Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(50)

She set the duffel on the table, and packed the street disguise pieces carefully back into it. “Let’s hope so,” she murmured.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Wait. Before you go, there’s something I want to show you. Come into the dining room.”

She set down her coffee and did as he asked. Moments later, he came in holding what looked like a large painting, swathed in fabric.

He unwrapped it carefully, and placed it upright on the sideboard, angling a gooseneck lamp to illuminate it. “This is the real Delaunay.”

Caro moved closer, startled and moved. The spare lines of the portrait and the depths of the layers of color that permeated them opened her inner eye. The unusual painting became a threshold, a connection across time and space that she could actually feel, like a buzzing hum inside her head.

That hum had been lacking when she saw the reproduction, though all of the techniques used to create the painting had been carefully reproduced. The real magic happened on a subconscious level. An original was like a portal into another time and place, another person’s vision.

Or, in the case of a fake, it wasn’t. A fake just sat there. Competently done, but inert.

“Beautiful,” she said.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

She moved toward it. “May I?”

“Of course,” he said.

She picked it up, letting the images resonate inside her. The colors glowed jewel bright even in the darkened room.

Something on the edge of the frame fell into her hand. A locator tag of some sort. Small but definitely high tech. Undoubtedly hidden there to track the Delauney if it got stolen.

She set the painting down, and held the tiny device out. “Your tile came loose.”

He pocketed it with a nod of thanks, then walked over to the side of the living room where his art was displayed and stood for a moment looking at the shelf of his carvings. He returned to her with an object in his hand. “This is for you.”

She took it, gazing down at a small carving of a wolf. The animal looked watchful and wary, but the carving captured its toughness and wiry resilience. And its inherent nobility.

“I figured you’d prefer something small,” he said. “If you need to travel.”

She almost refused it. Then she looked up, and something in his eyes made the words stop in her throat.

“Thank you,” she said, after a moment. “It’s beautiful.”

Noah didn’t reply.

She put the wolf carving in her pocket, and forced herself to step away from him. “I should go now, Noah.”

Noah rewrapped the painting, and carried it away without speaking.

Once out the door, he grabbed her hand for the walk to his car. Her hand was happy to be held. His grip was warm and strong, imbued with all the power of his personality. No clamminess, no clutching, no ick factor. Just tingling closeness.

And a sharp longing for what might have been. If her life had been her own.

Their only communication on the drive were the directions she gave him. She sensed his disapproval as they passed the strip clubs, boarded-up houses. She didn’t have many options in terms of housing. She was limited to landlords who didn’t ask about employment history or credit rating. Or require believable ID.

“Right up the street,” she told him. “Park anywhere.”

He pulled over. “I may never see my car again.”

“Let me off at the curb,” she urged. “Believe me, I understand.”

“No. It’s insured.” He got out, and came around to open her door, but she was already out. Noah slung her duffel over his shoulder. “Now where?”

“Long goodbyes are harder. It’s a hike. Sixth floor. Spare yourself.”

He ignored the advice. “Lead the way.”

Noah pushed the battered entrance door of an old tenement building. It opened with no resistance. “Front lock’s broken,” he commented, expressionless.

“The landlord’s been informed,” she said. “He says it’s unfixable.”

He kicked aside some loose tiles from the black and white mosaic pattern that covered the floor. So many were gone, the effect was like missing teeth.

He followed her up on up. The sixth floor had a frayed runner of carpeting, scattered with garbage. A cockroach scuttled beneath a door and disappeared. A sleeping man in a shabby winter coat and knit cap lay slumped against a door.

He opened a reddened eye as they approached.

“Hey, Freddie, what’s up?” Caro asked. “Lose your keys?”

“Bitch locked me out,” Freddy rasped, and coughed violently.

“That blows,” Caro stepped over the man’s legs. “Take it easy, Freddie.”

Freddie’s dull gaze flicked up to Noah and then looked back at Caro beseechingly. “Can I crash with you, beautiful?”

“In your dreams,” Caro said lightly.

Freddy took a longer look at Noah. “Ain’t he something. Moving up in the world, are we? Nice shoes, buddy.”

Noah quelled him with a glance. Freddie seemed cowed. “You never brought home no boyfriend before,” he said warily. “What’s up with that?”

“He’s just walking me to my door,” Caro said.

“Uh-huh.” He got up awkwardly and stumbled down the hallway, managing the stairs somehow.