Dad is still at the kitchen table, on his third or fourth cup of coffee, judging by the near-empty pot beside him. Mom is sitting beside him, making lists. She has at least five of them in front of her, and she keeps writing and rewriting and rearranging as if she can decode her life that way.
They both look up as I walk in.
“Where are you off to?” asks Mom. “I bought paint.”
One of the cardinal rules of lying is to never, if it can be prevented, involve someone else in your story, because you can’t control them. Which is why I want to punch myself when the lie that falls from my lips is, “To hang out with Wesley.”
Dad beams. Mom frowns. I cringe, turning toward the door. And then, to my amazement, lie becomes truth when I open it to find a tall, black-clad shape blocking my way.
“Lo and behold,” says Wesley, slouching in the doorway, holding an empty coffee cup and a brown paper bag. “I have escaped.”
“Speak of the devil,” says Dad. “Mac was just on her way—”
“Escaped what?” I ask, cutting Dad off.
“The walls of Chez Ayers, behind which I have been confined for days. Weeks. Years.” He rests his forehead against the door frame. “I don’t even know anymore.”
“I just saw you yesterday.”
“Well. It felt like years. And now I come begging for coffee and bearing sweets with the intent of rescuing you from your indentured servitude in the pit of…” Wesley’s voice trails off as he sees my mother, arms crossed, standing behind me. “Oh, hello!”
“You must be the boy,” says Mom. I roll my eyes, but Wesley only smiles. Not crookedly, either, but a genuine smile that should clash with his black spiked hair and dark-rimmed eyes, but doesn’t.
“You must be the mom,” he says, sliding past me into the room. He transfers the paper bag to his left hand and extends his right to her. “Wesley Ayers.”
Mom looks caught off guard by the smile, the open, easy way he does it. I know I am.
He doesn’t even flinch when she takes his hand.
“I can see why my daughter likes you.”
Wesley’s smile widens as his hand slips back to his side. “Do you think she’s falling for my dashing good looks, my charm, or the fact I supply her with pastries?”
Despite herself, Mom laughs.
“’Morning, Mr. Bishop,” says Wesley.
“It’s a beautiful day,” says Dad. “You two should go. Your mom and I can handle the painting.”
“Great!” Wes swings his arm around my shoulder, and the noise slams into me. I push back, try to block him out, and make a mental note to punch him when we’re alone.
Mom gets us two fresh coffees and walks us to the door, watching as we go. As soon as the door closes behind us, I knock Wesley’s arm off my shoulders and exhale at the sudden lack of pressure. “Ass.”
He leads the way down to the lobby.
“You, Mackenzie Bishop,” he says as we hit the landing, “have been a very bad girl.”
“How so?”
He rounds the banister at the base of the staircase. “You involved me in a lie! Don’t think I didn’t catch it.”
We pass through the study to the garden door, and he throws it open and leads me into the dappled morning light. The rain has stopped, and as I look around, I wonder if Regina would hide a bit of story in a place like this. The ivy is overgrown and might keep a token safe, but I doubt a scrap of paper would survive the seasons, let alone the years.
Wes drops onto the Faust bench and takes a cinnamon roll out of the paper bag. “Where were you really going, Mac?” he asks, holding out the bag.
I drag my thoughts back to him, taking a roll as I perch on the arm of the bench.
“Oh, you know,” I say dryly, “I thought I’d lie in the sun for a few hours, maybe read a book, savor my lazy summer.”
“Still trying to clear your list?”
“Yep.” And question Owen. And find out why a Librarian would want to cover up deaths that are decades upon decades old. All without letting the Archive know.
“You brought the book just to throw your folks off the trail? How very thorough of you.”
I take a bite of the cinnamon roll. “I am, in fact, a master of deceit.”
“I believe it,” Wes says, taking another bite. “So, about your list…”
“Yes?”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took care of the History in your territory.”
I stiffen. Owen. Is that why I couldn’t find him this morning? Did Wesley already send him back? I force my voice level. “What do you mean?”
“A History? You know? One of those things we’re supposed to be hunting?”
I fight to keep my shock from showing. “I told you. I didn’t. Need. Help.”
“A simple thanks will suffice, Mac. Besides, it’s not like I went looking for her. She kind of ran into me.”
Her? I dig the list from my pocket. Susan Lank. 18. is gone. A sigh of relief escapes, and I sag back against the bench.
“Luckily, I was able to use my charm,” he’s saying. “That, and she thought I was her boyfriend. Which, I’ll admit, facilitated things a bit.” He runs his hand through his hair. It doesn’t move.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“It’s a hard word to say, I know. It takes practice.”
I throw the last bite of my roll at him.
“Hey,” he warns, “watch the hair.”
“How long does it take to make it stick up like that?” I ask.
“Ages,” he says, standing. “But it’s worth it.”
“Is it really?”
“I’ll have you know, Miss Bishop, that this”—he gestures from his spiked black hair all the way down to his boots—“is absolutely vital.”
I raise an eyebrow and stretch out across the weather-pocked stone. “Let me guess,” I say with a pout. “You just want to be seen.” I give the line a dramatic flair so that he knows I’m teasing. “You feel invisible in your skin, and so you dress yourself up to get a reaction.”
Wes gasps. “How did you know?” But he can’t keep the smile off his face. “Actually, much as I love seeing my father’s tortured expression, or his trophy soon-to-be wife’s disdain, this does serve a purpose.”
“And what purpose would that be?”
“Intimidation,” he says with a flourish. “It scares the Histories. First impressions are very important, especially in potentially combative situations. An immediate advantage helps me control the situation. Many of the Histories don’t come from the here and now. And this”—again he gestures to the length of himself—“believe it or not, can be intimidating.”
He straightens and steps toward me, into a square of sunlight. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing leather bracelets that cut through some scars and cover others. His brown eyes are alive and warm, and the contrast between his tawny irises and his black hair is stark but pleasant. Beneath it all, Wesley Ayers is actually quite handsome. My eyes pan down over his clothes, and he catches me before I can look away.
“What’s the matter, Mac?” he says. “Are you finally falling victim to my devilish good looks? I knew it was only a matter of time.”