Death Wish (Alexa O'Brien, Huntress #5)(7)

I pulled away quickly, before I could call her power to me, as I always tended to do with Kale. The urge was there, independent of me. I refused it, forcing it back down inside.

“I’m sorry. I’m kind of running at full capacity tonight. Anyway, you wanted to talk to me about someone?”

“Right.” Brogan turned the sign on the door from open to closed. “There was a woman in here earlier, kind of sketchy. Right away, I got a strange vibe from her. I can’t always tell, but I think she was a werewolf. She was asking questions. Most of them were about you.”

“Me?” Maybe I was going to find the person behind the hit sooner than I’d anticipated. “Tell me about her.”

“She played it cool, browsed around. Started by asking questions about the store, mundane stuff. Once she got me talking, she slipped in a few casual questions about The Wicked Kiss. She wanted to know who owned it. Asked if I knew them. That kind of thing.” Brogan moved about the store, turning off lights and extinguishing scented candles. “I kept my answers short. I could tell she was trying to figure out how much I really knew about you. I told her I didn’t want to talk here but maybe after I closed the store for the night.”

I gazed around the store, thinking over what I’d just heard. The store was so cozy and quaint. Honey-colored hard wood floors created a sense of warmth. It was a relatively small building though it held a lot of items. Glass-topped cases lined one wall, filled with jewelry, amulets and silver daggers. The bookshelf was a large, floor-to-ceiling model stacked with spell books of all kinds. Toil and Trouble stocked everything from herbs to candles to voodoo dolls. The assortment was both impressive and intimidating.

“She arranged to meet with you?”

“Yep.” Brogan produced a business card from her back pocket. “She told me to call this number if I couldn’t make it. Otherwise, I’m meeting her at the Starbucks down the street in an hour. Or, so she thinks.”

The card was white and plain, having only a name and a phone number. Zelda Fitzgerald. It was laughable. Not even a clever attempt at a fake name.

I stared hard at the card. I knew that name, not just because Zelda was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife. I strained to remember something else, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Brogan, can you tell me what she looked like?” As I stared at the name printed in neat black letters on the card, I was swept back in time. I did know one person who had taken an interest in the Fitzgeralds. Just one. And, she was dead.

“Tall with long, curly hair. Brunette. I think her eyes were dark. Jeans and a t-shirt. Nothing that especially caught my eye.” Brogan’s ponytail fell over her shoulder as she inclined her head, studying me. “Do you know who she is?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” I shook my head, unable to believe what the borrowed name on the card told me. It was impossible; it had to be. “So, I guess she’ll be surprised when I show up in your place.”

“That’s the plan.”

I held up the card. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” With a bright smile, Brogan nodded enthusiastically. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything. I’m always here to help.”

I forced myself to smile, hoping she wouldn’t see the shadows in my eyes. “You got it.”

My exit was hasty. The card in my hand held the faintest trace of energy. It was so miniscule I could barely feel it. It taunted me. She had touched it. Zelda Fitzgerald. I knew who she was, knew it with every part of me, despite the odds being stacked so strongly against the possibility.

The Great Gatsby was part of the school curriculum. To me it had been a bore, even more so when the teacher made us watch the movie version as well. But for some, it had sparked an interest in the Roaring Twenties and those who made the era what it was.

One person in particular had developed a fascination with that time that had existed so long before she did. Someone who had the soul of one far older than her teen years. Someone who had died the night Raoul attacked my family.

* * * *

I arrived at the coffee shop early. I wanted to stake the place out before walking inside. As far as coffee shops went, this one was very public and busy. It was as safe a place as any. When I was satisfied that I wasn’t going to get jumped, I went in and chose a table that allowed me to watch the door.

I had a death grip on my frappuccino cup. As each minute ticked by, my nerves grew increasingly frazzled. Would she still want to talk when she saw me instead of Brogan?

At exactly one hour past the closing time of Toil and Trouble, in walked a leggy brunette. Her dark gaze landed on me, and I was dumbfounded. My stomach twisted, and a fresh surge of adrenaline crashed through me.

She jerked to a halt, shock registering on her face. It was gone in a flash. She recovered fast. Forcing herself into motion, she approached me with a shaky smile.

“Hey, Lexi. Long time, no see.”

Nobody called me Lexi. In fact, I hated the nickname. Only one person had called me that, and she died ten years ago. Yet, there she stood, no longer the kid that lived in my memories. All grown up and somehow alive despite everything I had believed, it was her: my sister.

Shock. Absolute, total and utter shock.

I stared in disbelief. Her hair was the same deep chocolate brown as our mother’s. It fell in curls over her shoulders. Clad in dark jeans and a trendy jacket, she was tall and lean; I’d always been the short one.