Boundary Crossed (Boundary Magic Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter 30

My parents, both CU graduates, had a thing about the Glenn Miller Ballroom, which is located in the University Memorial Center on campus. They’d been holding major events there for years: most of the cousins, including Sam, had had their wedding receptions in that room. My parents had hosted a big thirtieth-anniversary bash there a few years back, and before I managed to talk them out of it, Mom had even wanted to host a welcome-back reception for me there when I got out of the service. With one thing and another, I’d been coming to this specific venue for most of my life.

But I’d never seen it look like this.

Through a combination of lighting and decor, the whole room seemed to be done in warm fall tones, which perfectly complemented the harvest-red centerpieces. The centerpieces, in turn, perfectly matched the cummerbunds on the members of the seven-piece orchestra that was playing on the short raised stage. Starlight gleamed faintly through the skylights, and the whole effect was magical, like we’d walked into an autumn garden party for fairies. Quinn whistled. “You gotta hand it to my mom,” I observed as Quinn and I stepped into the enormous room. For the first time in my life, I was almost glad to be wearing heels—the shoes put a different kind of pressure on my feet, keeping my weight off the worst of the cuts. “She knows how to throw a shindig.”

Quinn gave me a sidelong look. “Shindig?”

“Hootenanny?”

The corners of his lips turned up. “I’d lean more toward ‘soiree.
’
”

“Nah, that’s playing right into her hand,” I said, but fondly. I pointed left, to where my parents were standing in a loose receiving line. “Come on, let’s get introductions over with.”

We joined the line, where several of my parents’ friends and extended family members were already waiting. I started introducing Quinn around as my friend from softball, which everyone seemed to accept, although my Aunt Violet and my cousin Paul both sent me knowing winks, like “friend from softball” was some dirty sex position. Which, I supposed, was possible.

We got to the front of the line, and my mom waved us over. She was wearing a sparkly gold dress with a jewel-cut collar, looking radiant and a little self-satisfied as she basked in the glow of the party’s success, whispering occasional comments in my dad’s ear. My father is not a particularly handsome man, especially because he refuses to lose the short white ponytail that’s the last vestige of his hippie childhood, but he certainly looked dashing in his tuxedo. He had a particular stoic expression I recognized from my high school graduation and Sam’s wedding photos. It meant “I’m playing it cool, but secretly I am doing a proud happy dance.”

I smiled and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Dad,” I said, then turned to gesture at Quinn. “This is my friend Quinn. Quinn, these are my parents, Christy and Richard Luther.”

Quinn extended a hand, which my dad shook heartily. “Nice to meet you, sir,” Quinn said politely. To my mother, he added, “This is a beautiful party, ma’am.”

“You’re so sweet,” my mother responded, beaming. She touched the back of her hair. “I hope you two are having a good time.”

Quinn assured her that we were, and she leaned forward to ask him a question about what he did for a living. While she was distracted, I leaned forward and said conspiratorially to my dad, “How are you holding up?”

He grinned at me. “Your mother went way overboard, you know,” he said in a voice that was fighting not to sound exuberant. “It’s just a birthday. I don’t need all”—he gestured helplessly at his tux, the ballroom, the decorations—“this trouble.”

“You deserve it though, Dad,” I said, pecking his cheek again. “I’m so proud of you.”

And I was. A decade before Sam and I were born, my dad and his brother had started designing vegan shoes as a sort of hobby. Nobody was more surprised than they were when the business took off. Now you could buy a pair of Luther Shoes in Paraguay.

“I’m proud of you too, baby,” my dad said, lifting his arm to give me a one-sided dad hug. He glanced at Quinn. “Glad you’re doing better.”

Quinn and I moved on, letting the flow of people lead us toward the dance floor. I was thinking about my dad’s words.
Was
I doing better? I was a frickin’ witch. I had access to magic that no one should be able to touch.

