Lost Angeles (62 page)

“You’re not the boss of me,” I quip softly, tracing my fingers over his stubbled jaw.

One arm inches across the blankets, but instead of lacing his fingers with mine, he reaches out to touch a soft lock of pink hair that spirals over my shoulder. When I lean in closer, my face hovering over his, he sits up far enough to place a quick peck on my lips.

“I missed the color,” he murmurs.

I can’t help but smile again and turn my head slightly to take in the dark chestnut waves with the pink and purple streaks. It’s so different from the platinum rainbow I had when we first met, but in its own way, everything’s come full circle. I look different, but I look like
me
, and I guess that’s all that counts really. His hand inches forward, following the heavy locks until his fingers brush against the bare expanse of my shoulder.

He gets
that
look then, when he rubs the pad of his thumb over the smooth scars dotting my flesh. It took them a while to heal, and they’ll probably never fade entirely. He dug in so deep that he chiseled fang-shaped divots into the bone underneath.

I think Xaine wavers between tragedy and triumph each time the shiny marks come into view. Because it’s what he wanted. Just not like this.

My hand covers his, enfolding those cool fingers between my own, and I bring his palm to my lips so that I can place a soft kiss on each treasured fingertip. He’s got calluses, and I often wonder if he’s had them for the entire four hundred years or if he’s simply so dedicated to his craft that he managed to overcome his vampire super-healing enough to make them stick.

Slowly, I push myself up from the bed, yawning, stretching, then huffing out a laugh as I take in the full picture. Xaine’s hand finds my knee, squeezing as if he doesn’t want to stop touching me for a single second. He wouldn’t, I think, given the option. As it is, he’s mindful of the current situation, and he takes care to move as little as possible.

“Don’t roll over,” I say. “You’ll squish the baby.”

“Hrmph,” Xaine grunts out, but I’m not fooled. Just like with the hair, he likes to pretend that he’s not absolutely tickled by the way that tiny, helpless things are smitten with him. “Too stupid to know better, and too damn small for her own good. Now a tiger, there’s a cat I can get behind. I could beat a tiger in a fair fight.”

With a snort, I roll my eyes and reach out, scooping up all one-point-five pounds of kitten from her nest at the crook of his neck. “Go home, vampire, you’re drunk.”

“Sleepy.”

“Then sleep.” I press the mewling feline to my cheek, rubbing my nose in her feather-soft fur. Vegas usually sleeps under Xaine’s chin, but sometimes she can’t quite scale the mountain of his big, fat head, in which case she settles for the closest piece of skin she can find.

Just like her daddy.

When the kitten squirms, I put her down on the bed. Vegas picks her way carefully across the blankets, her tail like a question mark until she curls up against Xaine.

He catches me glancing at the shuttered windows, and his expression shifts from regretful to resigned. “Jax was right, much as it pains me to admit it. This wasn’t supposed to be a cage, either. I’ll come outside with you, so you can get some color on those day-glo legs of yours.”

“We both know it’s not exactly safe out there yet. Plus, you’re a vampire, and it’s like… noon.” I swallow a laugh. “What are you gonna do? Blow your rape whistle if I get accosted? Throw yourself into the sunlight in the hope that your ashes will blind my attacker?”

The glare he shoots me is classic. “You know, I think you very much overestimate your own sense of humor.”

I plant a kiss on his scowling lips and slide out of the bed. “I’m starving. I need to go make myself something to eat.” My bare feet touch down on a colorfully-woven rug that covers a wood floor that’s as old as this island. The house is Lilliputian, but it suits me. Xaine would have bought the biggest mansion on the block, but my subtle reminder of our incognito status landed us here instead, off a quaint side street, in a small space that I’ve filled with a myriad of personal belongings purchased off the internet. “Go back to sleep. I swear I’ll be right here when you wake up. Be careful when you roll over. Remember Vegas.”

Remember Vegas
.

