Kindling the Moon
Page 36

He pushed the half-empty wheelbarrow forward a few paces, then continued shoveling. “A hell of a lot easier to identify, but no easier to find. Still the same number of books to go through.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess you’re right,” I said glumly as he patted down the section he was working on with the back of the shovel. I snapped my mask back over my mouth and returned to my work in silence.
We finished with the first batch, then he hauled two more bags of hematite from his truck and we started the process all over again. After three batches, we were halfway done. The sun was beginning to set, but we were both sweaty and aching, so we allowed ourselves a short break. We washed off our hands with the garden hose as best we could, then I went inside to get water. When I came back out, he was sitting in the backyard on an old rusted lawn chair lighting a valrivia cigarette. Shirtless.
In the last of the day’s light, his skin was golden—in contrast to my own complexion, which was either pasty or milky white, depending on your point of view. He was also lean and muscular. Not in an I-work-out-at-the-gym way, but more natural and honest. My eyes followed a thin line of honey-colored hair that bisected his torso from a small patch in the center of his chest down past his belly button. My clothes suddenly felt too tight.
I stopped in my tracks and pretended like I’d forgotten something, then turned back and rounded the corner of the house until he was out of sight. A few cleansing breaths gave me some control over my feelings. No way was I going to let him catch me mooning over him like some teenage girl.
The second time I approached him, I kept my head down and tossed him a bottle of water, then dragged another lawn chair over. Not too close. How far had he said his ability extended? I made a quick calculation and placed my chair several feet away.
“Do I smell that bad?” he asked before offering me a valrivia cigarette.
Dammit.
I leaned forward out of my chair to reach for it, then quickly sat back down, only to realize that I had no lighter. So I held out my hands, coaxing him to toss his over. Instead, he flicked the lighter and puckishly beckoned for me to come to him.
Double damn. I begrudgingly got out of my chair.
“Yeah, you kinda stink,” I said after my cigarette was lit.
“So do you,” he answered with a grin. Before I could make it back to my seat, he scooted down, stuck his leg out between mine, and hooked his foot around the leg of my chair, dragging it closer. Well within range of his ability. I plopped down in defeat.
“When’s your servitor supposed to return?” he asked.
“I allowed it one day, so by tomorrow night, give or take. That kind of magick sometimes has problems adhering to strict schedules, so it could be a couple days.”
He nodded, then we smoked in silence for a long moment. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn’t help it. Fine lines creased the outer corners of his eyes. As he ran a hand through his hair, stray strands of ash blond and platinum floated in the wind at the crown while deeper shades of caramel brown flittered over the tops his shoulders. My eyes stubbornly wandered down his bare skin. He had a thick, pale scar, several inches long, that ran diagonally across his lower left ribs.
“What did that?” I asked.
He looked down, tucking his chin against his chest, then slumped back in his chair, his legs lazily falling open. “My ex-wife, Yvonne.”
“Uh … wow. I thought she was a model, not a grizzly bear.”
His knee rocked sideways once, almost touching mine. He studied me through slitted eyes. A smile threatened to lift up one side of his mouth as he took a long drag off his cigarette. “You’ve been studying up on me, I see.”
“One of my waitresses lives in La Sirena. She thought I should be impressed that you were once married to a super-model.”
“Were you?”
“I’d never heard of her, so not really.” I did, however, look up images of her online. She was lovely, all right. Medium brown complexion, full lips. Her face was long and regal—a feature she’d passed along to Jupe—and the lower half of her was just as stunning. Though, petty or not, I personally thought her hips were a little skinny. She was also flat-chested.
“From what I could tell, she seems quite attractive.” And in some of the photos, Yvonne bore the same green-gold halo that Lon had. I started to ask about this, but he spoke before I could.
“She is. She’s also high-strung and gets off on danger. If she’s not getting coked up and gambling, she’s participating in orgies or wrecking her car.”
My mouth twisted as I remembered the image of my own car wrapped around a tree.
“Your wreck was different,” he acknowledged with a smile. He flicked ashes and ticked off a short list of complaints. “Yvonne hated La Sirena—hated the beaches up here. Too full of sea lions and driftwood instead of sexy sunbathers. Hated my job. Hated being a mother; said it slowed her down, and she had no patience for Jupe’s energy and questions. In her defense, though, he was kind of a handful when he was a toddler.”
“I can only imagine.” I chuckled, pushing hair out of my face. “What does Jupe think about her?”
“When he was younger, he thought she was glamorous. She’d bring him expensive presents when she visited. A couple of years ago he started to see her for what she was. Now he just feels sorry for her.”
That made me a little sad, but I didn’t say anything.
“He’s close to Yvonne’s sister, though—Adella—and his grandmother. The two of them live in Oregon. Adella’s a university professor. She and her mom drive down here every few months to visit us, or we go up there. They’ve been real supportive. Love Jupe to pieces.”