Tempered (A Daughters of the People Novel) (Daughters of the People Series) (6 page)

“It was little bother,”
Hawthorne said, though that was a slight stretch of the truth. It had been no
bother to investigate. Having Aaron trample her heart, however, had been a
painful reminder of the reality of a Daughter’s life. “You need not worry any
longer that your past will be discovered.”

Rebecca leaned
back in her chair and smiled. “You’ve added those two volumes to your vault, I
take it.”

“They were mine
to begin with. Reclaiming them was a small matter.”

“The
Chronicler,” Rebecca murmured. “Did you ever think all those years ago that
someone else would take your histories and develop them into fictional tales?”

“It was never a
glimmer in my mind.” Hawthorne rose and waited politely while Rebecca did the
same. “If you should have need of my aid in the future, please do not hesitate
to call upon me.”

“I shall.”
Rebecca smoothed back the wispy blonde strands of her hair. “Has your PI found
any connection between this Kesselman and the People?”

“I have directed
him to report to you.” Hawthorne turned away, weary of hiding her pain from
those around her. “I have no wish to discuss this matter again.”

“Of course.
Thank you for your help.”

Hawthorne
ignored the curious note in Rebecca’s voice. “You are welcome. Well met,
Director.”

“Well met, my
friend.”

Hawthorne strode
out without looking back. She did not need to. The Blade’s regretful tone had
etched itself into Hawthorne’s mind, drawing upon the centuries of their
acquaintance to supply the head tilted with concern, the tired slump of the
other woman’s shoulders. A great weight rested on Rebecca, as it did upon all
of the Daughters who had assumed leadership positions among the People.

As it did upon
Hawthorne, even in her nominal role as a respected elder.

The weight of
years alone could drive anyone beyond repair. Such is what Aaron suspected in
her, though it was not true. Her mind was strong and capable enough, well able
to deal with the blows her long life had dealt. Her heart weakened her resolve,
that wretched organ of emotion and need, and drove her to actions she could
hardly credit, all on behalf of a man who had scorned her.

While in California
reclaiming her volumes, her heart had pleaded with her until she had given in
and sought him out, watching him from afar as he had gone about his day. She
had snuck closer when he had claimed a table at a little café and brought out
his work, his stylus moving rapidly over the surface of a computerized tablet.
Though she had been across the street, well out of range to draw his attention,
he had peered around, as if sensing her observation, and nearly caught her
spying on him.

She had melted
into the crowd and retraced her steps to his apartment. It had been a simple
matter to break into the flat and explore the well-appointed space, her booted
heels echoing in the spacious rooms as they struck the hardwood floors. She had
been drawn to the open shelves of framed photographs, made of friends and
family, she presumed, and some of Aaron in various stages of life from
childhood to the near present. Such a handsome child, with chubby cheeks and
wildly curling mink-brown locks, who had grown into a handsome man with a kind
heart and skillful hands.

Her heart had
twinged painfully at the reminder of his betrayal, snapping her out of her
curiosity. She had made to leave when her eye caught on a framed drawing, hung
among a series of others, stealing her breath. The drawing he had made of her.
In her haste to remove him entirely from her life, she had thrown it away. He
had retrieved it and given it a place of honor on his wall. Her hands had
itched to reclaim it in much the same way as she had reclaimed the Chronicler’s
volumes. Instead, she had eased out of his flat and secured the door behind
herself, letting him go as she did.

Eventually, his
heart would fall to another woman and he would forget about Hawthorne.

She rubbed at
the ache in her chest, unable to contain the action or the hurt. The curse that
kept her immortal also strengthened her memory and guarded against its failure.
She would never forget Aaron Kesselman, not until death struck her low and the
Lady Goddess reclaimed her soul.

