Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(45)

Jupe, however, definitely had the potential to be excessive with PDA. He liked to hug—a lot—and that’s fine, I suppose. We’d also cuddled up together and watched TV in his room, and yes, he fell asleep in my lap on the couch the other night. And once he’d tried to insert his big toe up my nose; if that’s not affection, I don’t know what is.

But he’d never kissed me.

And it was so casual, like he’d done it a billion times. I guess that’s why he didn’t seem to notice when I froze up on the sidewalk like some socially awkward recluse. He was too busy trying to peer down into Tambuku’s stained glass windows from the top of the stairs. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure if I was mortified by the kiss, or if I was going to break down sobbing in some weirdo family-bonding moment. The horror of doing just that was enough to snap me back to reality. I tried to play it cool, like it wasn’t a big deal. This is what normal people do. It doesn’t mean anything. Thankfully, Lord Empath was in the car, out of range.

The door to Tambuku swung open and Kar Yee emerged, hiking up the steps. “You might need this,” she called out, holding up my cell. “You left it in your apron.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes fell on Jupe. “Well, well, well. Look who it is—my future boyfriend. What are you doing in the city? Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Jupe’s eyes inflated into giant cartoon peepers in response. “I’m on a mission,” he managed to get out.

“A mission?” Kar Yee’s voice flattened in genuine suspicion. “Is that a religious thing? You’re not one of those irritating door-to-door people, are you?”

“No! I’m—”

“We’re going to the grocery store,” I said, covering up for Jupe’s loose tongue as she handed me my phone. Not a lie, exactly. Dr. Spendlove wanted Jupe to practice his knack in supervised situations. I don’t think what we were about to do was what he had in mind, but it was a situation. And we were supervising . . .

“Hey,” Jupe said to Kar Yee. “You speak Cantonese, not Mandarin, right?”

“Yes.”

“How do you say ‘beautiful girl’ in Cantonese?”

Oh, brother.

“Leng lui.”

Jupe repeated it. She corrected his pronunciation, then added, “We would also say something more casual that translates to ‘your beauty shatters the mirror.’”

“Really?” Jupe was definitely into that colloquialism. It had just the right dose of violence for his tastes. “How do you say that?” he asked with great urgency, then added, “I have to know.”

“You say it like this: ‘Your beauty shatters the mirror,’” she deadpanned.

“N-o-o-o,” Jupe groaned. “In Cantonese.”

“Does this look like Hong Kong to you? No. It’s central California. I didn’t travel halfway across the globe to speak Cantonese.”

“Why did you move here, then? Hong Kong seems cooler than Morella, that’s for sure.”

“My father is American. He moved to Hong Kong and became a permanent resident a few years after marrying my mother. When I turned eighteen, I decided to go to college in Seattle. That’s where I met her.” She tipped her head in my direction. “I liked the States, so I stayed. Cady and I moved down here because it’s sunnier and we wanted to make money. End of story.”

“Your dad was American?” Jupe asked.

“A Jewish lawyer from Seattle.”

“What? Wait a minute . . . is he white?”

“As a snowflake.”

Jupe’s mouth fell open. “You’re biracial? Like me? Cady, you didn’t tell me!” It was too much for him to process. Joy overload. Then his brow furrowed, as if he were checking himself; it was, surely, too good to be true. “You don’t look it.”

She crossed her arms over her middle and held her head high. “I got my mother’s good looks and my father’s knack.”

“Wow,” Jupe raved, his eyes pinwheeling in happiness.

A car door slammed behind us; Lon emerged from the SUV and then stood near it in a manner I can only describe as hulking—I wasn’t sure if he was pissed about being forced to wait, or if he sensed his son’s overactive hormones from the car. Kar Yee watched him as he approached. “So that’s your dad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm-hmph. Better looking than my father,” she observed.

I made introductions between Grunt and Glare, two people with some of the worst social skills on the planet. They eyed each other silently. For several moments. They’d heard all about each other; I wondered what they were thinking. Finally, Kar Yee remarked to Lon, “Your halo is almost as strange as hers.” To me, she simply said, “Good for you.” Then she retreated back down the steps to the bar.

Starry Market wasn’t a chain. It was the largest and oldest independent grocer in the city as well as a hybrid of disjointed ventures—dry-goods liquidator (this summer’s potato chip flavors that went nowhere), gourmet ingredient procurer, and international farmer’s market. Amanda refused to shop there, claiming that all the produce was irradiated. I, on the other hand, had more to worry about than death by radioactive zucchini.

But we weren’t there to buy vegetables. We were there to track down Cindy Brolin. Again. Though we’d failed the first time, we were determined to find out what she was hiding about the original Snatcher.