She nodded and closed her eyes. Her brow wrinkled and then she shook her head.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
She didn’t answer, but her brow creased further and her emotions jumbled into something that felt like agitation or impatience.
“Are you okay, Vivienne?”
“Ghosts suck.” Her fear spiked and zapped through me, causing my heart to pound.
I held my breath and waited to see what she would do. Protectors are trained to remain silent and observe until the Speaker makes his or her needs clear. Vivienne folded up into a ball on her seat and for a moment, it was hard to imagine this fragile-looking girl with her knees tucked to her chest being the obnoxious beast I’d witnessed only a short while before.
“Let me know if you need me.”
She snorted. “I’ve never needed you before now, and I’ve dealt with this my whole life, Pauly.”
So much for fragile.
I turned the motor off and waited. After many long minutes of her silent blasts of emotion, I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
“If you tell Hindered to go away, they evidently do.”
She didn’t open her eyes. “Just drive.”
“The dead can’t be outrun.”
In the dim light of the garage, her green eyes seemed unnaturally bright. “Shut up, and get us out of here.”
I restarted the car and backed out of the driveway. She turned the radio louder and covered her ears. And then it dawned on me what she was doing: She was ignoring the calls of the Hindered—tuning them out—rather than confronting them directly and asking them to leave her alone. Why? I wondered. She certainly had no problem confronting live people.
She’d said she’d heard the Hindered her whole life. That was unusual. Speakers usually grew into their powers and only heard the calls of the dead when they were of age or at least mature enough to deal with it effectively. It must have terrified her as a child to hear them.
By the time we reached the restaurant, her emotions were under control. Her tactic to rid herself of the voices must have worked.
The hostess showed us to a booth in the corner. Vivienne immediately took the seat with her back to the wall.
“Please let me sit there,” I said.
She crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing.
“Please, Vivienne. It’s best if I have a view of the room if I’m going to effectively protect you. It’s harder if I can only see the wall behind you.”
“You can’t protect me. You can’t see them.”
“No, but I can see if one has possessed a human and is coming after you.”
She slid out of the booth and glared, eyes level with mine. “Fine. Lot of good that did my aunt.”
Her aunt. She’d mentioned her to Charles back at the house.
“Hi. Can I get you something to drink?” I hadn’t heard the guy arrive, so his sudden appearance startled me, and I flinched.
Vivienne laughed. “Some big, bad Protector you are.” She flopped into the opposite seat, facing the wall. “I’ll have a Dr Pepper.”
I slid into the booth facing her. “Just water, thanks.”
“Your waiter’s name is Jim, and he’ll be here to take your order in a minute.” He placed chips and salsa on the table and took off.
“What happened to your aunt?” I asked.
She picked up her menu and held it up high enough to cover her face. “Ask the old man. He thinks he has all the answers.”
“If you’re talking about Charles, he pretty much does.”
The menu stayed in place, so I studied her hands. She had long, slender fingers tipped in short, black nails. Silver rings adorned every finger. The most notable were a fleur-de-lis, a snake, and a skull on her thumb. The creepy, heavy jewelry seemed out of place on her delicate hands. They reminded me of ornamental brass knuckles—defensive like the rest of her.
“Hey, Paul. Good to see you again,” my favorite waiter said, placing our drinks on the table.
“Hi, Jim. This is my friend Vivienne. She’s new to Houston.”
Jim extended a huge tattooed arm to shake her hand. “Great to meet you, Vivienne. Have we decided on dinner yet?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off of Vivienne as she ordered. Her neon pink hair against her skin accentuated her paleness, and the thick black eyeliner made her eyes appear the color of emeralds. She didn’t fit my image of pretty, necessarily, but she was fascinating and striking . . . and certainly drew attention, which was obvious from the curious faces of people watching us from nearby tables.
Because the Intercessor Council was secret, we were supposed to blend in and not draw attention to ourselves. It would be impossible to not notice Vivienne.
As I watched her order her meal, I realized it would probably be impossible not to notice her even if her hair were a natural color and she wore more conventional clothes. There was something about her that drew the eye.
“So, Paul, do you want your usual?” Jim tapped his pencil on his pad. “Paul?”
“Oh, sorry. Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”
Jim snapped his notebook shut and wandered off to the kitchen.
“So, you obviously come here a lot.” She stared up at the ceiling, which was covered with brightly painted wooden fish hanging to look like they were swimming in a school.
“I do.”
She gestured to the gaudy velvet paintings on the wall displayed in heavy gold carved frames as if they were precious museum art. “I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “No reason.”
“That’s not fair. You can’t just dump that and run.” I knew I wouldn’t like her answer, but I was dying to know what she thought of me and why.
She scooped a chip in the hot sauce. “Because this place is fun. You don’t strike me as fun.”
