After dinner we watched some TV, then went to bed early. Still strange, still so mind-bendingly odd how we could be so casual about saying our goodnights and retiring to our separate rooms. The lock on my door was blasted to hell and back, and yet I knew that really wasn’t going to be a problem. Connor was giving me my space, letting me do with it what I willed.
What that would be, I had no idea. To say I was confused by the situation would be an understatement. He was friendly one moment, completely closed off the next. Not that I had to search too hard for the reason why he’d shut down when he did — no, that was all about his brother. What was going on there, I had no idea. Damon obviously had some strange power over Connor, one that seemed to go far beyond merely being his brother. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a kind of mind control, since that one confrontation I’d overheard had told me Connor was willing to stand up to his brother when the occasion called for it. But he also showed no inclination to talk about their relationship…and I had to believe something lay there that would explain everything, if he would only open up about it.
The odds of that seemed roughly on par with the likelihood of Damon showing up at the apartment and announcing that I was free to go back to Jerome. As I lay down to sleep that night, acutely aware of Connor’s presence just across the hall, I wondered what it would take to get him to talk, and whether I even had the ability to pry open that particular oyster to get at the pearl inside. I had to believe I did. The situation couldn’t go on like this indefinitely.
I just didn’t know what I would do when it did finally change.
The next day went a little more smoothly, mainly because at least I knew what to expect. Connor let me know that he’d be working — “the gallery usually isn’t open on Sundays, but it is this weekend because of the holidays” — and I spent my day being bored out of my mind watching TV. I would rather have read, but he didn’t seem to have many books around except art books and some leftover textbooks, and there was nary an e-reader or tablet in sight. Since he’d left his laptop behind, I supposed I could’ve downloaded an app to access my books, but somehow that seemed too invasive.
I debated emailing Sydney, then decided against it. It just felt too strange to open an ongoing dialogue like that on someone else’s computer, and I didn’t have the faintest idea how I would even begin to explain the situation. Maybe now that my aunt knew I had the avenue of communication open, she’d be checking her email more often, but again, I didn’t even know what to say to her.
Hi, Aunt Rachel, I’m captive in Connor Wilcox’s apartment, but it’s okay because he’s taking really good care of me. I’m not sure I even want to come home. Hope everyone is having a wonderful Yule!
Yeah, right.
That night it was pizza and chianti.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you don’t cook,” I told Connor as he set the pizza box down on the dining room table. “You know, I could make something.”
“You could?” he inquired, looking dubious.
“I was raised by Rachel McAllister. She would have thought she was being derelict in her duty if she didn’t teach me how to cook.”
It was true; while I wouldn’t go so far as to say I was as good a cook as she was, I definitely knew my way around a kitchen. And making dinner would at least give me something to focus on. Something complicated that would take up a large chunk of the day. That sounded like a great idea.
He was still looking at me with that one raised eyebrow. It was an expression he appeared to have mastered…and one that only intensified his good looks. I forced in a breath, making myself think of possible dishes to make the following day and not how much I wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the fine, sculpted bones of his face under my fingertips.
I shivered, then said quickly, “How about tamales? We usually make up a big batch around the holidays. That, and some homemade black beans.”
“How big a batch?”
“Well, the recipe I know makes about fifty.”
“Fifty?” He’d turned slightly away from me, and was in the middle of transferring a piece of pizza to his plate when he stopped and gave me a look that told me he thought I’d taken leave of my senses. “Isn’t that a lot for two people?”
“We usually share. You can freeze some, or wrap some up to take to your clan members. Don’t you do anything for Yule?”
Studiously glancing away, he put together a plate of pizza for me before sitting down. “There’s usually a dinner on Christmas Day. Kind of a potluck thing. Damon actually hates it, but it’s a tradition, so it keeps on happening. I just figured I wouldn’t be going this year.”
Because of me, I mentally finished for him. He probably didn’t dare risk taking me out of the house before our bond was complete, but on the other hand, he was just enough of a nice guy that he didn’t want to leave me alone on Christmas. I almost told him he didn’t have to worry about that, but I decided to leave it for now.
