with dorky smirks and batting eyelashes. His responses became exasperation,
embarrassment
for her, and pity—how one might look on a mortally wounded friend on the battlefield as they say,
“I’m gonna make it! Don’t worry about me, guys! I’ll pull through!”

But was any of that real? Besides the stupid sunblock quip, had she been flirting at all? No! This was one of those horrible fear realization nightmares. Now aware of the dream, she tried to adjust the memories to her will, and then suddenly she heard Matt’s voice—close—next to her ear, a distance reserved only for the most intimate of messages. He said her name once, then again. And it was
real
, he was there in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, the heat from his shoulder and arm close enough to feel on her own arm.

She opened her eyes.

Indeed, he was there on the bed, his eyes on her eyes, with an intensity she’d never seen from him. How long had he been there, observing her in only the bikini? She felt only the sheet on her, covering maybe half a leg.

“Hi,” she said softly, and began scooting herself up, but he put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Shh.”
He bent close to her. She closed her eyes, his face drawing near, breath in her hair, goosebumps … “We have a situation,” he whispered. “We need to go. Like
now
.”

Uh, what?

She pushed him back and looked at his face. He was serious. She was about to ask what had happened but he shook his head and mouthed, “Later.”

He helped her out of bed, pointed to the crumpled pair of jeans she’d thrown in the corner, and for some reason that gesture, at that moment, triggered a wave of shame. She was practically naked, wearing this bikini in a big corporate conference room, pointing at a presentation screen, as baffled, suit-clad coworkers stared.

She pulled on the jeans—violently—over her bikini bottom, marched to the closet, and threw on a shirt, mumbling obscenities to herself. Turning to exit the closet, she slammed right into Matt, and he put his hands up in a
“calm down”
gesture. He nudged her back into the closet, placed his hands on her shoulders, and leaned beside her ear again. This time, though, his voice was more urgent, annoyed, perplexed.

“What are you doing?” he whispered. “Settle down and just follow my lead. Get some shoes on, get your purse, whatever you can carry, but only essentials.”

And then it hit her. When he said they had to go, he meant
go
, as in leave the island, and apparently with haste … an escape! He looked at her, severe, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. She nodded, and he turned to go.

“Are we in danger?” she whispered.

Matt paused in the closet doorway, grimacing slightly, as if to say yes, but not wanting to scare her. “No, no. Not yet. Not if we go now.” He disappeared around the wall.

It was a unique sensation, that of skyrocketing dread mixed with utter humiliation. She wanted to burst out laughing like a crazy person, but the fear quickly drowned out everything else, and she did what Matt said, grabbing her things and following him.

* * *

It’d been a mistake to let Joss come on the trip with him. She was a weakness, and his own weakness had influenced the snap decision to let her come. This was no revelation. It’d been no less clear when he’d first seen her in his driveway, sitting on his car, or again, when she showed up at the airport. And now that he needed to sneak off the island early, Joss in tow? Ridiculous. It wasn’t her fault, but stifling his anger at her presence proved a challenge.