Convergence (Winter Solstice Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Start Reading

  A Taste of Nascent Shadow: Temporal Armistice, Book One

  About the Author

  More Books from Curiosity Quills Press

  Full Table of Contents

  Book Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Closing

  Matthew Cox

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-289-9 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-97397-639-4 (paperback)

  Start Reading

  A Taste of Nascent Shadow: Temporal Armistice, Book One

  About the Author

  More Books from Curiosity Quills Press

  Full Table of Contents

  ungry. The word circles around in my head the way the water spirals into the drain at my feet. Diego, my boyfriend of the past two-some-odd-years, is still screaming at someone over the phone in the other room.

  He’s got enough of a Spanish accent that it sounds like there’s a foreign drama on the TV turned up loud. The rush of water and a closed bathroom door don’t do a whole lot to tune him out, but hey, his neighbors get free stock advice. How that man could go straight from mind-blowing sex to shouting at his coworkers in under a minute, I’ll never understand. Okay, maybe not ‘mind-blowing,’ more like mind-poking, as in poking the brain with a turkey baster.

  So… yeah. Hungry.

  I’d been having that word thrown at me a lot lately, usually by my boss Fenton. Hungry for a big break, major story, ‘the great opportunity’, as he always says. Now, hungry for the food I ordered. Anyway, somewhere between all the ridiculous nonsense he sends me to take pictures of, I get a real story now and then. Not that anyone believes a word of it. I suffer the curse of working for a tabloid. And The Spiritualist isn’t merely any tabloid. No ‘bat baby’ or ‘bigfoot fathered my child’ stories here. No, we go after cases of magic or unexplained phenomena. Just last month, I got a picture of a real gargoyle. Yes, a real gargoyle. Nasty thing. Almost tore my arm off. They get kinda grumpy when you sneak up on them with a camera flash. And did anyone believe a word of it? Nope.

  At least the shower is relaxing. Diego’s got one of those waterfall deals I’ve been standing in for almost twenty minutes. One of these days, I’ll probably tell him that I’m only sleeping with him so I can use his bathroom. Emerald green tiles, a sheet of warm water falling on my head, some Kiwi-banana body wash; I could stay in here for hours―or at least until he stops shouting on the phone. But I can’t. Remember that whole ‘hungry’ thing? Yeah… I ordered Chinese, our tradition for afterward. It started as a joke a couple months after I first started seeing him. He said something about having sex with me makes him want more in half an hour, and somehow, that related to food.

  I roll my eyes. Diego can be an asshole sometimes―as whoever’s on the other end of that phone is finding out. The half-hour thing is probably some racist joke I should be upset over, but it’s not worth the time. Either way, food’s almost here and I’m not going to get any cleaner. All the post-sex sweat and everything else went down the drain long ago. I sigh to myself. If I’d known Diego would be spending most of ‘our night’ on the phone with his office, I would’ve stayed home with Mr. Moody.

  I have no doubt my cat is going to be all over me when I get home for not stopping by to put down a can. Since I went straight to Diego’s from work, he has to suffer the horrors of dry food from the auto-feeder. Not that he doesn’t have enough food. That thing’s loaded. Enough for probably a whole ‘nother day. But it barely counts. My cat’s world revolves around moist food.

  Resigned to accepting the lackluster turn the night has taken, I reach back to kill the water and jam my knuckles into the knob, almost drawing blood.

  “Ow. Dammit.”

  Why do people stick their fingers in their mouth when they hurt them? I don’t understand it either, but here I am. Sucking on them doesn’t ease the pain at all, and waving my hand around doesn’t help much either. Wish Mom and Dad taught me how to heal with magic. Apparently, it ‘doesn’t work that way.’

  Yay. And ouch.

  One of these days, I’ll remember to stop expecting to get a ‘feel’ for a place in anything short of two years. Not that I’m a klutz, but I’m always a little off target if I grab blind. Except in my crappy apartment way across town, you know, where the normal people live―not the sort of people like Diego who can swing a five-thousand-dollar a month rent.