“Well, even if you don’t go, you can still provide something for the potluck. Consider it a peace offering from the McAllister clan to the Wilcoxes.”
“Maybe.”
That was all he seemed willing to give me for the moment, so I let it go and concentrated on my pizza and wine. The pizza was decent — nothing gourmet like I’d get at Grapes or at Bocce down in Cottonwood — but it was rich and laden with cheese, so I couldn’t complain too much.
“But it’s okay if I make tamales?”
He sighed, and reached out to take a drink from his glass. “Sure. Give me a list, and I’ll try to get out and go shopping tomorrow morning before the gallery opens.”
His tone was still not all that enthusiastic, but I decided to ignore it for now. Maybe he just wasn’t looking forward to braving the crowds at the supermarket, where everyone would be fighting over the last bags of fresh cranberries and Jell-O mix or something. He’d probably be even less thrilled when he saw some of the specialized items I’d need, but I’d have to risk that.
At least I had a plan.
Having asked for a pencil and paper the night before, I was able to hand over my shopping list the next morning. The lengthy list of ingredients and tools provoked another raised eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything until he got to the part where I’d drawn another line across the page and written down another, smaller list of more items.
“Duck…port…dark cherries?” he inquired. “That doesn’t sound like any tamale I’ve ever had.”
“It’s not for that,” I replied. “It’s for Christmas Eve. I don’t have to make it, though — maybe I should have asked if you had plans with Damon or something.”
“Damon?” he repeated, and shook his head. “Hardly. Damon’s not exactly the holiday spirit type. Anyway, he doesn’t recognize Christmas as a holiday. He just does the potluck because it’s a family tradition. We do celebrate Yule, of course, although that was sort of…disrupted…this year.”
Because of me. Well, to be more precise, because of their kidnapping of me. I sure wasn’t going to feel guilty for screwing up their Yule celebrations.
“Well, we McAllisters never pass up an opportunity for a party, so we do Christmas, too,” I said. “And there are members of the clan who do go to church, so it’s something a little different for them.”
“Church? Really?”
I lifted my shoulders. “As Aunt Rachel likes to say, a visionary is a visionary, whether he’s Jesus, Buddha, or Mohammed. Why not celebrate his birth? It doesn’t run counter to our other beliefs, more like…alongside them.”
To my surprise, Connor actually nodded. “I kind of like that. And duck for Christmas Eve is fine, if you really want to go to the trouble. But I need to get going if I’m going to scrounge all this stuff before the gallery opens. Luckily, there’s a Bed, Bath, and Beyond in the shopping center next to Safeway, so I hope I can do it all in one stop.”
“I hope so, too.” Now I was starting to feel a little bad for making him go get all those supplies. On the other hand, it wasn’t my fault that I was stuck in his apartment with nothing to occupy myself.
He just nodded and went to the hall closet to retrieve his overcoat and scarf, then let himself out. Although I was more used to being alone in the place by now, it still felt empty and echoing without him.
Man, two days in this place and you’re already losing it, I scolded myself. Then I went into the kitchen and started pulling out the things Connor did have already, like a glass measuring cup and a set of measuring spoons, and wiping down the counter in preparation for the process of making the tamales and beans. His kitchen wasn’t large, but it was laid out well, unlike the cramped space in Aunt Rachel’s apartment. The kitchen in my big Victorian was much larger, naturally. However, since it hadn’t been updated yet, it still left a lot to be desired. This place had a much better setup for my first solo tamale flight.
I’d just have to hope I didn’t screw it up.
Connor came back about an hour later, laden with so many boxes and bags he had to make two trips up from wherever his vehicle was parked to unload it all. “And now I’ve got to get down to the gallery. It’s already past ten-thirty.”
“Sorry,” I said, and I did actually mean it. I hadn’t intended to make him late to work…and also, seeing all those supplies spread out on the kitchen counter and dining room table made me realize how much I’d asked him to buy. “I didn’t realize it would be so much.”
