Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 3)

She followed him out onto the flagstones and along the pool and then into the rear gates. His jeans were so tight, she could hardly stand it. His natural walk was a seductive swagger. This is nice, think sexy thoughts! No way! And his polo shirt wasn't exactly loose-fitting either. She loved the way it moved over his shoulders and back.

Can't stop it. She wished he hadn't made that bitter little joke. Do it on the grass! An awful restlessness took hold of her. Men were always complaining about how the sight of sexy women aroused them. Well, with her it was words as well as images. His tight jeans, and the sharp images that had invaded her mind after what he'd said.

Rowan was seated at the table, the way she'd been when Mona left her; the lantana was still there, the sprigs scattered a little, as if the wind had stirred them with one finger and then let them alone.

Rowan was frowning slightly, as if weighing something in her mind. Now that was always a good sign, Mona thought, but she would get Michael's hopes up if she talked about it. Rowan didn't seem to know that they were there. She was still looking at the distant flowers, at the wall.

Michael bent to kiss her on the cheek. He set the glass on the table. There was no change in her, except the breeze caught a few strands of hair. Then he reached down and he lifted her right hand and he placed her fingers around the glass.

"Drink it, honey," he said. He used the same tone he'd used to Mona, brusque and warm. Honey, honey, honey means Mona, Rowan, or Mary Jane, or any female being perhaps.

Would "honey" have been appropriate for the dead thing, buried in the hole with its father? Christ, if she had only laid eyes on one of them, for just a precious second! Yeah, and every Mayfair woman who laid eyes on him during his little rampage had paid with her life for it. Except Rowan....

Whoa! Rowan was lifting the glass. Mona watched with a fearful fascination as she drank without ever moving her eyes from the distant flowers. She did blink naturally and slowly as she swallowed, but that was all. And the frown remained. Small. Thoughtful.

Michael stood watching her, hands in his pockets, and then he did a surprising thing. He talked about her to Mona, as if Rowan couldn't hear. This was the first time.

"When the doctor spoke to her, when he told her she should go in for tests, she just got up and walked off. It was like a person on a park bench in a big city. You'd think someone had sat down beside her, maybe too close to her. She was isolated like that, all alone."

He collected the glass. It looked more disgusting than ever. But to tell the truth, Rowan looked like she would have drunk anything that he'd put in her hand.

Nothing registered on Rowan's face.

"I could take her to the hospital for the tests, of course. She might go along. She's done everything else I've wanted her to do."

"Why don't you?" asked Mona.

"Because when she gets up in the morning she puts on her nightgown and her robe. I've laid out real clothes for her. She doesn't touch them. That's my cue. She wants to be in her nightgown and her robe. She wants to be home."

He was angry suddenly. His cheeks were red, and there was a frank twisting to his lips that said it all.

"The tests can't help her anyway," he continued. "All these vitamins, that's the treatment. The tests would only tell us things. Maybe it's none of our business now. The drink helps her."

His voice was tightening. He was getting angrier and angrier as he looked at Rowan. He stopped speaking.

He bent down suddenly and set the glass on the table, and laid his hands flat on either side of it. He was trying to look Rowan in the eye. He drew close to her face, but there was no change in her.

"Rowan, please," he whispered. "Come back!"

"Michael, don't!"

"Why not, Mona? Rowan, I need you now. I need you!" He banged the table hard with both hands. Rowan flinched, but did not otherwise change. "Rowan!" he shouted. He reached out for her as if he was going to take her by the shoulders and shake her, but he didn't.

He snatched up the glass and turned and walked away.

Mona stood still, waiting, too shocked to speak. But it was like everything he did. It had been the good-hearted thing to do. It had been rough, though, and sort of terrible to watch.

Mona didn't come away just yet. Slowly she sat down in the chair at the table, across from Rowan, the same place she'd taken every day.

Very slowly, Mona grew calm again. She wasn't sure why she stayed here, except it seemed the loyal thing to do. Perhaps she didn't want to appear to be Michael's ally. Her guilt just hung all over her all the time these days.

Rowan did look beautiful, if you stopped thinking about the fact that she didn't talk. Her hair was growing long, almost to her shoulders. Beautiful and absent. Gone.

