Chapter 8
Morgan
I spend the afternoon working on my book. The story is bothering me—a nagging feeling that I’m missing something important. I sit back in the window seat and review what I’ve written so far.
Maverick has spent her childhood with the ravens and they’ve become like a second family—maybe her real family. She feels a sense of peace when they’re around, but lately other forces have come into play. The girl is older now, in high school, and even I have to admit it’s time for the protagonist to branch out a little. Meet new friends. Maybe a boy.
But what boy would want to be with a girl that speaks to animals? Also? Boys suck.
I stare out the huge window, pressing my forehead against the glass. Down in the park, birds burst in and out of the treetops. Up here it’s quiet. No birds at all. Not even pigeons roosting in the eaves.
I look down, as much as is possible. From this angle it’s clear the house has a nice-sized back yard, and in it, a figure catches my eye. I see the top of a head—hairless—and I think it must be Damien. He wanders in and out of a small structure and curiosity gets the best of me.
I didn’t shower after Bunny painted my face. I didn’t want to lose the magic of the moment and a quick glance in the mirror proves the painting is still on my cheek. Quickly, I slip on my shoes and run down the stairs. Sam’s door is shut and when I pass by the second floor I pause briefly when I hear low, soulful music drifting down the hall.
I know that Damien and Clinton share this level and the former is outside. That means Clinton is behind the haunting melody, and as much as I want to follow the music, I know better than to barge in on Clinton. His reaction to me the night before was less than warm. In fact, he made it clear he has a problem with me being here. Dylan basically confirmed it.
I leave the music behind and head to the kitchen, seeking a door to the back yard. I swing open the heavy door and find Sue standing over a table of freshly washed vegetables. The small woman with graying hair and a stiff-looking uniform holds a knife with a wide blade and has a pile of red peppers nearby. A bowl full of different colored eggs sits on the counter.
“Do you need something, dear?” she asks.
“Are those fresh?”
“There’s a coop on the roof.”
“Really?” I smile. “We had chickens when I was a kid. My father built a coop in the backyard. Oh man, they nearly drove him mad.”
“But they provided plenty of eggs?”
“Well, not really. There were a few incidents.” The memory floods back and I grasp for it before it fades. “The first was when we had this one crazy chicken that just vanished in the back. Like one minute we were chasing it. The next poof, he was gone.”
“And the second?”
“Something got in the coop. My father had to clean it up. That was the end of the chickens.” I watch her work for a minute. “So, I’m just looking for the way out back. Thought I’d check out the yard.”
“Just through that door there,” she replies, pointing with the knife. “Are you going out to see Master Damien?”
“Sort of?” I answer honestly. I’m a little embarrassed that she knew right away what I was up to. Sue has a knowing glint in her eye. I suspect it’s difficult to get anything past her.
“Well, take him a plate, will you? He gets so busy out there he forgets to eat.”
“Sure, of course.”
She walks over to the refrigerator and extracts a plate covered with foil. I take it from her. “There’s enough for two in there.”
“Oh, I don’t plan on…” I glance down. “I just wanted some fresh air.”
Sue shrugs and waves her knife. “Well get along, then. Dinner is at seven sharp. We’re having salmon.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say, backing away and reaching for the door knob. “I’ll make sure Damien gets this.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The warm afternoon heat blasts against my skin the second I step outside and I unzip the front of my hoodie. I cross a small porch and follow a path of slate pavers around to the main part of the yard. A wide, bigger porch sits across the back of the house and nestled in the corner is a cement structure with a metal roof. The building is plain and wide ventilation shafts poke through the ceiling. A strange chemical smell wafts through the air.
The door is open and I’m given a moment to watch Damien before he notices me. He’s standing at a long, metal work table with a thick, leather apron hanging around his neck and tied at the waist. Leather work gloves cover his hands and he uses a small torch on his project. His muscular arms are bare, the hint of his white tank visible under the leather. His black work pants fit perfectly, snug across the butt. A pair of workmen’s goggles are pushed to his forehead and he concentrates on a small object under a circular magnifying glass.
Extreme heat rolls out of the room even with the large fans mounted to the walls. I shift uncomfortably, wanting to take off my hoodie, but unable to with the plate in my hands. Damien is incredibly focused, but something happens and he drops the torch with a clatter on the table.
“Fuck,” he mutters, tossing his gloves across the room. He wrings his hand.
“Damien!” I step through the doorway uninvited and ask, “Are you okay?”