“It’s fine.” He didn’t smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” And like that, he was gone again.
I looked out at the grocery bags and the boxes with the new pans and gadgets, and took in a breath. Time to get to work.
And work it was, but I found myself enjoying it. Chopping things and stirring things and watching the clock to make sure everything is cooking more or less at the desired rate keeps you busy but doesn’t overtax the brain. By the time I had the pork roast in the dutch oven — newly purchased — and the beans in the crockpot — also new — I realized it was almost one o’clock. My stomach growled, and I wondered if Connor was going to bring me lunch the way he had before, or whether he’d decided he’d bought enough groceries that I should be able to scrounge something.
I probably could have, but he showed up a little past one with more sandwiches and an apology for running late.
“It’s been crazy busy,” he told me as he bit into the Italian sub he’d just unwrapped. “Which is good, I guess. I’ve already paid off your little shopping expedition this morning.” He paused then and lifted his head to take an appreciative sniff. “That smells good. What is it?”
“Pork roast in the oven and red chili sauce on the stovetop. Oh, and beans in the crock, but I don’t think they’ve really had time to ‘work’ yet.”
“Who knew you were so domestic?”
“I could have told you, if you’d asked.” Or if your brother had been interested in anything about me besides me being the prima, I thought. But that seemed like I was treading on dangerous ground, so I hurried to add, “My aunt always made cooking fun, so I like doing it. Now, cleaning toilets? Totally different.”
Another one of those heart-wrenching grins pulled at his mouth. “No worries there. I have a cleaning service.”
And how are you going to explain me to them? I wondered, but didn’t ask. Considering how spotless the place was when I showed up — especially for a bachelor’s apartment — I had to guess they’d been here recently and probably wouldn’t be back until after the holidays.
I only said, “Thank the Goddess!” and then took a bite out of my sandwich. He seemed to recognize that I was trying to keep the conversation light, so he ate along with me in silence until we were both done.
“Back to the salt mines,” he commented. “The gallery’s open until six, so I’ll be up a little later than yesterday.”
“That’s fine,” I replied. “I’m shooting for dinner around seven.”
“Sounds good.”
If our relationship had been different, this was the moment where he should have bent down to kiss me goodbye before he left. But we weren’t there. Not by a long shot.
He left, and I went back to work.
Around two-thirty I took a break, as I was waiting for the broth from the pork roast to cool so I could skim off the fat. The day had gradually begun to darken, but not because of approaching night. Not that early. No, I could see gray clouds gathering outside. It had done the same thing the day before, but no snow had fallen, so I wasn’t sure what the lowering skies really meant.
I went to the window to look at the weather and the streets below. Not that much had changed, although they didn’t seem quite as crowded as they had been the day before. Well, that made sense, since today was a Monday and probably a lot of people were at work. But it was still busy enough, and once again I found myself wishing that I could be down there in the fresh air, window-shopping and enjoying myself. Making tamales was a welcome distraction, but it didn’t exactly provide much mental stimulation.
As I watched, a sleek black Range Rover pulled up to an empty spot at the curb just below the apartment and in front of the gallery. The door opened, and a tall dark-haired man got out. Almost at once I recognized him as Damon Wilcox, and I pulled in a worried little breath, wondering if he was going to come up to the apartment again. I really didn’t want to imagine what his reaction might be if he barged in here and found me playing domestic goddess in his brother’s kitchen.
But as the minutes ticked by and he didn’t appear, I realized the apartment must not have been his destination at all. He must have gone to the gallery.
While I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation, I didn’t possess the sort of clairvoyance that would allow me to eavesdrop on the two brothers from up here. All I could do was wonder what it was that Damon wanted. Scratch that. I had a pretty good idea of what he wanted. I was just surprised that he’d approach Connor in his gallery. It might be owned by a Wilcox, but it was still a public place that most likely would be filled with civilians doing their last-minute holiday shopping.
“My, you’ve been busy,” came a voice from behind me, and I jumped. Literally jumped. Maybe just an inch or two, but still.
