Dark Star (17 page)

“This is not how you make a birthday cake,” Leon complained, as a stream of salt caught him in the chest. “What exactly are you trying to express here? Lunacy?”

We faced each other across the room, the table between us. His blue eyes were dark and intent. He stood watching my movements, his gaze wary, like he’d entered a war zone, not a brightly lit kitchen with peeling floral wallpaper and too many fridge magnets. I almost laughed. Only Leon could manage to look serious while covered in baking ingredients.

“Did I ruin your nice clean outfit?” I taunted, my hands closing around the nearly empty bag of flour. “Should’ve worn that apron.”

He snorted again. “You’re right. Knowing your temper, I should’ve predicted this outcome.”

Like he was really one to talk about tempers. That earned him another handful of flour. “I forgot. Saint Leon never loses his cool.”

“Admit it,” he said, tossing more baking soda in my direction. “You’re just pissed that I kicked your ass.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a mixing bowl and holding it in front of me as a shield. “I wouldn’t call your cheating an ass-kicking. If you hadn’t teleported, I’d have won.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” he said. He leaned forward, pulled the bowl out of my hands, spun it once on his finger, then let it slide to the table.

“I don’t have to,” I replied, my hand groping toward the nearest bag. “I was there.”

He didn’t even bother to dodge the flour I tossed at him. It caught his jaw, giving him a white dusting of stubble. With a smile, he said, “I was going easy on you.”

“Really? Was that before or after I knocked you off your feet?”

“I don’t seem to recall going down alone.”

“Yeah, but as you keep telling me, you’re a Guardian. I’m just some kid who knows a few tricks.”

“If you really want a rematch,” he said, “you know where I live.” Then he sent the rest of the sugar onto my blouse.

I searched about frantically for any sort of ammunition. The kitchen was a mess, and most of the baking ingredients already scattered about the room. The cake pans had somehow ended up on the floor. There was very little left to throw. My hand shot toward the vanilla. I unscrewed the cap and aimed it toward him.

He ended up with a streak down his shirt and a frown on his face. But I wasn’t done yet. I’d spotted the big guns.

“This is the rematch,” I said. “And I’m about to win.” I made a dash for the counter where I’d left the frosting. Both containers: pink, vanilla, and all of the sprinkles. I’d nearly reached them when Leon once again teleported behind me.

Just as I’d anticipated.

I dug into the frosting, grabbing handfuls of both flavors, and whirled around—catching him square in the chest.

I sighed happily. “Sweet, sweet victory,” I said, smearing the frosting down his shirt. “Literally.”

He glanced down at the mess I’d made of him, gobs of frosting leaving a pink-and-white trail down his ribs. Then he looked at me, raising a single eyebrow. “Feel better?”

I nodded, not bothering to hide my grin. “That was pret-ty satisfying, I’ve gotta admit.”

He didn’t retaliate. He didn’t scold. He didn’t even try to Hungry Puppy me. Instead, he let out a little sigh and said, “Are we even now, or are you planning to stick me in the oven next?”

It wasn’t I’m sorry, but it wasn’t bad, as far as apologies went.

“We’re even,” I said. “Almost.” And then I reached up to drag frosting through that dark curly hair of his.

He caught me by the wrists.

“All right,” he laughed. “We’re moving into cruel-and-unusual territory, here.”

I tried to pull free, but he held fast. With my back to the counter, I had nowhere to retreat. He had me trapped. I flattened my palms, doing my best to appear repentant. “Okay. Truce time. I surrender.”

“I believe you.” He didn’t release me.

I looked up at him. He didn’t look tidy any longer. He was a mess. Flour streaked his hair and face, dusting the ends of his eyelashes, the bridge of his nose. I’d somehow managed to get frosting on his chin. He kept fighting a smile that tugged at his lips.

My heart did a funny little flip.

From the hall came the sound of the front door opening.

Leon dropped my wrists. We turned toward the door, then back to each other. We didn’t move. We probably should have. Even if we couldn’t clean the kitchen in the time it would take my mother to reach us, we could have at least fled the scene. Instead, we just stared at each other in horror as the sound of footsteps grew louder. Which is exactly how my mother found us a moment later.

But, as it turned out, we had bigger problems.