  The shower control ignores my deadly stare, but doesn’t dodge my grip again. Not complicated when I’m looking at it. Water off. Oh, did I mention how much I love Diego’s bathmat? It’s like walking on clouds. Black, like most of his décor. Such a bachelor. After stepping out of the enormous shower (it’s bigger than my closets), I concentrate for a second, and a whirl of warm air and magical energy circles me, lifting away all the water and carrying it in a splatter against the tiles.

  There. Dry.

  Guess I can’t say Mom never taught me anything useful. Wish I knew a spell that would make me get noticed by CNN or Reuters or something. Oh well, maybe I should stop chasing magical beasties and start following police cars.

  Diego’s still in his den, phone to the side of his head, back to the archway connecting to the living room. He’s still naked. I sashay over to the couch and lean against it, staring at him with a coy smile. Apparently, ‘Scott’ sent the wrong paperwork to the SEC about some account, and it’s bad enough that Diego’s stabbing the air with his finger in time with every word. I love his ass dimples. He’s no heavyweight boxer, but he puts more time in at the gym than anyone really needs to. Not that I’m complaining about the results. That is one nice thing about being with him. Idiots and thugs tend to avoid us if we go out, since he looks like he’d break them in half.

  The doorbell rings, so he glances back. We make eye contact, and the rage on his face lessens to an almost-smile. He starts to reach for a white robe, but I mouth ‘I got it’ and head for the front door, going up on tiptoe to use the little view port. Awesome. Food.

  I open the door. “Hi. Wow, that was fast.”

  A short (seriously, I’m not used to being eye-level with people, much less men) guy with black hair, also with a cell phone glued to the side of his head, is standing outside with a bag dangling from his fingers, rambling in Mandarin or Cantonese.

  The kid gives me a noncommittal nod and hands over the credit card receipt and a pen. I figure he finally g
ets a good look at me the instant the rapid-fire Chinese stops. Oh, what’s a good tip on $29? Whatever… I write in $8, sign it, and offer the slip back with the pen. He continues to stare, open-mouthed. A few seconds later, I tuck the receipt in his jacket pocket and take the plastic bag dangling from his fingers.

  “Thanks,” I say. “It smells wonderful!”

  “Umm…”

  I leave him staring and shut the door.

  Diego shakes his head, tosses the robe on the sofa, and wanders back into the den, still yelling at poor Scott. I pad over to the dining area, up a tiny staircase from the sunken living room, and light two candles with a wink of magic. Nothing more romantic than Chinese take-out after sex, right? Maybe one of these days, Diego will stop letting his work always pull him away from me. Or not. After all, I guess he’s gotta pay the ridiculous rent on this place. Not to mention, the man loved what he did. Too much. I suppose I should consider myself lucky I got almost fifteen whole minutes of cuddle time before the phone rang. Diego’s a great guy―when I can get his attention.

  Yay, Solstice. You’re second fiddle to his career. And you’re going to be second in line until he retires.

  Okay, that depresses the hell out of me.

  There it is again. The feeling that it seems like it’s not destined to be. I mean, he’s cute, successful, athletic, fairly high up the food chain at his venture capital firm… but, I dunno. Something doesn’t feel right. I mean, nothing feels overly wrong with him. Just, not right for me. Or am I being too picky? And since when does the girl who can light candles from across the room with a spark of intent doubt her hunches? No. I’m not doubting it; I’m filing an appeal.

  Overtaken by a cloud of blah, I plop in the velvet-cushioned chair and pull open the bag. Remember that whole hungry thing? Yeah well, see if Scott’s getting in between me and my chow mei fun.

  “Sorry about that, love.” Diego walks past behind me, tugging a robe over his shoulders, but not tying the sash. His hand traces across my shoulders. “Forgive me?”