My heart resumed a more or less normal rhythm when my brain registered that the voice was feminine, and definitely didn’t belong to Damon Wilcox. “Hi, Mary,” I said.
The ghost trailed her way from the living room back to the kitchen, where she cast an appreciative eye over the visible evidence of my industry. “What are you making?”
“Tamales.”
She looked confused. “I don’t think I know what that is.”
“It’s a Mexican dish. A lot of people make it around the holidays.”
A ghostly finger trailed over the glass top of the crockpot. Anyone else would have jerked her hand back right away, since the crock was plenty hot even on the low setting, but of course Mary Mullen was far removed from any such concerns. “I’ll bet it smells good.”
“It does,” I assured her. Then, since she didn’t seem inclined to do much more than wander around the kitchen, I asked, “Is there something you wanted?”
“No,” she said absently. “That is, I thought I’d check in when I heard all this clatter in the kitchen. Connor barely uses it, except to put things in that.” A condemnatory finger was thrust in the direction of the microwave.
It seemed she and Maisie had a good deal in common when it came to modern contrivances. “I know. Fancy kitchen, and he hardly sets foot in here. I thought it was time that stove was put to good use.”
“I knew you’d be good for him. That I did. I was always a good judge of character. None of those other girls ever came in here and cooked for him.”
“About those girls,” I began, but she shook her head.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. You’re here now. And I’ve been thinking about it — you know, after you asked me how long it had been since the last girl was here. I thought hard, and looked at the calendar he has pinned to the wall there, and I think I figured it out. Two months, just about. Not since Halloween.”
Halloween. When we’d come face to face for the first time. Of course I hadn’t known who he was, not then, but he certainly knew I was Angela McAllister. He’d met the girl he’d been dreaming of, and hadn’t been with anyone else since then.
I could try to tell myself that it really didn’t matter, but it did. It mattered to me…a great deal.
“You’re sure it was Halloween?” I asked.
A little frown puckered her plucked brows. “Yes. There were people going up and down the streets wearing funny costumes and laughing. You know” —her voice lowered— “like they’d been drinking too much.”
I almost wanted to laugh at her reticence, but then I realized she must have passed away when Prohibition was still in effect. Public intoxication must have been a very big deal back in her day.
“Thank you, Mary,” I said sincerely. “That’s really good to know.”
“I’m glad. It had been bothering me. I can stop worrying about it now.”
And before I could tell her it wasn’t something she needed to have been fretting about, she disappeared. I supposed it could be disconcerting, if you’d never seen it before, but by then I’d been talking to ghosts for twelve years. It took a good deal to faze me.
Well, when I was dealing with ghosts, at least.
Connor came back around six-thirty, later than I’d expected. In a way it was good, because by then the tamales were already more than halfway through the steaming process, and I’d set the table and even put out some candles I’d found tucked away in one of the cupboards. The aged-bronze pillar holders were still in a gift bag, as if they’d never been touched. A gift from one of those girlfriends? Maybe. If they were, they didn’t appear to have ever been used, so apparently he wasn’t entertaining those girls here.
No, he was probably taking them out on the town and showing them a good time since they didn’t have to be locked up in this damn apartment.
I squelched that thought. What he’d done in the past was none of my business. While the idea of being free to go out and have Connor show me around Flagstaff was definitely appealing, as places to be stuck in durance vile went, his apartment wasn’t half bad.
Then I had to shake my head at myself. So now I wanted to stay here, get to know the city? This was getting nuts.
Luckily, I was able to abandon that line of thought because Connor came in then, carrying a brown bag with a bottle of wine.
“Tempranillo,” he offered. “I thought it would go well with the tamales.”
“Where is all this wine coming from, anyway?”
A gleam came and went in his green eyes. “Don’t you know that Flagstaff is a very cosmopolitan city? There are several wine shops within walking distance.”
“Ah, now I know why you chose this apartment.”
When he’d first come into the kitchen, he’d looked tense and preoccupied, and again I wondered what kind of exchange he’d had with Damon. Now, though, he smiled, the shadows momentarily leaving his eyes.