* * *

Aaron yawned and
rubbed tired fingers over bleary eyes. Since coming home from DragonCon, he’d
put in horrifically long hours, pushing himself to finish the illustrations for
his third solo graphic novel. He slept when he could, often during the day,
ignored everybody’s calls except Jason’s, the bastard, and ate so infrequently
his clothes sagged off of his ever leaner frame.

His dreams were
haunted by stricken gray eyes and a tear sliding down a pale cheek.

In every spare
moment, he tried his damnedest to track Hawthorne down, pushing Jason to find
her address (“I can’t, man, those are fucking confidential.”) and hitting a
dead-end on address searches on the ‘net. Knowing she owned the Hyatt Regency
Atlanta hadn’t done him any good. Turned out it was held by a corporation with
an Atlanta address, but that was as far as he’d gotten. Researching finances or
anything related was beyond him. That’s why he had an accountant, so he
wouldn’t have to deal with money.

Every day, he
called Jason and left a message on his agent’s voice mail.
Any word from the
editor? Am I still up for the illustrator job with Hawthorne?
Every day, he
hung up, discouraged. Jason had stopped answering his calls, and hadn’t
bothered to return them either.

Work carried
Aaron through. It was the only time he could push her from his mind, and even
then, it didn’t always work. A week and a half before, he’d been sitting at a
café working when his neck had tingled, as if he were being watched. He’d
glanced up and thought he’d seen Hawthorne standing across the street, her gaze
fixed on him. A blink of his eyes and she was gone. He’d laughed it away even
as longing and the thrill of her presence had clashed within him. Her face
pinned itself to the front of his mind, leaving room for nothing else,
including work.

A few hours
later, he’d walked into his flat and been hit by her smell, the gentle perfume
of roses and woman that had surrounded him when they’d made love. He’d rushed
through the flat looking for her and eventually dropped onto his bed, heartsore
on finding the apartment empty.

He’d crashed
where he’d dropped and slept for twelve hours straight, oddly comforted by her
scent.

It was the only
time his mind had gone that far into delusion, and it had shamed him. How could
he have judged her so harshly after everything she’d been through, especially
when his own mind hadn’t held up to something as benign as her leaving?

Unless she’d
been lying about everything, and he didn’t think so. That part, the rape, at
least, made all too much sense. It was the one part of the tale he wished with
all his heart was false. What he wouldn’t give to make it so.

He saved his
work, set his stylus down, and rose into a bone popping stretch, ignoring the
hunger clawing at his gut. He’d eat. Later. Coffee first. He stared into his
cup and grimaced at the mold clinging to the bottom. How long had he been
working?

He glanced at
the wall calendar pinned above his desk and scowled. The August section was
still up, which couldn’t be right. DragonCon had started in August and bled
into September. He pulled the calendar down and ripped off the offending page,
wadded it up, and threw it into his trash can, where it bounced off the
overflowing mess and landed in the floor.

He left it where
it fell and padded into the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. Cups and plates were
piled high in the sink, overflowing onto the counter. Pizza and take-out boxes
filled the other side of that counter. He pushed past them, pulled the pot out
of the coffee maker, and stared at the dried up mess in its bottom with a frown.

A knock sounded
on his front door. He grunted and trudged back into his office, ignoring the
increasingly frantic beats and Jeanne’s strident voice as she called to him
through the solid wood. She was the last person he wanted to talk to, the very
last one. As far as he was concerned, her idiotic conflicts with Hawthorne had
been the last straw, his own guilt notwithstanding. He could’ve kept his trap
shut. Instead, he’d thrown Jeanne up in Hawthorne’s face, not once but twice.
He’d meant nothing by it, not the first time anyway. That didn’t make the words
right.

What had driven
him to do something so utterly insensitive?

Right.
Hawthorne’s delusions.

Was he doomed to
gravitate toward women whose heads weren’t quite on straight?

The knocking at
his door ceased. Aaron picked up his stylus and meticulously outlined a
character centered in his tablet’s screen. His cell buzzed as he finished the
last stroke. He scrambled for it, checked the number, and scowled. Jeanne. No
way in hell did he want to hear her squawks.

