Lake Silence

CHAPTER 19

Ilya

Windsday, Juin 14

As soon as he delivered Victoria DeVine back to The Jumble, Ilya asked Boris, his driver, to return to Sproing. He could have reached his quarry faster if he’d shifted to his smoke form and traveled cross-country, but the days of the Sanguinati being subtle about their control of the village were over.

“I won’t be long,” he said when Boris pulled into a parking space in front of the bookstore.

Going inside Lettuce Reed, Ilya walked up to the island counter, his dark eyes locked on Julian Farrow’s gray ones. He set a piece of paper on the counter. “I’d like any of these books that you have in stock. New copies are preferable, but I’ll take used copies.”

Julian looked at the titles, froze for a moment, then met Ilya’s eyes.

“You haven’t lived up to your side of the bargain, Mr. Farrow,” Ilya said softly.

“From what I can tell, Vicki’s anxiety has its roots in damaged self-confidence and intimacy issues.” Julian almost growled the words. “Those issues are personal, but she’s dealing with them and they haven’t interfered with the restoration of The Jumble or posed any threat to this village. Therefore, they were none of your business.”

“Now they are.” At least Farrow wasn’t pretending he didn’t understand the significance of Ilya wanting these particular books about human anxiety attacks and different forms of abuse. “You should have informed me that Victoria DeVine had a weakness.”

“It’s not a weakness,” Farrow snapped.

“A wound, then. A vulnerability that leaves her open to attack.”

“Show me a human living on this continent who isn’t wounded in some way!”

Defensive. Cornered. A human dangerous enough not to be taken lightly. But that was the reason the Sanguinati had made a bargain with Julian Farrow in the first place.

As he noted how white the scar on Farrow’s cheek looked on a face made harsh by anger, it occurred to Ilya that Julian hadn’t pointed out that the other informant in the village also had failed to mention these anxiety attacks, hadn’t tried to lessen his own failing. And Ilya suddenly understood, and appreciated, that the anger and defensiveness were . . . protective. Not Victoria’s mate. Not yet. Maybe never. But the desire to protect was there nonetheless. Understanding that, he used the tone of voice that he used when discussing a problem with one of his own kind. With an equal.

“Detective Swinn used words to open that wound yesterday when he and his man drove Victoria to the village,” Ilya said. “And this morning at the bank, what he said to her was not only wounding but very personal.”

Farrow stared at Ilya, then looked past him, as if he was piecing together something that wasn’t visible to anyone else. “Then he knows someone who knew her before she came to Sproing.”

“Agreed.”

Farrow continued to look toward the street. “The first body stirred up people and had them talking, worrying that the trouble might come into Sproing itself. But it didn’t change the core feel of the village. Grimshaw being assigned here . . . A blanket feeling of relief—and budding hope in the villagers that they could take up the business of living without being afraid all the time.”

“And the arrival of Swinn and his men?” Ilya asked.

All the color drained out of Farrow’s face as he whispered, “The stench of overripe garbage spreading beyond the alley into the streets, into the shops, into the homes.”

Interesting. Julian Farrow always said that he felt places, not people, but this was the first time the Intuit had revealed anything that descriptive about what he sensed. It sounded more like a memory than an observation about the here and now.

“Whatever really brought Swinn here will sour this village,” he said.

Farrow nodded.

“The restoration of The Jumble is the key to Sproing’s survival.”

Farrow nodded again.

“Then perhaps we can work together to ensure that Victoria retains control over the human part of the terra indigene settlement.”

Farrow gave him a tight smile. “We can do that. But it can be a fine line between helping someone and giving that person the impression that you don’t think she’s capable of helping herself.”

Ilya repressed a sigh. That fine line in a wounded female like Victoria was probably smudged, and all he could hope for was not to stumble too far over that line and make matters worse.

“Do you still want these books?” Farrow asked.

“Yes.” As Farrow turned away, Ilya added, “I didn’t feed on her. In case you wondered.”

Farrow didn’t reply, but Ilya had the impression that the human male was relieved.