Guardian (The Protectors Series) (11 page)

“Oh, man.” She closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled. “That’s promising.”

When she opened her eyes, Stefan stood frozen, staring at her. The heat in his eyes made her breath catch. Time seemed to hang suspended until a figure loomed in the doorway and jerked them out of the moment.

They stepped aside for Deputy Walt Thompson, exchanging greetings, and Stefan ushered her inside.

Five booths made of dark wood ran along the wall to their right, with one at the far end. Two small tables topped in blue laminate and flanked by two chairs apiece sat in the space between the booths and the counter. An elderly man occupied one booth. Another held two middle-aged women who had what looked like graphs spread on the table.

Stefan touched Mel’s arm, sending a jolt of awareness through her. “Grab a booth,” he suggested. “I’ll get the coffee. My treat.”

Mel bit back her offer to pay. She didn’t have to prove herself to him or stand on some footing of financial equality, so she thanked him and chose a seat.

One of the women looked up with a quick smile and a nod as Mel walked past. Returning the greeting, Mel had to admit, again, that small towns had some advantages. Strangers looked each other in the face and at least seemed friendly.

She slid into the corner booth, facing the door out of habit.

Stefan leaned over the counter. “Hey, Tom. How’s it going?”

“Good enough, I reckon.” A lean man with thinning white hair strolled out of a hidden area at the counter’s end. “How’re you doing, Doc? Any progress on Miss Cinda’s case?”

“Not the kind we’d like,” he answered. “Can I get a cinnamon bun and a couple of coffees?”

“Sure thing. Yours black, as usual?”

“Yep, thanks, and the other with the yellow packets and cream.”

“Be right out.” Tom disappeared from view again.

Stefan took the seat across from Mel, setting his medical bag beside him. “You’re in for a treat. Tom’s cinnamon buns are unequaled. The navy missed out when they assigned him to the hospital corps instead of whatever they call the cooks.”

“I can hardly wait to try it.”

Tom delivered their coffee. The white, ceramic mugs each bore a blue anchor, maybe a nod to the navy, and the words tom’s grill & griddle on one side.

“The lady’s coffee is on the house,” Tom said, “on account of Miss Cinda.” To Mel, he added, “That was an evil thing, ma’am, and I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Thank you.” Tears stung Mel’s eyes. “That’s very kind.”

“So was she.” Tom nodded and walked away.

Blinking against the tears, Mel stared at the wall.

Stefan laid his hand over hers on her cup, lightly, as though he wasn’t sure she would welcome it. HisThe kindness wrapped itself around her heart, and she turned her hand to grip his.

After a moment, she blotted the tears and smiled into his concerned eyes. “That was nice. The whole town seems to know I was Cinda’s friend.”

Stefan’s thumb brushed back and forth over her knuckles. It was an idle movement, not meaning anything, but the shivers it sent through her were monumental.
Crap
. Gently, she freed her hand to wrap it around her cup again.

“He’s a good guy,” Stefan said, “and it’s a nice town.”

Tom returned to their table and set the cinnamon bun and two smaller plates, with forks, in the middle. The smell was heavenly.

When he walked away, Mel’s gaze dropped to the plate he’d given them. The puffy, golden-brown spiral showed brown streaks of cinnamon beneath a thick, white glaze. “Holy crap,” she whispered. “Stefan, this is as big as my face.”

“Almost. Since we’re due at the shelter, we should dig in. Do you want to cut it, or shall I?” His eyes shone with amusement that brought out the gold flecks.

“You’re the one who works with knives.”

He cut the pastry before sliding half onto the plate in front of her. “Enjoy.”

Mel cut a piece and tasted it.

The sweet glaze dissolved in her mouth, joining cinnamon and airy bread on her taste buds. “Mmm.” She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the wonderful flavor.

When she opened them, Stefan was grinning, but his eyes were dark, the way they used to be just before he kissed her. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she gulped the heavenly coffee, which also had a hint of cinnamon in it, to hide her telltale blush.

He forked up a bite of his half. “You should see your face.”

“This is amazing. I think my arteries are closing, but I don’t care.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

She was beginning to realize she still liked him, too, and that was so unwise.

