Shadow keeper, p.5
Shadow Keeper, page 5
I lean over and push the up button. He doesn’t let me move farther than that and pulls me back against him by tightening his well-exercised arm muscles, locking me in place. The button doesn't light up. Next to it, a keypad has been affixed to the pink tile. I've never been invited into the partners' interior sanctum before. We’ll have to wait for Isaiah to enter the code.
I cross my arms and resist the urge to fidget. Hot breath tickles my good ear as Rhydian speaks low with soft consonants to avoid overloading my hearing aid. “First, we’ll find out what Isaiah and Andy want from you. But then you and me? We’re going to talk.”
“Don't you mean whisk me away to do your bidding?"
"Nope. Just talk. Like I told you we would. So you can make an informed decision. It's your choice."
I turn part way around, trying to gauge if he's lying. "No more secrets?”
Glowing embers stare back at me. “No more secrets.” His voice rumbles through me. “Hold on.”
Reaching around me, he enters the code that apparently he's privy to (1, 2, 3, 4, of course). Letting go for a brief second, he thrusts us forward. With a sudden burst, he pops a wheelie to bump us into the small elevator and whips us around to face the closing doors. I grab around his neck. Then we’re sealed in, and the temperature in the tiny space climbs as we ascend toward the second floor.
A puff of smoke leaks from Rhydian’s nose as the tension ratchets up. I cautiously extract my arms, tucking my fingers between my legs. The enclosure is too small to stand up now. And it’s the slowest-moving elevator I’ve ever been in.
I stare at our murky reflections in the metal, conscious of every breath Rhydian takes that presses his chest into my back and how my breathing has shifted in sync.
The doors ping open, revealing a hallway, and I launch off his lap with burning cheeks—from the heat in the elevator—racing down a corridor that pads my feet with a cream Persian runner on top of a white carpet.
I hope the juice has dried on my skin, preventing me from leaving an expensive trail. Rhydian's chuckle chases me. He is a predator at heart; running probably just makes him want to chase. The air conditioning gusts through the apartment, and I’m grateful.
“That you, Branwyn? Come in! Come in!” Andy sings somewhere in the distance. "Thank God you're here. I need you."
"For what?" I inquire. I’ll face Rhydian later. For now, I plow into the couple's trouble that is now my trouble.
Chapter
Six
HELP TASTE
Andy pokes his head into the hallway from some room on the left, giving a big grin and every appearance that there is no problem afoot. "To help me taste test."
"You don't have to ask me twice." Now this is the kind of support I want daily.
I throw away the notion that Isaiah has an issue that Andy doesn’t know about before I even fully form the thought. The only thing they would hide from each other would be a surprise anniversary gift, and Isaiah would have brought something like that up when we were alone outside.
Unlike someone I know, they don’t keep secrets. I glare at Rhydian as I head toward the open doorway Andy vanished through.
He briefly raises his palms from his wheels. “I said, ‘We’ll talk.'”
"Everything." I point a finger at him.
Dismissing him for the time being, I put him behind me, literally, and head into what turns out to be a kitchen that opens into a living room, following the mixed scent of vanilla, butter, and chocolate. Heat also billows from the room. Despite my sunbaked state, I don't hate it. It's cozy and inviting in here where the air conditioning has already dried my sweat into a second skin.
Andy mixes something in a large ceramic bowl behind a marble counter. From a stove behind him, steam wafts into a hood with an expensive cottage cover. A sturdy oak table that could seat eight leads into a pristine living room with a glass coffee table and shelves toting flowerless pottery vases and gilded books. Sprawling paintings line one wall. On another, a television fills the empty space. And the third has been replaced with three nearly floor-to-ceiling windows behind a white couch.
I pad around a green, velvet, high-backed chair to peer past the heavy gold-inlaid drapery. Sweeping views of the vineyard give the impression that we're looking out of an Italian villa. Below, the volunteers traipse around in the three big drums that were dragged out of storage onto the grass between the tasting room and growing fields.