He looks up, wincing from the pain. “Morgan? What are you doing down here?”
I hold up the plate. “Sue wanted me to bring you this.” I set it down on the table and approach him. “Can I see it?”
“I just cut it. Nothing big. It happens.”
I reach for his hand and see the slice in his length of his finger. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He stares at my hand for a moment before looking back up at me. He swallows. “Over there, in that cabinet. Blue box.”
I move quickly, grabbing the box among all the other supplies in the cabinet. I rummage though and find bandages and ointment. Leading Damien to a stool near the work table, I get out the medicine and slather it on the bandage. We clean the wound and wrap it up.
“Better?” I ask. I’m standing between his spread legs, his feet perched on a rung at the base of the stool.
“Much,” he says in a quiet voice. We stare at one another for a moment and I sink into his beautiful eyes. They’re the most unique shade of violet. He strokes a finger over my cheek, the one that Bunny painted and his lips twist into a wistful smile.
“What?”
“You look good marked like that.”
I reach to touch the dried paint. It should be flaking off by now but it’s not. Damien’s eyes and hand move to the charm resting on my chest. I removed my hoodie before cleaning his finger. The studio is almost unbearably warm and I’m well aware of the sweat drenching my thin tank.
“This charm,” he says, fingering my necklace. A shiver rolls up my spine. “Where did you get it?”
Normally I lie. I say that I found it in a boutique or an antique shop. The truth always clings to my tongue but not today. Not now. “I don’t know,” I say, placing my hand over his. “It’s like I’ve always had it.”
“You don’t remember who gave it to you?”
“No, just that it’s important to me.” I realize we’re still touching and my heart starts to race. It’s an odd moment, I feel like he may kiss me, and bizarrely I really want him to. An intense yearning fills my lower belly and I lick my lips. Something about this place or these guys make me horny as hell. I mean, they’re hot. That makes sense but at the same time I’ve never reacted to a person—much less people—like this.
Damien’s eyes follow my every movement. “The food,” I mumble. “It’s getting cold.”
He frowns, eyes on my mouth. “The what?”
“The food Sue sent.” I take a step back and he drops the charm, as though he’s coming to his senses.
“Ah, right. Yes.” He scratches the back of his neck. I move to get the plate—to put something—anything—between us.
“So your studio is outside and not in the house?”
He takes the plate and leans against the doorway. “Yeah, the fumes from soldering are toxic. It’s safer for me to work out here.”
“And your specialty is metalworking?”
“Jewelry and designs. Welding. I make whatever inspires me. Come on, I’ll show you.” He turns and drops the foil on the work table. Fishing around a drawer, he appears with two forks. He offers one to me.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sue clearly gave me enough to share.” He raises an encouraging eyebrow and the pierced hoop glints in the studio lights. Damien is covered in decorations. Tattoos, piercings, rings, and bracelets. Silver, mostly, but it shines in the light. Now that he’s bandaged and we’ve created some distance, I study him a bit closer.
Two wolves are tattooed in dark gray and black on each shoulder, intricately designed. He lifts the fork to his mouth and a silver ring on his finger catches my attention. I ask, “Did you make all the jewelry you’re wearing?”
“Most of it.” He eats a roll by shoving the whole thing in his mouth at once. After he swallows he says, “Like you, I have some sentimental pieces.”
“Which one?”
“Which do you think?”
My eyes roam his body. His buff arms and chiseled chest. I only have an idea of what his abs look like and the thought twists me into knots. I skim over the studs lined up his ear. Beneath the tank I see the outline of metal and know his nipples must be pierced as well. I focus on the amulet hanging from his neck on a leather cord. Although it’s beautiful, I don’t think it’s special. Not like my charm.
My attention returns to the ring and I catch his hand in mine as he takes another bite of his lunch. He chews as I run my finger over the carved silver. I realize almost immediately it’s a long blade twisted around his finger.
“This one.”
He watches me closely. “Why?”
I shake my head but feel the hum of energy coming off the ring. “I’m not sure but I know it’s the one.”
“Metals and jewels carry many properties. Protection and power. Health and wealth. I use different ones to accomplish a variety of things, endurance or even strengthening resolve.”
I touch the ring again and feel the hum. “What about this one?”
“It’s gold fused with palladium. It signifies guardianship.”
I’m not sure what that means but simply say, “I could tell it’s special.”
We stare at one another and he brushes a piece of hair off my cheek. “You’re the one that’s special, Morgan. Never forget.”