Without looking at me, Quinn took my hand and tucked it into his arm. I smiled faintly. At the same time, it was nice to have purpose again, even if that purpose went no deeper than turning myself into a valuable asset so I could do scut work for a vampire. Maybe Quinn and I wouldn’t be able to find the person behind Charlie’s kidnapping, but I would keep training with the Pellars. I would learn a couple of really solid defensive spells, like Lily had suggested. And I would protect Sam’s daughter, whatever it cost me personally. I set my jaw.

“You okay?” Quinn said, sensing the shift in my mood. I nodded, hoping the gesture would help clear my head. “Dance?” he asked. I nodded again.

The band was playing jaunty dance songs, like you hear at wedding receptions, mixed in with a bit of swing music. Incredibly appropriate for the Glenn Miller Ballroom. As we stepped toward the dance floor, they swung into a snazzy rendition of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” Quinn held out his hand, and I let him pull me toward his chest.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d danced with a partner, if you didn’t count my cousin’s kids standing on my toes as I shuffled them around. My parents had paid for dance lessons when I was a kid, mostly because Sam liked them. I was the athlete, but she thought tutus were the coolest, so we’d kept up with the lessons for nearly six years. I could tell that Quinn’s movements were technically perfect, but he was keeping his body just the tiniest bit rigid, like he was afraid to relax. I bit down a smile.

“What?” he asked, with a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Did I step on your toes?”

“No, no,” I reassured him. “You’re good. Very . . . proficient.” I hesitated for a second, then added, “Thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to me.”

He nodded, his eyes searching mine for something. Then we resumed dancing, but Quinn seemed preoccupied. “What is it?” I asked, as the band began the first chorus of Billie Holiday’s “Solitude.” We had automatically slowed down for the song, and my cheek brushed his as I craned my head back to see his face.

Quinn gave me a little shake of his head. “I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t be doing this with you.”

I stopped dancing. “Then go,” I said in a whisper. “My dad already saw us together. Go if you need to.”

Quinn stared at me, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that took me aback. I lifted my chin and looked right back at him. Heat sparked between us, and Quinn broke first, looking away. His arm around my waist tightened as he drew me back in. “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

We danced through the song, not speaking. The tension grew unbearable, so I started babbling. “When I was a teenager, Sam and I watched
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
,” I said. “You ever see that movie?”

Looking surprised, he nodded. “It was Sam’s favorite,” I continued. “There’s this line, when Ferris is talking about his friend—he says he’s wound so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks you’d have a diamond.”

Quinn’s lips quirked up. “You’re saying I’m like Cameron?”

“Maybe a little . . . Were you like this as a human?”

He led me through a careful spin. Very controlled. “No,” he said, leaving it at that.

I thought about his voice from the night before.
Are we friends?
I still had friends from the army. None of them were geographically close, but we communicated now and then, because we could only talk to each other about certain things. The ones who had spouses often said they were afraid to go near them. To get close again.

Quinn had hurt his wife.

The melancholy song ended, and without really discussing it we both turned and headed toward the side of the room, moving off the dance floor. It wasn’t until we reached the refreshment table at the far end of the room that I realized I’d been holding Quinn’s hand the whole way. We let go and I grabbed a bottle of water, gulping down half of it. Then I leaned against the wall, a little tired from the dancing.

Quinn watched me, obviously waiting to speak until I was finished. “Lex,” he began, “this isn’t a good idea.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Us being friends?”

He nodded. “Or anything along those lines.”

I put the cap back on the bottle, twisted it tight, and set it down on the table, considering my words. “I’m not afraid of you, Quinn,” I finally said.

“You should be.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why, exactly? Because you can press me? Nope, wait, you can’t. Can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. Because you’re physically stronger than me?” I shrugged. “I spent a decade serving with guys who were bigger and stronger than me, and I managed to survive.”

“Presumably, they weren’t trying to drink your blood,” Quinn said, his voice strained.

I felt my expression harden. “No, but some of them wanted other things from me, and I held my own. Always.” Quinn shook his head a little, unconvinced. “Is this because of what happened in the parking lot?” I asked, a little more gently. “Because you liked how my blood smelled?”