Beyond the green vines lurks the copse of trees that clings to the creek. That's where the Cyhyraeth—Grwach-y-Rhibyn, Elle called her—left the corpse of one of Twisted Vines' workers after draining him dry ... like a fucking prune. I try not to rub at the bite mark scarring my arm.
“Branny!” Andy comes up behind me, surprising me since I hadn’t heard him approach on the plush carpet. "How are you?" He kisses my cheek and swings a tall glass of iced tea in front of me, chin sinking onto my shoulder, which is a feat, considering I’m about a foot shorter than him.
The lackadaisical dance of ice cubes filling the glass tempts me, and I reach out and grab it without thanks. The cool condensation dampening my fingertips makes my parched mouth salivate. I down the liquid in several swallows, letting out a grateful sigh, then tip the glass again to suck on an ice cube.
Andy takes the empty glass while revealing a stemless wine glass around my other side. "Alcohol-free," he coaxes, chin bouncing on my trapezius muscle in an atypical massage method.
I appraise the pale liquid. “The last one you had me try was a red.”
“Cab sauv," he agrees. "We’re expanding. Need your feedback on this one.”
So, that's a no on having me taste whatever smells like a chocolaterie, bakery, and patisserie in one. “Need is a strong word. I’m no critic.” I take the offering, though, turning to face him. "Hearty pour for sampling."
He steps back and watches me sniff the contents. “Critics don’t come with the background you have, which is relevant for our market audience. Never ask a lifelong vegan if something tastes like meat.”
It’s a statement, not a judgment, of my previous alcoholism and ensuing sobriety and accompanying trauma from being inebriated and taken advantage of. He, of course, doesn’t know the actual story of how I met Rhydian shortly after Da moved us to Austin or the traumatic details. Having served me in the tasting room in the past, he's only aware I used to partake when I did them favors and that I’m averse now, so he can probably guess the reason isn't good.
He watches me with interest. It really is a factor to consider in his line of work. He really does care what I think of it. That's humbling.
My attention flicks to Rhydian, who stands out starkly in the white-washed condo with his dark coloring, maroon t-shirt and jeans—despite the heat—and black wheelchair. He hasn't said anything to announce his presence, another example of humans' failure to notice a predator staked out in their midst.
Pursing my lips and lifting a pinky, I swirl the glass, shove my nose in, and inhale noisily. "Mmm, tannins, and, oh, I'm getting a hint of ... grapes," I remark with a pompous air. I take a slurping sip and close my eyes to fully consider the taste in sincerity: smooth, crisp, dry, definitely fruity, and a little citrusy. I give a hum of pleased delight. Bonus: no trauma surfaces. I mostly stuck to full-bodied reds before my twelve-step program. This is light and refreshing.
“It’s good!” I say honestly. I open my eyes and unintentionally lock eyes with Rhydian because he's still watching me.
Suddenly, I feel like the prey.
“No need to sound surprised,” Andy chuckles. “We wouldn’t give you our first attempt. This has been refined and perfected—at least as far as we evaluated. It's a relief to get external approval.” He sashays back into the kitchen to stir whatever he has simmering on the stove. He waves at Rhydian as he passes. “Oh, hey, Rhy! Wasn’t expecting you to join us.”
“I’m part of the full Branwyn package,” he replies, smirking at me.
I do not know what’s got him all watchful, but I’m hoping our chat later reveals that because it’s making me feel the urge to flee.
I follow Andy to climb my way up onto a tall bar stool so I can use my eyes to assess what's cooking, literally, first. I'll put off the problem I’m supposed to tackle for as long as I can. Especially if lingering long enough gets me a meal first. With Rhydian gone, my pantry has become quite sparse.
"Risotto?"
"With mushrooms."
I make a sound of interest.
Andy chuckles. "I'll need a taste tester for this, too, once it's finished reducing ... if you're interested."
"Done and done." My stomach growls. "What's the special occasion?"
"God, I need a drink." Isaiah has arrived. I hold out my wine glass. He waves a hand. "With alcohol." He sets about pulling a different white out of the fridge.
"Water first," Andy admonishes.