He dropped the
phone and focused on the character’s background, switching to a finer digital point,
creating a shadow with strategically positioned dots. This was the part he
loved, creating the nuances that would deepen the colors applied to the
illustrations at a later stage. For this project, he’d pass that step on to
another artist for efficiency’s sake, though if he worked on Hawthorne’s job,
he’d try to do each step himself, depending on how long she’d tolerate him.

Likely not long,
judging from the way her hand had twitched the last time he’d seen her.
Apparently, she had a habit of beheading people. Whether she really did or not
was immaterial. She carried a sword and she knew how to use it.

Note to self:
Hide Hawthorne’s sword. Also, anything pointy, sharp, or weapon-like
.

No need to take
chances she’d swing something at him.

The phone buzzed
again, startling him into streaking a line across the illustration. He cursed
himself roundly. He usually put the damn thing away while he was working. A
glance at the number had his heart hammering in his chest.
Jason
. At
last.

He fumbled to
answer the call and barked, “Hello.”

“Don’t say a
word,” Jason warned. “I can’t tell you where Hawthorne is, but I have news.”

“Yeah?” Aaron
hit the undo feature, erasing the unwelcome streak he’d made. “It better be
good.”

“Good enough.” A
chair creaked. The rush of Denver’s traffic drifted through the connection.
“Hawthorne’s editor wants to see samples of your work. I’ve already sent them.”

Panic spiked
through Aaron. He’d spent hours carefully selecting his best work to send in.
“Dammit, Jase, you should’ve talked to me first.”

“Not likely, not
after the way you’ve hounded me about Hawthorne,” Jason said. “Relax, man. I’ve
got your back. You think I didn’t send her your best work?”

“I had something
better,” Aaron groused.

“Hunh. Well,
this’ll do well enough. Word is, you’re at the top of the list.”

Aaron
straightened in his seat. “So I’ve got the job?”

“Not
officially,” Jason cautioned. “We’ll know within the week.”

“Great.” Another
week without Hawthorne, another week with his conscience pricking at him and
memories of her gentle voice haunting him. “Only a week.”

“Look, I know
you’re hung up on her, but this is ridiculous. Jeanne called, hysterical because
you wouldn’t answer your door. She said your mother hasn’t seen you either.
That’s not like you, man.”

Aaron ran a hand
over his hair, and grimaced at the gritty, greasy feel. When was the last time
he’d showered? He searched his memory and came up empty. “I know. I’ll see her.
Ma,” he amended. Jeanne could rot, for all he cared. “I promise.”

“Do that.
Otherwise, I’ll have to mail Jeanne my key to your apartment.”

“Christ, Jase.
Don’t be cruel.”

“Hey, if it gets
you back to being you.” The chair creaked again, a door opened. “Listen, man, I
gotta go. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Thanks.”

Aaron hung up
and dropped the phone onto his work table. His gaze fell on the overflowing
trash can. When had that happened? He glanced around. Cups were stacked in a
teetering pile on the end table next to his chair. Half a dozen pairs of shoes
and at least that many socks were scattered under his desk, one of them
matching the sock he wore on his right foot.

His left foot
was bare, his boxers were turned inside out, and the button-down shirt he wore
was buttoned wrong.

God in Heaven,
he had it bad. He needed to get his act together before Jason called in the hellhound
that was his ex-wife. Shower first to wash off the accumulated grime, and then
he’d clean his flat. After that, food and a walk around the block, and then a
good night’s rest. Tomorrow was soon enough for work, this time with an alarm
set to remind him to take care of himself.

He brushed his
teeth twice for good measure and focused on the hope Jason had offered. One
week and he’d know, just one more week. Maybe then he’d have an opportunity to at
least apologize to Hawthorne, even if she refused to renew their budding
friendship.