  “I know it’s important.” My smirk winds up only showing part of my annoyance. He takes it playful and bends to kiss me. His cologne floods my senses, something spicy and Mediterranean, an instant before our lips touch.

  The kiss is long, skillful, and apologetic enough that I decide not to press him on the phone call. He pulls away, winks, and sits catty corner, our knees almost touching. Before he can even get his container open, I’ve got my chopsticks in motion and a wad of Singapore rice noodles in my mouth.

  “Thank you for understanding. I promise this will quiet down once that damn audit is finished.”

  “Mmm.”

  Diego chuckles, shaking his head. “I should’ve taken a photo of that delivery guy’s face. I still can’t get used to you always walking around naked.”

  I show off a little for him. “Not always.”

  He raises the Eyebrow of Challenge. “Oh?”

  “Only when I’m home alone or here.” I shrug. “It’s comfortable.”

  “You’re amazing.” He winks and opens his Kung Pao chicken.

  My grin gets him chuckling again. “Amazing because I’m naked?”

  “That goes far in my book.”

  “How else am I amazing?” I give him my version of the Eyebrow of Challenge.

  He holds up a hand (with a fork… what a slacker) while he chews. I tease him by twirling the chopsticks over my fingers and getting them back into eating position one-handed. He makes fun of me by waving his fork around in a circle before sticking it into his food. Something about his goofy face makes me laugh and cover my mouth so as not to spray tiny noodles everywhere.

  “You’re beautiful, smart, talented… umm…” He wags his eyebrows. “Flexible.”

  I laugh so hard, I wind up choking. Ouch. Curry-spiced noodles going up the inside of my nose hurts. Tears stream from my eyes as I fumble for a napkin while emitting the bastard offspring of giggling and coughing. Okay, so maybe I found a tantric sex book and maybe I can pull off most of the poses. He’s never going to let me forget that.

  A generic cell phone ring goes off in the living room.

  Sigh.

  My turn to be rude.

  Diego gives me that little half smile he uses when he’s biting back a smartass remark. I know exactly what he’s going to say as I stand.

  “I’m going to tell them I’m busy,” I say. “Unless it’s a job offer from a major network.”

  “Good luck. I’m sure Fox would snap you up in a heartbeat. You have a chance since they only hire blondes… and you’re far more attractive than their current lineup anyway.” He winks.

  Again, I laugh. He’s being kind. I know I’m more ‘cute’ than ‘hot.’ Not to mention, TV news isn’t my thing. Well, maybe I could do the investigative reporter deal, but I’m more a photojournalist. Yeah, Dad, I know. Zero money in it. Amazingly, the cell is still chirping its little heart out by the time I make it all the way across the colossal living room. Well, colossal for New York City anyway.

  I swipe the phone from my bag and hurry toward the table. Food is getting cold, after all. My heart sinks when I see the caller ID. Jade Lau is an awesome friend, a great lead for stories, and speaking of colossal, that’s how much of a pain in the ass she can be. A pain, whose call’s going to drag me out somewhere, and I wanted to spend the rest of the night curled up against Diego, watching some old romance flick.

  “You busy?” she asks, by way of greeting.

  I plop down at the table and work my chopsticks left-handed. “Singapore rice noodles, a giant sofa, electric fireplace, and a movie. Does that sound busy enough?”

  “Sounds like fun, not busy.” The grimness in her voice proves me right. “I need you to check something out. It won’t take long.”

  Eye roll time. “You always say that… and it always takes all night.”

  “Who’s that? Something important?” asks Diego.

  “Solstice,” says Jade in a slow, drawn-out voice. “Who’s that? Hey, are you cheating on me?”

  Chopsticks hovering in midair, I shake my head―not that she can see. “Cheating implies exclusivity. And no, I’m not seeing another cop behind your back.”

  “Whatever. Just get down here, okay? This is your kind of weird.”

  Sigh. “Where’s here?”

  “You’re going?” asks Diego.