"Already did, dear. Three glasses downstairs." Isaiah pads to his partner to wrap an arm around his neck and kiss his cheek.
Andy leans into the touch, nothing like what I did in Rhydian’s wheelchair. Nothing.
"This to feed the hounds of Hell?" Isaiah steps back to give me an exaggerated eye roll and raises the back of his hand to his forehead.
I raise my brows.
"His mother," Isaiah explains. He's twisting away with a laugh by the time Andy swats at him playfully. "She has a very 'refined’"—he uses air quotes—"palate and is used to getting what she wants."
"She has food intolerances," Andy snaps back, but a twinkle flickers in his eyes as he mock-glares at his partner. He spins to the stove to give the rice a stir. "What took you so long?"
“Ejecting the divorce party?” I bite through the core of my ice cube with a satisfying crunch.
“No, no. No, you did a superb job of shooing our paying customers off the premises," he accuses. "Didn’t so much as look back. Ah, well. On the plus side, they forgot to close their tab, so I get to charge them the extra $50 fee for a walked tab.”
“Good." I enjoy the sense of satisfaction without any guilt.
“Our Branny did that?” Andy inquires. “Maybe we should hire her as a bouncer.”
“No,” Rhydian barks. The way he's scowling, he may well be contemplating objecting to the "our" as well.
A beat of silence follows.
“Ohh-kay. Wasn’t really serious. Look at her. No offense, Branny, but you’re like the size of a garden gnome.”
“None taken.” He isn’t far off on the species.
Since learning about Cyhyraeth and how closely they match vampire and banshee lore, I've been idly wondering if my Bwbachod ancestors, actual brownies, led to the idea of gnomes.
A lawn gnome assisting a medieval dragon—what nonsense.
“So, what did happen?” Andy prods Isaiah. "Anything wrong?"
“Volunteer got light headed; he's resting on the settee in the shade with a cool washcloth and water. Nolan's with him. It’s damn hot out there. I asked Nolan to limit everyone to fifteen minutes before taking a mandatory water break inside. I don’t know how anyone even wants to stay longer than that.” Isaiah pins me with hazel condemnation. "Say, an hour."
“Branny was out there for an hour?” Andy drops his spoon and beelines to the fridge to grab me a water bottle. Rhydian reaches out as if to pass it to me then retreats and crosses his arms, letting do the drop-off.
“It was therapeutic,” I defend. Nevertheless, I take the water and guzzle about half. A small headache is brewing behind my eyes from dehydration.
“Like stress baking," Isaiah notes.
"I stress bake,” Andy explains unnecessarily to me.
I point my water bottle at the stove. “That looks like cooking to me.”
He shakes his head. "I ran out of flour." He opens the fridge wide, and I bask in the rush of cold air.
Every shelf is stacked full of pies and containers teeming with cream puffs and petit fours. He opens the freezer, which houses several large plastic baggies of tarts. Then he crosses the kitchen to a pantry door opposite the opening we came in and reveals stacks of breads, pastries, and cooling racks piled with cookies and other baked goods. Finally, he turns on the light inside the oven, and I lean over the counter to see some kind of berry crumble bubbling in a casserole dish.
“I’ve already gone through my whole recipe book, too." Andy wrings his hands. “I moved on to cooking just to do something else with my hands.”
“Wow. I do prep work at Sweet Creams some nights…”
“Did,” Rhydian corrects.
I choose to ignore that. Even if I wanted to go work there again, he ruined any chance of that after he basically threatened the owner with a discrimination lawsuit.
“I can share some of their recipes with you if you want,” I finish.
“I want!” Andy clasps his hands together with glee. “Do you know their truffle recipes? I’ve always wanted to try my hand at tempering.”
“Sure.”
He squeals and jumps up and down.
“There goes my waistline,” Isaiah complains with a smile as he watches Andy. “Isn’t that kind of stuff a secret?”
I wave a hand. “I never signed an NDA or anything.”
“You never signed anything at all,” Rhydian reminds me. "You weren't even an official employee."
“Exactly. I recommend you come up with an, um, an agreement—a-a contract if you want me to keep your secrets.” I smile to soften the serious request in front of the Hollowells.