The words give me pause for the barest second, pinging around in my head with all the good, bad, and ugly of that particular memory. I briefly wonder how things are going in Los Angeles, but as far as disappearing acts go, ours was the Houdini of goodbyes. The world mourned us; we are lost to them. It was surreal to watch it unfold on television, all the candlelight vigils and crying fans. It was a huge event, mostly dedicated to Xaine. I was a blip on their fame radar, but he was their national treasure. Xaine loved it, but I suppose he’s always had more than a little bit of the Huck Finn in him. He was impossible after the funeral, and it took weeks before he quit talking about how extravagant it was.

But after that, he just let it go. Let it all go.

Except me. Except
us.

“Get naked when you’re done,” he says, raising his voice enough to catch my attention as I wander toward the bathroom. “We’ll have dessert in bed.”

By the time I wiggle into a loose skirt and peasant blouse, Xaine’s already dropped off again, the kitten tucked up beneath his chin. I stop for a second to drink in the sight of them before going downstairs. On the main level, I bypass the kitchen and head instead for the front door. There’s a pair of slip-on sandals next to it, waiting for me. They aren’t broken-in yet, because I’ve yet to step foot out of our love nest since the night I bought them. I wouldn’t leave now, either, except I have money burning a hole in my pocket.

Or rather, I have one very specific gold coin on my conscience.

Dear L.,

Salutations from the other side of the world. I’m sending you a little cash; make a wish and huck it into the deepest ocean you can find, would you? Seriously. No, seriously! Stop fighting me on this and
do it
. Trust me, it’s not as valuable as you think.

Sincerely (and seriously),

J.

P. S. Keep X’s grubby mitts off it.

Rereading it brings a heavy ache to my chest. Jackson Trace might be shit at the guardian angel gig, but he’s a good person underneath all the random flailing. The letter showed up mysteriously a few weeks after our arrival on Madeira. No postmark, no return address, nothing at all to show that it circulated around the world via USPS, FedEx, UPS or anything else. Like magic, it was simply here, and when I opened the white vellum envelope, I caught the tiniest whiff of Jax’s cologne.

Eau de One Hundred and Douche.

I’m not sure why he didn’t keep the coin, save it for someone else, but plenty about the plane trip from Burbank to NYC told me that he was hanging up his halo and wings, if not his floral-print wingtips. Maybe the coin is another tie to the old days, one he’s happy to cut. Or, at least, happy to let me chuck into the five thousand meters of ocean surrounding Funchal.

Either way, he had to know I would do it, and this is honestly the first time since we arrived that Xaine has let me out of his sight. An odd feeling of guilt settles in my midsection when I unlock the bolts and slip outside, not only because he’ll have a heart attack if he wakes up and realizes I’m not there. It’s because—

I’ve
missed
this

I wasn’t meant to live in darkness. The welcome heat of the midday sunlight slides over my upturned face, my almost-bare shoulders. Not that I haven’t spent time on the various balconies, but it’s different to wander down the narrow, twisted alleys with my sandals slapping against ancient bricks. Xaine’s been teasing me for weeks that I’ve gone full-blown boho hippie chic in a way that would have looked contrived in LA. Here, it just looks right
.
Better than that, the ruffled-and-sheer blouses paired with long peasant skirts, large straw hats, and even larger sunglasses help me slide into a space somewhere between local and tourist in a way that draws no attention whatsoever until I end up at the pier. Renting a boat requires a lot of pointing and gesturing, but soon enough, Marco is motoring me out into impossibly blue water. The reflection is dazzling, blinding even, but I don’t close my eyes. This feels important. I have to bear witness.

At some point, I pull the well-creased envelope from the pocket of my skirt. I can feel the Scale through the paper, the ridge of the coin having left its impression. When the boat stops, I open the envelope and let the gold disk fall into the palm of my hand. Its shining, blank surface winks up at me. I stare at it for a moment, feeling a heavy sort of melancholy settle into my chest.

I love Xaine, love our life. I’m thankful for every day, but I can’t help the restless feeling, the idea that I should be…

Doing more.

As I hold the coin, a picture manifests on the flat surface. I stare at it, waiting and wishing and experiencing a hundred other things that I can’t really nail down to a particular emotion. This thing, this tiny piece of Jax memorabilia, is the last remaining link to the old life. The life
before
. A sigh escapes me as I curl my fingers around it, squeezing it so tight that it hurts. When I close my eyes to make a wish, I swear it grows a few degrees warmer in my hand.