  “Stewart Hotel on Seventh Ave. I’ll have one of the locals meet you in the lobby. Thanks Sol. I owe you one.” Jade mumbles something the phone doesn’t catch, and hangs up.

  “Yeah.” I stab my chopsticks into the noodles. “I really don’t want to, but… Never a good idea to ignore the FBI. I gotta help her when she asks so she―”

  “Quid pro quo. I hear you.” Diego exaggerates a disappointed look, but he’s canceled our plans often enough over work that he has no room to complain. He knows it; I know it. He caresses my arm, staring into my eyes. “Will you be back tonight?”

  “Not sure. I’ll try. But.” I hold up the plastic dish. “I’m not going anywhere until I finish this.”

  ggs, yoga pants, shirt, coat, and a scarf later, I head out of Diego’s building and grab a taxi. On the ride to the Stewart Hotel, I drown my disappointment at not being allowed to spend all night in a comfortable, warm, lavish apartment by debating the choice of wearing black boots with these leggings. From the waist down, I’m a silhouette. Probably violates some law of style somewhere, but bleh. Not that I go out of my way to buck trends, but I’ve always been the slightly-off-center girl. Never quite fit in to any of the high school cliques, though I did make a couple friends in college―hence Jade. Alas, she normed up and I’m still on the fringe, but what can I say? My parents run a magic shop in New Hope, and let’s just say that my thirty-four years haven’t exactly been ‘traditional.’

  Probably why I’m still taking pictures for a tiny tabloid rag and living like a college student. What was that word my friends always used―eccentric. That’s it. I’m eccentric. I’
ve even got the cat to prove it. Mr. Moody. I talk to him too. Not that he notices. Oh, come on. All real cat owners do. Walk out the door, it’s ‘I’ll see you soon,’ or ‘back later.’ Yeah. I’m pathetic. Well maybe not too pathetic. I mean, dating a guy making mid-six figures with a body like Diego’s can’t be that bad.

  Despite what looks like every single police car in Manhattan parked in front of the place, the cabbie pulls a surely-illegal swerve and stops by the curb. A few of the cops by the door give us a look, but don’t bother walking over. I pay and hop out, dragging my giant shoulder bag. Hey, it may be Walmart, but it looks like Prada’s drunk half-cousin’s roommate. And it’s got my camera stuff. Or at least my travel camera. The e-cam. E for Emergencies. Like for when I’m dragged out of Diego’s comfortable apartment.

  Wonder if Jade’ll let me take pictures this time? It irritates the hell out of me when she calls them ‘evidence’ and doesn’t let me put them in the paper. She says she doesn’t want random people learning too much about the crime scene, but I think she just can’t handle spooky crap.

  A line of curve-topped windows runs across a small awning, black with gold trim, a Dunkin Donuts right next door. There might be a coffee in my hand when I’m done here.

  Inside, a young cop with dark hair and the skin tone of a vampire makes eye contact and waves. Cute. Sharp nose, chiseled jaw, emotional eyes. Little young though. I wonder if they had to tap the academy for extra help here? What the heck am I walking into? There’s no odd energy hanging in the air at least.

  “Hey, are you Winters?” asks the young cop once I get close enough.

  “And you must be psychic.” I offer a hand. “Solstice Winters.”

  He shakes with a firm grip, but only for a second. “Officer Townley. Special Agent Lau is waiting for you up on the sixteenth. Come on.”

  I follow him into the elevator alcove. “Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Sorry.” He punches the button and shakes his head. “I haven’t even been inside the room yet.”

  The elevator ride is quick and quiet. Townley isn’t much of a talker. Maybe I’m not either. As soon as we’re on our floor, I can guess where we’re going. Six or seven cops mill around an open door about three-quarters of the way down the hall. A few of them glance my way and frown. One rolls his eyes. Somewhere along the line while helping Jade out with the odd cases, I got marked as a psychic medium. I’m not. I don’t do the seeing ghosts thing or pulling emotional imprints out of objects. No, what I do is… magic.