Touching Smoke (26 page)

I believed him without hesitation, because if anyone could accomplish such an impossible fate as freedom, it was Isaiah. I took his hand and squeezed his fingers, relaying my feelings to him without words.

The food arrived then. The mouthwatering scent of thick gravy, roasted meat and steamed veggies entered the room before the stewardess with the cart. She took out domed platters and placed them neatly in front of every person she passed. Each plate was accompanied by silver utensils and crisp, white linen — no doubt something fancy with a high thread count. I didn’t know much about linen to begin with, but they had gold stitching on the corner; the shape an elegant G. Playing God clearly paid very well.

Isaiah and I made no move to touch the food placed in front of us. We sat staring at the man watching us back with sly amusement. What I wouldn’t have given to smack it off his face… permanently.

“You should eat, Fallon,” he told me in an almost singsong tone. “Unless you don’t have to?” There was a touch of mocked innocence there, as if he knew perfectly well that I wasn’t hungry and why, but kept wanting to play with me, like a cat with a mouse.

“Leave her alone!” Isaiah snapped. “We don’t want anything from you.”

Garrison smiled. It looked almost genuine if the mad glint in his eyes didn’t scream sadistic. “Oh, I think you want plenty from me. For example,” he paused to raise the cover off his meal, expelling a puff of steam so succulent, I actually moaned. My mouth watered and I had to look away from the thick slab of roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy and healthy serving of steamed vegetables. If Garrison heard or saw, he gave no indication. “I would think you would want your memories back.”

Isaiah wasn’t the only one who stiffened. My own jaw slackened. The pooling saliva vanished, leaving my mouth bone dry.

“What do you know about it?” Isaiah said, but not nearly as forcefully as he normally would have been with our companion.

With a dainty shrug, Garrison unfolded his napkin from around his utensils and draped it over his lap. The overhead light caught the four prongs on the fork and the razor-sharp curve of the blade as he carved a piece of meat on his plate. He took his time popping the morsel into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, dabbing the corners of his mouth with the napkin, before bestowing us with his attention once more.

“Oh, I know plenty, my dear boy. I was the one who took them away after all. I can just as easily… return them, if you like.”

Isaiah shifted in his seat, the frown on his face more contemplating than anger now. He rubbed his left bicep reflexively, just over where I knew the tattoo burned on his skin. I could
feel
the longing in him, could almost taste it, and all I could think was of course he would want to know what happened to him while in captivity. What Garrison was offering was evidently something Isaiah had longed for for so long, but it also made him bias to the subject.

My eyes narrowed, suspicion singing through my veins. “What’s in it for you?”

In the process of cutting another piece of meat, Garrison blinked, raised his head and stared at me. “Nothing! Why, I don’t have a motive for everything I say and do. Sometimes, I just like offering help.”

Right and pigs liked wearing pink tutus and wings. “But you’re the one who took them away in the first place!”

He made us wait while he went through the chewing, swallowing, and dabbing motions before answering, “Yes, but for good reason. Now I have no reason to keep them,” he turned to Isaiah. “You can have them back whenever you like.”

“How is that possible?” I asked. “How can you remove and then return them?”

“He has someone with those powers,” Isaiah answered, gaze never leaving Garrison’s. “They can alter, remove, and return memories.”

Of course. Why did I even bother to ask? “How do we know the memories haven’t been altered?” I asked, knowing that there was no real way to know. We would just have to trust him, and I didn’t.

Garrison must have been thinking the same, because he smiled, stuffed another chunk of meat into his mouth and said nothing else.

After the meals, when all the trays were taken away and we were offered after meal drinks, Garrison sighed contentedly, sitting back in his seat sipping herbal tea. The smell mingled with the lingering scent of roast beef and gravy. I had to press a hand over my stomach to keep it from rumbling.

The food itself didn’t make me hungry. I wasn’t at all drawn to the thick slab of meat, or anything else on the trays. I was ravenous by the prospect of sinking my teeth into something. I was hungry because everyone else around me was eating, and what I wanted, was sitting beside me, punishing me with his scent. Talk about peer pressure.

“We will be landing soon,” he predicted, glancing briefly at the gold watch around his wrist. “I’m sure you’re both anxious to stretch your legs.”

“Where are we?” I demanded, failing to see anything through the darkness pressing in behind the round windows.

“My private residence,” Garrison answered, setting his teacup down. “Welcome to sunny British Columbia.”

There was nothing sunny about it. As soon as we hit the asphalt, we were bombarded with rain.

“Watch your step, love.” There was anything but concern in Maia’s taunting tone as we descended the stairs, into the downpour. The barrel of her gun gouged into my spine, forcing me into Isaiah’s back to keep from slipping on the metal steps.

Garrison went ahead, protected by the twin umbrellas Bruce and Lew held over him. The rest of us were soaked, but surprisingly warm, until I was shoved into the freezing interior of the limo. Isaiah climbed in after me, sandwiching me between his scalding heat and the unyielding force that was Johnson. I wiggled closer to Isaiah, stopping short of climbing right into his lap.

“The drive is only a few minutes,” Garrison assured as the limo took off, rolling fluidly through the rain. “I’m sure once we have arrived you will both want to freshen up and get some rest.”

“We want answers!” I replied sharply, shivering in my seat. Did he really need the air conditioner on so high?

“Of course!” he remarked, offended. “But there is always time for that later. First, let’s get you to my cozy home.”

“I’m not leaving Fallon.” It was the first words Isaiah had spoken in five hours, and they were oozing with an ominous promise that sent a shiver down my spine.

Garrison put his pale hand up. “I wouldn’t dream of separating you! Oh no, you have nothing to worry about on that front with me, I assure you. Keeping you together is my only wish.”

