Necromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 6)

The idiot had the nerve to tell the whole school he’d been Alice Jones’s first fuck, and he’d be her last. It took months to live down the humiliation. She’d been a fool to fall for his poor orphan, rebel act. When she, a born and bred New Yorker from a wealthy family, had left for London the following year, he’d stayed behind in Brooklyn with his struggling foster family and earned a fortune.

Now he was here.

Johnny’s voice brought her back to the present. “Alice?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Send out the memo to the press. Apologize for the short notice. Tell everyone he only signed the contract today. We have a month for rehearsals and three performances scheduled. Every other evening will be dark night.”

Bummer, that meant almost two months with him around. “Why every second night? The theater will be standing empty for three nights. Can’t he handle at least one consecutive week?”

“That’s the only timeline his agent would agree to. Mr. Kray’s voice needs to rest after every performance.”

“This one’s gonna be a crazy cookie to work with,” Tilly said. “I heard he’s as nuts as a chameleon tap dancing on an M&M box.”

“He’s hearing voices and seeing visions.” Mandy chuckled. “He can see any vision he wants as long as he’s seeing them between my legs.”

Alice closed her laptop with a bang. “You shouldn’t listen to everything people say.”

“I read it in the Today magazine,” Mandy said.

“Exactly.” Alice pushed back her chair. “You’re making an assumption based on gossip.”

“I’m sorry to say,” Mandy said, “but Tilly’s right. This time, we’re going to have our hands full with a nutcase.”

Alice placed her empty cup in the tray with more force than needed. “You can’t call him a nutcase just because he’s eccentric. He’s probably no different than any other artist we’ve worked with.”

“You’re getting defensive because of your mom.” Mandy gave her an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to generalize, and no comparison to your mom intended, but he’s got a reputation for being more than plain old difficult.”

“We’ll handle it like we always do.” Johnny got to his feet. “Do you have the publicity under control, Alice?”

“Sure.” She’d just have to do what she always did—keep her head up and pretend everything was fine.

Unsettled, Alice left the office at five o’clock sharp—an unusual occurrence as she usually worked late—and went straight home to her semi-detached townhouse in Fulham. After a long bath, she retrieved a photo album from the back of her closet under boxes of shoes, wiped off the layer of dust, and carried it downstairs.

Tonight was one of those rare times she needed a drink. Going through the kitchen, all she found was a bottle of wine that had been open for a couple of months. She poured a glass and sat down on the sofa with the album in her lap. She swallowed a big mouthful, took a deep breath, and turned the cover.

The plastic sleeve glue had disintegrated on the yellowed cardboard. She stared at the two young people in the photo. Ivan had been thinner back then, nothing like the six-pack and set of muscles he sported, now. His legs were long and scrawny but his shoulders broad. His black fringe hid the wounded look that was always present in his startling mismatching eyes. Next to him, a smile dominated her face. The photo had been taken on the day Ivan had taken her for a surprise picnic by the lake shortly after they’d met at the performing arts school where they’d both studied music. The insects had attacked the food he’d put out beforehand, and she’d gotten a mouthful of ants in her marshmallow.

It was hard to believe the happy girl in the picture was her. It felt like a scene from a movie instead of from her life. So much had happened since. She looked at the picture for a long time, hungrily hunting for details she may have missed on the day and never granted herself the luxury of revisiting, not even in her memory. The spring grass had been green. She hadn’t noticed it, then. All she had focused on was Ivan—the tingle of his fingers on her skin, the gentle press of his lips against hers, and the warmth of his breath on her ear. Foolishly, she’d believed every word of love he’d whispered.

How could it still hurt so much? She’d moved on, for crying out loud. What was wrong with her? Holding on to the pain after nine long years wasn’t normal. It had to be because he was her first love. Nothing hurt like first love, only she’d never carried on to a second or a third. Maybe if she had someone in her life, her pain wouldn’t feel so fresh. Would she ever be able to look back and not ache?