I mulled over her words. Fun. I’d never thought about whether I was fun or not. Honestly, she was probably right, and it bothered me for some reason. It shouldn’t have. Being a Protector was not about fun.
“Fair enough,” I said.
She smiled, well, more like smirked, and dipped another chip. “I’m really good at reading people. It comes from living with my grandmother. She taught me how.”
“Here ya go,” Jim said, placing chicken enchiladas in front of each of us. “Plates are hot. Be careful.”
She eyed my enchiladas and then hers. Her surprise almost made me laugh.
“You ordered my regular.” I took a bite. “The 911 enchilada dinner is the best thing on the menu. Habanero peppers. Yum.”
She tilted her head.
“What else do you think you know about me?” I asked.
“Nah.” She cut off a bite of enchilada. “Too easy.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She took a bite.
I picked up my fork. “You’re very certain of yourself.”
“You’re very judgmental.”
“Am I?”
She pointed at me with her fork. “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about me?”
With my knife, I separated my beans away from my rice, dividing them in a straight line. “I wouldn’t begin to assume I knew you.”
She leaned closer across the table. Close enough for her scent to override the smell of my food. “Ah, but it’s human nature to formulate opinions and judge based on first impressions.”
She smelled amazing. Like one of those stores in the mall that sells candles. She leaned back, and I almost had to shake my head to pull myself together. It must have been my Protector instincts kicking in. Nothing about her really appealed to me, so it made no sense for her to affect me outside of that.
“What do I get if I guess right?” I asked.
“Ah, reward-based, are you?” She took a
nother bite. “Figures.”
“If I get three things about you right, you’ll answer a question honestly for me,” I said.
She grinned. “Game on. Go.”
“Based on the way you interact with people your own age, you’ve lived only among adults and have no brothers or sisters.”
Chewing, she arched a brow. “Very good.”
I searched for something I knew I could get right. Losing wasn’t an option. “Your grandmother is your only living immediate family.”
She picked up her drink and lifted it in toast. “That’s two.”
I needed a sure bet, but I’d only known her a few hours, tops. She gave me an off-putting smirk and stared me straight in the eye. Such calculated hostility. I took a bite of my enchilada, then leaned back and studied her appearance. The hot pink hair was the most striking color possible—clearly intended to draw attention—yet, her attitude and dress were intended to repulse and keep people distant. She wanted to be noticed, but left alone. I hadn’t known her long enough to make a personality judgment, but I was fairly certain I’d put a piece of the puzzle in place. My concern was how she would react.
I met her heavily lined eyes directly. “Your appearance is a defense mechanism rather than a fashion choice. You’re like one of those plants in the rain forest that’s brilliantly colored as a warning. It’s toxic so animals won’t eat it.” Her eyes widened. I leaned closer and whispered, “Only I think you’re bluffing. I don’t think you’re really toxic. I believe you’re using your unconventional appearance and harsh attitude to hide your vulnerability.” I held my breath. I might have crossed a line with that one.
She leaned back in her booth and crossed her arms over her chest. She stared at me for an eternity before she finally spoke. “What’s your question?”
“Why are you doing this? Joining the IC?” I knew it wasn’t because she wanted to. Something or someone was forcing her.
Her brow furrowed. “It’s none of your business.”
“Everything okay here?” Jim asked.
Not really. Nothing was okay here. “Yeah. We just need the bill,” I said.
He dropped it on the table. “Done!”
I handed him my credit card and he left.
“Why you are doing this is absolutely my business. Your motivation affects me, and will affect me for lifetimes.” I smoothed the folded napkin in my lap while she finished her enchiladas.
She leaned back in her booth. “Only if I decide to go through with this Speaker crap. Why don’t I guess three things about you now? If I’m right, you answer my question.”
“You owe me an answer,” I said.
She held up a finger. “Number one: From your bossy, take-charge manner, I can tell you are used to getting your way. You’ve always gotten your way and will do whatever it takes to keep it like that.”
She could not have been more wrong. I sat back and gave no indication she had missed the mark.
A second finger joined the first. “Two: You have perfect manners and dress like a politician. From that, and the fact you are used to getting your way, I’ve deduced that you are the oldest child from a rich family—one step short of a spoiled brat.”
I almost laughed.
And another finger. “Three: Everything to you is black and white. Good or bad. Right or wrong. You can’t see in shades of gray, and you’re going to be a nightmare to work with.”
“That is far more opinion than fact,” I said, “but I’ll answer your question anyway.”
She placed her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to. Because it gives me a sense of accomplishment and is a solid living. It’s difficult, dangerous, and serves a higher purpose.”
She rolled her eyes. “It has nothing to do with immortality, huh?”
“I would do it even if that weren’t part of the bargain.”
She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Riiiiiiight.”
“Then I take it that’s why you’re doing it. So that you can return in subsequent lifetimes.”
“Um, yeah. Immortality has a certain appeal, don’t you think?” She stood. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough.”