He nodded. The song ended, and the band moved seamlessly into “I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl.” Great song.

“You had the chance to attack me when I was bleeding,” I reminded Quinn, keeping my voice low. “You didn’t.”

“But I
wanted
to,” he said, his voice husky. “I haven’t wanted anything that much since I turned.”

I reached up, putting one hand on his cheek. I moved just a little bit closer, putting my mouth right next to his ear to make sure no one overheard me. “I will not ever let you hurt me,” I whispered to him. “Don’t worry so much.” I leaned back so I could see his face. “Do you understand?”

I saw the relief break out over his face. “Yes, sir,” he whispered back.

Chapter 31

Quinn and I danced for a few more songs, and then I noticed that two of the servers, young women in their early twenties, were waving at him. “Ex-girlfriends?” I asked.

He let out a short bark of surprised laughter. “They’re baristas at Magic Beans,” he explained. The girls each grabbed one side of a full keg, heaving it toward the bar at the opposite end of the ballroom. “I should probably help them with that,” Quinn remarked. “And then I might say hi to the couple in the corner, they’re regulars. You’ll be okay for a minute?”

“Of course.” While Quinn was gone, I looked around for my cousins and realized they were all occupied: dancing with their spouses and laughing, enjoying this rare opportunity to dress up and go out. They all looked so happy and grown-up. I smiled. For the first time I sort of appreciated my mother’s decision to make the party black tie. It was like looking at the most beautiful version of everyone.

Grief is a funny thing. I hadn’t even been thinking about Sam, not really, but suddenly I was hit by a tidal wave of longing for my sister. I wanted her to
be
here, smiling and laughing and teasing my father. She’d be dancing like an idiot, a gorgeous gown swishing around her as she did silly, unselfconscious dance moves with John, drawing him out, making everyone crack up. God, I missed her.

As if reading my thoughts, the music suddenly faded into silence, and I glanced toward the raised platform where the band sat. Most of the members of the band were stepping off for a break, but as they shuffled offstage they left behind a pianist and a guitar player. The guitarist paused for a moment, pushing hair behind her ears. Then she closed her eyes and began playing the simple, haunting chords to a song I recognized instantly.

“Unchained Melody” gets a lot of scorn for being cheesy, but you don’t become one of the most popular love songs in the history of recorded music by accident.
Ghost
had already been out for over a decade by the time I was in high school, but that song was still the theme of my high school prom when I was a junior.

It also happened to be Sam’s favorite goddamned song in the world.

I felt my eyes well with tears. I looked up and there was John, his unruly hair tamed down with gel, his tuxedo just the slightest bit ill-fitting. I smiled. He held out a hand wordlessly, and I took it, allowing him to pull me in for a dance.

“I miss her, too,” he whispered. “Your mom asked them to play it, in her honor.”

I nodded, suddenly choked up.

“Do you remember,” he said into my ear, “when Sam decided to see how many times she could play this song in a row before your dad flipped out?”

I let out a startled laugh. “Oh, God, I had forgotten about that. Was that during the infamous college road trip?” I felt, rather than saw, his nod. “Poor Dad. He still thought he could talk me out of the army by showing me some fabulous college that would sweep me off my feet.”

“He was so
sure
you’d like Berkeley, if we could just make it there. And Sam decided she needed to break his spirit on the first day.” There was a smile in his voice that I found myself echoing.

“Hey, it was her favorite song.” I shrugged good-naturedly. “What’re you gonna do?” My poor, ex-hippie father was usually the more patient of our two parents, but a man could only take so much “Unchained Melody” in a row before losing it. “How far did we make it?” I asked. “I can’t remember.”

John lifted his hand, leading me through an effortless twirl. “Salt Lake City,” he said when I returned to him.

I smiled. “Sam saved us all some time. Even if I hadn’t joined the service, I would never have gone to Berkeley.”