“Can I help with anything?”
I shook my head. “No, I think I’ve got it. I’ll just get some of this dished up and will be out there in a minute.”
He surveyed the kitchen for a second or two, saw how the pots I’d used previously were already scrubbed and put away, how I had a serving bowl and plate ready to go for the beans and tamales. A smaller bowl held some crumbled white Mexican cheese for the beans.
“Obviously, I’m in the presence of an expert,” he said with a little bow, then got a couple of wine glasses out of the cupboard before beating a retreat to the dining room.
I allowed myself a smile before picking up the tongs and beginning to transfer a stack of tamales to the plate. Even allowing for us to eat more than was probably good for us, there were still going to be a lot of leftovers. That was okay, though; I’d leave them in the steamer until it was time to package them up. Connor could decide if he wanted to freeze them or contribute them to the Wilcox Christmas potluck.
Wow, there were three words I never thought I’d be stringing together.
After I’d ladled a good portion of the beans into the bowl I had waiting, I picked it up and the smaller one holding the cheese and took them out to the dining room. Connor had the wine open, and a good measure poured into each of the glasses. The candles flickered in the center of the table, and I noticed that he’d used the dimmer to turn down the lights overhead.
Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Wilcox? I thought, and then realized I wasn’t as put off by the notion as I probably should be. Uh-oh.
Giving myself a mental shake, I went back to the kitchen and got the plate of tamales, and turned off the lights before returning to the dining room. I noticed he’d been busy, too; more of that instrumental guitar music played in the background.
“Who are these guys?” I asked as I sat down. “I could have sworn I’ve heard them before, but….”
Connor replied, “Black Forest Society. You’ve heard of them?”
That was it. I’d only been able to catch one of their shows because they traveled around the state a lot, and the one time they’d played the Spirit Room when I was there, they didn’t even have a CD available yet. “I saw them once in Jerome about six months ago, I think.” Yes, that sounded right. It had been a warm summer evening, with the doors of the bar open to the streets and people coming and going. Back then I’d thought I’d have plenty of time to find my consort.
Instead, he’d found me.
Connor put a tamale on his plate, then picked up another one and set it on mine. I murmured a thank-you as he said, “They play up here in Flag off and on. One club they play at is just a couple of streets over from here. I’ve always liked their music, so I was glad when they finally got their CD out there.”
“I didn’t even know they had one. It’s good.”
A pause as he took a bite of tamale. His eyes widened. After he was done chewing, he said, “And these are amazing. I’m surprised your aunt runs a shop and not a restaurant.”
I didn’t bother to ask how he knew that. It was pretty clear to me that the Wilcoxes knew a lot more about us McAllisters than we did about them. Or at least, than I knew about them. There’d been a lot of secret-keeping back in Jerome, and I still didn’t have any clear idea as to how much I’d been kept in the dark.
Connor seemed to realize his slip-up, because he glanced away from me and took a sip of his wine. Because I was feeling slightly irritated, I only said, “Thanks,” then added, “so what did Damon want today?”
Of course he didn’t answer right away. He took another bite of tamale, shut his eyes as if savoring the taste, then answered my question with another of his own. “You saw him?”
“Yes, I was taking a break and looking out the window, and I saw him drive up.”
Now it was Connor’s turn to look annoyed. “Nothing. Just checking in.”
“He doesn’t have a phone?”
“Doesn’t trust them for the important stuff.”
Wow, he really was paranoid. Then again, what with our own government sniffing through our phone calls and emails, I supposed that was one thing I couldn’t really give Damon Wilcox much grief over.
“I think he needs a hobby,” I remarked, and finally sipped at my tempranillo.
It was on off-hand remark, the sort of thing I’d said about more than one person on occasion, but Connor didn’t appear amused by it. “Oh, he has hobbies. I’m just pretty sure you wouldn’t approve of them.”
“So why don’t you tell me about it?” I said the words as a challenge, not expecting to get an honest answer.
