The Darkest Midnight. R. A. Finley

out our gift lists. This should take care of a good bit of what’s left on them. I hope.” She indicated the three snow globes she’d selected. “There are boxes for them, right? They need to be shipped.”

      Before either Thia or Abby could answer, Lynette arrived with the butterfly’s box. She quickly spotted the globes. “I’ll get them for you,” she volunteered, and left again.

      Thia moved to an adjacent counter to work, only half-listening as Abby and her customer chatted. The butterfly’s box was nice, she thought, but very basic…and it was a gift. An expensive one. She went over to the for-purchase papers. If memory served, there was one that—

      There. She pulled out a sheet of soft cream patterned with richly colored butterflies and flowers. On another whim, she grabbed a spool of satin ribbon.

      Back at the counter, she laid it out, began sizing it to the box.

      “Mr. Michaels bought all that, too?” Abby had finished her transaction.

      “No. But it goes so well.” She took up a pair of scissors, sliced. “Plus it’s an expensive item, and since he’s a first time customer, we might as well be nice.”

      “Thia.”

      She stopped mid-tape, found Abby watching her with concern. Probably because Thia’s cheeks were red. “What?”

      “Did you feel it?”

      Impossibly, she felt her blush increase. She must look like a tomato. “Attraction?”

      Abby’s violet eyes widened. “Goodness, no—wait. Are you saying you—”

      “What feeling did you mean, then?” Thia put in quickly. Cleared her throat. “What did I miss?”

      “Power. He was cloaking it, but it leaked through a few times. And there was something else, something…foreign.” Abby frowned, shook her head. “You were attracted to him?”

      “He had power?” Thia thought back, tried to feel now what she hadn’t noticed in the moment. Tried not to feel discouraged when she couldn’t.

      Finished with the tape, she pulled out a length of ribbon, wound it around the box. “Maybe I mistook it. Maybe that’s why he reminded me of Cormac.”

      Abby’s profanity was no less shocking for being quiet. Luckily, it was Stefanie’s day off, or else they’d be in for a smudging.

      “Reminded, I said.” Thia’s hands stilled on the box, the ribbon half-tied. “His eyes were brown. Cormac can’t change his eyes.”

      Abby rolled hers. “For crying out loud, Thia. He can wear colored contact lenses the same as anyone.”

      “He had glasses on. Connor—Mr. Michaels, I mean.”

      “Sure. The lenses would make it harder to tell. When is he supposed to come back? I don’t want you to deal with him by yourself.”

      “He didn’t say.” She finished tying the ribbon, the satin smooth and cool. Calming, or at least it should have been. She pulled her hands away. “But even if he is Cormac—and it would be crazy to think that—he’s not a danger to me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

      “He broke your heart,” her friend said gently.

      “No.”

      “Thia, come on. I know how you—”

      “No,” she repeated, cutting off the argument. On the other side of the window, a small group of pedestrians pointed at something inside before moving on.

      She sighed, admitting, “I did that to myself.”

      “Bullshit. He led you to believe he had feelings for you. That’s—”

      “It doesn’t matter now.” She appreciated the anger on her behalf, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped. “It’s over. Once burned, twice shy and all that. When Mr. Michaels comes to pick this up, I’ll try to see if he’s wearing contacts.”

      She put the box beneath the counter and began cleaning up. There was still plenty of ribbon on the spool, so she set it aside to go back out.

      What would she do if he was wearing contacts—ask him if he were the two-centuries-and-then-some half-Sidhe she’d met on a flight to London and, despite herself, had subsequently fallen for?

      Refusing to put a more specific term to the emotion, she dropped the scraps of paper into the wastebasket and put the scissors and tape back beneath the counter. Wisely, Abby returned to the sales floor.

      Thia had been told that Cormac had murdered Lettie. She had believed him to be responsible for an attack on her in a London alley, as well as a later one on the Brigantium that had killed many and left one man in a coma. And still she’d had to fight with herself over her feelings. Had she been in—rather, had she fallen even then? Or had it come later, at the Ring when he’d nearly sacrificed himself for her?

      Could Connor Michaels be Cormac?

      She took the spool of ribbon back to the display, heard the jingle of the bells on the door.

      Did she want him to be?

      The bells jingled again only to be drowned out by the high-pitched voices of several toddlers. To Thia’s relief, she counted an accompanying adult for every child, making for a group total of six. Lynette had found something to do along their browsing trajectory, making herself available without being intrusive. Abby was back at the counter, handling another sale, and Thia considered whether this would be a good time to check online orders.

      Why would Cormac be in disguise? It was ridiculous to think that he would be…or even that he would be here at all. What would he want?

       Are you happy?

      An incredible, shelf-rattling rumble started up outside, causing everyone to stop in their tracks and look to the window. Thia and Abby came together near the door just as the unmistakable belch of a Harley Davidson sounded from somewhere up the block.

      Not just one Harley, Thia realized, as the low rumble built to a mechanized roar. One rider after another zoomed down Main Street. Glossy paint, gleaming chrome, scuffed black leather—and more scruffy beards than she’d seen at one time since she’d left L. A.

      Maybe they were just passing through.

      Exhaust seeped past the door and she grimaced, covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

      Gradually, the gang moved out of earshot. People who had stopped outside to watch the impromptu parade went on about their business. Thia turned away and was surprised to find the group with children gathered on the far side of the staircase, putting it between them and the door—or perhaps more specifically, the street. The two women each held a child in their arms while the man cradled the back of a little girl’s head while she clung to his leg. There was more here than noise upset. There was fear.

      “I was hoping they wouldn’t be back,” Abby said, still watching out the window.

      “They’ve been before?”

      Her friend nodded. “Every winter. You’d think the snow would be a problem, but it never seems to be. They hole up near Soda Mountain. Southeast of town,” she explained off of Thia’s frown. “There’s a roadhouse. Used to be nice, a place for local bikers—motorized and pedal—to go during a weekend ride. Then, about five years ago, those guys showed up. The Rekkrs. They’re good at it.”

      “What do they do?” Thia noted that the group with the kids was browsing again, looking more relaxed.

      “In town, nothing much—just noise and an intimidating presence. Outside of town….” Abby shrugged. “It’s best not to spend time in that part of the mountain. Not till spring, anyway. Unless you’re the snow plow driver,” she added with an attempt at levity. It quickly failed.