And so, just like that, I’d been dismissed.
She was silent the entire way home, staring out the window and never looking at me. Her emotions ebbed and flowed from anger to what felt like remorse and then anxiety.
She finally spoke when I pulled back into the garage, the door closing silently behind us. “A toxic plant, huh?”
She was staring at me with those unusual green eyes. “A spoiled brat?” I answered.
She unbuckled and stepped out of the car. “This is going to suck so bad.”
No kidding.
SIX
21st-Century Cycle, Journal Entry 2:
I have met Vivienne Thibideaux, Speaker 962. We have received and look forward to our first assignment together.
Paul Blackwell—Protector 993
I didn’t see Vivienne again until the following morning, when I found her in the kitchen guzzling coffee, oblivious to everything but her electronic reader.
I stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment. Her pink hair was tied back in a braid. She wore a long gray shirt covered in skulls and crossbones over tattered black tights and the same boots she’d worn yesterday.
I felt her anger surge when she realized I was there. She wasn’t happy to see me, of course. She turned to say something, most likely something nasty, but Cinda entered the kitchen before Vivienne could get the words out.
Cinda’s voice was musical and pleasant. “Hey, guys! Are you ready for your first assignment?”
“It’s not my first assignment,” I said. It sounded grumpier and more childish than I’d intended, but for some reason, I wanted them to know I wasn’t completely new at this. I’d been Charles’s apprentice for two years, after all. I was qualified and well trained.
Cinda shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I meant your first assignment as a team.”
“We’re not a team,” Vivienne snapped, sounding equally childish.
I took a step closer. “Yet.”
She spun on her stool to face me. “Ever!”
“Well, y’all have a great time today,” Cinda said. “I’m off to Galveston.” She scurried from the room as if a battle were about to erupt. Maybe it was.
“Good morning,” I said, sliding onto a stool next to Vivienne.
She pushed a button on her e-reader, changing pages. I placed the file on the bar and opened it. I’d studied it last night, but I’d had trouble concentrating because my mind kept turning over our conversation from the restaurant.
She shifted on her stool, turning away and cutting me off a bit more. I wasn’t getting any good emotional readings from her. Hopefully the IC manual was correct and the soul branding would make her easier for me to read, because multiple lifetimes of this—heck, even one lifetime of trying to decode this complex girl—would drive me crazy.
“Do you want me to brief you on the case?” I asked.
She pushed the page turn button again and didn’t look up. “No.”
“It won’t go as well if you—”
“It’s not going to go at all.” She turned the power off on her reader. “Look, Paul, I don’t need any more time to know that we can’t work together. I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. I wouldn’t commit to a day with you, much less multiple lifetimes. Deal’s off.” She slid off her stool.
“We don’t know each other well enough to dislike each other,” I said.
“I know enough.” She picked up her reader and stomped out.
“You’re scared!” I shouted after her. “You’re running away scared.”
She stuck her head around the door. “Nothing sc
ares me. Not the voices I’ve heard since childhood, not this job, and certainly not you.”
And she was gone. I buried my face in my hands. Talking to her was like trying to hold a rational conversation with someone from another planet. We just didn’t speak the same language. What was I supposed to do now? I’d been replaced by Cinda, I’d let Charles down, and I’d probably be assigned a desk job. Vivienne might not have been scared, but I certainly was.
I grabbed a glass and poured some orange juice. There had to be a way to solve this—to find some kind of peace with Vivienne so that we could at least try to resolve one case together. We might work out if she’d only give us a chance. I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to make her so angry. Obviously, the toxic plant comparison had made her mad, but it was true. Maybe that was it. Perhaps I’d hit the nail on the head, and it pissed her off.
She might have been taught how to read people as a fun trick by her grandmother, but from the time I was a small child, I’d been reading people in order to stay alive, and I was pretty sure I was correct about why she was so abrasive.
“Good morning, Paul,” Charles said.
I almost dropped my glass of OJ. “Good morning, sir.”
He remained in the kitchen doorway, dressed in his usual business suit. “How was dinner last night?”
“Great.” My voice sounded strained. I hoped he didn’t notice.
One gray eyebrow cocked up. “So everything is good between you and your Speaker, then?”
I ran my finger down the condensation on the outside of my glass. “Um, yes. It’s fine.”
He smiled. “But you wouldn’t tell me if things weren’t fine, would you, Paul?”
I took a deep breath. “No, sir.”
“Good for you. And good luck today. I’m leaving town right after Alden and Lenzi’s reinstatement hearing. Cinda will keep you posted if something comes up.”
“Thank you.” I fought the urge to ask him where he was going and how long he’d be away, but after working with him for two years, I understood my place and knew he’d tell me if it was important. He wasn’t my father. He was my boss, and at that moment, the distinction was painfully clear. “Have a good trip.”