My wary, sidelong glance in Isaiah’s direction was met with a matching frown, but neither of us commented. What could we say? We couldn’t argue, yet, we knew there was more to it than just easy acceptance. We couldn’t call Garrison on it, not when he’d been nothing but evasive thus far with our questions, but we both knew this arrangement came with high-cost strings.

The long, silent drive was broken only by the pounding of rain on the roof and the slush of water beneath the tires. The long journey, the time change, the up and down of adrenaline… I woke up with my head on Isaiah’s shoulder and his hand on my arm, shaking me.

“We stopped?” I blinked the sleep from my eyes, wincing at the crick in my neck.

“Yeah,” Isaiah mumbled bitterly, looking as thrilled as he sounded.

The limo was empty except for us, but I could see Johnson’s bulky figure just outside the open door. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. It still hit all the bare skin on my body when I stepped out. Shivers scuttled down my spine despite the muggy air.

“Stay close.” Isaiah threaded his fingers through mine, holding me securely to his side. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Garrison’s idea of a cozy home was a four-story mansion with marble statues of Greek Gods and Goddesses, cobble paths and gleaming windows. Most of the place was still bathed in shadows, but not much of it. Every light in the place was on, yellow and blinding pressed against gleaming windows. I didn’t even want to see the guy’s electricity bill. He clearly wasn’t the
‘save the planet, save power’
sort of guy.

The man in question was waiting for us inside the sprawling foyer. Polished marble reflected my battered image across the floor — not a pretty picture. Overhead, a glowing chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling. Oil paintings of chivalrous knights and dainty ladies hung from the walls, interrupted only by the wide staircase leading to the second floor.

“Maia, why don’t you show Fallon her room—”

“She stays with me!” Isaiah said, tightening his grip on me as if positive someone would try to snatch me away.

Garrison smiled the smile of an indulgent father. “Yes, of course. Maia?”

Perfectly dry, perfectly put together, perfectly evil, Maia sauntered forward, her sharp heels clicking rhythmically against the glassy floor. She stalked all the way to the stairway before pausing briefly at the base to glance back.

“I won’t bite.” But her smirk said otherwise. It reminded me of a shark, and we were the wounded scuba divers invited to dinner. But we followed her like sheep to the slaughter, even with a safe distance between us.

The stairs led to a hallway with red carpet and gold trimmings on the walls. At the end of it, we were met by another set of stairs, followed by another set of stairs, and just when it seemingly went on forever, we hit one more hallway, this one lined with doors.

“Here you go, princess.” Only Maia could make
princess
sound dirty. She gestured to a wide, arched set of doors with a delicate wave.

She made no move when we stepped forward. I watched her carefully the whole time. Isaiah pushed open the doors and led me inside. I closed it on Maia’s grinning face. It may not have been a punch and it may have been petty, but it was satisfying all the same. Then I made the mistake of turning around.

I wasn’t spinning, that was one of the differences. There wasn’t dozens of candles everywhere, that was another difference. But I knew everything there was about that room, as if I’d lived there my whole life. The metaphorical slap had my head spinning.

“No way…” I gasped.

Without directions from my brain, my feet turned with a will of their own and shuffled to the writing desk in the corner. My eyes found the burn mark before I even knew what I was looking for. A candle had dropped there once, a long time ago. My hand shook as I traced the scar on the otherwise polished surface. Without moving, I inhaled deeply, sucking in the scent of sea breeze. It was missing the lingering fragrance of vanilla and old parchment, but it had been so many years since either of those things had been in that room that it had long since faded. I glanced at the sheer, white lace hanging over the terrace windows, my thoughts a million miles away.

“Fallon?” Isaiah came up behind me.

“I’ve been here before,” I murmured distractedly, dropping my gaze back down to the mark beneath my finger. “I come here every night.”

“What?”

I turned to him, peering straight into his eyes, but not really registering his presence. “She loved mermaids. There’s a painting of one above the headboard. Her favorite place to write was by the fireplace. The matches are kept inside the heart-shaped bowl on the mantel. There’s an ink stain under the rug where she accidently spilt a bottle one night.” I marveled in my new discovery. “This was her room.”

“Whose room?” his fingers were ice on my shoulders. He shook me. “Fallon!”

I looked at him, really looked at him with his round, concern-filled eyes. “Amalie.”

He jerked away as if I’d struck him. “What?”

I went to the veranda instead of answering him. It was still too dark to see, but I knew the ocean lay just beneath us. The roar of it echoed off stone and glass. The melody was ancient and haunting. Every slap of wave against granite chanted with two words:
join us!

I shuddered.

“She jumped.” I didn’t know how I knew, but the longer I stood there, overlooking the vast blackness pressing against the glass and listening to the beckoning call, the more I was certain. “This was her room.”

I moved to the bed, barely feeling the floor beneath me. The silk bedspread glided under my touch. The creamy foreground shimmered. It was a teenager’s bed, one just creeping out of her childhood. There was lace around the pillowcases. A beautiful china doll sat on the nightstand, propped against the oil lamp. It had dark-brown ringlets around a perfectly painted face. Her frilly gown matched the bedspread, right down to the lace. I touched a curl, which shone in the dim light.

“It was her mother’s,” I whispered, still not sure how I knew, only that I did somehow. The whole thing should have terrified me, but all I felt was sad, like she’d been my closest friend and now, she was dead. “It was the only thing she had to remember her by.”

Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to maintain the room. There wasn’t a speckle of dirt or dust anywhere. It was like a museum, everything seamlessly in place. Why would Garrison have such a room? Why would he go through the trouble of preserving it if Amalie had meant nothing to him? Why would he put me in this room? Why
this
room?

Then it hit me.

“Amalie was his daughter.”