"Well, you know," Mona said, "I'll probably keep coming until you give me a sign. I know that doesn't absolve me, or make it okay to be the pest of a shocked and mute person. But when you're mute like this, you sort of force people to act, to make choices, to decide. I mean, people can't just let you alone. It's not possible. It's not really kind."

She let out her breath, and felt herself relax all over.

"I'm too young to know certain things," she said. "I mean, I'm not going to sit here and tell you I understand what happened to you. That would be too stupid." She looked at Rowan; the eyes looked green now, as if picking up the tint of the bright spring lawn.

"But I ... ah ... care about what's happening to everybody, well, almost everybody. I know things. I know more than anybody except Michael or Aaron. Do you remember Aaron?"

That was a dumb question. Of course Rowan remembered Aaron, if she remembered anything at all.

"Well, what I meant to say was, there's this man, Yuri. I told you about him. I don't think you ever saw him. In fact, I'm sure you didn't. Well, he's gone, very gone, as it stands now, and I'm worried, and Aaron's worried, too. It's like things are at a standstill now, with you here in the garden like this, and the truth is, things never stand still--"

She broke off. This was worse than the other approach. There was no way to tell if this woman was suffering. Mona sighed, trying to be quiet about it. She put her elbows on the table. Slowly she looked up. She could have sworn that Rowan had been looking at her, and had only just looked away.

"Rowan, it's not over," she whispered again. Then she looked off, through the iron gates, and beyond the pool and down the middle of the front lawn. The crape myrtle was coming into bloom. It had been mere sticks when Yuri left.

She and he had stood out there whispering together, and he had said, "Look, whatever happens in Europe, Mona, I am coming back here to you."

Rowan was looking at her. Rowan was staring into her eyes.

She was too amazed to speak or move. And she was frightened to do either, frightened that Rowan would look away. She wanted to believe this was good, this was ratification and redemption. She had caught Rowan's attention, even if she had been a hopeless brat.

Gradually Rowan's preoccupied expression seemed to fade as Mona stared at her. And Rowan's face became eloquent and unmistakably sad.

"What's the matter, Rowan?" Mona whispered.

Rowan made a little sound, as if she were clearing her throat.

"It's not Yuri," Rowan whispered. And then her frown tightened, and her eyes darkened, but

she didn't drift away.

"What is it, Rowan?" Mona asked her. "Rowan, what did you say about Yuri?"

It appeared for all the world as if Rowan thought she was still speaking to Mona, and didn't know that nothing was coming out.

"Rowan," Mona whispered. "Tell me. Rowan--" Mona's words stopped. She'd lost the nerve, suddenly, to speak her heart.

Rowan's eyes were still fixed on her. Rowan lifted her right hand and ran her fingers back through her pale ashen hair. Natural, normal, but the eyes were not normal. They were struggling....

A sound distracted Mona--men talking, Michael and someone else. And then the sudden, alarming sound of a woman crying or laughing. For one second, Mona couldn't tell which.

She turned and stared through the gates, across the glaring pool. Her Aunt Beatrice was coming towards her, almost running along the flagstone edge of the water, one hand to her mouth and the other groping as if she were going to fall on her face. She was the one who was crying, and it was most certainly crying. Bea's hair was falling loose from her invariably neat twist on the back of her head. Her silk dress was blotched and wet.

Michael and a man in ominous plain dark clothes followed quickly, talking together as they did.

Great choked sobs were coming from Beatrice. Her heels sank into the soft lawn, but on she came.

"Bea, what is it?" Mona rose to her feet. So did Rowan. Rowan stared at the approaching figure, and as Beatrice rushed across the grass, turning her ankle and righting herself immediately, it was to Rowan that she reached out.

"They did it, Rowan," said Bea, gasping for breath. "They killed him. The car came up over the curb. They killed him. I saw it with my own eyes!"

Mona reached out to support Beatrice, and suddenly her aunt had put her left arm around Mona and was near crushing her with kisses while the other hand still groped for Rowan, and Rowan reached to take it and clasp it in both of hers.

"Bea, who did they kill, who?" Mona cried. "You don't mean Aaron."

"Yes," Bea answered, nodding frantically, her voice now dry and barely audible. She continued to nod, as Mona and Rowan closed against her. "Aaron," she said. "They killed him. I saw it. The car jumped the curb on St. Charles Avenue. I told him I'd drive him over here. He said no, he wanted to walk. The car deliberately hit him, I saw it. It ran over him three times!"