Autumn Bones

Page 30

I called Jen. “Hey, do you have any idea how to get in touch with Lee Hastings?”
There was a pause on the other end before she asked in an incredulous voice, “Skeletor?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I heard he moved back to town a while ago.”
“Why do you want to get in touch with Skeletor?” she asked.
“I need a computer geek,” I said. “And he sort of had a crush on me.”
“Good luck,” Jen said. “He skipped college and went straight into the gaming industry. I heard he made a shitload of money out in Seattle before he moved back. Now he gets paid big bucks as a consultant. Basically, he’s Alan Cumming in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, only without the part where he came back better-looking.”
“So you’re saying I can’t get him to do my homework just by promising to be nice to him anymore?”
“Is that how you got a B in computer science?” she asked. “I always wondered. You know, come to think of it, you were actually pretty decent to him. Let me call my mom. She keeps in touch with Mrs. Hastings.”
“Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later Jen called me back. “Okay, this is going to sound weird, because it is. He doesn’t give out his info, but you can try contacting him on his Facebook alias page. If he feels like it, he’ll accept your friend request.”
“What’s an alias page?” I asked her.
“It’s this persona he’s created. Dan Stanton. Apparently it’s a minor character in one of his games.”
“Ohh-kay.”
“Told you it was weird,” she said. “Hey, how are you feeling today? How did it go with the evil twin sister?”
I hesitated. “I’m fine. And it went . . . okay for the moment. She left, but she’s coming back. She gave Sinclair an ultimatum. Leave town or else.”
“Damn!”
“Yeah.” I lowered my voice. “We’re working on it. But I broke things off with Sinclair this morning.”
“I’m sorry, Daise.” Jen’s sympathy was genuine. “Because of his sister? Or because he didn’t tell you about her?”
“Not really,” I said. “I mean, yeah, I guess that set it off. But I realized we’re better off being friends right now.”
“Did it have anything to do with the infamous hot ghoul I met yesterday?” she asked shrewdly. “Or lingering feelings for a certain officer of the law?”
“Maybe a little,” I admitted. “I realized I wasn’t being entirely fair to Sinclair. But I think he and I are okay, honestly.”
“Good,” she said. “I like him.”
Inspiration struck me. “You know, Sinclair’s got a spare bedroom. He talked about taking a roommate to help with the rent now that business is slowing down. And you’ve been talking about moving out of your folks’ place for ages.”
“Um. . . . yeah.” Jen didn’t sound thrilled “Let’s table that idea until the evil twin’s out of the picture, okay?”
“Fair enough.”
After we ended our call, I went back online and logged on to Facebook. I didn’t use it often—I never got in the habit because my mom and I couldn’t afford Internet access or expensive phone plans when I was growing up—but I had an account. Also, I had free wireless in my apartment courtesy of Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery downstairs.
A search for Dan Stanton returned two results. One was some shirtless guy in Sydney, Australia. The profile picture for the other was a video game avatar of a soldier in battle fatigues. Betting on the latter, I sent a friend request. I would have added a personal message, but the option was disabled. All I could do was hope that Lee Hastings, aka Dan Stanton, aka Skeletor, remembered me kindly as someone who’d never called him that last one.
Well, at least not to his face. After all, it was high school.
Checking the time, I saw it wasn’t yet three o’clock. Until I heard from Casimir or Lee, there wasn’t much I could do on either Operation Contain Dear Emmy or Operation Database, which meant I had no excuse not to respond to Stefan Ludovic’s request to contact him when I was ready.
So I called him, trying to ignore the fluttery feeling in my belly. Partly because it made me feel guilty and partly because the whole thing weirded me out. Hot or not, I still had the image of Stefan impaling himself on his own sword stuck in my memory.
“Daisy.” Stefan picked up on the third ring. “Good afternoon. Are you well?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said. “But then, you’d be the first to know if I wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” I was still a little pissed about the bond between us being established without my knowledge or consent, too. “Anyway, you asked me to call?”
“Yes,” he said. “As I said, I have something I would like to show you. I think it will be of aid in the exercise we attempted the other day.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is this a good time for you? If it is, I can swing by the Wheelhouse.”