To my surprise, Connor seemed to take my question seriously. Maybe the tamales had loosened him up. “You know he’s a physics professor, right?”
“No. I mean, I knew he was a professor of some sort at Northern Pines, but I didn’t know what he taught.” I did my best to keep my tone neutral. I didn’t want to say anything that might keep Connor from talking.
“Well, he’s been using his work to aid him in altering spells, making them stronger, making them do things no one else has been able to.” He spooned some beans onto his plate and then handed the bowl to me. I took it from him with a slight smile, but remained silent so as not to interrupt. “I’m not an expert, so I can’t begin to explain half of it, but he tells me that spells are energy, will is energy, and he’s learned to work with that energy in ways no other primus — no other warlock — ever has. So neither you nor anyone in your clan should beat themselves up too much over being bested by Damon Wilcox, because it’s hard to defend against something you never even knew existed.”
“That’s…impressive,” I said after a pause. Well, that was one word for it, anyway. “Frightening” was another that came to mind, but I didn’t say it out loud.
Connor shrugged. “He’s driven. It’s good for the clan, I suppose, but it’s…a little tiring.”
I could imagine, even though I didn’t really want to think too hard about what it would be like to have Damon Wilcox as my older brother. But since Connor seemed to finally be talking, I thought I’d better see if I could get anything else out of him. “So….” Now that I thought I had an opportunity to ask questions, I didn’t even know which one to ask first.
“So why do I put up with it?”
I nodded.
“It’s complicated.”
“You told me that before.” I picked up the tongs and set another tamale on his plate, since he’d already finished off the first one. “You just didn’t tell me why.”
The green eyes seemed to darken almost to black. “You really don’t want to hear all this.”
“Actually, I do.”
He poured some more wine into his glass, then topped mine off as well. “Why?”
“Because….” I had to stop myself from saying, Because I think I’m starting to like you a lot more than I should. Instead, I told him, “Because I think it will help me to understand what’s going on here a little better.”
Another pause. The steel-string guitar played in the background, fast and intense, accompanied by equally intense drumming. Connor let the music spool out for a moment, then sighed as he reached for his wine glass. “It’s not a pretty story.”
“I figured it probably wasn’t. You want mine first, just to break the ice?”
He gave me a smile with little humor in it. “I already know it — at least, about your mother dying when you were a baby, and how you don’t know who your father is.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. “There are times when I wish I had that luxury.”
I remained silent, waiting for him to go on. My heart, though, had begun to beat a little more quickly.
“Do you know about the Wilcox curse?” he asked abruptly.
“A little.”
“Then you know the marriages in the direct line aren’t exactly happy ones.”
Mouth tightening, I nodded again.
“For a while it seemed like it might be different for my father and my mother. She was an artist, too — did a few shows, I guess, but she mostly liked to paint for herself.”
“Those are hers, aren’t they?” I murmured.
“What?”
“The paintings in your room. They don’t look like your work. They’re hers?”
“Yes.” He drank some more wine, a large gulp, but I wasn’t about to give him grief over that. Not when I could tell how difficult this must be for him. “She had Damon, and everyone started watching her carefully, because usually once the primus’s wife has a son, the trouble starts. But she seemed fine. She was fine, for years and years. Then she got pregnant again.” He gave me a humorless smile. “Me. Damon’s almost ten years older than I am, and everyone thought it was a sort of miracle, and maybe for some reason the curse had finally been broken. Then….”
The word trailed off and I held my breath, wondering if this was where he would stop, if this was the point where he couldn’t make himself say any more.
But then he drank a little more wine, a much more measured swallow this time, and continued. “It started with little things. At least, that’s what Damon tells me. I didn’t notice that much at the time. I mean, I was barely three. But she stopped painting, and then there were days when she couldn’t even be bothered to comb her hair or get out of bed. One of the women from the clan started coming over to help with meals and tidying up and all that, since my mother just…stopped doing it.”