I’m tired of being extorted. Paperwork means I can negotiate and stipulate something in return.
I pop off my stool to snatch a cookie from the pantry that was left tantalizingly open. After a bite and appreciative moan, I add, "And, of course, we'll have to negotiate my fee." I wave the cookie, scattering a few crumbs across the marble.
Later, he signs.
I decide to change the topic because Rhydian's face is growing darker and darker, and the couple's owl expressions remind me of the twins when their mama has one of her episodes. "Is this the problem you needed me for? Eating?"
"What?" Isaiah reorients. "Oh. No. Ha. I wish it were that simple. That's not really a problem. Although, now that you bring it up, you should take some since you are helping us. As much as you want. Really. Andy's mother doesn't even eat sugar, so you'd be doing our waistlines a favor." He opens a cabinet and retrieves a storage container and several plastic baggies.
The container's heavy. I peel the lid, smelling chocolate. "Brownies?"
"S'mores brownies," Andy entices.
"Sold." I close the lid for now. I shouldn't eat the whole thing in front of people. That's for the solitude of my bed. I head into the pantry to fill up my goodie bags. "So, what can I do for you that's worth an all-I-can-eat dessert buffet?" I decide to munch while I work so I can decide what I want to prioritize in my limited carrying capacity.
“Um. Well. We're not really sure." I look up at Andy's troubled expression. The steam fogging up his glasses adds to the ominous vibe.
"But it's deadly," Isaiah intones.
I stop chewing, thinking of that little creek out in the copse of trees.
“We don't actually know how dire it is.” Andy flashes his husband a look while fetching a measuring jug of broth to add to his pan, which shows he does have experience tempering.
Unfortunately, that actually worsens the dread. I swallow. “Literally life or death?" I clarify. "Or…? Like, are we talking dead bodies again?”
Isaiah moves out of Andy's way to lean a hip against the other side of the counter by the stools. “Oh, Lord, no. Thank the Heavens."
"Not yet. But it could lead to that.” Andy fixates on the wooden spoon drifting slowly through the broth, his mouth flatlining uncharacteristically.
"What is it?" Rhydian demands. He’s taken a stance in front of the fridge so he can see me down the alley Andy's working in.
“It’s—”
Isaiah cuts in. "We're getting threats." He swallows half his glass of wine.
"Threats?" I drop my half-eaten cookie in a bag and wipe crumbs on my chest. "Death threats? Did you call the police?"
"It's not ... They don't believe us."
"Why not?" Rhydian's intrigued.
"And why do you think I will?" I'm trying to figure out my role here.
Isaiah shifts his weight, glancing at Andy. Finally, he decides to spit it out. "Because of what happened last month. You helped with that. When the cops didn't. Couldn't?"
I roll my shoulders to shake off the spike of adrenaline. Couldn't indeed. Connecting what they've said so far, it's clear the pair noticed enough to recognize that what happened down at the creek wasn't ... a normal crime, within APD's capabilities. But just how much did they gather?
"So, it's similar? In what way? You said no one died." I do not want to face another Cyhyraeth. I hold up my hands, emerging from the pantry to lean my forearms on the counter, giving this my full attention. "Back up. Start over," I instruct. "What threats? Where? How?"
"So, it's like this..." Andy starts then falters.
"We're buying another vineyard," Isaiah blurts.
My jaw drops. "Congratulations."
He nods. "Doubles our land. We'll be able to produce so much more. Like the non-alcoholic line." He indicates my glass.
I pick it up, wondering how that could lead to threats. "And, what, someone doesn't want you buying it?" My stomach drops. "Chuck. It didn't go that well last time I tried to talk to him. He nearly shot me."
Rhydian's gone very quiet, I notice, letting me ask the questions. He's listening intently. A puff of smoke raises above his head. The Hollowells are looking at me and don't notice.
"No, no. It's up north. On the way to Llano. We'll get a lot more traffic on Bee Caves Road. We're not sure who would object to us taking the land; the bank had repossessed it. We got it for a steal in an auction."