They ate in silence for a few minutes before she noticed a bit of glaze stuck to the corner of Stefan’s mouth.

He glanced up. “What?”

“You have frosting on your mouth.” Mel reached across the table and brushed the fleck away with her thumb. The warm, soft touch of Stefan’s lip jolted her with memory. Once, she would’ve kissed that away.

His eyes turned dark again.

“That got it.” Her voice sounded strained. No wonder, when her pulse was skipping.

“Thanks.”

He picked up his mug and directed a grave look across the table. The uncertain expression on his face triggered her alarm bells.

She steeled herself. “Whatever you’re going to say that I won’t like, just spit it out.”

“It’s about your mom.”

Mel’s stomach felt suddenly leaden. She never discussed her mom, but Stefan knew that. He wouldn’t raise the subject unless he had something important to say. “What about her?”

“You know how I helped Wiley Boone when other doctors couldn’t?”

She gave a tiny, tight nod, dreading where he was going, as Stefan continued, “It’s possible I could use those techniques to help your mom, too.”

“Mom doesn’t have a physical condition. You know that.” Mel tightened her grip on the warm coffee cup. She so did not want to talk about this, but if Stefan believed he could help, no matter how wrongheaded he sounded, she had to listen.

“I do know.” Stefan spoke slowly, as though choosing his words, but his eyes stayed level. “The ‘special treatments’ I use,” he began, making air quotes with his fingers, “can sometimes help people reconnect to the real world.” He paused, as though waiting for her to object before cautiously continuing, “You’re especially not going to like this part, but it’s possible she actually has some kind of gift. If so, it likely isn’t strong, considering she never succeeded in foretelling the future or doing any of the things she claimed were possible.”

“You’re saying she isn’t deluded?” Was that possible, or was he deluded, too?

But there was Wiley Boone to consider.

Besides, she’d done some research on Stefan yesterday, as well as on the case. He was one of the most respected physicians in the southeast and consulted on cases all over the world. She needed to remember that, not lose herself in the pain of her childhood. She’d fought hard to overcome that, to grow strong. She
was
strong. She would listen and not let fear rule her.

Stefan shook his head. “What I mean is that her psychosis may not be due to an inner malfunction. Something may have happened on a metaphysical level to sever her connection to reality. People with slight gifts often want more. In trying to attain it, they sometimes encounter forces beyond their ability to confront.”

Mel’s emotional walls slammed up. Studying his earnest, tense face, she leaned back against the wooden booth. “So you think she…met an energy monster or something?” Did he not hear how ludicrous that sounded? Why was she even listening to this?

Because Stefan was the one saying it, and her gut insisted he’d done something unusual to help Boone. And regardless of anything else, she no longer doubted his concern for her.

He shook his head, also shifting backward, away from her. “An energy monster might be the Hollywood version.” His smile flashed briefly, warily.

That wariness pinched her heart. He was putting himself out there by telling her this, trusting her not to recoil, not to ridicule him the way people in Essex had ridiculed her.

Crap. She’d let her own fear make her one of those people. She would
not
be that. She wouldn’t.

 “Okay,” she managed.

Stefan nodded. “I can’t know without examining her, but things do exist that human eyes can’t see. Many people believe in angels. It isn’t much of a stretch to accept that not all things we can’t see are good.” He shrugged. “It could explain what happened to your mom.”

If you believed in woo-woo like invisible beings, maybe, which Mel most certainly did not. She stared down at her plate, trying to find some common, solid ground with him, to repay his trust by opening up, although this area was quicksand for her.

Not everything with her mom had been troubling. “We used to have great Christmases,” Mel said slowly, “with music and lights and homemade Christmas tree cookies. Then the cookies stopped and so did Christmas when Mom decided to celebrate the solstice and Yule instead. Séances replaced baking, and the tree and the notes to Santa gave way to outdoor ceremonies with crystals and rocks.”

Her voice trailed to a pained whisper. The memory of that acute loss knifed into her heart. There was no sense telling him what made it worse, that her mom invited the town to those rituals.

“Are you all right?” Stefan asked softly.

Mel shrugged. “I don’t know. If she really had some…gift…” Hearing the disgust in her voice, she flashed Stefan an apologetic look—“that would make things more understandable.”

