Eyes Like a Wolf Read online

  “You know him?” Detective Genevieve Marks was staring at me critically, watching my reaction to the man who was claiming to be Richard. Her bushy brown hair was cut short, and her sharp gray eyes were taking in my every move.

  “I don't know,” I said, looking down at my hands to avoid his piercing gaze. “I…I'll have to talk to him to be sure. I haven't seen him since I was seven.”

  She whistled. “That's a long time. If it is him, too bad he had to show up under these circumstances.”

  “I know.” I lowered my voice. “Look, Genevieve, give it to me straight—what are we talking about? Do you really think he killed Chulo?”

  She shrugged. “Could go either way. On one hand, there were two witnesses, and they both pointed him out. On the other hand, they're both working girls, and at least one of 'em's a junkie. Your…uh, brother went into The Mirage for a drink after he left the alley where Chulo was found. The junkie followed him while the other waited for the paramedics.”

  “So he didn't even leave the scene? He just went right next door for a drink?” I asked, incredulous. It was my job to poke holes in this sort of behavior, but no matter how you sliced it, that didn't seem like the act of a guilty man.

  The detective winced. “I know, I know. Of course—there was the little matter of the blood on his mouth…”

  “Oh, come on. You really think he ripped out Chulo's throat with his teeth?” I could scarcely believe I was arguing for the alleged criminal in this case, but the words rose naturally to my lips.

  “Well,” Genevieve admitted, “he says it was hot sauce. Says he was having dinner at The Cactus Club right before, and he must have gotten some sauce on his chin. There was no trace of sauce or blood by the time I got to him.”

  “Did the Cactus Club thing check out?” It was a local Tex-Mex restaurant, one of many in the long row of bars that lined the main strip at Ybor.

  She frowned. “Well, yeah, it did. The waitress remembered him real well—she seemed to think he was cute. He didn't put up a fight or anything when I brought him in either. He's pretty polite—nice manners. I guess that's why I called you for him in the first place. And…” She gestured at my face. “He's got those eyes, same as you. I don't think I've ever seen eyes like that before. Uh, before I met you, anyway.” She looked away, her face coloring a little.

  “Thanks, Genevieve,” I said gently. “Let me talk to him a few minutes, and I'll decide what to do. Okay?”

  “Sure.” She nodded and then jerked her head in Charles's direction. “What about him?”

  “Who, Charles? He can wait out here.” I lowered my voice. “I wanted him to wait in the car, but he insisted on coming in. You know how men are…”

  “No, I don't,” she said, grinning at me a little. “And between you and me, Kemet, I'm not too interested to find out.”

  “Probably a good choice.” I patted her on the shoulder, and she let me into the room.

  * * *

  “Rachel.” He rose as I came in the room and moved to embrace me.

  “Wait a minute.” I stepped back, holding up a hand to stop him. “How do I know you're who you say you are?”

  “Look at me,” he said simply, his palms held up in a gesture of supplication. I did. He was tall—still head and shoulders above me, just as he had been when we were kids. The black hair and pale green eyes hadn't changed much—he looked like an older version of the boy I'd known and the serious young graduate in the picture I'd found in my mother's things. He was wearing a nicely tailored black suit and a dark green shirt that brought out his eyes.

  “If my looks don't convince you, there's always this.” He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small, green glass marble that matched the one I wore at my throat.

  I swallowed hard. “It really is you.”

  He nodded. “It really is. Look, I know it's been a long time—”

  “Seventeen years,” I interrupted him.

  He nodded gravely. “Seventeen years, three months, and five days.”

  I looked at him, surprised.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “I remember like it was yesterday—coming home from school and finding you gone. When I found the note Mom left, I knew then I wouldn't be seeing you again for a long time.”

  I put a hand to my throat, reliving that horrible day. “Never,” I whispered.

  “What?” He came around the table to face me, still being careful not to touch.

  I looked up at him. “Never. It's what she told me when I asked when I would see you again.” I felt the tears burning behind my eyelids and held them back with difficulty.

  “Rache,” he said softly. “I thought of you every day and every night of those seventeen years.”

  “Then why didn't you ever come for me?” I demanded, suddenly unreasonably angry. “All those years Mom and I moved around from town to town and house to house. I used to dream of you coming to rescue me, coming to save me and take me back home, to keep me safe forever…”

  “Rache,” he said again, his voice almost pleading.

  “I'm sorry.” I shook my head and swiped at my eyes with quick, angry motions. What was wrong with me, reverting back to childhood like this? “Here I am, acting like we're still kids,” I said, half-laughing though my tears.

  “It's all right,” he said softly. “I missed you, too.”

  And just like that, I was in his arms. He held me tight, fitting me to him like a missing piece of a puzzle finally falling into place. The top of my head fit under his chin just right, and I felt protected and warm and safe—just as I had when we were children. I took a deep breath, filling my senses with his scent, the same, rich base note that used to accompany my father everywhere—the scent of family and home. The scent of the Amon-kai, whispered a small voice in my head, but I pushed the half-submerged memory away.

  “Richard,” I said, half laughing, half crying. It was as though seventeen years had melted away in a heartbeat, and we were children together again.

  “Rachel,” he murmured into my hair. He pulled back after a moment and looked at me seriously. “You grew up beautiful. I knew you would.”

  “You're not half bad yourself,” I said, laughing. “And so tall. What are you? Six-four?”

  “Six-three,” he said modestly. He touched the green marble nestled in the hollow of my throat. “You kept it, just like you promised.”

  “Of course.” I could feel my eyes filling up, and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep from bawling again. Richard tilted my chin up with one finger and kissed my eyes gently—kissing away the tears. His mouth moved lower, cool and comforting on the flushed skin of my cheeks, and for a moment I gave myself up utterly to the longed-for sensation of being completely cared for and loved.

  “Uh, is everything all right in here?” Charles's nasal tone interrupted the moment, and I jumped away from Richard hastily.

  “Everything is fine,” Richard said, giving Charles an unfriendly once-over. “Who are you?” he asked pointedly.

  Charles harrumphed indignantly. “I might ask you the same thing. I am Charles Rivera the Third. Her fiancé,” he emphasized pointedly.

  “Fiancé ?” Richard raised an eyebrow at me, and I blushed and nodded.

  “Uh, yes. Charles, meet Richard, my big brother.” I smiled at him affectionately. “And Richard, meet Charles; we've been dating for the past two years—”

  “Two years, four months, and one week,” Charles interrupted in an imitation of Richard, letting me know he'd been listening to my reunion with my brother. I felt a flare of anger at his violation of my privacy but suppressed it almost at once.

  Charles held out a hand to Richard, who took it and shook firmly. I wondered if my fiancé was going to give him the “grip of death.” Charles had very strong hands and found it amusing to try and out-squeeze other men when he shook with them—a juvenile game I kept hoping he'd outgrow. I watched carefully and saw the sinews in his wrist stand out when he took Richard's hand—that was the grip all right.