Mom wasn’t alone. Beside her, in the slant of light that cut through the doorway, stood Detective Wyle.

***

It took my mother a moment to register the state of the kitchen. She’d been speaking to Detective Wyle when she entered, then broke off mid-sentence. She looked around at the damage: flour and sugar scattered across the linoleum, bags and bowls overturned on the table, pans on the floor, frosting on the counter.

“What the hell happened in here?” She didn’t even sound angry. Just really, really confused.

That made two of us. Her clothing wasn’t necessarily incriminating—she had her H&H Security coat on—but she’d left that night to patrol as Morning Star, and here she was, home early … with a police officer. One she wasn’t on the best of terms with. That didn’t bode well.

“Baking?” I suggested.

Detective Wyle cleared his throat. Mom continued to stare.

Leon just looked sheepish. “Sorry, Lucy,” he said. Then he made a dash for the door.

The traitor.

I looked back at Mom and shrugged. “We were making you a cake. We, um, missed.”

Detective Wyle chuckled. He looked tired and even scruffier than the last time I’d seen him. He certainly knew how to play the brooding antihero, all rough edges and stubble and dark rumpled hair.

Except for his clothing, anyway. He was dressed plainly, in old jeans and a raggedy black sweatshirt with a hole in the collar—but considering I was two eggs and a stick of butter short of being walking cake batter, I couldn’t say anything.

“Hi, Mickey,” I said, giving him a jaunty smile.

He scrutinized me closely. He chose not to comment on the flour in my hair or the frosting on my hands, and instead said, “Hey, kid. You doing all right?”

“Except for being a powdered donut.”

That got a smile. “Feel like any more fortune-telling?”

I glanced at my mother. Her expression was stormy. Even without a Knowing, I’d be able to sense the trouble brewing. I could almost see little thunderclouds gathering around her. Her forehead was creased, her lips a thin line, and from the glare she was aiming at Detective Wyle, I guessed it hadn’t been her idea for him to follow her home.

Maybe he’d threatened to arrest her again.

“I predict you’re about two seconds from getting tossed out of here,” I told him. Literally, I suspected, if Mom could figure out a way to do it without raising more questions.

His smile turned wry. “I see your opinion of me hasn’t improved.”

He was wrong. Looking at him, his way of standing, the tilt to his head, how the light caught that hint of gray in his hair—I Knew I could trust him. He was easy to read, and I had this sense about him: he didn’t mean my mother any harm. There was no malice in him, no desire to injure. He wanted to help.

Of course, I also saw suspicion in his eyes. Not of Mom’s motives, but of her actions.

“I hope you’re not here for the party,” I said, stepping between him and my mother. “Because I didn’t finish putting up streamers, and our cake exploded. And it doesn’t look like you brought a gift. Did you at least say happy birthday?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered under his breath.

Mom walked farther into the kitchen. Though her face was flushed, her eyes were focused and alert. She looked nothing like the sleepy, disheveled working mom she liked to portray to the outside world. I doubted it had escaped the detective’s notice.

She must have had the same thought, because she reached back and pulled her hair free, shaking it messily onto her shoulders. She pulled off her coat, revealing a rose-colored tank top with a bunny on it. I was pretty sure she’d found that in the kid’s department at Target.

Then I noticed a smear of red on her left arm.

“You’re bleeding!” I cried, moving to her side.

“It’s just a scratch,” Mom said in dismissal, covering the wound with her hand. “Someone tried to mug me on the way home tonight. Luckily, Detective Wyle was on hand. He scared the man away.”

He grunted, crossing his arms. “Luckily. You seemed capable of handling the situation.”

Mom walked to the sink, widening the distance between them. “It’s part of my job. And anyway, I grew up learning the value of self-defense,” she said. “My father was a cop.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Yeah, I know. My old man’s been giving me shit for hassling Jacky Whitticomb’s little girl. I don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it.”

A frown flashed across her face. “Your father is Hank Wyle. Your parents came to my father’s funeral.”

There was a note of sadness in her tone. It was slight, something I Knew more than heard. A catch in the syllables of funeral, like the word didn’t want to leave her throat. I’d heard the same thing in Gram’s voice countless times. My grandfather had died when Mom was only fifteen, and though there were photographs of him around the house, though Mom and Gram spoke of him often, there was always a small silence between breaths. An ache that lingered.