“Your timing is excellent,” he said. “But I think perhaps this would be better done in privacy. Would you care to meet me at my quarters?”
The flutters intensified. “Your . . . quarters?”
“My condominium,” Stefan clarified, then paused. “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. Would you prefer to meet at the Wheelhouse? Or somewhere else? I can retrieve the item I wished to show you.”
Thinking about it, it probably made more sense to minimize my exposure to the emotion-starved Outcast throng. And after what we’d been through together earlier in the summer, I did trust Stefan.
Mostly.
“No,” I said. “You’re right. What’s your address?”
He told me.
I jotted it down on a piece of scrap paper. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said before I could change my mind, and hung up.
Twenty
Stefan met me in the allotted space in the discreet parking garage of his fancy condominium complex overlooking the river. I parked my rundown Honda next to his gleaming black motorcycle, giving it a pat on the dashboard in case it was feeling inadequate.
“Daisy.” Stefan gave me one of his nods, indicating the staircase. “This way.”
I followed him to his unit on the second floor. It wasn’t large, but it was swanky, with high ceilings, polished wood floors, and a huge picture window overlooking the river. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, filling the place with light.
Curious, I looked around. The furnishings were sleek and modern and austere. There wasn’t much that reflected the owner’s personality, unless you counted the one wall hung with an array of weapons on display, including the longsword on which the aforementioned impaling had been done.
Which I guess you pretty much had to count.
“Jesus,” I said. “You’re like the Highlander, aren’t you?”
There was one piece, a painted kite-shaped shield, displayed separately on a pedestal in its own little Plexiglas case. Glancing at Stefan for permission, I went to take a closer look. I thought medieval shields were all about heraldry—rampant lions and roses and chevrons and bar sinisters and such. But this was more like an actual painting on a coppery-gold background, depicting a woman in a flowing brocade gown and elaborate headgear presenting some kind of gift to a bareheaded knight kneeling in full armor. Although it was old and obviously damaged, the pigments were surprisingly rich.
Stefan was silent while I examined it, but I could feel him watching me. When I looked back at him, his pupils were dilated.
“It is a family heirloom,” he said quietly. “A parade shield intended only for ceremony. It commemorates my father receiving a token of thanks from the queen of Bohemia in gratitude for his valor in helping her husband, King Charles, escape with his life at the Battle of Crécy.”
“Oh.” The syllable emerged in a feeble squeak. I searched my memory for anything in my high school history classes about a Battle of Crécy and came up blank.
“It was in 1346,” Stefan said. “Part of what is now referred to as the Hundred Years’ War.”
Okay, at least that rang a distant bell. “Um . . . wasn’t that between England and France?”
“Yes.” He accorded me a faint smile. “Two powerful countries that called upon their allies to fight alongside them in their wars.”
I didn’t know what to say and I really, really didn’t want to say something stupid. This was the most Stefan had ever shared with me, and whatever complicated emotions I felt for him, I didn’t want to ruin the moment with my unfortunately stereotypical American ignorance of history and geography. So I studied the features of the dark-haired knight kneeling on the shield instead. Although they were blurred, you could see the resemblance. “What was your father’s name?”
“Jakob,” Stefan said, a world of centuries-old sorrow in his tone. “Jakob Ludovic, Count of atlovy.”
I turned back to him. “I’m sorry.”
The bond between us tightened, the air seeming to shiver. Stefan’s pupils were immense and full of swimming darkness and pain. I could feel a part of my innermost self spilling into them—
With an effort, Stefan closed his eyes and took an abrupt step backward. The bond loosened. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were small and steady. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”
Yeah, like more than six hundred years. I cleared my throat. “It’s an amazing artifact. I can’t believe it’s in such good shape.”
“Yes,” he said. “The piece is museum quality. I should donate it, but . . .” He shrugged. “It is my only keepsake.”
I glanced involuntarily at the weaponry on display on the wall.
Stefan followed my gaze. “Mere tools,” he said. “Implements of battle with little or no sentimental value.” His tone changed, becoming more businesslike. “But speaking of shields, that is precisely what I wish to show you, Daisy. Or more accurately, to give you.” He beckoned. “Come.”