“Maybe.” Stefan waited until Mel looked back at him. “But it doesn’t excuse her failure to see how you suffered for her advocacy.”

The deep understanding in his eyes reached through the pain, comforting her. He was standing up for her, seeing her side, the way he always had. Having Stefan’s strength bolstering her, believing in her, still had the power to warm her, even after all these years. Maybe because she now knew his feelings for her had been real, not a sham. Nobody else in the world had ever given her that kind of support, that acceptance for exactly who she was. And feeling that again, she realized, was so very dangerous to her heart.

She cocked her head, studying his worried frown. “Why are you telling me this, about my mom?”

“Because I think there’s a good chance I may be able to help her.”

Mel’s heart did a slow, almost painful roll. Again, he was thinking of her despite everything that had happened between them.

Stefan eyed Mel as they entered the shelter together. Maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut. She hadn’t said much about his offer to help her mother, only that she would think about it. Considering that Wiley Boone was the sole example of what he could do, and Mel accepted that reluctantly, he doubted she would ask him to see her mom.

 “Here we are.” Stefan tapped on a door with a frosted-glass window bearing the black, stenciled words
REV. MARC WAGNER, DIRECTOR
.

Clad in jeans and a blue button-down shirt open at the throat, Marc opened the door. His brown hair was slightly disordered, as usual, but the habitual absentminded expression on his lean face gave way to a smile. “Hey, Stefan. You’re earlier than I figured.”

“The meeting didn’t run long. Marc, this is Miss Lucinda Baldwin’s executor, Mel Wray.”

“It’s good to meet you in person,” Marc said. He and Mel shook hands.

“Same here.”

 “Where’s the sick kiddo?” Stefan asked. “I can look him over while you two talk.”

“Upstairs in the little room next to the playroom.” Marc grimaced. “Please tell me it’s not strep. That’ll go through the kids like fire in a hay field.”

“Won’t know until I look.” Medical satchel in hand, Stefan turned back down the hall.

He was halfway up the stairs when his cell phone vibrated. Javy’s picture showed in the screen. He’d gone home yesterday to finish convalescing. Stefan swiped with his thumb to take the call. “Everything okay?”

“With me, yeah. Karen watches me like a hen with her last chick, but I’m good.”

“If that’s so, why…Wait. You found something in those files your raid liberated.”

“Right the first time. Can you talk?”

This was about as private as the shelter ever got. Stefan settled onto the steps. “I have a minute. Shoot.”

“I didn’t find the answer to all your problems. Wish I had. What I did find were references to ‘the Teacher,’ always capitalized. Sometimes that was linked with references to shared blood and the term ‘Old One,’ also with caps.”

“Ghouls don’t live long enough to be old.”

“Maybe one did.” Javy hesitated. “There was one reference to the Old One and the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”

“World War I. That can’t be the same individual.” Except under one scenario.
Please, let it not be that
.

“Void demons live a very long time,” Javy said.

Like centuries. “I was thinking the same thing. Damn it, Javy, it can’t be that. If a Void demon had remained on Earth after the last battle, someone would’ve detected it.”

“You’d think so, but they’re sly and very powerful. And the Burning Times threw everything into chaos for the mageborn.”

“Still…Maybe Old One is some kind of title the ghouls use. Though Teacher could be anything.”

“Trusting ghoul records, especially out of context, is always risky. I thought I’d have Will take a look at this info. It might ring some kind of bell for him.”

“I’m at the shelter, and he said he was coming here today. I think Tasha is, too. Something about curtains. You e-mailing him the info?”

“Yeah. Tell him to be on the lookout.”

“Will do. Don’t forget your follow-up with me next week.”

“Karen’s on it.” Javy’s voice warmed. “You can be sure I’ll be there.”

They signed off. Javy’s recovery was a bright spot in an otherwise troublesome day.

Frowning, Stefan considered the possible implications of the phrase “Old One.”

When Griff had been a prisoner of ghouls, he’d noticed a middle-aged one, unusual for their kind. Val had said the same thing after she’d gone into that nest to free him. But reaching middle age, while rare, wasn’t impossible for a ghoul.