The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

No, this should do it.”

      He seemed almost sad.

      Other than give him a hug—completely inappropriate—she didn’t know how else to offer comfort.

      So she walked past. “Let’s go ring it up, then.”

      On the way, she caught Lynette’s attention, asked her to fetch the butterfly’s box from the back.

      “It’s a limited edition,” she told the man as she stepped behind the counter. “The number is on the base—as is the artist’s signature. Bella Smythe. She’s local. The box is made specially to fit, so you’ll want to hang onto it.”

      “Sure.”

      She entered it into the register.

      “Would you like me to gift wrap it for you? We have some standard papers, or you can choose from our selection for purchase over there”—she gestured—“if you’d prefer one more elaborate.”

      “No, thank you.”

      

      She was nattering on about gift boxes and paper and it was all Cormac could do not to launch himself over the counter. She was right there. So close he could grab her and hold on tight and maybe never let go. He had missed her.

      He was surprised—and embarrassed—by how much.

      Had she always been so lovely? His first sighting of her had been in a photograph of Leticia’s (he’d been breaking-and-entering at the time). He had noted Thia’s auburn hair, her oval face with, granted, its bright smile and intelligent gaze—and he had thought her of little more than average looks. It was perhaps a matter of the difference between a still image and the animated, real thing. Much more than the sum of her parts. At this moment, in motion and in person, those parts were stunning.

      He was making a hash of the conversation, he knew, but it was a miracle he could formulate words at all, let alone whole sentences. She probably thought him shy.

      She’d be right.

      Are you happy? He couldn’t believe he’d blurted it out like that. Morrigan’s cloak in a twist, this was not going well.

      And it was taking too long. He eyed the tall, dark-haired woman near the front of the store, standing in the window display to fetch a stuffed bear for a waiting customer; Abigail Collins, he’d learned since Orkney. She had gone to Thia’s aid, fought alongside the Brigantium and Murphy’s people. Had probably helped Cormac kill his father.

      Unwanted emotion crested, and he let it break, crashing down like an icy wave. He ignored it. Felt nothing. What he didn’t acknowledge couldn’t hurt.

      Abigail, or Abby as she preferred to be known, eyed him with distrust—exactly what he was worried about. He suspected she had the gift of empathy. And an unusually (and, to his purposes, inconveniently) large gift at that.

      “Actually,” he said, returning his attention to Thia as she rang up his own so-called and damnably expensive gift. Of course he couldn’t have happened upon something more reasonably priced. Or something that didn’t require a lot of fuss. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Does it really need the box?”

      She looked at him as if he were a simpleton. Spoke as if he were one, too, although kindly. “It’s pretty fragile, so it would need some sort of box, yes.” She kept her hand near it on the counter as if she feared he would snatch it up and cram it into a pocket. “Will you be in the area later? I could pack it up, even gift-wrap it if you’d like, and have it here for you.”

      He pulled out his billfold. Her eyes widened with something like surprise when he laid several big bills on the counter. Well, it was a lot of cash to be carrying. But credit cards could be trouble. None of the ones he had with him were in his name, but that didn’t mean that someone with the right skills—and the right organization behind them—couldn’t trace them to him eventually. He couldn’t risk it.

      He cleared his throat, surreptitiously wiped a damp palm on his coat. “That’d be perfect. Thank you.”

      “No problem.” She set his change and receipt on the counter. “What name can I put on it? In case I’m not here.”

      Was that a hint of suspicion he detected? He pocketed the items, decided he was being paranoid.

      “Connor Michaels,” he told her. If he felt uncomfortable about the lie, he ignored it. “Thanks, again, for your help. I’ll—well. I’ll see you later, won’t I?”

      “Yes. See you later.” She smiled, drawing his attention to her lips. He knew them intimately. And yet her, hardly at all.

      He couldn’t tell if she was being polite or if she looked forward to their next encounter. He couldn’t tell if he’d made any impact (other than financial) on her at all.

      She used to be easier to read.

      Or was he letting his concerns, his feelings cloud his view?

      Aware that he lingered overlong, he forced a smile and made his way to the door.

      It took him past Abby, in discussion with the customer by a table-top display of holiday items. Snow globes, stockings large enough for a full-grown ogre, ornate peppermint striped candles, and the like. She studied him far too intently.

      He made a small nod in passing—his best attempt at appearing unexceptionable. Although he probably had “Big Spender” suspended above his head after that foolishness with the butterfly.

      For which he would have to come back later. It was both a problem and a welcome opportunity: Another chance to interact with Thia. He stepped out of the store and onto the main, retail-centric street.

      What to do next?

      Given its reported population, Granite Springs boasted an astonishing number of coffee shops, including the one inside Eclectica. But he was so keyed up already, caffeine would be a mistake.

      After so many weeks, to have spoken with her, to have stood so close—and then that one, jolting contact. She had looked at him directly, and he, her. And she hadn’t once appeared to suspect that, behind the lenses of his glasses, he had worn colored contacts.

      Something pinged on the edges of his awareness. Something decidedly unfriendly. He scanned the area, saw nothing to account for it other than both Thia and her empathic friend watching him through the front window.

      Minor and transient. He shrugged it off and began his walk to the hotel. Might as well take care of another bit of business sooner rather than later.

      CHAPTER 2

      Eclectica, Granite Springs

      18 December

      With the man no longer in view outside, Thia returned her attention to his purchase. It really was a lovely piece, with the body made of finely wrought silver and more holding the amazingly thin glass segments of its patterned wings. Carefully, she removed the price.

      “Who was that?” Abby asked as she brought a customer up to the counter. Her tone was casual, but Thia had come to know her well enough to know there was more to the question than that.

      “Someone new to town,” she replied as they smoothly exchanged places behind the register. “Connor Michaels. He bought a gift for a friend.”

      “Oh, that’s gorgeous,” the customer said, eyeing the butterfly. Thia held it out for her to examine. “So delicate. And unusual.”

      “Isn’t it?” Abby agreed and began to ring up the woman’s items. “Made locally. The artist has been working in stained glass for years, but only recently shifted from panels to standing figures. This