“Eleanor gets shipments sometimes. One of my cousins—her granddaughter—lives in D.C., sends her things sometimes.”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He rose, walked to a small cabinet near the cane sofa.
“You asked what I like to do. I like music,” he said. He opened the cabinet, revealing hundreds of vinyl records. He flipped through them, pulled one out, slipped it from its paper, and placed it atop the record player. With two careful fingers, he put the needle into place. As Liam set the record’s paper sleeve aside, a man began to sing soulfully about love and desire. His voice was whisky-rough, as if love had done the damage.
Liam turned back to me. “Would you like to dance?”
“I—what?”
He stalked toward me like an Irish warrior, held out a hand, his eyes blazing like jewels. I stared at his hand—the wide palm, the long fingers—then up at him. “Is that a good idea?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “But I haven’t danced in a long time, and you look like you can move pretty well.”
“I was born and raised in New Orleans,” I said, hopping off the stool and slipping my hand into his. “Of course I can.”
Liam drew me toward him, kept one of his hands linked to mine, settled the other at my waist. Gaze on mine, he began to sway in time to the music. And he was pretty damn good at it. He could keep a beat, had just enough funk to keep the dance from feeling like a seventh-grade cotillion, and just enough self-control to keep it from feeling like a bawdy night on Bourbon Street.
I didn’t know how long the song actually lasted—probably no more than three or four minutes. But when I dropped my head to his chest, and his arms came around me, it felt like the song could never be long enough. His arms made a wall between me and everything else in the world.
The song ended, and silence fell like heavy rain. He released me, walked to the bar, put his elbows on it, ran his hands through his hair. He looked like a man in war, in battle. He hadn’t said it yet, but it wasn’t hard to guess why.
“It’s because I might become a wraith,” I said. “Because you think I’m a monster.”
“No,” he said, looking back. “I believe you can learn to control yourself, your magic. That’s why I’m helping you. But if anything goes wrong . . .” He paused. “If anything goes wrong, I’d be the man who puts you in prison. And that’s not fair to you.”
I looked at him for a long time. I was becoming used to the idea that I had magic I could use, power that wouldn’t kill me. But in that unfolding moment, I’d have given it up in a heartbeat. I’d have flipped the switch, handed the power to someone else. But that wasn’t one of my choices. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what my choices were, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t find them here, tonight, while we tortured ourselves with touch and want.
“I should go,” I said, and walked to the door. “I can find my way back.”
“Claire,” he said, following me to the door, but I shook my head.
“I’m a big girl, Liam. I don’t break easily, but there’s only so much I’m willing to bend.”
As I walked down the stairs, I hoped he’d take that to heart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rain fell through the night. By the next morning, the weather had cleared and the day had blossomed beautifully. Cornflower blue sky with fluffy white clouds, cool temps, a light breeze. If there’d been any tourists left in the Quarter, they’d have filled the streets, the tables at Café Du Monde, the shops along Royal and Bourbon.
“I wouldn’t say no.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He rose, walked to a small cabinet near the cane sofa.
“You asked what I like to do. I like music,” he said. He opened the cabinet, revealing hundreds of vinyl records. He flipped through them, pulled one out, slipped it from its paper, and placed it atop the record player. With two careful fingers, he put the needle into place. As Liam set the record’s paper sleeve aside, a man began to sing soulfully about love and desire. His voice was whisky-rough, as if love had done the damage.
Liam turned back to me. “Would you like to dance?”
“I—what?”
He stalked toward me like an Irish warrior, held out a hand, his eyes blazing like jewels. I stared at his hand—the wide palm, the long fingers—then up at him. “Is that a good idea?”
“No,” he said with a smile. “But I haven’t danced in a long time, and you look like you can move pretty well.”
“I was born and raised in New Orleans,” I said, hopping off the stool and slipping my hand into his. “Of course I can.”
Liam drew me toward him, kept one of his hands linked to mine, settled the other at my waist. Gaze on mine, he began to sway in time to the music. And he was pretty damn good at it. He could keep a beat, had just enough funk to keep the dance from feeling like a seventh-grade cotillion, and just enough self-control to keep it from feeling like a bawdy night on Bourbon Street.
I didn’t know how long the song actually lasted—probably no more than three or four minutes. But when I dropped my head to his chest, and his arms came around me, it felt like the song could never be long enough. His arms made a wall between me and everything else in the world.
The song ended, and silence fell like heavy rain. He released me, walked to the bar, put his elbows on it, ran his hands through his hair. He looked like a man in war, in battle. He hadn’t said it yet, but it wasn’t hard to guess why.
“It’s because I might become a wraith,” I said. “Because you think I’m a monster.”
“No,” he said, looking back. “I believe you can learn to control yourself, your magic. That’s why I’m helping you. But if anything goes wrong . . .” He paused. “If anything goes wrong, I’d be the man who puts you in prison. And that’s not fair to you.”
I looked at him for a long time. I was becoming used to the idea that I had magic I could use, power that wouldn’t kill me. But in that unfolding moment, I’d have given it up in a heartbeat. I’d have flipped the switch, handed the power to someone else. But that wasn’t one of my choices. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what my choices were, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t find them here, tonight, while we tortured ourselves with touch and want.
“I should go,” I said, and walked to the door. “I can find my way back.”
“Claire,” he said, following me to the door, but I shook my head.
“I’m a big girl, Liam. I don’t break easily, but there’s only so much I’m willing to bend.”
As I walked down the stairs, I hoped he’d take that to heart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rain fell through the night. By the next morning, the weather had cleared and the day had blossomed beautifully. Cornflower blue sky with fluffy white clouds, cool temps, a light breeze. If there’d been any tourists left in the Quarter, they’d have filled the streets, the tables at Café Du Monde, the shops along Royal and Bourbon.