John’s smile faded, and he pulled me close again so I wouldn’t see his expression. “Because Sam didn’t get into Berkeley,” he said matter-of-factly.

I shrugged. “But you did,” John pressed. “And Stanford. And USC.”

I felt my expression harden. “What’s your point?”

He looked away. The last chorus was beginning, and we would walk away soon. But for some reason it was important to me to understand. “It was so long ago, John. We were kids. What does it matter now that I wouldn’t have gone to a certain school if I had gone to school at all?”

He sighed. “I’m just . . . I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You never have. When we were kids, you acted like the sun rose and fell on Sam’s say-so, when
you
were the one who could have done anything with your life.”

I stopped dancing then, not caring who noticed us. “You can’t exactly tell me she wasn’t special, John. She was your
wife
.” I really hoped the words
you chose her over me
weren’t as obvious to him as they felt in my head.

“Of course she was special. Of course I loved her. But I just never understood why you decided to write this goddamned narrative,” he said, frustration buzzing in his voice, “that Sam had value and you didn’t.”

“I never—”

“When Sam was alive, you made your whole life about protecting her,” John insisted. “Sometimes I wondered if you decided to join the army, to protect the country, just because Sam was in it.”

“Come on, even I’m not that codependent,” I said, trying to make my voice light.

“And now that she’s dead,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, “you’re making your life all about remembering her. Grieving for her. It’s been almost a year, Allie.”

“That’s pretty fucking rich, coming from you,” I retorted. “Not exactly back out on the dating scene, are you?”

He hesitated, and something congealed in my stomach. “Actually, I just started seeing someone,” he said finally.

We both went still. The song ended.

“Oh,” I said lamely.

“It’s getting late,” John said. “I should probably get Charlie home.”

I nodded, discreetly wiping under my eyes to protect my mascara. “I’ll walk with you, so I can give her a kiss.”

He started through the crowd, and I trailed after him. After only two steps, though, I felt someone’s gaze on me. I glanced up and met Quinn’s eyes. He nodded me on with his usual implacable expression; he’d heard where I was going. Which meant he’d also heard everything we’d said before that. I blushed. Whatever ground I’d gained with Quinn would be gone now. One step forward, two steps back. Story of my life.

I followed John silently through the doorway and into the east ballroom, which my mom had rented for the kids. It was like a junior version of my dad’s birthday ball. There were kid-friendly finger foods and a small set of speakers playing age-appropriate music. The room was full of laughing, screaming, running boys and girls, the descendants of all the Luther Shoes employees, and I took a second to privately admire the soundproofing that had kept this cacophony out of the main ballroom. I waved to Jake’s twelve-year-old daughter Dani, who was tucked into a corner with an iPad on her knees. Brie’s sons were there too, but they were involved in an elaborate chase game with some bigger kids, so I didn’t interrupt.

There was a cordoned-off area for the kids under age two, with a couple of small plastic slides and some baby toys tossed about. No Charlie, though. I trailed John as he headed toward the employee in the baby area, a young woman in her twenties wearing a pink polo shirt that had the words
Go and Play Child Care
embroidered on the back. “Hey, I’m looking for Charlotte Wheaton,” John said politely. “Is she off getting a diaper change or something?”

The girl, who had a round face, acne, and the blissful look of someone who truly loves kids, gave John a puzzled smile. “Nobody’s getting changed, but let me check the clipboard,” she said brightly, hoisting a toddler higher on her hip and leading us toward a podium that was stashed against the wall, out of the way of the gallivanting kids. There was a clipboard on top. The girl paged through it. “You signed the waiver, right?” she said absently. John confirmed that he had. “Oh, right here,” she chirped, pointing to a name on the third page. “Charlotte Wheaton, goes by Charlie? I don’t remember her, but”—her cheerful voice faltered—“um, it says she was already checked out, just a few minutes ago.”

“By who?” John demanded.

The round-faced girl looked up at him with a hesitant smile. “Um . . . her father. John Wheaton.”