I will live, I will love, I will fight. I just need the strength to do it.

I draw back my arm and fling the Scale as far as I am able into the glittering blue water. It turns over and over again, the flat sides catching the light the way Reille Reece’s bracelet did that night at Scion. It seems like a million years ago, but it also seems appropriate.

Another way we’ve come full circle.

After that, there’s not really anything left to do but go back. When I step off the boat, I cast longing glances at the stores along the main street, wishing I could stop in for fruit and cheese and smelly little fish for the kitten but knowing I can’t take anything back to the house without setting off Xaine’s every internal alarm. I do allow myself one indulgence: a pit stop at the
gelataria
to order something in my faltering Portuguese. The shop owner smiles and corrects my accent with a lot of good-natured handwaving. We laugh, I blush, and I leave with the taste of chocolate coating my tongue.

Without meaning to, I pause at the tourist kiosk at the end of the street. There’s a rack of postcards that draws my attention: pictures of the beach, historic buildings, churches. Plucking one out, I look at the glossy surface and then flip it over to study the place where you’re supposed to write.

Write home
.

Except I can’t write them. Can’t drop a note to the folks or to Jess or even to Jax.

Dear Butt-chin,

I did as you asked and threw your priceless holy relic into the sea.

Sincerely (and seriously),

L.

P.S. You’re stupid.

I can’t help smiling at the thought, but I know it’s a postcard that will never be written. It’s too dangerous to compromise our position as dead-men-walking for the sake of the Last Word.

Going to put the card back on the rack, a dozen regrets dimming the day for me a bit, my hand bumps into another reaching from the other side. My fingertips graze the dark red leather of butter-soft driving gloves, like someone left an Italian sports car idling at the curb. I follow that hand up, skimming over pristine shirtsleeves and the cuffs of a dark jacket. Without knowing why, a deep unease crawls up my spine.

“My apologies,” the stranger says, smooth as anything.

The hairs on my arms are already standing on end. I could blame the gelato, but it’s melting, welling up in the paper cup and dribbling over my fingers. He comes into view in slow motion: movie-star handsome face, dark fall of hair…

Not Tiberius.

And my midsection stabilizes enough to drop out from under me a second time when I realize I recognize this guy, too. He’s like that actor whose name you don’t remember, the one you saw in that sort of interesting movie, but you don’t recall the title to that either. He smiles benignly, but there’s no warmth in it.

Chewing on the inside of my lip, I study him without saying anything, without moving my hand toward the gun holstered on my thigh. His gaze flickers to my leg, like he knows what I’m thinking. Then his attention shifts back to my face and the smile widens like he’s amused by the very idea.

Amused by
me
.

“You can’t begin to understand how pleased I am to find you alive,” he says, then offers up a sympathetic nod and explains, “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

I give my head a shake, tilting my chin toward the ground so the thick curtain of my hair hides my features from sight. The sunglasses I’m wearing are huge enough to hide half my face. He doesn’t know, he just
thinks
he does, and I keep telling myself that as I offer up a thickly accented, “You must be mistaken.”

I turn and start walking, trying like hell to keep from breaking into a run. My mouth has gone dry, and I pause only long enough to drop the sodden gelato cup into a nearby trash can. I lick the chocolate from my fingers, snaking my tongue down the side of my hand to catch one roving drop—

“I don’t make mistakes, Lourdes.” When his quiet voice speaks my name, I trip, my toe catching on an upraised brick. A second later, I’m surrounded by warm arms, soft fabric. When I look up, it’s into brown irises that are so dark they’re nearly black, blending into the pupils until everything is one seemingly-solid color.

My hand slips into the pocket of the skirt, to the place where I cut out a hole big enough to pass my hand through. I can feel the holster tight around my thigh, and I reach for it, skimming past airy fabric and holding my breath until my fingertips slide over metal. “You’re mistaken. We don’t know each other.”

“Well, then.” The low monotone so close to my ear is polite, his expression is glassy-calm. Then he captures my hand, the one reaching for the gun, his red-gloved fingers closing down on mine. “Please, allow me to introduce myself.”