“He was a good man,” Mickey said, his voice gentle. “I wonder what he would think of vigilantism.”

Mom turned away, grabbing a dishrag from the sink and slowly wiping down the counter. She shrugged. “I don’t think the topic ever came up. Not really the sort of thing we talked about. He didn’t like to bring his work home. He always said he couldn’t be a good husband or father if he let it hang over him.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mickey, and if he couldn’t see the focus of her gaze, I could: the bare space of skin where his wedding ring had been.

I was about eighty-six percent certain that what she said was a lie, and she was just being mean. They’d clearly forgotten my presence at this point, so I sidled backward, toward the door.

“We met before, you know. As kids,” Mickey said, ignoring her jab. He’d moved across the kitchen and stood looming over her. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to intimidate or charm her. Maybe both.

Regardless of his intent, Mom was immune. She lifted a hand to wave away his remark. “I’m sure we did.”

“Precinct picnics,” Mickey added, continuing to crowd her.

“I don’t really remember,” Mom said. She stepped away from him, giving up ground. But she didn’t seem nervous, just annoyed. “Was there something you wanted?”

“You never did say what you were doing lurking around the streets of Edina at ten at night.”

She yawned into her hand. “I was visiting one of my boyfriends.”

I couldn’t help it. I giggled.

Mom, reminded of my existence, sent a silencing glare my way.

“Patrick Tigue?” Mickey asked, a perplexed look crossing his face. I couldn’t tell if his tone meant disbelief or disgust.

“His gardener,” Mom deadpanned. Then she gripped his arm and started leading him toward the doorway. “I’d like you to leave now, Detective. It’s late. And you’re upsetting my daughter.”

“Uh, he’s not, really.” I probably should have played along, but I was as curious as he was. Tigue—I’d heard the name recently. Mr. Alvarez had mentioned it the night I was attacked.

Which might mean it was connected to the bleedings.

Mickey was raising his eyebrows at me. “You’re on my side now?”

I shrugged, trying to ignore the look my mother was giving me. “She grounded me. I have to get even somehow.”

He put a hand on his chin, rubbing the trace of stubble there. A thin, jagged scar ran along his jaw, close to his mouth. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up? I’ll take care of this mess while I chat with your mom.”

She appeared about to protest, but kept her mouth shut. I gave the detective a grin. Even if it was an obvious ploy to get rid of me, I decided I definitely liked Mickey Wyle.

I showered quickly.

My clothing had taken most of the damage, but my hair was sticky with sugar. I scrubbed myself and shampooed and stood in the steam, letting the heat fog around me. I decided to toss my clothing in the wash before I went to bed—but first, I wanted to hear what Mom and Detective Wyle were discussing. And I was not above spying.

After toweling myself dry and pulling on my pajamas, I slipped down the hall to the top of the stairs. They were still in the kitchen, their voices muffled. Cautiously, I crept downward, skipping the steps that creaked.

Through the door, I saw my mother’s back, the light catching in her hair. Her voice came to me clearly.

“—if what you’re suggesting is true, why hasn’t there been an investigation? Or am I wrong in assuming you’ve taken the initiative here?”

“The first deaths were staged, made to look like accidents. The connection is subtle.”

“Cuts,” my mother said.

I Knew what that meant before Mickey said it. A shiver ran through me.

His tone was all seriousness, calm, intent. “On the backs of their ankles, just below the calf. Razor-thin,” he said. “Five girls with it, and those are just the ones I was able to verify. The deaths are related. An individual—or group of individuals—is responsible.”

Mom moved, leaning back into the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her. “We’ve had this discussion before. Why are you here now?”

“We found another dead kid. A sixteen-year-old girl over in Eden Prairie.”

Not Tricia Morrow, I thought. Someone else. More bleedings.

“That’s horrible,” my mother said. “But I don’t see what it has to do with me. I know you’ve been following me. Unless you have police business, I think that counts as stalking. What is this about?”

“A month after the Stevens girl went missing, I was called to the scene of an accident. Two girls in a car had been involved in a hit and run. Both dead at the scene.”