All this was said in an almost expressionless voice, as if he were relating events that had happened to someone else, but I could see how tense the fine lines of his jaw were, how he couldn’t quite look at me. I wanted so much in that moment to reach out and touch his hand, to give him some kind of reassurance, but that would only cause a whole new set of problems. I could only wait and hope that he would go on.
Which he did, although he had to take another fortifying sip of wine before that happened. “It was sometime in late spring. I remember that because Damon was at Little League practice.”
Despite everything, I had to smother a smile at the thought of a thirteen-year-old Damon Wilcox in a baseball uniform. I didn’t think the Wilcoxes ever did anything that normal. Then again, I wouldn’t have believed they had Christmas potlucks, either, if Connor hadn’t told me. But again I didn’t comment, only waited for him to continue.
“Deirdre was the one who was supposed to be watching me that day. She was there for a while, but then she got a phone call and had to go out. Some kind of emergency, Damon told me later — her own son was out riding his bike with some friends and fell and broke his arm, although I guess when she first got the call, she didn’t know it was that serious. I suppose she figured she could go handle it, get him to the healer and then come straight back, but instead she ended up spending hours at the ER because the coach had taken Ethan to the hospital directly and she couldn’t get him out without stirring up too many questions. Anyway, I was left alone in the house with my mother. And for some reason she decided that was a really good time to take me down to the garage and have us both sit in the car with the engine idling.”
“Oh, no,” I said, putting my hand to my mouth.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. His expression held only a kind of weary resignation. “She stuffed rags in the tailpipe to concentrate the carbon monoxide. Damon came home, saw that there was no one in the house, and heard the car in the garage. He ran out and grabbed me — I was already unconscious at that point, I guess, because I don’t remember any of it — and then went back to try to get her. But she’d locked all the car doors while he was rescuing me. Of course he called 911, but by the time they got there, it was too late. They rushed us both to the hospital, and I was okay after they administered some oxygen, but….” He pushed his hair back from his brow. “She was in a coma for three days and then just…went. The Wilcox curse strikes again.”
I stared at him in horror. “Connor, I am so, so sorry — ”
A shrug that was chilling in its detachment. “We’re used to it. But maybe now you can see why I put up with Damon’s crap. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead.”
And with that, I did see. At least, I thought I did. I couldn’t quite understand owing that kind of debt to someone, as I’d never been in that position, but the bond Connor and Damon shared was far, far greater than what two brothers might normally have.
“Your father?” I asked then, since that was the last piece of the puzzle. The Wilcox brothers weren’t so old that their father shouldn’t still be alive.
“Heart attack when I was fifteen,” Connor replied briefly. “Definitely Type A, just like Damon. The healers had been working on him for years, keeping him going, but as you know, spells aren’t always infallible.”
No, they weren’t, especially when it came to something as fluid and unpredictable as healing spells. Not that I knew from personal experience, as the McAllister clan’s one healer had passed away several years ago, and we didn’t have a good replacement. Like the rest of the mere mortals in the Verde Valley, we relied on regular medicine or certain forms of alternative and holistic healing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was an automatic response, the sort of thing you were supposed to say when you learned of such an untimely passing.
“Don’t be. He was a first-class bastard.”
Like father, like his son Damon, I thought then, but I held my tongue. It was one thing for Connor to be passing judgment on his relations. I didn’t think I was yet in a position to do so.
“Well, that’s enough ancient history,” he went on. “Now can we talk about something more pleasant so I can actually enjoy this food you made?”
“Of course,” I replied immediately. “Do you think it’s going to snow? Those clouds looked pretty ominous.”
He actually cracked a grin at that. “The weather? Seriously?”
“Do you have something better to talk about?”
“Not really.”
After that we really did talk about the weather, how much snow Flagstaff usually got, how he liked to go cross-country skiing with his friends, how the snow would stick on Mt. Humphreys long after it had melted down here in town. Normal things. Someone eavesdropping on the conversation would never have guessed that just a few minutes earlier, Connor had been relating the Wilcox equivalent of a Greek tragedy to me.
But I knew. And I’d never look at him in quite the same way again.